Funny how much better I liked him when he wasn’t there.
* * *
The last word I’d use to describe Jacob is boring. I suppose that’s because he mashed his tongue down my throat within thirty seconds of making my acquaintance. Shenanigans like that are bound to leave an impression. I found him in his office, looming over his research like a master strategist bent on finding the flaw in the enemy’s army that would carry our side to victory. He glanced up and swung that laser focus, momentarily, to me.
I almost said, I wouldn’t finger Garcia for this…then, of course, Stefan’s I’d do him comment sprang to mind. So I scrambled for a moment, then came up with, “I don’t think Garcia’s our guy.” Which sounded like we’d been scoping him out for a threesome but opted to go home alone.
Leave it to Stefan to discombobulate me without even being present.
Thankfully, Jacob didn’t notice any awkwardness on my part, either that or he was gracious enough to ignore it. “We got the same feeling from Agent Lipton. So now I need to figure out, who else would have the motive, the opportunity, and the access?”
“Between the chips in our guns, the GPS on our phones, the cameras at every turn, can’t you just feed the time and location into the computer and figure out who was in the stairwell with Colleen Frank?”
“You’d think so,” he said. “But the building is huge. Not every last inch of it is monitored, only critical access points. Most agents—the techs and the admins—don’t carry unless they’re in the field. Pulling the GPS will take some time….”
“We’re a building full of spies—how can we not know who was in the stairwell?”
“I pulled a log of the keycard use. But human nature being what it is, people hold open doors for each other all the time. Especially if it’s a fellow FPMP agent.”
“An inside job for sure.” My stomach felt queasy. “And if it was the same killer who lost their bullet in Andy Parsons, maybe they’re getting more careful about the evidence they’re leaving around.” We both stared down at the personnel lists and timetables on Jacob’s desk. “They’re connected, right? A bizarre manifesto comes out of a printer, two of the people with access to the machine turn up dead. Colleen didn’t know anything about it—she told me so after she died—but maybe that didn’t matter. All she’d have to do is walk in on someone with the wrong piece of paper in their hand, and that could make her a target. And as much as I hate to admit it since I couldn’t stand the guy, the same thing can be said for Andy.”
“Either Garcia or Lipton could have pulled it off,” Jacob said. “The logs show they were somewhere in the building when Frank was killed. Garcia knows enough about surveillance to dodge all the right cameras, and Lipton is a pro at blending in and deflecting attention.”
“And yet they each put on a convincing show of a grief-stricken coworker in front of a high-level empath, so that puts us back at square one.”
Jacob nodded. “The question is, if they didn’t do it, what if they’re targets too? Should we have someone on them?”
How weird would it be to have all the FPMP babysitters reassigned to monitoring each other? If ever a conversation with Lisa would come in handy…now there was a depressing thought.
I glanced back at the logs and wondered if it showed where Carl had hurried off to just before Agent Frank had her fateful meeting with the stairwell railing, but I quashed the thought before I said something damning I could never take back. Of course, it couldn’t have been Carl. He was…Carl. If he was capable of murder, he’d have strangled Richie long ago. I opted to keep my concerns to myself for the time being. Even a casual question as to his whereabouts could very easily send Jacob down a path we’d all end up regretting. “Anything else you need from me?”
“Not until I figure out our next move.” Jacob brushed the side of my hand with his knuckle. Not a secret signal. Just a touch. “But thanks.”
I headed for the lunchroom to grab a quick bite before anything else vied for my attention. Back at the Fifth Precinct, it was always Zigler who made sure we ate. Here, the food was tempting enough to make even me prioritize mealtime. So I hadn’t thought much further than the chicken Florentine when I hit the staff dining room. And I was surprised to see Patrick waving vigorously at me from the corner.
“Cashing in my rain check!”
Huh. I didn’t think people actually did that. Maybe “rain check” wasn’t actually shorthand for “I prefer not to spend any time with you, ever.”
I sat. Spread my cloth napkin on my lap. Ate. And beside me, Patrick fidgeted with the urge to chat. “What?” I finally asked, between bites.
He leaned in close and said confidentially, “I saw the report on Colleen Frank. You seriously spoke with her after she fell?”
I wanted to deny it, but the guy had access to Laura’s files. Hell, he also knew how many tabs of Auracel I could crank through in a month. “There was contact,” I said vaguely.
“What did she say? Anything more about the leak?”
“She wasn’t exactly in a position to assist with the investigation. What with her brains on the railing.”
“That’s so intense. I mean, that’s like horror movie stuff. Right?”
Evidently he hadn’t yet read about the flailing autopsied body under the plastic. Then again, those of us who’d been there were all as dry and clinical as humanly possible in our report so as not to paint too lurid a picture. “Not really.” I shrugged. “You see enough of something, you get used to it.”
“And could you make out what happened?”
“Everything I got from Agent Frank is in the report.”
“So she didn’t know who pushed her? How is that possible? Wouldn’t you think that once you die, your mind opens up to the intelligence of the universe?”
Only if you were special, like Miss Mattie. “Not necessarily.”
“It’s all so intense.” He looked a little queasy. “You talked to someone who died. I mean, wow. She was dead. Like…dead.”
This reaction must’ve been the reason I didn’t normally fill people in on my talent. Most folks aren’t going to respond like Jacob, with enthusiasm and a hard-on. I figured I’d better downplay it before I gave the guy nightmares. “Yeah, it’s a real treat. So how was your day, lock anyone out of anything important?”
“I’m getting better. There’s just so much to learn, it’s a little overwhelming. Plus I need to go practice at the range—care to join me after work?”
Wait, had he seen my marksmanship needed to improve…or was he coming on to me? I sized him up as I napkinned some spinach off the side of my mouth. He didn’t seem to be flirting. I might not generally be all that quick on the uptake, but once I ask myself the question, Does that guy want to touch my dick? I can usually tell. I didn’t get a gay vibe from Patrick. He and I just had a new-guy bond. And I would probably benefit from making friends, especially one with access to all of Laura’s stuff. Unfortunately….
“Sorry. Working double-duty until I get a break in either one of my assignments.”
His shoulders slumped. Why were friendship waters so freaking difficult to navigate? No wonder I was such a lone wolf. I didn’t know how to act. We sat there awkwardly for a moment, and then, belatedly, I offered, “Rain check?”
Patrick smiled. “Definitely.”
Chapter 22
I spent the rest of the afternoon combing through keycard timetables with Jacob. But when someone walks up behind you, it’s common courtesy to hold open the door for them. I’d wager that half the people in the stairwell weren’t on that list.
You know Jacob is exhausted when he leaves dinner to me. Had I known ahead of time, I would’ve called for delivery on our way home, but by the time I figured out what was what, it was way too late. I nuked us some frozen chicken breasts, but not only were they bland, they were tougher than shoe leather all around the edges, and we ended up throwing most of the meat away. At least running the garbage disposal gave us a chance to
really talk.
“These past few years,” I said, “I always figured the Fifth Precinct was holding me back. All the shit I put up with from the meatheads on the force, all the bureaucracy from above, everything seemed like a series of ridiculous barriers stopping me from making a difference. At the FPMP, some small part of me was starting to think that maybe I could do some actual good.”
“You can.”
“Really? That’s not how it looks from my end. Because not only do I have zero clue how to score a medium’s ability, but now my colleagues are being picked off right under my nose.”
“Yours and everyone else’s. You’re not the only one assigned to this case.”
“But…I’m different. I’ve got an edge no one else has. And I should be able to figure out what’s going on.” I turned off the empty garbage disposal before it burned itself out, and it rattled to a stop. “Never mind. Let’s go to bed.”
I always claim I don’t have a very sound or restful sleep, but wake me up at two a.m. and I discover that’s patently untrue. I was so far gone that when Jacob’s phone started blaring, I lurched out of sleep with a startled, sickening confusion and a half-remembered slip of a dream that disintegrated when I tried to put words to it. Even in my sorry state, I was quicker than Jacob. I grabbed the phone from his nightstand, glanced at Laura Kim’s number on the screen, picked up and said, “Bayne.”
“I need you and Jacob at Agent Lipton’s house right now. There’s been a break-in. And for heaven’s sake, turn on your ringer.”
We staggered into our clothes half-asleep and made it to the fake schoolteacher’s Lincoln Park brownstone in fifteen minutes flat. Veronica Lipton was about Jacob’s age. She had a well-kept house with a ubiquitous Lexus in the garage. I thought of her as a professional, a federal agent in a suit, with no-nonsense brown hair and sensible shoes. At home, though, she looked more like a regular person. She was in a robe, though it kept sliding off the silky nightgown beneath, and she was constantly pulling it back into place and attempting to re-anchor it by cinching the belt tighter. And when her nightgown slipped, the faded edge of an old tattoo showed just above her breast. A dragonfly wing, or maybe a fairy.
Her house looked like a regular house. Behind the nearest closed door, a cat yowled to get out. Possibly more than one. She had a truly impressive collection of takeout menus stuck on her refrigerator door with magnets shaped like various swear words. The “fuck” magnet was holding up a snapshot of her snuggling a squirming longhaired cat. Her kitchen table was clear of everything but a salt shaker, a few pieces of junk mail, and a Beretta 9mm.
Police presence was sparse. One beat cop was being talked to by a guy in a suit—probably being informed that the feds had this, thanks very much. “Can I make us some coffee?” Veronica asked.
Jacob shook his head. “Better play it safe and treat the whole thing as a crime scene, just in case.”
“The guy forced open the back door and didn’t get any farther than the edge of the cabinets. So the coffee pot should be fine to use. It’s all the way across the room.”
“You’d destroy evidence for a cup of coffee?”
She crossed her arms. “Well, when you put it that way…but sometimes a cup of joe is the only thing standing between me and a bottle of Jack.”
“Look,” I said, “just give us your statement and you can go grab yourself the biggest coffee the minimart carries. You need two hands just to pick that thing up.”
“Fine. I was asleep and the cats woke me up. They were bouncing off the walls. Figured it was just one of those random cat freakouts. They do that once in a while, the tails get big, eyes go black, and boom, they’re off. It’s usually funny.” She eyed the back door warily. “Anyway, I heard noise downstairs and came down to find some guy prying the door open. I fired three rounds. He ran.”
“Any blood?” I asked.
She shook her head. “A team is scouring the deck, but given that one round is obviously buried in the wall over by the light switch, I wouldn’t be so shocked if the other two missed him too.”
Shitty of me to gloat, but my seventy percent wasn’t looking so bad after all. Then again, I’d been shooting on a well lit range at a stationary paper target.
“Anyway,” she said, “from what I could see, he was under six feet tall. Average frame. But it was dark, and he was wearing a hoodie with the opening tied so tight the only part of his face showing was his eyes and nose. Hard to even guess his age based on that, or his hair, or much of anything. He moved pretty well—so was he young and fit, or just in good shape? I can’t even tell you what race he was. All I can say for sure is that going by his silhouette, the way he moved and his low center of gravity, he was male.”
What a shame. All I could say was that she and Agent Garcia had better take to sleeping with the lights on.
* * *
It would take the FPMP forensics crew some time to comb through Veronica’s property and give us a definitive answer, but their initial findings weren’t particularly encouraging. No obvious blood. No usable footprints. And I’d be shocked if there were any fingerprints waiting to be lifted, though that didn’t stop them from trying.
The sun had grudgingly risen by the time they found enough of nothing to tell us about it. I scowled open my phone and tried calling Laura, but ended up getting Patrick instead. Dreyfuss used to divert his calls too, and I hadn’t minded then. But Laura was different. I liked Laura. And her not being available for me would take some getting used to.
“Any luck?” Patrick asked me.
“If by luck, you mean nobody seeing squat….”
“Tough break. Look, I’m here for you guys. Anything you need, let me know. I might be the newbie, but Laura left extensive notes on where to get stuff and who to call. And I’ve just about mastered the internal phone system.”
“That makes one of us who understands phones.”
“Listen, speaking of phones, have you checked out that productivity app I showed you? Because I’d hate for you to get so bogged down prioritizing the urgent quadrant that you fail at the main thing Director Kim wants from you.”
Maybe Laura was the one who needed to look at her priorities. I’d have to talk some sense into her. After all, the more of her live agents who got killed, the more potential ghosts she’d end up with. “Is she there? I just wanted to touch base.”
“Sorry, she’s booked solid. But let me get you on the calendar now, and if anything opens up, I can move you forward.” He typed for a few seconds, then said, “She’s got a spot next Tuesday at three.”
“I guess,” I said listlessly. That was nearly a week away. By then, either we’d figure out who was killing FPMP agents, or everyone would be dead.
I hung up with Patrick and took one last look around the scene. No ghosts. And even if there were, talking to them might not give me anything I could use. So I put on my homicide investigator hat and took a closer look.
Still nothing.
I glanced up and saw Jacob at the perimeter of the snowy lawn, getting a debriefing from the techs. His posture was straight, his gaze was focused and intelligent, and he commanded the same respect he always did. But by the look on his face—something that would unlock my new smartphone—I could tell he wasn’t too keen on what the techs had to say.
Since I’d started my official stint at the FPMP, I’d been leery of working with Jacob. Worried he’d ride me too hard, or that I’d turn out to be a liability. But catching sight of him now, embroiled in a case with lethal ramifications and nothing to go on, I realized what I was really scared of. Me, caring too much. Because when I worked homicide, I didn’t hold back. When a ghost came crying to me, I’d give a hundred percent. Now, though, with Jacob involved? Seeing how pained he was over failing a victim he felt it was his duty to protect? I felt compelled to give even more, whether or not there was anything left in my reserve.
Jacob caught my eye and nodded for me to join him out in the alley, where old Christmas decoration
s poked out from frozen gray snowbanks. Ice crunched beneath our feet. “I’m hiding Lipton and Garcia until this blows over.”
“Safe houses? Good idea. Patrick can probably help you with that.”
Jacob shook his head. “The fewer people who know any details, the better. There could be a telepath involved. I’ll make all the arrangements myself.”
While Jacob went off to hide two undercover agents—from a killer, or from each other—I grudgingly headed back to the office I’d been avoiding. My office.
After so many years of being on plain view in a precinct that either hated or feared me, you’d think I would relish having an office of my own. But I didn’t. Not because I was sharing it with my new assistant and my old frienemy from Camp Hell.
Because I felt like I didn’t deserve it.
I stood there in the center of the plant-filled room, stared at my useless computer, and scrabbled for a next move. Any move. And while I flailed uselessly, Darla showed up with a couple of big guys and even bigger boxes in tow. “You’re early,” she said.
I grunted.
She strode over to her standing desk, planted her hands on her hips, and assessed the room. She pointed to an open area and said, “Put it right here, it’ll get the most midday sun.”
The big guys wheeled over their big boxes.
“I hate to ask,” I said.
“Treadmill desk. I haven’t even been in Chicago a week and I’ve already gained three pounds. And who knows how long I’m stuck here. I’ve still got hundreds of NPs to analyze. On a test that might prove exactly nothing.”
Carl came in at nine on the dot, and without preamble, said to me, “I heard you were at Agent Lipton’s last night. What happened?”
“Attempted break-in. Shots fired.”
“Is she okay?”
Was he asking because he was worried about her? Or just trying to see what I knew? “Nobody’s hurt,” I told him.
“I can’t get hold of her.”
“She went dark, for her own protection.”
Agent Bayne: PsyCop 9 Page 14
