Authors: Jordan Castillo Price
Richie.
“We gotta go,” he gasped. He was covered in a sheen of sweat. “I need to eat something. I’m going into hypoglycemic shock.”
The dead doctor must’ve been good and startled, too. Now he was gone.
*
*
*
The greasy-looking doctor actually concurred with Richie’s diagnosis. I figured Richie had just read the word
hypoglycemic
on someone’s chart and repeated it because he wanted to be the center of attention. Luckily, there were glucose tablets at hand. But with the FPMP’s house medium cranky, shaky and sweating, the Metropolitan Correctional Center outing Dreyfuss had called in his favors to arrange was over.
On the force, I work weekends as often as not. But today, Friday afternoon meant release from my bondage, and thanks to the FPMP, I could finally appreciate the sentiment behind TGIF.
Lisa was out—I did my best not to visualize with whom—and after wolfing down an early dinner, Jacob and I had become one with the couch. I slouched, sprawling back into the pillows, with his head cradled in my lap. While we hashed over the day, I twirled his short dark hair between my fingers, absently forming small liberty spikes that unraveled as soon as I let go. I looked forward to this one-on-one time all week. I felt like I could relax my shoulders and breathe all the way in. His features softened from not needing to hold his cop-face in place. In the spaces where our words trailed off, the silence was soothing. We had a lot to talk about, though. Even without running the blender. The infirmary convicts must’ve been on some pretty good opiates; Jacob said he’d found them surprisingly chatty. They told him Roger Burke was always up to something. He was maneuvering to get me to recant my testimony—and if that hadn’t paid off, he was hoping to barter some very special technology for his release—the remaining GhosTVs.
Compared to the convicts, the dead doctor hadn’t told me anything useful. Still, I recounted the conversation for Jacob the best I could. He listened in that way he does whenever I talk ghost, so focused I can practically hear the gears turning. “We know Burke contacted you about your testimony,” Jacob said. “But what about the GhosTVs?”
“I’m under the impression that Dreyfuss scooped them up. Maybe someone was trying to stop him from grabbing them…but who would want to keep the GhosTVs under wraps?” I asked. Anti-Psych groups? The government? I can’t imagine how I’d ended up with a console of my very own growing cobwebs in my basement if anyone knew the half of what they could do. The only group that understood the GhostTV’s potential was the very organization investigating Burke’s shooting. Ironic? Maybe not. It was entirely possible the right hand didn’t know that the left was covered in gunshot residue. “We thought it was a good idea for one of us to keep tabs on the FPMP,” I said, not getting into the fact that we’d disagreed which one of us was the best guy for the job. “But what if we were wrong? What if we should stay as far away from them as possible? Because people disappear there. Jennifer Chance. Detective Wembly. All those repeaters on the fifth floor. Someone’s taking people out—maybe not Dreyfuss, I’ve got to hope Lisa eliminated Dreyfuss before she shacked up with him—but someone.”
Jacob didn’t disagree. He thought for a while, then said, “Lisa couldn’t eliminate Laura Kim.”
“But she didn’t say Laura did it, either.” The thought of collaring Laura made me sick. I genuinely liked her, and my gut was telling me she acted nothing at all like a killer.
There were all kinds of Psychs on staff, though. What if Laura Kim hadn’t voluntarily pulled that trigger? What if a powerful Psych had forced her hand? My fingers stilled mid-twirl. “Jacob….”
“Mm?”
“We need to take a better look at Agent Bly.”
Chapter 22
I slept like crap with visions of that morgue-like bunk bed shelf and the toilet fountain dancing in my head. I’d thought murderer-ghosts would be the thing to trigger my anxiety, and instead it had been the sight of the cells that spooked me. I’d waited too long to take a Seconal. If I took one now, I’d sleep my Saturday away. I indulged in a Valium instead. It made my limbs feel heavy, but left my thoughts returning to the sight of the prison cell. I gave up trying to get back to sleep pitifully early. Even so, Lisa had come and gone before I could catch her and question her about Agent Bly. Jacob didn’t need to tell me I’d be an idiot to utter his name over any phone, or to even say it outside of one of our safe spaces, without alerting the whole FPMP to the fact that we were on to Bly.
“It’s six fucking thirty,” I snapped. “Does she have
yoga
on Saturdays?”
Jacob was still in the land of grog. “Actually,” he said into his pillow, “I think she does.”
There was no guarantee she’d be coming home afterward, either. Armed with a map printed off the Internet, I made my way to Lisa’s gym. Since there was only one door, I planned to snag her on the way out and figure out what the hell Agent Bly’s game was…and whether he’d managed to force or coerce Laura Kim into killing someone.
I sat in my car sipping my big coffee, watching the windshield gradually fog over. It started around the edges, creeping toward the center, but I had my eyes on the prize. After the email-theft incident, Lisa had opted against joining Jacob’s gym, which was full of beefy gay guys who look pretty much like Jacob. In contrast, hers seemed more like a mom-gym, the type of place where even I wouldn’t feel too intimidated. The clientele I saw going in and out was mostly female, and a big poster in the window advertised free child care. The few guys who did show up seemed like they probably had booster seats in the backs of their minivans. I’d spied Lisa’s VW in the lot, though the parking places on either side of it were taken. That was fine, as long as I had a good view of the door. There was a yoga session scheduled—I’d checked when I printed off the map—and just as my clock showed 7:33, a stream of mostly women emerged from the front door. They had pastel yoga mats slung over their shoulders and water bottles clutched in their hands. Their body language was easy, as if they all knew each other, holding open doors, chatting amiably, waving goodbye.
Lisa’s not one for neon colored workout clothes. She dresses like a cop—navy, black, white, gray, denim and khaki. I recognized her navy jacket right away…and then the crowd shifted, and I recognized a certain atrocious knit hat. And the guy shameless enough to wear it.
Con Dreyfuss strode beside Lisa with a day-glow yellow yoga mat clamped in his armpit and an acid green water bottle with a loop-top swinging from the pinkie of the same hand. He needed to keep his other arm free, obviously, to prevent Lisa from escaping. That’s what I told myself. Even though she appeared to be trying to cradle her head on his shoulder as they walked with their arms around each other, swerving like drunks. And even though they were both smiling so brightly they practically lit up the dingy parking lot.
I slid down lower in my seat and squinted, relieved that there hadn’t been a spot free near Lisa’s Beetle after all. No way she’d miss me if she walked right by my car. I was two rows over, though, and she had no reason to look. She was too wrapped up in Dreyfuss anyway. They paused by her car to disentangle from one another, and he took a moment to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear while he gazed into her eyes and said something that was undoubtedly charming. I’d seen him look that way before, dopy with longing, when his astral body went to sit vigil by a medicated Faun Windsong’s bedside, so seeing this side of him didn’t shock me now. Like before, he didn’t know I’d borne witness to it, so I could hardly tell myself he’d trumped up a show of devotion simply for my benefit.
They climbed into her car. I sighed, and my window grew foggier still. Through the mist, I could tell by the way they bent their heads together, there was spit being swapped between Dreyfuss and my best friend. I watched their silhouettes with a sick fascination, but luckily for me, they kept their makeout session brief. They pulled out of the parking lot and were on their way. I started my engine so my blowers could get to work on clearing my windshield, and I wondered how I might manage to pluck Lisa from Dreyfuss’ grasp. Not forever. Even I’m not selfish enough to throw a wrench in the works when she was so obviously happy. But long enough for her to help me figure out how Bly had managed to force Laura to do his dirty work. Even if things like fire ghosts and fingernail demons flew out of left field to shred my carefully constructed scenarios, I had to start somewhere. As a working theory, Agent Bly forcing Laura Kim’s hand made more sense than anything else I could think of.
*
*
*
I wasn’t super-familiar with the gym’s neighborhood, and I discovered a “no left turn” intersection exactly where I’d planned on getting back home by turning left. I toyed briefly with the idea of turning anyway, since all I’d need to do was flash my badge if I got stopped. But the thought of seeing the look on a traffic cop’s face as he stared at me and thought, “Really? You?” wasn’t exactly appealing. I kept going straight, and then found a snowed-in park at the next point I wanted to turn, and pretty soon I realized I wasn’t far from Bob Zigler’s house.
Maybe I couldn’t question the sí-no about Bly’s secret motives, not until Lisa came up for air and detached from Dreyfuss, but Zig would be the perfect person to ask about the missing PsyCop, Detective Wembly. I pulled up and checked out the house. No Impala—he must’ve still been out of town. I couldn’t exactly call him or send him an email without the whole FPMP knowing about it. There was a mail slot in his front door, though. I could leave a note.
Need any info you can get on Detective Wembly, missing Empath from 20th Precinct. Photo especially. -Vic
If I could get a look at this Wembly guy, I could say whether or not he was the boardroom suicide, or even some other repeater I just hadn’t had the pleasure of stumbling across quite yet. If his picture didn’t ring any bells, maybe any other information Zig could dig up on him would give me an idea of what to be wary of. After all, I had to make sure I’d never be known as “That
other
PsyCop who mysteriously vanished.”
As I opened the storm door to slide the note through the mail slot, it occurred to me that the walk was freshly shoveled. Maybe Zig had left his kids behind—they were teenagers, old enough to fend for themselves. They didn’t strike me as the type of kids to destroy the house with a wild party the second their parents left them unattended, either. I rang the doorbell, figuring I should give them the note in person and let them know it was important their dad got it.
Since I was expecting one of the kids, I did a little double-take when Nancy Zigler answered. They were back from their trip after all. I was surprised Zig hadn’t checked in with me when he got in, but maybe he got in too late to call and figured he’d see me Monday morning. “I haven’t seen you in ages,” Nancy said, all smiles. “I didn’t realize you were coming over—the house is a mess.”
I highly doubted that. The Ziglers’ house looked like something out of a home decorating magazine. She called her husband downstairs while she held open the door for me—okay, there was a basket of laundry on the coffee table being folded while the TV played a gardening channel, but other than that, I didn’t spot anything out of place. She seemed to be in such a good mood, it was too bad I needed to bring up the subject of the funeral. Unfortunately, funerals are one of those things you can’t sweep under the carpet. “I’m sorry to hear about your friend.”
“Which friend?”
Great. I probably shouldn’t have said anything. “The…funeral.”
Her smile turned puzzled.
I heard footfalls on the stairs. Zig turned the corner of the landing and hurried down to join us. “Vic,” he said. Just my name. Sensing something was up, I waited. He gave me an inscrutable look, and then said, “We need to talk.”
While I wasn’t surprised, Nancy seemed genuinely perplexed. Zig’s grim tone was pretty clear, though. “I’ll leave you to it,” she said, heading upstairs.
Zigler ran his hand over his face. It was early and he hadn’t shaved yet. His whiskers glinted silvery gray. He looked tired—physically and mentally tired. “There was no funeral,” he said.
“Okay.”
“I just needed some time.”
Even though he was still standing awkwardly in the middle of the vestibule, I wandered into the living room and slumped into a wing chair. He followed, perching on the edge of a recliner, distinctly uncomfortable. “So why sneak around?” I asked. “You could have told me.”
“It wasn’t planned…you know you need to submit the requests five days out.”
“Shit, Zig, what the hell do I care? The timing made sense. We were wrapping up the bloodmobile anyway—although I wish you’d stuck around long enough to write up the narrative. I suck at that.”
He gave an unpleasant sniff of a laugh and shook his head. “Doesn’t matter anyway.”
“What do you mean?” I suspected I knew.
“He’ll get off. They all get off. So what difference does it make?”
So. He’d heard about the dog dish guy too. He subscribed to the same journals as I did. And Zig was thorough; he actually read them. It’s not that I was glad Zigler was despondent over the creep’s acquittal. But I was relieved that he hadn’t been doing an unauthorized side job all week. The image of him exchanging information with some sinister figure in a shadowy alley popped into my head. He had a good idea of the extent of my abilities. I’d hate to think he’d sell me out…but what if he would? What if he was feeling worn down and fed up, and the right person came along with the right offer?
“Nancy doesn’t know about the time off,” he said. “I guess I’ll need to tell her now. I’ve been parking down by the river, and staring at the water, and thinking.”
“Aren’t you still talking to…” a shrink? “You know. A professional.”
He shrugged. I’m not sure if that was supposed to mean he’d stopped therapy, or that he was still going but it wasn’t doing him any good.