Clean: A Mindspace Investigations Novel

by Alex Hughes

  I didn’t really want to carry a gun. You had a weapon, you used it. And I had enough crap on my soul already without adding killing people to the list. I’d never actually killed someone—probably the only one of the Thou Shalts I hadn’t trashed all to hell—and I wasn’t interested in starting in on my last holdout. Thank you.

  I’d never be a cop, never fit into the inner circle. Never really understand why it hurt something inside them to find a body on the roof, why most everyone in the building was literally killing angry right now. Why it was personal now—it had always been personal for me, since they’d first mentioned the Guild. Since I’d first realized the bastards were letting innocent people die.

  I wasn’t a cop. I couldn’t be trusted—hell, I didn’t trust myself right now—but the stakes weren’t going away. So I had to be twice as useful as annoying. Get the job done.

  The useful thing to do right now—the thing I needed to do—was to call Kara. I needed to know where Bradley was.

  “There you are.” Paulsen caught me on the way out of the bathroom, not that that was uncomfortable or anything. She grabbed my arm and I blocked, hard, to keep from reading her.

  I disengaged politely. You shouldn’t touch a telepath, damn it. “Look, Paulsen—”

  “On the roof, you thought there might be another suspect?”

  I paused. “Cherabino said—”

  “I asked you the question, not Cherabino.”

  “My vision had Bradley trying to kill us, and my gut says this is him too. That this is personal to him somehow. But even if you think my gut is full of crap, he’s the next logical suspect. He’s exactly the kind of teleporter-telepath we’re looking for, though by the book his telepathy numbers are a lot weaker than what I saw. Still, with any luck, Kara already—”

  “Who?”

  “The Guild attaché. Cherabino told you on the roof, remember?”

  “Why are you on a first-name basis?”

  I coughed. “We knew each other at the Guild. I contacted her Tuesday like you said.”

  “I haven’t seen a report,” she said.

  “I haven’t written one.”

  Her look could have melted lead. “You want to be treated like everybody else, you want me to listen to you, you want me to keep you, you have to do what everybody else does. Especially now. I told you no leash, and I meant it. The report needs to be on my desk same day. It’s Thursday.”

  “We were a little busy.”

  “I saw Cherabino’s report yesterday.” She paused significantly. “Don’t let it slide again. The artificial organs seem like our first real connection here. Now you’re talking Guild involvement. What’s going on?”

  Suddenly all my suspicions started pouring out. “Kara put in an official request to talk to Henderson two days ago and hasn’t gotten a response back yet. The truth is, the requests are notoriously unsecure—they’re almost public knowledge. I think the killer, I think Bradley saw the request and knew we were onto him. He killed Henderson before we could talk to him, left him on the roof like a personal message. My gut says it’s for me. It’s my fault, for starting this. Otherwise Henderson wouldn’t be dead.”

  Her eyes softened. “If that’s what happened—and we don’t know that it was—then this Henderson was much too close to the killer, or was the killer himself and made someone else angry. Even if it’s true, you can’t blame yourself.”

  “But—”

  “How sure are you about this Bradley connection?” she asked. “Did they know each other at the Guild?”

  “I think so, but it was a very long time ago,” I told her. “My memories aren’t all that clear. I was about to call Kara and find out for certain. She was supposed to put Bradley in custody last night. If that’s the case, we’re at a dead end. But I don’t think that’s what happened.”

  Paulsen took a deep breath. “This is our case. You can’t just hand it to the Guild—Koshna Accords or no.”

  I shook my head. I couldn’t believe I was arguing this, but…“We don’t have enough evidence to get him through our system. The Guild considers a vision as reasonable suspicion. But if he’s already in custody—”

  “Here,” she said, and pushed me down the corridor toward her office. “You’re going to give me Kara’s number, and then I’m going to talk to her boss. This is moving too quickly.”

  I followed reluctantly and dialed from Paulsen’s office phone as told.

  “Is Bradley in lockup?” I asked Kara with no introduction.

  She sounded annoyed. “No, he’s missing, as is Henderson.”

  I met Paulsen’s eyes across her desk. “We have Henderson,” I told Kara, “But you’re not going to like it.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s dead on the police station roof. My boss wants to talk to your boss about why.”

  Kara made an angry sound, and then I passed the phone. I was handing her a load of political trouble, and honestly I didn’t care. She’d let Bradley get away, let him kill Henderson. Let him leave me that message. She could deal with the politics.

  I made to sit down in the chair across from Paulsen, but she shooed me away. Reluctance in every move, I did what I was told. This was my case and my connection to the Guild. Shutting me out was stupid and disrespectful—very, very disrespectful. She hadn’t forgiven me the slipup yet, had she? Not even a little. I was pissed.

  With all the emotions flying around—and the intense, deep-seated anger of every cop in the station, with my own anger and my realization of Cherabino’s emotions still skittering across my consciousness, I desperately needed something. Since the interview rooms were empty and I couldn’t have Satin, since Paulsen had dismissed me and Cherabino was already in the workout room, since everybody and his brother was watching me like a hawk, it was time to run.

  It was time to run, to make my body work so hard my mind would finally empty completely. Hitting that point took coming to the place where I almost had to stop or I’d faint. So it was a crapshoot, painful, and not guaranteed, while I turned bright red and puffed and the cops looked at me pityingly. But today, now, I had to try. I’d pick up the case and the interviews when I could think, when my brain settled.

  I ran my hand down the locker door, trying to get it settled closed securely, since it had no lock. It was prefab metal, the same locker design they’d been making for a couple centuries, the door slightly warped, worn, and metal-cold. I took my hand away, carefully, and it didn’t shift. Good. At least one thing was working right today.

  I passed through the doorway into the main workout area. On the right, the weight machines and free weights shared space with ancient powered treadmills and a couple of dusty stair steppers that hadn’t been used in years. To the left, punching bags and manikins stood with the faces half compressed by years of heavy impacts with someone’s fists.

  In the center, right in front of the door, was an open space currently filled with mats, where Cherabino was beating up some poor guy, excuse me, girl—it was hard to see—and pinning her to the floor. The position had Cherabino’s body weight holding the girl down, her thighs locking in the girl’s head. Apparently they’d kicked her off the roof too, and she was working off her anger and overflowing sadness on the mats—probably the best place for her now.

  I put off my painful time on the treadmill to watch Cherabino, to make sure she was really okay, and to check out her form. Her sensei thought she was good enough at judo to teach. That is, if she could ever get her anger issues under control.

  Cherabino let the girl up and stood, waiting patiently. She critiqued her on some point I didn’t really understand, bowed in respect, and looked around for another taker. Her shoulders were tense, too tense; she was still worked up.

  Unfortunately, the next taker was Ethan Ricks, brand-new transfer into the department and a real hothead. Heavyset, with a beer belly that never quite went away, Ricks was one of those guys who’d played football once upon a time and had never gotten over it.

&n
bsp; Cherabino bowed, and Ricks stepped onto the mat. He was four inches taller and outweighed her by at least eighty pounds.

  “I didn’t know you had training,” she said politely. Even the tone of voice was civil, and that was hard with Ricks.

  “In Phoenix everybody fought.” Ricks took a ready position, sloppy even to my eye, but I wasn’t going to be the one to tell him.

  By this point, most of the gym had gathered around; Ricks had made an ass of himself in less than six weeks, and everybody was more than ready to see him get what was coming to him.

  Cherabino gracefully assumed a fighting stance. Ricks echoed her awkwardly.

  Then, suddenly, Ricks rushed her—he was fast, but a fast linebacker, not a warrior. Cherabino moved out of the way easily. She waited. He came around again and grabbed her arm.

  Quick as a flash, she had flipped him face-first onto the mat.

  He managed to chip her legs out from under her, and she fell. He rolled over and was on her faster than a snake.

  For about five seconds I thought he had her; he had all the leverage and that huge weight advantage. She tried two times to buck him off and he held. The third, she locked a leg around him and managed to roll, ending up with her elbow on his throat and her legs immobilizing his.

  He punched her in the face. Full force—the sickening crunch echoed through the gym as he slammed her head back. Then he tried to roll her over again.

  She let him, somehow using his momentum against him. He went flying across the gym, landing outside the mat with a loud, harsh crack. She stood, chest heaving with anger, in the center of the mat. An angry red circle on her face marked the beginning of a nasty, nasty bruise. God willing, it was only a bruise.

  When Ricks lifted his head, he shook it, sending a few droplets of blood from his lip flying. He looked pissed, but so did she.

  She bowed, eyes tracking Ricks carefully.

  He wiped his mouth and looked at the blood on his fingers. Then his eyes went back to her. “They were right. You are a frigid bitch.”

  I was at the right angle to see her face change to rage. She moved so quickly I could barely see her, four steps forward. His attempts at a block didn’t faze her—she plowed her knee, full force, directly into his groin.

  He went down and I winced, hunching in sympathy.

  Then she kicked him, hard, right in the kidney, and spat. When she went to kick him again, the closest two cops—one a rookie, James—moved in to stop her.

  It should have ended there, but Cherabino wasn’t in a mood to take interference—she fought them, struggled out of their hold, and punched the rookie directly on the jaw.

  The rookie went down, and the room held its breath.

  Her eyes started leaking angry tears. And behind her, Sergeant Branen spoke.

  “Cherabino. My office. Now.”

  She rushed out of the room, avoiding her boss, but in the right direction. He followed more slowly, but the look on his face and the line of his shoulders were deadly.

  On the floor, the older cop was over the rookie, trying to see how badly he was hurt. And suddenly the whole room burst out in furious speculation about what had happened, about what Branen was going to do.

  Some of them were defending her, loudly; some were not. But they all thought she was going to get suspended. Or worse.

  I dropped my stuff where I stood and found the coffee closet, immediately. I had to know—I had to find out what was happening. And while I’d detached myself from the fight on purpose (I did not want to experience another fist in the gut, thanks), right now I wanted back in Cherabino’s head. I had to know what was happening. I had to make sure she was okay. Especially today. Especially now.

  I found the coffee closet—the pleasant smell of half-burned coffee enveloping me like a cloud—and tucked myself into the one tiny chair. I shut the door behind me but left the light on.

  I got comfortable, stable, as quickly as possible, and then reached out to Cherabino. I found her, connected with her along that link I had with her. The one I couldn’t admit to having.

  And click I was inside her head. She was a maelstrom of emotion—out of control—wide open. Furious, upset, torn in half, scared it was true, angry if it wasn’t—why couldn’t they leave her some dignity? Peter was dead, her world was crushed. Why couldn’t they leave her the fuck alone?

  All of it overlaid by control, the need to be professional…. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. Her cheek hurt, throbbing in time to her heartbeat, and she deserved it all.

  She was standing in front of the Homicide chair’s desk, at attention. She deserved everything Sergeant Branen was saying, her cheek hurt, she deserved every fucking moment.

  “…. the most unprofessional stunt I have ever seen in twenty years on the force! What in hell were you thinking? I should feed you your—”

  Cherabino met his eyes, which stopped him cold. Her mind was a firestorm of grief and anger and a hundred other things, and it was leaking out her eyes; she couldn’t stop it. “Ricks was an asshole. You don’t say that to another cop, not a six weeks’ transfer. You just don’t. He sure as hell shouldn’t have been allowed to get away with it, not today. Not any day. I was justified.”

  Branen stood up, slowly, and walked toward Cherabino. He got all the way into her face. “That’s what you think this is all about, Cherabino?”

  “It isn’t?”

  “This is about you hitting the rookie. James. Remember? Who was trying to save you from going over the line. Save you from yourself. And you decked him.”

  It was strange—I could actually feel her cheeks heating as she blushed. She looked down. Stupid, stupid, stupid. “Of course, sir. That was uncalled for.”

  “It is your responsibility to be professional. But, no. You had to fly off the rocker and punch out a man two grades below you. Who was trying to save you! In defense of your so-called honor. Which half the department would have defended ourselves if you had let us! But now, look at you! I can’t lift a finger to say anything against Ricks because I can’t support what you did. Not to a junior grade—not like this. You gave Ricks exactly what he wanted, Cherabino, and now he’s going to say it again and again, and my hands are tied. What kind of shit situation does that put me in?”

  Cherabino’s mind churned as she grappled with the fact that he was right. Was it true? “I—”

  “Get out of my sight. Right now I don’t even want to look at you.” And he turned his back to Cherabino.

  She felt like someone had stabbed her in the gut. Here it was, the man who’d stood by her in the funeral and all that happened after, and he was turning his back on her. Turning away because he couldn’t even look at her! Like she’d betrayed him.

  She turned around and moved to leave the office. When her hand was on the door, her boss stopped her.

  “I’ve docked you two weeks’ pay. Publicly. Taken away another week of your vacation. Signed you up for anger management. And—I swear to you, Cherabino—if you pull one more stunt like this, Isabella, just one, if you even look at somebody crossways, you’re on suspension. I don’t care what day it is.” A warning.

  “Understood,” Cherabino told the door handle, and got out of the office as quickly as her legs could carry her. Was it true? It couldn’t be true, could it? She walked like the demons of hell were on her back, away, away. When she passed another cop (who reacted too strongly to her face, she must be crying, he would hate her and think she was weak, she had to stop, she had to stop now), she wiped her eyes on her sleeve and slammed the door closed on her emotions.

  Slamming me out in the process.

  I “woke up” in the coffee closet, my own face wet with tears that didn’t belong to me. I could barely catch my breath. Her devastation was overwhelming, total, heartbreaking.

  I staggered up and out, wiping at my eyes. She was heading for the closet—trying to get away from prying eyes, just like I had—and I didn’t have the piece of mind to fake it right now. I had to get out
. Get out now, before she found out. Because as shitty as she felt right now, she’d feel even worse if she knew I’d been witness to her humiliation.

  And I didn’t want that for her.

  I made it outside, on the smoking porch, without noting the steps in between. It took three cigarettes and a hundred breaths for the hot August sun to bake me back into completely me again. Which was too long; there was something going on between us I didn’t have words for, and it worried me. It worried me a lot. But there wasn’t exactly anyone I could call anymore, not without them reporting me ten ways to Tuesday, not without her knowing. And as much as I couldn’t afford another strike on my record, even more I couldn’t afford for her to know what I’d seen.

  I craved my poison, and suddenly that was a good thing, something dependable, something just mine. Even if I did have to stand there saying no for another cigarette and a half. But this time it was easier, somehow, as if being in her head helped me in mine.

  The sun beat on me all alone, while I heard a few cops above me still on the roof; the sun beat on me while my sweat poured down and I tried to think about what had happened.

  Then I went back in the building. I found the showers, cleaned off, and got dressed in my spare almost-uniform white shirt and black pants. I couldn’t leave food in my broken locker, but none of the cops would stoop to stealing clothes, so I had a couple changes stored here.

  Finally calm, and me again, I asked the detectives’ pool for more busywork. I wasn’t in any shape to do interviews. I wasn’t—and Paulsen shooed me away again, saying we’d talk in the morning about the Guild. She was disappointed in me, that much was clear. I wasn’t too happy with her in return.

  An hour of busywork later, Bellury found me and said it was time for the drug test. I was so wrapped up in other things, I just got it done. Didn’t think about it, didn’t stress about it, caught up too much in all the other stresses, all the other thoughts. I knew I would pass, this time.

  I called Swartz, to let him know for sure I wouldn’t be at the meeting. Cherabino would need me when she finally surfaced from work. She’d need me—or something—worse than I needed my poison. She was having a hell of a day. And I wasn’t about to let her go home alone.