by C. R. Jane
I took the long way to get to my office. I wasn't ready to hole up inside there yet, so I went through the squad's shared office space. Most of them were out, which kind of made me feel better, knowing that my people were getting their shit done. There were a few here though, including a handful of rookies and the new analyst, Karen Carter, who acted as a liaison between the Counter-Terrorist and Major Cases Squad that mostly made up the Special Investigations Bureau.
Carter was eager to please, but there was something there that was just a little bit…awkward. I chalked it up to finding a way to fit in. She didn't need to win the congeniality award; she just needed to get the job done.
She reminded me of a little bird, with eyes that seemed to pop out of her sockets a bit, wispy blonde hair, and a neck that was so skinny that it looked a bit stretched out.
"Lieutenant!" She clicked her heels together and I could have sworn that she was about to salute me.
I leveled my gaze at her, schooling my features so I didn't completely crush her spirit. I needed competent people, but not kiss asses. They wouldn't fit in well with my team at all.
"Carter, whatcha got?"
"Lieutenant, sir, Detective Caballero and I were looking over the newest case and I was showing him some of the patterns that I saw in the evidence. Sir."
She was one 'sir' away from me dismissing her out of pure principle. She was just too eager to please. People like that set off my bullshit meter.
Javi knew me well enough to change the subject and quick. "Boss, just showing Carter how we do things here in Major. You don't got to worry."
I eyed him. "How so, Jay?"
He whipped out a file and laid out possible leads, explaining that he was gonna tag his partner so that they could check them out.
I agreed with his insight and barely looked over his file. He didn't need me to micromanage him; he just wanted to distract me from tearing into the fresh meat.
Little did he know that I was less bloodthirsty than usual, thanks to Sage's cookies and coffee. Speaking of which, the thermos she'd sent with me was calling my name. "Cool, keep me looped in and let me know if you need anything."
I nodded to them both and tried to ignore the tingle between my shoulder blades.
I didn't like new people. No, that wasn't right. New people were okay. After all, I had no problem with Bright when she was here. Then again, she kept to herself, caught a lot of clues with ridiculous accuracy, and didn't cause drama. The tingle was about Carter, specifically.
My phone chimed. "Troy."
Static crackled on the line. "Hello, Lieutenant."
Huh. It was Bright, as if just thinking about her conjured her here. "Hey, how's the Midwest treating you?"
"Great, Lieutenant. Congratulations on your promotion, by the way."
I snorted. It was silly to congratulate me on a title I didn't really need. "Thanks, Bright, but for some reason I don't think that you just called to shoot the shit."
I could almost hear her smile.
"I just wanted to thank you for...all you've done. I wouldn't be…here without your recommendation."
I knew that she wasn't saying certain things; she was very private and it seemed like speaking to her was like talking to shadows and in-betweens. I was willing to overlook it for her, though. She gave off that vibe of someone on the run, hiding from her past, as if just knowing about her made me want to forget her in order to keep her secret.
Not to mention that I wasn't fooled by the way others' eyes slipped over her as if she weren't there. If she wasn't a Remnant God, she was damn near close to one. Maybe she was God-blessed and just didn't know it?
Her dusky voice continued. "Also, I needed you to know something."
I perked up at that. "A piece of evidence?"
Pause.
I hated pauses. Pauses meant lies.
"Yes and no. More that I saw something that was troublesome. I couldn't see it clearly, but…Lieutenant, I felt the need to tell you to be careful."
I nodded at the phone even though I knew she couldn't see me.
I got that feeling. It was in the way she said it. It wasn't a "be safe" like in a general way that others would have told me to be careful. "Well, you know me, I'm always careful."
And maybe it was the murder that I'd just walked away from. Or that feeling of walking away from Janus Holdings, which always made me feel unsettled for a bit, like a weird kind of jet lag.
But the way that she spoke made it feel like a prophecy of some sort.
And just like I trusted her analyses before, I trusted her words now.
"Anyway, thanks, Bright. Hey, how's that new precinct treating you? Good, I hope?"
"Yes, sir. It's better than I imagined. I owe you one."
Something told me that she wasn't really talking about her new precinct and I didn't want to pry or ask any more questions that only invited more lies. I hoped that she really did find what she was looking for. Or that whatever she'd been going through had been resolved.
I tried to smile for her, found that it was genuine, and hoped she could feel it, too. "I'm happy for you, Karina."
Walking back toward the elevators, I saw someone in one of the interview rooms. He met my gaze and lit up to see me.
I never forgot a face. I didn't know this dude and he sure as hell had no reason to be happy to see me. The officers that likely hauled him in were hissing just a ways away from the door. They made an interesting pair. One was male, blond buzz cut, wide round baby face atop a six-foot-four linebacker body. The other a five-foot-nothing, mixed-race female with her hair in a pair of neat French braids, the tails of which were rolled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck.
The male I recognized. Rick DuBois, aka, Richie Rich. He was some rich kid from uptown trying to be the white knight of his family. Hence his nickname. The guys could be real creative around here.
"Yo," I called out to them. They straightened right away when they saw me.
"Sir," they responded in sync. Neat trick.
I took in their body language in a blink. Though they'd had a disagreement, they didn't have any real beef between them. Good. "So, you question this one already?"
"No, sir," Richie said.
I nodded. "Mind if I have a crack at him for a second? He was giving me eyes just now, like he was bursting to tell me something. His name?"
"Randy. Randy the Vagrant."
"Really?"
Richie shrugged. "He said that's what everyone around here knows him as."
I shrugged. "Well, at least it's not Randy the Skullfucker. Whatchu got him for?"
"Disorderly conduct, sir. Fine one moment, then bugged out on a crowd of tourists. We were gonna let him spend the night in the drunk tank, but he insisted on confessing to something."
I nodded through Richie's rote speech. I glanced over at the female officer. She pressed her lips together, possibly disapproving or disagreeing with Richie's statements. Whatever the case, she wasn't saying a damn thing.
Okay, then.
"Well, let's see what he's got to 'fess up to."
I sauntered into the room with a can of soda and a bag of chips. I didn't know if I was in the mood to offer these up to him, or eat it all. Randy the Vagrant, as he was called, seemed pretty happy just to have someone in the room with him. He sat up at attention and hadn't stopped looking at me.
I turned on the recorder, identified myself, and recited his rights and gained his acknowledgement that he heard, understood, and agreed to them. I eyeballed his restraints and made sure they were locked on good and tight. Randy didn't seem to notice them as he nestled his face in his hands like a lovesick
school boy.
"Randy?" I asked. "Can I call you Randy?"
"You can call me whatever you want, Angel."
I choked a little on my next words, and coughed to clear my throat. "Lieutenant Troy. Troy. Or, Lieutenant. Those are your only choices of names for me, you got that?"
He nodded vigorously. "Sure thing, of course, anything you say."
Damn, his eyes were loopy. His pupils were dilated with barely a rim of color left, and what was there was a shock of ice blue that was nowhere near natural. The guy was high, tweaking on something that had gotten him riled up in front of a group of tourists.
"This isn't a formal interview, Randy, even with the recorder on, all right? We can turn it off whenever." I didn't wait for him to comment, hoping that the recorders running would capture audio, visual, and heat signatures for evidence. I kept my easy-breezy tone of voice. "I'll let the other officers talk at you in a bit, but I'm here because it seemed like you were trying to get my attention from the hallway. And the officers—" I pointed to the window on the door "—they heard you say that you wanted to confess to something, which is why they booked you in the first place. Did you want to confess that something to the officers? Or to me? Or at all?"
He shook his head, reminding me of one of those dogs that had rolls of skin for their face. "Nah, Lieutenant. I's just be impressed by your glow, that was why I looked at ye." He flared his fingers wide like little starbursts as he gestured the outline of my body. "It's so beautiful."
Then he leaned forward a little and sniffed at me. Loudly. He crinkled his nose and shook his head again, more fiercely this time. As if he had room to judge with the pigpen odors that encircled him.
"Problem, Randy?"
"Ain't no problem with me, Lieutenant. It's on you. That scent. And that black mark on you. It's calling the Hunter. He's brushed up on ye, he has. He's caught yer scent." He sneezed for effect.
I was used to people saying all manner of things to me. But the mark of the Hunter? That was new. Just the way Randy the Vagrant said the phrase brought chills down my back.
There were rumblings, rumors coming out of Vice about a new designer drug. Black Eye. Named for the pupils that got blown when the user tweaked. Also known as Glasses for the glassy look they got and the extra sharp vision they acquired. It was supposed to expand the mind and see through the Veils; something that opened the Sight that let Humans see what Gods did, including, experience their power. Thing was, most of what was found on the street was a terrible mix of old school PCP, meth, and acid. But the urban legend had to come from somewhere.
And my gut was telling me that Randy the Vagrant was actually seeing more than just whacked out hallucinations.
"Lieutenant Troy, exiting the Interview room." I eyeballed Randy on my way out and he was still as content to look at me. Creepy fucker.
"Yo, Richie Rich." Rich had been in the observation room with the other officer. "What's this guy's beef?" Even through the one-way glass, it was like he could spot me.
Fucking. Bad. Juju.
Richie Rich marched toward me and stood at attention, all shiny and new. He was gunning for a space on my team. Thing was, he reminded me too much of Bailey, one of the sons of bitches that worked with the Prick—aka, Lieutenant Churchfield, my predecessor, who'd at least had the decency to die a horrifying death.
Rich kind of annoyed me with his Boy Scout routine, but at least he had a personality.
Bailey hadn't sparked...anything from me. Nothing. He had basically skimmed under my radar and it was only in hindsight that I figured out that was wrong. No one could have been that neutral.
I shouldn't blame myself, and Vesper wouldn't want me to blame myself, but she wasn't here to wave her hands at me and absolve me of my guilt.
"Sir, we found Randy wandering around the theatre district, close to Times Square. No one called in a disturbance until he wandered into traffic, impeding it. When we arrived on scene, he said that we didn't need to help him. That the cars wouldn't hurt him because he would be able to stop them."
I was impressed with Richie's dry retelling. I could tell that it was verbatim, by the book, what he saw and heard. "And what do we think about that, Officer?"
"Sir?" His face fought for the mild detachment of more seasoned cops, but he still had a little shine to him. The world still affected him.
I rephrased. "What can you ascertain from the situation? Your analysis?"
I could almost hear the whirring in his mind, a squeaky wheel that almost got to an answer, formalizing it to make sure he said things correctly.
"If I may?"
A quiet voice broke the silence. There was steeliness to it, though. Something that reminded me of a lighthouse that stood strong in the middle of the storm.
I'd almost forgotten about the female officer. I took her in again. She was as tall as one of my legs, but she had a gravitas around her. Something that let me know that she was not anyone to be fucked with.
She was regulation and spitshine through and through. But those eyes. They were sharp and spoke volumes about what she had seen before she even said a word. "Sir, the man was out of his mind and didn't know where he was. His teeth and fingernails are indicative of the new juice in town. Some call it Black Eye, others call it simply Glasses or New Age, for the effect it gives users."
I raised my brow. Not many people outside of vice or the streets kept up with latest trend drug like that. Especially not a new beat cop.
I had been one of the exceptions as a rookie, because even then, I was always listening, scanning, scoping. Clearly, so was she. I nodded my chin at her. "Name, Officer?"
I could see her name and number clearly on her badge. But I wanted to hear it from her own lips. There was something to that, to the way that someone said their name. It showed a person who and what they were.
"Truesdale. Officer Cas Truesdale. I work the street with Officer DuBois."
I eyeballed them both. Richie, face blooming red, didn't like the fact that Truesdale was there. Interesting. I decided that now wouldn't be the right time to push it to their faces that he was being upstaged by someone fresh out of the academy.
A rookie that knew about drugs that supposedly didn't exist. I'd heard of the other two names. New Age, though, wasn't a name that I was familiar with. "New Age, huh? Where'd you hear that?"
I could tell that there was this unspoken tug between the two officers in front of me. Something about the way Rich looked made Truesdale steel up her spine even more; she seemed to grow twelve inches so it was like I looked her straight in the eye, though there was nearly a foot difference in height between us.
"Sir. There are rumors that there are otherworldly ingredients that go into the drug production. Something about it that makes those who use it almost godlike."
I notched my eyebrow up. "Almost godlike?"
She cleared her throat. "Yes, sir. There's talk that some who have taken it gain powers, almost like the Remnant Gods, sir."
I noticed that there was the slight hitch in her tone when she said that. Like she was fearless, but not stupid. Only the completely powerful or ignorant would talk flippantly about the Gods that walked among us.
Those of us who balanced between the worlds knew the cost of ignoring inalienable truths. Like that power could destroy and do so absolutely. "New Age, though?"
Truesdale shrugged, deciphering correctly the question I asked. "Sir, the general rumor is that the user ends up talking in New Age-y slang."
Randy the Vagrant hadn't sounded all sunshine and serenity like the monks or priests did. Hells, he sounded no different from the usual junkies on a high. A thought occurred to me then. The idea that the
people creating the stuff were trying to bring about a New Age of people who could act like Gods. A tremor rolled under my skin, and I shrugged to cover it up, as if I needed to loosen the tension in my muscles.
I nodded at Truesdale and then looked squarely at Richie. I knew he was barely taller than me, but for some reason, he felt way shorter. "Richie, all this info and analysis going in your report?"
He nodded, as crisp as the pleat on his uniform. "Yes, sir. Verbatim."
He actually said verbatim. I hoped my eyes didn't roll.
"Good. Saves me the trouble of writing it up for myself."
A ghost of a smile played at the edges of his lips. Good. He wasn't a complete robot and he wasn't as threatened as he'd seemed by Officer Truesdale's smart and competent analysis.
I nodded at them both and took off, headed toward the morgue. I passed the interview room and dropped a word for Randy the Vagrant, who was muttering to himself. "You good, Randy?"
He stopped muttering and swiveled his head toward me. The puppy dog face was gone, replaced by something harder. Something…other. "Of course, I'm good. I'm always good. You, though—" he raised a crooked finger at me "—I'm surprised that you're good. Tell me, was it hard to take back your friendship after you drained her memories from her?"
Cold energy rolled down my back, spiking over my skin.The fuck did he just say?
"Richie." I didn't move my gaze from Randy, who started a heckling sort of laugh. "Get this guy in special holding. The Basement."
Richie might be by the book, but when it came to what went in and out of the Basement, and when, no one questioned me. Especially when what might happen was a flesh bomb exploding in general booking.
Without a question, Rich came around and grabbed Randy the Vagrant's hand. Truesdale grabbed the other.
Randy's glassy gaze found mine. "You can't shut out the truth, Lieutenant. You can't run away from your past. The Hunter's got his mark on ya. If not now, then soon." His fingers pointed at me as if he would outline my body. "Soon. You'll feel it soon."
