Victor Bayne honed his dubious psychic skills at one of the first psych training facilities in the country, Heliotrope Station, otherwise known as Camp Hell to the psychics who've been guests behind its razorwire fence. Vic discovered that none of the people he remembers from Camp Hell can be found online, nor is there any mention of Heliotrope Station itself. Someone's gone through a lot of trouble to bury the past. But who?

For the past dozen years, Victor Bayne has solved numerous murders by interrogating witnesses only he can see-dead witnesses. But when his best friend Lisa goes missing from the sunny California campus of PsyTrain, the last thing he wants to find there is her spirit.
Disappearing without a trace in a school full of psychics? That's some trick. But somehow both Lisa and her roommate have vanished into thin air. A group of fanatics called Five Faith has been sniffing around, and Lisa's email is compromised.
Time is running out, and with no ghosts to cross-examine, Vic can't afford to...

The second PsyCop adventure finds the ghosts surrounding Victor getting awfully pushy. The medications that Victor usually takes to control his abilities are threatening to destroy his liver, and his new meds aren't any more effective than sugar pills. Vic is also adjusting to a new PsyCop partner, a mild-mannered guy named Roger with all the personality of white bread. At least he's willing to spring for the Starbucks. Jacob's ex-boyfriend, Crash, is an empathic healer who might be able to help Victor pull his powers into balance, but he seems more interested in getting into Victor's pants...

Mark Hansen thought working as artist's assistant would be glamorous, especially if that artist was a vampire. Black tie events, witty repartee, gracing the pages of the local style section.... Didn't happen. Not even once. Jonathan Varga is an enigma. True, he's quiet, generous, and scrupulously polite. But he has zero social life, refuses to be interviewed or photographed, and insists he can only consume feline blood. Why supermarket blood won't suffice, Mark hasn't asked. He's rarely at a loss for words-he can dish an insult and follow it with a snap as quick as you can say "Miss Thang."...