Authors: Jordan Castillo Price
And here’s where I would pay for being dead to the world when Jacob got home from the range. “Now he’s got you on the bandwagon too?” I asked. She gave me a wide-eyed look, and I said, “I hope he didn’t wake you up just to tell you to give me a push. I know he’s gotta work there, but it’s not like anything dead can touch him.” Lisa still looked kind of blank, so I added, “Since he’s a Superstiff.”
“Oh, right, Jacob. He’s Teflon. But when I ask the sí-no if you should do the exorcism, it gives me a yes. I don’t usually ask the sí-no if something ‘should’ happen. Too subjective. But, you know how you just talk to yourself sometimes.” Did I know? Heck yeah—for every word I spoke I probably thought a zillion more. Although when I talked to myself, my answer wasn’t apt to be correct, not like Lisa’s. “So,” she said, “you should go do the exorcism. Soon.”
I’d be better off all around discharging my debt to Dreyfuss. It was a shame to burn a sí-no to confirm something that obvious. “Fine.” I dumped half the pot into my travel mug, then put the carafe back on the caramelized burner. “I’ll give him a call.” Then I pawed through the drawer in hopes of finding some of those individual caffeine shots I pocket from the coffee kiosk in the minimart. The sleeping pills had left me wuzzy and slow, and even my double-strong home brew needed help to clear the cobwebs and ready me for a delightful day of paperwork at the Fifth Precinct.
*
*
*
So far that season there’d been one sizeable snowfall that “stuck,” and one instance of plowing. The Fifth Precinct parking lot had a short ridge of leftover snow around the perimeter that was crunchy from the temperature easing up over freezing than dipping below again. The rim of dirty white was gray with pollution and studded with gravel. That morning, as I found the least desirable parking spot was the only one left for me to take, the spot that abutted the old snow on the driver side, I suspected the gravel was the only thing that kept my feet from shooting out from under me and leaving me sprawled on the ice. My phone rang—Zigler’s ringtone—and I realized my partner’s beloved Impala wasn’t in the lot. Once I had two feet on dry ground, I answered.
“I’m going out of town for a few days,” he told me. “Funeral.”
Great. I never knew what to say when someone died. Plus, with the people who knew me well enough, it seemed like something especially insightful was expected from me. “I’m sorry for your loss.” That was so generic I might as well have said nothing. I added, “Make sure you get a copy of the death certificate so you can get your paid leave. It took Maurice three months to get his benefits when his brother-in-law died because of some screwup with the paperwork.”
“It’s not family,” Zigler added quickly. “It’s an old family friend…so I’ll just take some personal days. But…thanks.”
He sounded pretty stressed. “Take care of yourself,” I told him.
*
*
*
Not having a partner changed my day dramatically. If I was in the middle of an investigation I could commandeer some temporary help, but we’d finished gathering evidence on the bloody truck the day before. I considered calling in “sick.” But Betty, my boss’ secretary, chose that moment to adjust the blinds beside her desk. She looked out the window and spotted me standing there in the parking lot waffling about going back home, and waved to me cheerfully. I waved back, quelled a sigh, and headed in.
Since police work is probably ninety percent administrative bullshit, there were reports that needed filing, and the bloodmobile we’d discovered yesterday wasn’t going to make its way through the system itself. While I’m as capable of filling in the blanks as the next guy, there’s a certain art to choosing the right words. When faced with the big, empty spot where the narrative should go, I didn’t have the faintest idea where to begin.
After I tried a half dozen times to start my first sentence, I decided to pull some of Zig’s old reports and get the ball rolling, figuring I could use his language while I tweaked the particulars to match up with our incident. I dug up the paperwork from a similar case we’d done in August: man bludgeons girlfriend to death, I stumble across her repeater, forensics has a field day. Not that the incident report said anything like that. The cop-speak is so dry it’s practically encrypted.
**ONGOING HOMICIDE INVESTIGATION**
At 14:15 on August 20, PsyCop Unit arrived at Irving Park with warrant to search premises. PC-M5 noted disturbance in rear hallway.
That was me, PC-M5. Catchy nickname for PsyCop, Medium, fifth-level…at least as far as anybody knew. And to say I “noted” the victim’s repeater getting her face smashed in with what turned out to be a giant ceramic dog dish was another understated bit of code. Later on in the report, PC-NP (that would be Bob Zigler: PsyCop, Non Psychic) questioned the subject, who gave him some flimsy story about their doberman mangling a raccoon in the back hall. I guess it didn’t occur to the murderer that our labs can tell the difference between raccoon blood traces and human DNA.
I’d read through the report a few times, gut twisting, before I paused to remind myself that I had been trying to pull the language from it. Nothing more. Maybe, I figured, what I needed was something older, something that wouldn’t hit me quite so hard. I flipped through a few more reports. Ninety year old man versus home invaders armed with baseball bats. Honor student mowed down in a drive-by. A guy who knifed his brother for having an affair with his wife…an affair that turned out to be entirely fabricated by a neighbor with too much time on her hands and a mean streak a mile wide.
Delving farther back into the files wasn’t helping. Not at all.
It took me until lunchtime to cobble together a stilted accounting of the bloody vehicle PC-M5 “noted,” even though the narrative was barely three paragraphs long. There’s a certain tone you need to aim for, tedious and technical, something that will stand up in court. I took care to make sure my language was just right. No sense in coming this far and having issues later on down the line due to poor word choice.
Lunch without Zig was duller than the prose on an incident report. Although I knew the rationale behind pairing a Psych and a Stiff didn’t apply to the two of us since Zig was actually an NP, work just wasn’t the same without him. Together, we were the dreaded Spook Squad. Alone, I was just a guy who sucked at typing. I finished my burger in five minutes, then stared out the diner window for half an hour while visions of bloodied ghosts and repeaters danced through my head.
Normally, I wouldn’t dream of trying to score while I was on duty. Now, though, I had the image of the dog dish repeater overlaying the pathetic throat-stabbed ghost. Although I’d just stuffed a giant burger down my maw, I still felt like I was starving…and the only thing that would satisfy my gnawing hunger was a little red pill. I swung by the greasy gin mill where the stepbrother of an ex-friend, a guy with connections, could usually be found nursing a beer anytime after noon. He didn’t often have reds—they’re really hard to find—but on my lucky days, he did.
Although I’d buttoned my overcoat to cover my suit, I still worried I projected the air of law enforcement by virtue of being on the clock. I slumped my shoulders, hoping that changing my posture would make it less likely that someone would tear open my coat, rip the badge out of my pocket, and exclaim,
You were a cop all along!
Instead, a bartender who I vaguely recognized, a graying Caucasian guy who probably appeared to be ten years older than he actually was, looked up from where he was clearing lunch dishes from a table. He glanced my way and said, “He’s not here.”
I paused there in the doorway and processed the information. A few lunchtime patrons were finishing their fries. A couple of all-day drinkers were watching ESPN with their stale popcorn and beer. None of them paid any attention to me.
“They caught him driving with a suspended license,” the bartender said. “He’s in lockup.”
“When…?”
“Yesterday.” The bartender rounded the bar and emptied the plastic baskets in the trash behind it.
Can he make bail?
I didn’t ask, since I knew full well that bailing out my dealer was a profoundly stupid idea. Especially if I wasn’t even sure he was holding.
There was a time a few years back when the manufacture of Seconal was stopped—but then, to the delight of all the insomniacs who swear by it, the precious red pills started rolling off the production line again. Unfortunately, now they’re classified as Schedule II controlled substances (like morphine and honest-to-God
opium
) that most doctors refuse to prescribe. All the doctors I know, anyway.
It took deep pockets and deeper connections to obtain. Extremely deep connections…like the type of connections who can tap your phone without a subpoena and haul you to Santa Barbara in a Learjet.
I wasn’t sure if Jacob got a lunch break or not—I pointedly avoid asking what he actually does all day—but when I called from my car, I didn’t really expect him to pick up. “What’s up?” he said. Casually. Kind of.
I sighed until there was no air left in me, then re-settled my holster against my ribs and said, “I’m gonna come handle that salting.”
“Now?”
I watched the gin mill’s door for another moment, as if any time now my guy would come shuffling up to take his post at the dark table in the corner…but a sinking feeling told me that chances of scoring from my usual source were pretty much nil. “Now.”
Chapter 4
The last time I visited the FPMP offices, I’d been in the custody of a fake Fifth Precinct cop who was really on Con Dreyfuss’ payroll. This time, I went there alone. The building is so deliberately low-key that I’d taken extra precautions to ensure I could spot it again. Still, I wouldn’t have been all that surprised if I ended up driving around the North Loop in circles without seeing it. My deliberate attention paid off, and once I counted the lamp posts, I spotted the parking garage and pulled in. The orange and white striped barrier arm raised to allow me access. I told myself it was probably just a camera-activated mechanism that does the same for everybody. Then again, when I tried a few elevator buttons at random, only one of them lit up for me. So maybe not.
It let off on the top floor with the very expensive lobby full of muted colors, pricy artwork and classy uplighting. Plus the desk with the secretary assassin behind it. Laura was wearing a pinstripe suit today, and her jet black hair was pulled back in a slick, low ponytail. Severe dark-rimmed glasses, same as I remembered. Her earrings were tiny diamonds, though I imagined that she didn’t wear them because she liked them, but because she was too detail-oriented to go around with the piercings empty. “Detective Bayne,” she said, looking right at me—right in the eye—as if I hadn’t seen her skulking around the site of Roger Burke’s shooting. As if we hadn’t had an actual conversation right there in front of the prison where she’d put a bullet in his face. “Agent Dreyfuss is just finishing a phone call. There’s coffee and tea in the lounge. If you haven’t eaten, I can order—”
“I had lunch.” I should know. The sight of Laura caused that burger to churn. I was unwilling to show weakness, though. When you need to fly under the radar, both ends of the spectrum—from aggressive loudmouthed jerk to wimpy doormat—attract unwanted attention. I usually aim for a middling attitude of non-threatening disinterest since I pull it off pretty well, but there’s a big difference between calm and weak. Calm people made eye contact. And so I held it like it was no biggie. None at all.
Laura looked away first. “Make yourself comfortable. Let me know if you need anything.”
I needed plenty of things, but I kept that to myself. It went with the whole unflappable demeanor I was trying to present. Before I moved out of her line of sight (barring any security cameras, which most certainly were trained on me) I snuck one more look at her. She typed, a flurry of clicks, then slipped her hand under her desk. I figured her to be activating some sort of mega-spycam, but she came up with an orange jellybean instead. She tucked it into her mouth, barely breaking stride, and resumed typing.
There’s more to winning a standoff than staring the longest. Clearly I was dealing with a pro. As I sidled into the lounge, I contemplated that I might very well be in over my head dealing with the FPMP on their home turf. Originally I thought I should be the one to infiltrate the organization, but now I had to wonder if Jacob had been the better choice after all. He doesn’t need to pretend to be unflappable. He really is. Or at least he’s scads better at coming off that way.
I was contemplating the framed magazine covers on the walls featuring the world’s most famous Psychs: Jean Dixon, Uri Geller, Marie Saint Savon, when I was joined by someone just as talented, one Con Dreyfuss. Maybe he’d have a place up on that wall too, someday. Then again, he didn’t exactly broadcast the level of his clairvoyance, so maybe not. His white-guy corkscrew ’fro was back in a ponytail and he wore a baggy Bob Marley T-shirt over a pair of faded jeans. His huge platinum watch was the lovechild of Cartier and NASA. “Well, well, well. What a pleasant surprise,” he said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“What do you think?”
Be nice. The man’s got the goods. Or if not, he can get them.
“I’m here to take care of the…matter…we agreed to.” There. That sounded civil.
“How’d you manage to fit me into your busy schedule before Christmas?”
“You’ve got eyes all over my workplace. You tell me.” I took a breath and regrouped before I said anything more I’d regret. He’d always needed me a hell of a lot more than I needed him—that’s what I’d been telling myself. I didn’t like it when the tables were turned. “Do you want your exorcism or not?”
“After seeing you in action at PsyTrain?” He rubbed his hands together in eagerness that might or might not have been exaggerated. “I can hardly wait.”
I noticed a small hum as Dreyfuss trooped me through the series of doors and halls that led to his office. Magnetic locks. I guess no one was taking chances with any uninvited guests who managed to get past the secretary without a bullet in their back. He pulled out a key and unlocked the door—then slid a magnetic card through a reader as well. All this rigmarole for the few seconds it took to gather me from the lounge.