Read Eye to Eye: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective for Free Online

out. Someone has made a terrible mistake."
    I lit a cigarette, took a harsh pull at it,
had to resist a very strong impulse to look over my shoulder.
    Meanwhile, Souza was saying, "I know this
all started with the damned TV crew."
    "What damned TV crew is that, Greg?" I
inquired with resignation, I know, clearly apparent in my
voice.
    "Out there this morning,
you know, at the murder scene. That bastard got me on his Minicam,
I know he did, and he probably got all of us. I saw him inside
talking to the employees after you guys left, and I overheard some
talk about our missing VIP. Listen, that stuff is supposed to be
under the lid. It's no wonder it's blown all to hell now. The early
evening news starts at four-thirty in this area. Those bastards
were at my office by five-thirty."
    I said, wearily, "Greg, please—what the hell
are we into?"
    "Not sure, old buddy, but it's plenty ripe,
I can tell you that. I finally got a line on my mysterious retainer
after peeling off three layers of cover. Know who we're working
for?"
    I said, "I can hardly wait to be told that,
Greg, believe me.
    "We're working for the fuckin' Russians, I
think."
    I said, "Oh God," and meant it as a
prayer.
    "That's not for sure, yet, so don't get
totally unhinged. But watch your ass while I get it all
straightened out. And maybe you better warn the girl."
    That time I did look over my shoulder. I
said, "You think...?"
    "Sure, it's possible. Maybe you should put
her in a hotel, too. But for God's sake, don't go to the cops with
this, don't go to anyone, don't trust anyone, I think we're into
some deep shit here. Uh, listen, Ash...just in case...I mean,
anything could happen. Right? I already gave this to Foster, just
in case. Eye on the sky. Okay? Remember, eye on the sky. Now get
lost."
    The receiver was buzzing
in my ear. I hung it up, went straight to the Maserati, turned her
around, and blasted off for Verdugo Mountain. I was less than five
minutes from her front door, so she'd been alone for no more than
ten to twelve minutes and, besides, I had not fully bought Greg
Souza's whole bag—but this guy was no dummy—a pain in the ass,
maybe, but no dummy—so I had a very mixed bag of churning guts just
barely under the control of a skeptical mind— not so much under
control as to prevent me from liberating a Walther PPK from a trick
compartment under the carpet at my feet. The long and the short of
it is that I got back to the House of Isaac in three minutes flat.
The hot and the cold of it is that the electronic gate was standing
wide open, whereas it had closed and locked behind me just minutes
earlier. A dark sedan was parked behind Jen's Jaguar in the alcove;
I caught that in my peripheral vision as I stood the Maserati on
her nose and bailed out running.
    A skinny guy in a business
suit lunged out of the sedan and rushed me. I took the angular
momentum of that rush off the left hip and spun him on across the
driveway and into the iron fencing. I paused briefly at the open
doorway for a quick sniff of the inside atmosphere and threw a
quick look over my shoulder to make sure the guy was not up and
rushing again; he was not; I palmed the Walther and pushed on
inside, all the guts at full wriggle now and prepared for most
anything.
    Greg Souza did not come by his paranoia
cheaply. Let me get this explanation into the record, right here.
The guy earned his spurs in the craziest of all the crazy worlds
possible. The international "intelligence" community has had its
good press and bad; it has been idealized, crucified, and lampooned
in every media form for many years now, and the paranoid agent who
sees a conspiracy in every bush is probably the most hackneyed
buffoon to ever grace a television screen. I poke fun at Souza
myself, even though I know with the certainty of one who has been
there himself that these guys do not get that way innocently. They
do live in an insane world where there is no principle or ethic and
no morality larger than the