by Tina Gower
Kyle’s lips press together as he nods and shuts the case file, sliding it over to Becker, who snatches it up and madly tears through the pages.
Kyle takes two steps closer to me and stops, frowning. “I need to talk to Kate alone.”
Behind Kyle, Becker drops the case file. His hand goes for his armpit where he keeps his gun.
My eyes go wide. I’m shaking my head no. Both to Kyle’s request and to Becker shooting my ex in the head at the suggestion.
Lipski tucks me farther into the corner and stands in front of me. “No can do. Little concerned about the leaks in your department in recent history.”
“You mean our office assistant? He’s been cooperating with law enforcement. At least that was the report we were given. And there’s no indication we’ve got anymore issues.” His expression drops. His face loses a bit of color. Genuine concern replaces his earlier confident glare. “Have you heard of any other leaks?” He blinks at the closed blinds. His jaw juts out. “Seven hells.”
Lipski digs into his coat pocket and produces a notepad with a tiny pencil wound into the spirals. He situates it in his palm. “You got any suspicions you’d like to share with us?”
“None. But I’m open to the possibility. And if there’s going to be an investigation of my department I want to be a part of it.”
Lipski shrugs. “Unless you’re part of the leak. How do we know you’re not going to compromise our case? Kate here doesn’t seem too keen on working with you. We respect Kate’s opinion.” He presses his mouth closed, bobs his head, and makes a motion with his hand that indicates Kyle’s smart enough to come to the proper conclusion.
Kyle doesn’t like the lack of confidence. I can see it in the flash of his eyes, but he keeps his cool. Kyle is the master of not letting the enemy see him sweat.
Becker, however, is struggling, thankfully out of Kyle’s sight. Becker rubs his temples, pacing. His eyes sport the hint of a gold glow. I need to get him out of here.
Lipski continues to keep Kyle’s attention. If Kyle sees Becker losing it, he has the power to keep Becker so far from this case he won’t be able to even mention it in casual conversation.
Lipski jabs a finger in the air as though he’s just thought of something. “How about we let you on Kate’s case if and only if you can deliver every single person in this department’s personnel files and allow Becker and me to interview each one.”
“That’s impossible. I’d have the union all over me.”
Lipski grins. “I have faith in you.”
Becker slams his fist on the table, directing all our attention to him. “No deal. He can’t do it, so we cut him out.”
Lipski tsks. “Aw come on, buddy. Can’t you see he only wants what’s best for Katie? He’s got the experience we need. Access to the Homicide computer and prediction records. And a real urge to make things right.”
Becker’s eyelids twitch.
Kyle’s head lowers. “I do.” When he raises it again, his gaze fixes on me. “I want to make it right. I want a chance to explain to Kate.”
Kyle’s always been a people pleaser. It burns him to have someone hate him. He’s never understood that he’ll never please everyone. Especially me.
Kyle holds his hands together in prayer position. “Please, Kate. I know I can solve this case. We can find whoever is after you. I’m guessing it has something to do with your most recent success on the chance prediction scandal?”
I look away. Damn. It might not be his people-pleasing tendencies at work, but his prideful hotheadedness. His need to be in the thick of high-intensity cases and solve them. Bask in the glory and media attention. I used to think it was his ego, but I know now it’s his low self-esteem. He needs to constantly prove his worth and he probably doesn’t get much of an opportunity now that he’s in management.
He takes one step closer to me, hand held out as if I’ll take it and run off with him. “What do you say, Kate? You and me on an impossible case. Between your brain and mine, we’ll make it look like a Sunday picnic. Just like old times.”
Becker’s lip curls, showing his teeth.
My low opinion of his personality aside, Kyle is one of the most talented actuaries in all the departments combined. The tricks he taught me made me a stronger statistician. He taught me how to combine what my gut told me with my brain and never underestimating common sense. He pushed me from a nerdy know-it-all-book-smart-ass to a confident competitor. The difference between good and great. If I wanted to lower my risk dramatically, merely allowing Kyle on the case would do it.
He also already knew my secret of being fateless. He’d been discreet before with the information. He never completely sold me out to HR, just enough to set me back several years in my career. But given the current unfriendly atmosphere to people like me, it’d be better to keep that secret under my hat.
As much as I hate to admit it, he’s my ticket.
I blow all the air out of my lungs and press my thumb to the bridge of my nose. “Fine.”
I’m going to regret every second I have to look at that rat bastard’s face while he does impressive things with my numbers.
“Great.” Becker straightens his jacket and motions for me. “Come on. We have to go.”
I shoot a look at my file. My own file and I haven’t gotten to read it yet. “But we haven’t even run the prediction yet. I want to know if it’s fake.” It’s fake. Of course it’s fake. Every nerve in my extremities sends electrical shocks to my finger and toenails. When I was fateless, I could convince myself that my parents’ accident wasn’t entirely my fault. We’d received the traffic accident prediction and assumed because I didn’t get one they would be safe as long as I was driving. Being fateless gave me an out. If that out was gone, it meant I’d killed my parents by not pursuing a prediction, by not insisting they run my odds again.
Becker lowers his face to mine. We’re inches apart. “Hey, you okay?”
I blink. “I’m sorry, what?”
His earlier agitation is gone, his expression more concerned. “You were gone for a minute there.” His voice is as quiet as a whisper, grinding on each word at the end like he hates we’re still in a room full of people and he needs to get me somewhere where we can be alone.
Gods, he must need something. Some pack thing. I brush the strands of hair from my vision. “I’m okay. I’d just be more comfortable if we could get something, some clue to chew on before we go.”
Becker nods, his eyes on me, but he addresses Lipski. “Get us the house number on that oracle. We’ll start there.”
Kyle interrupts. “That would be a little difficult. Jayesh Patel? He’s an oracle in India. If you hop on the next plane you can be there twenty hours from now.”
I shake my head. “Wait, what? That’s impossible. Oracles don’t have that kind of reach.”
“That’s what I thought. So I ran a search of all the possible nicknames of Jayesh Patels registered as oracles. Jay, Esh, J. I came up with nearly seven hundred possible hits.”
“Wow,” says Lipski. “Common name.”
“We do have an E. Patel locally, but he’s a sports oracle. I’m sorry,” Kyle scrunches up his face like he’s remembering some detail and reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a several-page printout. “I mean she. She’s a sports oracle.”
“Sports.” Becker scratches the back of his neck. “Doesn’t mean she can’t predict a death.”
“Yeah, but usually it’s related to something in the sports industry,” I explain.
Lipski changes his position in the room again. This time to stand in front of Becker and me. He stands a little too close to Kyle. It forces him to take a few steps back. “You piss off any athletes, Hale?”
“Not that I know of.”
“We can call this guy in India.” Becker’s gaze drops to Kyle’s printout, his fingers curling like he’d like to get his hands on it.
Or to punch Kyle in the face. Hard to read Becker’s body language at the momen
t.
Kyle straightens, folding the paper over and tucking it back into his coat. “I did and it wasn’t a good time. His sensitive was a little protective. Might have had something to do with the fact it’s nearly midnight there. But I don’t know because my Telugu is a bit rusty.”
Doubtful. Kyle’s hobby is learning languages. He speaks nearly thirty, maybe more now. One time he dragged me to a newly opened mushroom bar just to speak some rare dialect of Elvish with the wait staff.
“Convenient,” Becker grumbles.
I can tell Becker is done. But Kyle is having too much fun showing off.
He leans against the table, crossing one leg over the other and sits back with a contented sigh. “It does explain why your prediction isn’t in our system. If the predicting oracle is in India.”
Lipski doesn’t buy what Kyle’s selling. “But someone in this department printed up the notice. It’s on your letterhead.”
My prediction isn’t in the system. Of course. The dull ache in the back of my skull signals an oncoming headache. I don’t want to wait another eight hours until it’s polite to call India, just to ask them if a rare, insane anomaly has occurred and an oracle was able to predict a death on someone across the ocean. The only time oracles could predict on people with that kind of mileage was in the love industry and they had an intricate web of seers and other psychics to make that happen. And it worked because of the connection to the soul mate searching, using personal items, and working with an oracle in their local area.
I press my fingers into the base of my neck, keeping my eyes closed and calm. Becker and Lipski toss out ideas, mostly insulting Kyle in backhanded ways. Good. Kyle could use a knock down from his pedestal.
Patel. Something Kyle said earlier sticks and although I try to discredit the long shot, I can’t help but wonder.
“Wait.” I say it so quietly I’m surprised anyone heard me until I remember I’m in a small room with a werewolf, a gremlin-troll, and a demon.
Demons don’t have super hearing, but they do have manners enough to cut out the vocals when the other two people they’re arguing with suddenly stop talking.
The three men remain quiet, waiting for—I don’t know—maybe they assume I’m about to have a breakdown. My hair is likely a mess by now and my eyes pop open like I’m a wild manic.
“Patel is a common name. Very common.”
The three nod.
“Common through history?” I quirk an eyebrow at Becker, who thank gods gets my suggestion.
“Jayesh Patel.” He fumbles for his tablet, but it’s not in his pocket. He makes gimme fingers at Lipski. Lipski hands over his. Becker types away. “Jayesh Patel. Ran experiments on Fateless in the sixties.” He holds up the phone. “Bingo.”
Kyle shakes his head, his eyebrows drawn together. “No. That’s not Kate’s predicting oracle. He’s dead.”
“Exactly.” Becker tosses Lipski’s phone back to him. “Come on, Kate. Let’s go. We’ll have this thing figured out in twenty-four.”
Kyle’s expression falls. He whips out his printout again, flipping through each page. “I don’t understand.”
I sigh. Although I don’t owe Kyle anything, I know the not knowing will make him crazy. “It’s a message. In our last case they used names of people from oracle and prediction’s history as aliases on bank accounts. This one is to let me know what they have planned.” As in, they just wanted to mess with me.
I gather my things. Kyle grabs my wrist and his hand touches my waist to stop me. I freeze. And the next few seconds happen too fast for me to understand.
Becker’s gun is drawn.
“Whoa, back away.” Lipski’s voice is deadly serious, drawing his gun too, but keeping it low. “Back away now.”
I’m not sure if he’s talking to Kyle or Becker, but Kyle drops my wrist like it’s a cookie sheet and he’s without an oven mitt.
“Okay. Okay.” Kyle’s eyes are wide and staring at the barrel. It’s not aimed at him, but could be at any second. His hands fly stiff above his head. “I wasn’t thinking. It’s just that I think Kate shouldn’t jump to conclusions. We need to still call Jayesh and eliminate it as a possibility before we make assumptions.”
“Great,” says Becker, “we’ll do that,” though he doesn’t holster his gun.
“Do you speak Telugu?”
“I’m willing to learn.” He analyzes Kyle, head to expensive Berluti dress shoes. “Can’t be that hard.”
Although I have entertained the fantasy of shooting my ex, I don’t exactly want Becker to go to prison for the deed. I place a hand on Becker’s shoulder, adding a little cough. Becker’s arms tremble as though fighting the urge to keep his gun ready might strain a muscle. He swallows several times, keeping his golden gaze locked on the ground, and away from Kyle’s—but not from my ex’s throat. He sneaks peeks at that body part a little too often for me to decide he can contain himself much longer. And from the red rim around his eyes and the twitch in his upper lip, I can see we’ve hit his breaking point. Thankfully, so does Lipski.
“I think it’s a good idea to keep Mr. Dillingham on consult for the case.” Lipski practically glides in between us. “Kyle and I can work out the details of that. Why don’t you escort Ms. Hale back to her apartment, Officer Becker? Set up a security detail until we can affirm the validity of the death report. I’ll send you both information to get started on the investigation.”
I want to stick around and gather more information, but I know I can easily do that from my apartment, granted I’ve not been blocked yet from my suspension. Becker ushers me out of the conference room using his hand on my back.
The door is heavier than I expected and it slams behind us, announcing my exit to all my ex-coworkers. They do the lookie-loo, rubberneck routine again. Some whisper. Some point. Some do this eye communication thing to the cubical mate. One woman pretends she doesn’t even see me. She keeps working like a champ. Maybe she doesn’t really care about the drama. I love her. She is my hero.
We make it to the hallway and then the elevator. The doors shut, we’re both staring straight ahead, and Becker holds it together for one floor.
“That asshole is still in love with you.” He punches the wall.
I’m too busy having a PTSD moment where I relive Kyle entering the room as though he had nothing to be ashamed of.
I cover my face with my hands. “But Lipski’s right. We need him. Unless…unless you think he’s being deceitful?”
Becker pauses, staring at the ceiling. “No. We can trust—” He chokes on the word, shaking his head. “He’s not the leak.”
Not that it would solve all our problems if Kyle were the leak, but it would solve my most immediate ones. Right now my world is narrowing down to simple necessities for survival. I fight that instinct. I have to remain calm, no fight or flight allowed.
Becker breathes in deep and punches the wall three more times. On the last swing he knocks the fake walnut wainscoting off. It slaps onto the floor, making the sound of a well-executed belly flop.
He cradles his hand, biting his lip, and mouthing curse words.
First, and before I do anything else, I should do something about the werewolf time bomb.
Chapter 3
My time bomb wolf doesn’t cooperate. First we run by the station. Coconut oil blasts through the air vents of Becker’s car. Becker leaves me locked in his car in the guarded parking garage, surrounded by a dozen cops on lunch break. Becker says something to them in passing as he heads up the elevators, and the group casually swarms around his car, continuing their conversations.
I stare at the surrounding concrete columns, exit signs, and white arrows directing cars to upper levels.
About a half hour goes by and one of the officers taps on the window. He calls through the glass. “Ian said he’s going to be longer than he expected. You want some water or something?” He shakes a set of keys. “He left his keys if you want to get out. Stretch your legs.”
&nb
sp; I shake my head no and lay the seat back, curling away from the bulk of the group to take a nap, but I can’t sleep. I see the guy shrug to another officer through the driver side rearview mirror.
I don’t like the quiet. I don’t like not having something to keep my mind from thinking about personal issues. I don’t like forcing myself to rest. I close my eyes and go though the motions anyway.
It’s weird. Not having a case to work on, except my own death, of course. Since my parents’ accident I’ve gone from one case to another, not slowing down to process. Not with Kyle. Not while trapped in Traffic. Especially in Traffic. As much as I hated my time there, it provided me with the constant mind numb of distractions. The ever-busy flow of work at every hour of the day.
Basic psychology had me worried that my transfer to Traffic would be the catalyst to a serious nervous breakdown. It wasn’t.
The accident happened early in my college years. Over summer. My parents wanted to surprise my oldest brother, Jake. He and his wife were expecting. They wanted to be there for the birth. They decided to drive to the coast. That’s when the death predictions came for them.
They cancelled the trip. A week later a much younger, much riskier hot-shot me strolled home for summer break. I recalculated their risk. After a week the numbers had steadily lowered.
It’s fine, I told them. Your chances are so slim at this point. Why make Jake wait? You’ll miss the baby being born.
It was already a day past her highest predicted labor day. I hadn’t studied medical statistics yet, but I was pretty sure that meant the chances increased exponentially from this point forward.
They still weren’t sure. We went to a local seer for confirmation. The seer saw the accident. Mom was driving. Then Dad.
How about me? I asked.
No, no, honey. My mom protested. You’re only here for the weekend and you have to get back to apply to summer internships.
Bah. I waved her concern away. I’m going to be an aunt for the first time. I’ll apply to ones with later deadlines. I turned back to the seer. So?
