Read Now You See Her for Free Online Page A

not one lists an obligation to stand outside on a porch preaching. Rastafarians speak out, the Web sites inform me, against
     poverty, oppression, and inequality.
    Could these be Big Doc’s “poison”?
    I’ll ask Devaney. Sloppy case notes from the crackhead years are understandable; so are mix-ups on witnesses. But a ranting
     preacher with dreadlocks in a red robe in a cult house blasting music at full volume? That would make a surefire lasting impression.
    Unless Suitcase Mary’s brain is scrambled, that’s information Devaney withheld from me.
    Deliberately? For reasons of his own? What about the sideways gaze, that guilty look as he pulled his tie? Guilt at Henry
     Faiser’s imprisonment, I thought at the time.
    But maybe it’s more than that. Maybe Devaney’s hiding something from me. The Homicide Division is not, of course, obligated
     to inform psychic Reggie. I’m out of their loop.
    But not necessarily out of their danger zone. Yes, I serve on a need-to-know basis, but it’s my ribs on fire at a murder site.
     Thrilled to work with cops, I could be death’s own candidate for another clump of bone-white birches. I will indeed confront
     the man. My ultimatum: tell me everything about the case, or else count me out.
    Biscuit’s water needs freshening, and I put in the call to Devaney, grab a sandwich, and get back to “Ticked Off.”
    The phone rings in minutes, but this voice is high and breathy. “Ms. Cutter, this is Angie from Dr. Buxbaum’s office. The
     doctor asked me to call because the bathroom faucet in his apartment is dripping. He asks that you have it repaired. He would
     appreciate promptness. He wants you to know it’s affecting his sleep. He trusts you will take care of it.”
    I stare at the phone as if it’s a burst balloon. No showdown with Devaney. Instead, plumbing service for H. Forest Buxbaum,
     D.M.D. I picture him drilling and filling, a high-maintenance tenant. This could be the start of phone pal chats with Angie.
     “Dr. Buxbaum needs his lightbulb changed … his storm windows raised … lowered … grease trap cleared … shirts starched, shoes
     shined.”
    Excuse my nanosecond of self-pity, but in my previous life, plumbers were on autodial, along with the pool service guys, electricians,
     lawn care experts, florists, vets, hairstylists, spa technicians, tutors for the kids all through school.
    But with my divorce settlement stocks collapsed, I cannot take one dollar for granted. The five I gave Suitcase Mary—an impulse
     I can ill afford. “Plumber” is no longer a touch-tone tap away, but a synonym for debit. I can’t simply throw money at leaks.
     My new life isn’t calling but being the plumber.
    “Please tell the doctor I’ll see to the faucet.”
    To think, at this time of year, top management and spouses always met at Amelia Island. We played doubles, and one year Martha
     Stewart—of course, before her trial—flew in to demonstrate bonsai. So many flights on the company Gulfstream with the onboard
     three-star chef.
    Meanwhile, back on earth, my late Aunt Jo, a high school history teacher and community activist extraordinaire and psychic
     too, was probably fixing faucets for her tenant. Did she drag the toolbox from the back closet and thumb through the Complete
     Do-It-Yourself Manual? Not that she mentioned it in her holiday visits to our suburban homes.
    Jo in her seventies, wielding a wrench? Knowing my aunt, I have to answer yes.
    And me now in my mid–late forties, a self-pitying pampered wimp? Absolutely not. In jeans and a sweatshirt, I grab Jo’s toolbox
     and read up on “Faucets” in the manual. Stillson wrench, spindle assembly, and knurled nut sound like Urdu. Never mind, Reggie.
     Get upstairs and give it your best.
    Buxbaum’s bathroom sink faucet is indeed dripping. Step one, turn off water below sink, then remove faucet handle and turn
     wrench counterclockwise. But it’s stuck. I push and pull, grunt and yank. It’s much