Page 75 of Reckless Witch

His gaze hardens. “If you’re after the estate, you have to talk to an attorney. We don’t handle that.”

I go cold. “If I was after her estate, I would have it. I would like to see your report.”

His brows shoot up. “The White Plains Police Department isn’t in the habit of sharing internal investigation reports. You can request the autopsy report from the medical examiner. There’s a form on the ME’s website.”

I nod. “As next of kin, I have the right to see the report you gave.”

“I don’t know who told you that.”

“It’s New York state law,” I reply. That’s a lie—well, maybe it’s not a lie, but I found no laws governing the next of kin’s right to see a homicide report when I searched the web on the cab ride over.

He shrugs. “You’re mistaken.”

I stand. “Can I quote you to the reporter at the New York Times?”

His mouth thins, but he gives a nonchalant shrug. “I don’t make the law.”

I turn and head for the door. I reach the front entryway a minute later and push through the exterior door. A woman calls, “Ms. Crowe.”

I step back and turn. A fortyish woman wearing slacks and a long-sleeved, white, button-down shirt is standing at the same door I just exited.

“Do you have a moment?” she asks.

I nod and approach her. She allows me to precede her through the door, then I follow her back down the hallway and past the desk were Detective Moore sits. The office door she opens sports a plaque that reads Sgt. Decker. I enter and she closes the door after me.

“Have a seat,” she says, and sits behind the desk.

I take the chair in front of her desk.

“I’m Detective Mills. Detective Moore tells me you’ve asked to see the report concerning your grandmother’s death,” she says. “As he told you, by law, we are not required to turn over the report to you.”

“Then what am I doing here?” I ask.

She leans forward, elbows on the desk. “Ms. Crowe, I understand you need closure, but, please, take my word, this is not the way to achieve it.”

“Take your word? Why should I?”

“Because the details in the detective’s report would dredge up more emotions than answers.” She leans back in her chair. “I understand you and your grandmother were estranged.”

“If you think you can make me feel guilty, don’t bother. It was my grandmother who kicked me out when I was fifteen.”

Her brows raise, but her eyes betray knowledge. So, the sergeant knows more than she’s letting on. That’s nothing new for the police. I can’t blame them. Just because I operate outside the law doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the law’s perspective—not to mention, it isn’t their laws I’m breaking. From a human perspective, I’m a straight arrow. It’s not like they would believe that I make magical disguises that hide wanted criminals from their direct sight. The fact I haven’t broken any human laws is moot, though. Whoever’s in the know will alert the Illumina of my actions. Let’s see how the Illumina likes me talking to the cops.

“I know my grandmother,” I say. “She’s not the kind who would commit suicide.”

“You were fifteen when you left,” the sergeant says. “No offense, Ms. Crowe, but teenagers don’t really know their guardians. Not to mention, you’ve been gone seven years. People change.”

“What evidence is there for suicide?” I demand.

“She was found dead in her bed with an empty bottle of sleeping pills on the nightstand.”

I wonder if Detective Mills knows there was no body, or if she’s merely repeating what she read on the report. “You know my grandmother was a practicing witch?” Let’s see if that gets anyone’s attention.

She doesn’t miss a beat. “My niece practices Wicca.”

“My grandmother was a bit more than a practicing Wiccan. She was a powerful psychic.” Psychic abilities usually go hand in hand with powerful magic, but we’re taught from childhood to explain away our powers as simply being psychic. “She wouldn’t take drugs,” I say. “They…alter psychic abilities.”

“Ms. Crowe, people who decide to commit suicide are no longer thinking clearly. They care only about the final results.”