by Vanessa Muir
“Holy shit,” Charlie whispered.
Inside it, nestled in the darkened cavity, were three journals, each bearing Dr. Shane Mitchell’s name. Charlie brought them out, carefully, then slipped them into her briefcase and zippered it shut.
Eli bustled back into the room. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“Just getting ready to leave. There’s nothing here,” Charlie said. “Come on, let’s go.”
Eli hesitated and pointed to the bookshelves. “But we haven’t emptied them all yet.”
“Look, if you want to stay in a murder victim’s house overnight, that’s on you. I’m out.”
“Well, when you word it like that, I’m going too.”
He followed her out of the study, down the hall, across the living room. His gaze bored into the back of Charlie’s neck. It made her itch all over again. He had to be suspicious about how short she’d been, but she couldn’t share what she’d found with him, yet. Not until she was sure he wouldn’t run to Ink with it, or worse, one of the Councilor’s assistants.
It was all good and well to want to fight the good fight like his brother, but that could only mean he’d do the “right” thing and run the evidence back to SSG the minute he got his hands on it.
She needed to check out the journals before the state wrapped its grubby fingers around them.
Charlie rushed to her car, sweat beading on her forehead, and her briefcase, for once, seemed to weigh a ton.
11
Charlie dropped Eli off at SSG HQ, then drove back to her apartment, taking the roads this time because, though it was slower with the traffic, it cut out the risk of having to watch her back for more of those “mysterious” figures.
She parked in the street, checked the rearview and side mirrors, then bolted out of the car and hightailed it to the apartment building. She keyed herself into the entrance area, then took the elevator up to her floor.
Questions burbled through her mind, a constant flow of them accompanied by a tide of excitement. There had to be something of use in the victim’s journals, or he’d never have hidden them.
Hopefully, it’s not all scientific jargon. That’s all I need. The elevator came to a halt on her floor, and the doors pinged open. Charlie stepped out into the hall, then froze.
The lights were off. All of them. The elevator doors closed behind her.
Blackness assaulted her senses, and she clutched the briefcase to her chest. She shut her eyes, took several deep breaths, and called on her training.
Calm. In every unknown situation employ serenity as the first weapon.
Then the senses.
She listened hard. The dull thump of something in one of the apartment’s nearby. The hiss of a kettle, and there – what was that?
A rustle of fabric, the gentle shift of weight from one foot to the other. Someone was in the hall with her.
Charlie opened her eyes and widened them. They adjusted. Slivers of light escaped from under her neighbors’ doors, but it wasn’t enough to see anything.
Regardless, she couldn’t stand there all night.
She slipped her shoes off, quietly, then picked them up and put them in her briefcase with the journals. The zipper made a noise, and she grimaced. Whoever it is already knows you’re here. They saw you in the elevator.
Charlie moved as quietly as she could and stuck to the right side of the hall, stepping over a sliver of light from the crack beneath one of her neighbor’s doors. She unclipped her gun from its holster and fumbled with the safety.
She shook her head, clicked it on again, then placed it back in the holster. She couldn’t fire a gun in close quarters, in the dark, with families and couples in the rooms adjacent.
Charlie halted and listened again. No noise.
She took three more steps, stopped, listened. Still silent.
“Agent Spade,” a voice curled through the dark, deep and soft, and she jerked, wobbled the case, almost dropped it.
The words had come from her doorway up ahead. The darkness moved, coalesced into a figure. Hooded. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Who are you?” she hissed.
“I’m disappointed,” he replied. “You don’t recognize my voice? Then again, the last time we spoke, you were drunk.”
Charlie did the mental gymnastics. The knot of tension in her chest released, at last. “Levi?”
“That’s correct.”
Her shoulders relaxed. The Black Mars agent was an enemy of the State, but not hers. He’d visited her once before, in her apartment, and would’ve had every opportunity to kill her. Instead, he’d given her a lead.
Charlie straightened up and stomped over to him. She poked him where his chest ought to be and plunged her finger into the hollow of his throat instead.
Levi choked. “That’s – quite a greeting, Agent Spade.”
“You’re quite a dick,” she replied. Not that she’d intended to do it. “You scared the living crap out of me. Why are you stalking me?”
“I’m not. I came to talk.”
“And you thought hovering in the dark like an oversized bat was the best way to approach me?” Charlie tapped her bare heel on the boards. “No wonder you guys haven’t overthrown the State.” Yet. Shit, where did that come from?
Levi Daniels was close, the scent of his aftershave flooded her nostrils. It was a light smell, and pleasant, not like Eli’s. He wore some type of skunk perfume which clung to the inside of her sinuses and gave her headaches.
“Are you available to talk?”
“I hardly have a choice, do I?” She unlocked her front door, let herself in. “Come in, then.” She switched on the lights, and a rectangle of it landed on the hall boards, illuminated Levi’s smart black shoes, shirt, and jeans. No hood in sight. He adjusted his glasses, then stepped out of view.
“I can’t. Your apartment might be bugged.”
“Fine, give me a second,” Charlie replied and chose to ignore the “bugging” issue. She had swept her apartment nightly since the last case and come up empty-handed each time, but that didn’t mean it was clean.
She placed the briefcase on her sofa, then padded out into the hall. She shut the door until only a glimmer of light peeked through the crack. “What’s going on?”
“Black Mars knows you’re working on a new case.”
“Shocker.”
“They want you to know that neither Jana Mitchell, her daughter, nor her husband, Shane Mitchell are operatives of the rebellion,” Levi whispered. “Shane Mitchell was contacted by them months ago, but he refused help in his research.”
“What do you know about his research?” Charlie wasn’t even sure she could trust information coming from him. Everyone in Corden Prime had their own agendas.
“Nothing of note, only that he smuggled vast quantities of MemXor out of the Mem Store Research Facility. He refused to talk to us. This is the only information I’ve been told to offer,” Levi said. “But I need you to know you’re treading on thin ice, agent. One misstep and you’ll fall right through.”
“Thinner ice than the last case?”
“Wafer thin,” he whispered. “For your own sake, be careful. We’ll be watching.” He snaked past her, but Charlie caught his arm, felt the ropy muscle beneath her fingertips.
“How are you watching?” she asked.
“We have people everywhere. Even where you wouldn’t expect,” he said. “Sometimes in plain sight. But they have people watching, too. If there’s any way we can help you, we will.”
“Why?” Charlie asked. “Why help me?”
“The path you’re walking only has one endpoint. You need to reach it before you understand why.” He freed himself from her, then slunk down the hall and to the elevator.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” she whispered, but not loud enough for him to hear.
The elevator doors dinged and opened, light flooded the entrance point of the hall, and lit up Levi’s legs, dangling through a hole in the ceiling.
“Nothing makes sense,” he said, and it echoed down to her.
A kick of his shoes and he disappeared. The ceiling tile clicked back into place, hiding any evidence of entry, and Charlie rubbed her eyes.
The elevator door closed and plunged her into the night, once more.
12
Charlie opened the paper journals, actual paper which nobody used anymore, one at a time. The first page of the very first journal shattered any preconceptions she’d had about the case, about Jana Mitchell, and especially about the victim.
She stared at the page, mouth agape, then slowly pulled her brain back from the abyss of shock. She reread the first paragraph.
Private Research Journal of Dr. Shane Mitchell.
Testing: The efficacy and side-effects of MemXor on the brain and behavior of a patient who has not had any memories removed. Assessing the biochemical phenotype thereof.
Patient: Jana Mitchell
Control: Tatiana Mitchell
Day 1
Primary patient has taken her first dosage. Pills were crushed and administered in beverage form without the patient’s knowledge. No side-effects thus far, as to be expected.
“Oh fuck,” Charlie whispered. “Oh no.” Dr. Mitchell had used his wife as his guinea pig for his investigation. The knowledge rocked Charlie’s brain back and forth in her skull. He’d either been that dedicated or had so little empathy that he hadn’t cared about the possible results for Jana.
He must have had a suspicion that something was wrong with MemXor, or he’d never have gone ahead and performed private tests, ones that Mem Store would have frowned upon. Ones they wouldn’t have wanted to come to light.
Charlie flipped through the pages of the first journal, day by day accounts of Dr. Mitchell’s results, and stopped on Day 43.
Day 43
Patient is exhibiting behavioral ticks consistent with a neurodegenerative disorder. Irregularities in behavior and mood swings. Patient is still unaware of the constant dosages of MemXor.
Note: Dosage too low? Double or triple? Risk of subject’s death?
Charlie waded through her own nausea and flipped on, marking the discoveries. Aggression, lack of motor function with higher doses. At one point, he’d reduced it and discovered that while the motor dysfunction ceased, the aggression remained.
“Fuck,” she said, again. This was huge. Of course, this wasn’t a study conducted in a sterile environment. These results could’ve been due to any number of factors, couldn’t they? She might’ve taken another drug which interacted negatively with the MemXor. “You’re rationalizing it, Spade, because the truth is too damn horrible to absorb.”
The man had experimented on his wife, and ultimately, she found out. It explained why she’d rammed the pill bottle into his mouth and possibly the aggression which had led to the event.
It wasn’t just the expired product which caused raised levels of aggression. How many people out there were hopped up on MemXor? And did the drug have the same effect on a patient who underwent the memory removal process? If so, how was Mem Store covering it all up?
“They made Droggo disappear,” Charlie muttered. How many others had gone under because of this? “Whoa, whoa, you’re getting ahead of yourself. Focus on the case. Focus on Jana. The pill bottle. She found out. She found out he was experimenting on her. That has to be it.”
The intercom beside Charlie’s front door buzzed, and she startled, tossed the journal into the air, then caught it. “Shit!” She stood, then halted – a thought collided with her intrigue.
She had to document this. Paper was fallible. It could be burned. Words could be erased.
Charlie brought out her cell and snapped pictures of the first page, the second, and the third. She shut the journal and slipped it and its two neighbors under the sofa cushions then rushed over to the door.
The intercom buzzed again. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she said, then hit the button. “Who’s there?”
“Such a friendly greeting. It’s Eli.” His voice was crystal clear through the speaker, creamy and thicker than usual. Alcohol.
“What do you want?”
“Not to freeze on your doorstep?”
“Hold on a second,” Charlie grunted, then pressed the buzzer. She scanned the living room to ensure the journals and evidence of her subterfuge weren’t obvious. Anything she had said out loud might’ve been picked up by the State’s bugs if there were any. She hadn't said anything too obvious, had she?
Charlie cast her mind back, concern bubbling through her veins. The knock on her front door came too soon, made her stomach jolt all over again. “Who’s there?”
“Duh, Eli. We spoke on the intercom, remember?”
Charlie drew back the bolt on her front door, then opened up.
Her partner grinned back at her, too-white teeth, hair styled in a classic wave to one side. A button-down shirt and black slacks molded to his defined muscles, and that “blow your brains out” cologne wafted nearer.
“Shit, you haven't even changed out of your uniform yet,” he said.
Charlie looked down at the blue and yellow SSG uniform covering her unassuming frame. “Yeah. What are you doing here?”
“Well, I was taking my evening walk when I realized, shit, there’s one thing we haven't done as partners,” he said and wiggled his eyebrows.
“And what’s that?” she asked in a monotone.
“Gone for a damn drink, Spade. We’re supposed to have that traditional bonding time. Shit, we could even get something to eat to go with it. What do you say?”
“It sounds like a date,” she said.
“Flattering yourself.” He winked at her. “Come on, it can be whatever you want it to be. You need to relax. Take a load off.”
Charlie looked over her shoulder at the sofa, then back at him.
Can I trust you? Or will you run right back to Ink with what I tell you?
“Spade?”
“Yeah,” she said and tried for a smile. “That sounds great. Just give me a few to get changed.”
She shut the door in his face instead of inviting him in.
13
Charlie dragged a piece of steak through its peppery sauce, then inserted it between her lips and chewed. This place was fancier than she’d anticipated. The male restaurant host at the front had been dressed in a sleek silver suit and had looked her up and down for wearing jeans and a tee. Apparently, this was the worst crime imaginable.
Every other woman in the place had chosen a dress and heels.
“You know, you could’ve told me how fancy this place was,” Charlie said and speared another bit of steak. “I figured we were going casual.” She nodded at the simple clothes she’d chosen.
Since signing on with SSG, life had been nothing but work, work, and more work. Her wardrobe had hardly grown unless faded uniforms counted.
“I figured you'd like to relax somewhere nice,” Eli replied, looking dapper in his button down. “And I think you look beautiful, Charlie.”
She looked down at her lap. Shit, since when are you shy? “I – uh, thanks. Listen, Eli, I’m not interested in anything romantic.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“Yeah, but I just thought I’d put it out there. We can call it being married to the job, okay? And we’re partners. It would be complicated.”
His foot touched hers under the table. “Was that what happened with Jones? You two were…?”
“No! Hell no. Jones was just a friend. A close friend.” And his betrayal had cut like a fucking knife. “The romance thing – I’m not good with it. I’m too interested in work. I never have time.”
Eli grinned at her, now, and tapped on the screen embedded in the table. He tip-tapped again. “I’ve just ordered you another cocktail. You need it.”
“Gee thanks.”
“I’m serious. You don’t relax enough, Spade.” He put down his fork, then caught her hand and stroked it. “I believe things happen for a reason. Maybe the rea
son we ended up working together is simple. I’m here to help you relax. And you’re here to help whip my ass into shape.”
“I won’t be whipping your ass.”
“I get it, Spade. This isn’t a date, and you’re not into me. Trust me, I’ve been around you enough to know that.” Eli forked a piece of potato, dripping butter. “I’m not even remotely upset. You’re attractive and all, but you’re not my type.”
Charlie picked up her napkin and hid her smile behind it. What he’d said was similar to the line she’d used on him a couple weeks ago. “Cute,” she said. “That’s cute.” She reached for her Smokin’ Joe – favorite cocktail of all time, with a kick – and tossed half of it down.
He was wrong, though. She’d love for this to be a date, deep down inside, but it could never be. Not with everything swirling around their heads. Not now, maybe not ever.
“Well, you’re the brains, and I’m the beauty in this operation,” Eli said and tipped his beer bottle toward her. “We both have our roles.”
The word “operation” brought back the case, the journals. She dropped her gaze to the steak on her plate to keep him from noticing her sour expression. Shane Mitchell’s experiments and the potential truth that MemXor was a threat. A huge threat.
“Are you okay?” Eli asked. “You stopped eating.”
“Fine,” she said. Could she tell him? If he trusted her enough to talk about his family history, surely, she could trust him with –
Her phone buzzed in the pocket of her jeans, and she drew it out, tapped on the icon on the screen. “This is Spade,” she said.
“Agent Spade. It’s Dr. Germiston from forensics. Do you have a moment?”
“For you, yes,” she said and raised a finger to forestall Eli’s questions. She used that same finger to block the ear not connected to the phone. The clink of glasses and cutlery, the hum of chatter threatened to drown out the good doctor.
“Good,” he said. “I have some preliminary results from the analysis of the MemXor pills.”
“How’s it looking, doc?”