Contents
Book Info
When Did THAT Happen?
Coffee O'Clock
Thaw
Mind Reader
Stroke of Midnight
No Sale
Most Likely To...
Jock Straps On Sale
Piece of Cake
In the Dark
2
3
Let the Chips Fall
Memento
Impact
Everyone's Afraid of Clowns
2
3
4
5
6
Waiting Game
On the Road
Wood
Off the Cuff
Locked and Loaded
Inside Out
Witness
2
3
4
5
6
About the Author
Recommended Reads
PSYCOP BRIEFS
VOLUME 1
Jordan Castillo Price
Find more titles at www.JCPbooks.com
PsyCop Briefs (Volume 1). Copyright © 2016 Jordan Castillo Price. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
ISBN: 978-1-935540-86-1
Cover art by Jordan Castillo Price Kindle edition 1.1
Also available in paperback (ISBN 978-1-935540-84-7) and audiobook.
When Did THAT Happen?
A Rough Timeline
The PsyCop shorts differ from the main series in various ways: tone, pacing, even subject matter. Some of them don’t fit neatly into a specific slot in the series. Some of them may even contradict small facts from the main books. They’re tangents, really, bits of story that would warp the pacing of a longer book, but things that seemed to be worth exploring.
Coffee O’Clock takes place soon after Among the Living, when Vic’s relationship with Jacob was still tenuous and new. A few months elapsed before Thaw, so it would be set between Body & Soul and Secrets. So would Stroke of Midnight, their first New Year’s together.
No Sale is the first story that takes place after they move in to the cannery, so it’s after Secrets and Camp Hell. Most Likely To…, Let the Chips Fall, Off the Cuff and Memento all happen after the move-in. Vic’s baking effort marks their first anniversary together, so Piece of Cake occurred just after GhosTV.
In the Dark, which expands on Jacob’s relationship with Keith, would be their second Halloween together, which puts it between GhosTV and Spook Squad. That would make Everyone’s Afraid of Clowns a future Halloween.
The stories where Vic tangles with Crash happened closer to the beginning of their friendship. Mind Reader would be pretty early, in the Fall just after Criss Cross, but in Jock Straps they’re more comfortable together, so it’s the next Spring, after Body & Soul.
Since Lisa is in town with Waiting Game, it happened during the gap between GhosTV and Spook Squad, which was the longest continuous stretch she was in Chicago.
In Impact, Jacob is beginning to explore his own abilities, so that’s after Camp Hell. Wood and On the Road are set around the holidays of their second winter, and Vic is at ease with Jacob’s family by then, so they occur after Spook Squad, as do Locked and Loaded and Witness.
Inside Out is a prequel set before Among the Living, but it wouldn’t be as interesting to read it chronologically. I think of it as a flashback episode of a sitcom where none of the characters know each other yet; the fun comes from viewing it through the lens of knowing that those ships passing in the night will eventually collide.
These snatches of stories—vignettes and flashbacks, and a few longer meaningful moments that happened when the novels weren’t looking—form a mosaic of Vic and Jacob’s relationship that’s still recognizable as them, but shows the two of them in some new and unexpected colors.
Coffee O'Clock
I was awake. I’d been awake forever. Contorted in a weird jumble of limbs with only the corner of one flat pillow to cradle my head, I’d watched the cheap plastic mini blinds go from dark-striped to light as I tried to tell myself everything was hunky dory, but the crick in my neck wasn’t buying it. All the while, mashed against my back, Detective Jacob Marks, big shot PsyCop investigator of the Twelfth Precinct, snored and snuffled his way through the wee hours of the night, blissfully unaware.
I’d been pleasantly surprised the first time he spent the night. Puzzled the second. Now I was downright suspicious. Nobody other than me ever tolerated my sagging mattress more than a single night in a row, but he’d stayed the better part of a week.
He was after something. But what? Try as I might, I couldn’t come up with anything he stood to gain from spending so much time at my crappy apartment.
If I craned my neck just so, I could make out the glowing green numbers on the clock radio, but I didn’t bother. I’d stopped checking somewhere around 4am when I determined that while time was not actually standing still, it was only moving forward in excruciating five-minute increments.
The room brightened further. A shadow up in the corner of the ceiling resolved itself into a cobweb. My place isn’t haunted, yet I was spooked by the thought of something lurking there all night just beyond my threshold of vision. I used to leave the lights on in the adjoining room when I slept. Jacob presumed I’d just forgotten, and “helpfully” turned them off. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t go turn them back on, either. And now look where I’d ended up.
Jacob sighed and squashed me even tighter against the wall. I should be counting my blessings. Sex. Right? I’d be an idiot to take sex for granted. Especially with someone who looked like him. Such enthusiastic sex, too.
Okay, sex was definitely in the plus-column. It was the fact he didn’t leave afterward that made me leery.
The alarm bleated and I flinched, and felt a twinge of pity for Jacob. Being roused from such a sound sleep was never fun. He didn’t budge, though. Already awake? The alarm kept on bleating. He burrowed his head deeper into the pillow…then snored.
Oh, for crying out loud. I levered myself up and over him, smacked the alarm and perched on the edge of the mattress. He made a wordish sound and hunkered down even more obstinately in the comforter cocoon.
“You working today?” I asked.
“Nuh.”
“Oh. Okay. Well, they expect me back at the Fifth today—I’ve got eight million forms to fill out.” I considered adding, So I’ll be leaving, and I suppose it’s time for you to mosey along too, but that was implicit. Wasn’t it?
Jacob took a long deep breath. Then resumed his snoring.
Maybe not.
Clearly, it was time for coffee. Very strong coffee. I was pondering how full I could fill the basket without causing a countertop flood when I tripped over something and nearly cracked my head open on the radiator. I whirled around and glared at the offending object: Jacob’s shoe. And then I spotted his other shoe. Then his discarded socks, wadded in the bedroom doorway. Underwear too. Not that I’d brain myself stumbling over socks and underwear, but they bugged me nevertheless.
My joints creaked as I trudged into the kitchen. The coffee pot needed a good going over. Not only is my water incredibly hard, but the last dribs never exit the carafe and end up caramelizing to the bottom. I gave it a quick rinse, dumped in water with lots of grounds, and let it do its thing while I washed a cup for me and another for the big, sleepy guy in my bed.
The coffee dripped. Slowly. Very slowly. The holes where the water forced its way through to the grounds were probably caked with lime.
I sighed.
Maybe I was. I just had no idea what ecstatic felt like.
Best not think about it too hard. I looked to the powdered creamer to kill a few seconds while I waited for the world’s slowest drip, only the spot at the corner of the counter where it normally sat was empty.
Sometime over the course of the past few nights, Jacob had appeared with groceries, so maybe he’d put it away. Why he would take it upon himself to put away something with an established footprint when he couldn’t pick up his own socks, I couldn’t begin to guess. But creamer doesn’t just disappear.
Cupboards? Empty. Drawers? Empty. That weird mesh basket thing hanging behind the door? Empty too.
On the off chance that maybe I’d done something dumb with the canister myself yesterday morning while Jacob was distracting me with his tongue, I checked inside the fridge. No powdered creamer in sight…but there was a fresh new carton of real dairy half & half. I hardly ever treat myself since I wouldn’t want to get used to the good stuff. Too many instances of chunky curds in my cup—or worse, in my mouth—alerting me to the fact that it had expired a month ago. Safer to use the armageddon-proof stuff in the plastic cylinder, even if it was barely reminiscent of milk.
Oh, who was I kidding? I just wasn’t used to someone else going through my stuff. But Jacob wasn’t snooping. Or judging. Or criticizing. He was buying me better creamer, for God’s sake. So what if he left a trail of dirty laundry wherever he went? I should be grateful, not annoyed.
I checked the coffee’s progress. Still thick enough to eat with a fork. Since I only half-jokingly thought the pot had gained sentience and was going even slower just to spite me, I wiped down the countertop where a few faint coffee rings showed. It was a mundane action I’d taken innumerable times before. Spray, wipe, toss. Except this time, when I went to toss the paper towel, I noticed something different.
Namely, my old powdered creamer. Just lying there. In the trash.
If that didn’t count as a criticism, I don’t know what did.
Before I could think through the ramifications of sticking my hand in there, I was brandishing the damn thing, angry and defiant. Luckily, the coffee was still not done. Otherwise, I might have actually used creamer from the trash. Creamer covered in the slimy, crusty remains of last night’s chicken parm—which were now all over my hand.
I flung the gooey canister back in the trash. No way could I use the half & half in the fridge now. On principle. I rinsed off my hand, tugged on my jacket, stomped into my sneakers and marched straight out the door.
Three blocks down Montrose was a hole-in-the-wall bodega where I’d bought my fair share of sudoku books and frozen burritos. Even though walking there was a lot faster than driving, parking and shopping at a real store, usually I found myself wishing it was closer. Now I was hoping the walk would cool me off before I blurted out anything I’d sorely regret. Time and distance and brisk fall air. That’s all I’d need to screw my head on straight. That, and a blessed few moments to gather my thoughts in solitude.
“Hey, white boy. Where you going?”
Really? Really? The dead hooker picks this particular moment to get on my very last nerve?
“Slow down now, I only wanna say hello. Just being friendly.”
“Right. You’re the picture of congeniality.”
“Whoever told you that be talking out their ass. Free clinic say the test come back fine.”
Kill me now. Wait, no—don’t. I might end up stuck with no one to talk to for all eternity but Jackie.
“Need a date? Twenty dollar get you some fine company.”
It would be satisfying to turn around and face her when I told her off, but I’ve never had a visual. Just a voice. A very annoying voice. “Go away.”
“Maybe you’d be nicer if you treat yourself to a li’l TLC. I’ll do you good, baby. Twenty dollar.”
I kept walking. I don’t know the exact boundaries of her territory, but I was pretty sure that in another block or so I wouldn’t hear her. I was almost to the bodega. Just a few more feet.
“Nineteen?”
“What, you’re gonna make change?”
She clucked her tongue. “I’m just saying. They can break a twenty for you in the store. Or if Tanya there, she sell you a rock. I do you real good for a rock.”
The mood I was in, this “Tanya” would be lucky if I didn’t call down to the precinct and have someone from Narcotics pay a visit and see if she was holding. Luckily, the pimply teenage boy at the counter didn’t look much like a Tanya, so I was spared the moral dilemma of letting a crack dealer slide so I didn’t have to divulge that my informant was the disembodied voice of a phenomenally irksome dead prostitute.
The dinky corner store was cramped, and it smelled overwhelmingly of corn tortillas. Ravenswood is a healthy mix of nationalities and ethnicities, and the bodega sold all kinds of foreign packaged goods, Latin American, Korean, Greek, Indian, Middle Eastern and more. Faded little boxes with obscure labels, things with uses I couldn’t begin to guess. But they sold plenty of off-brand, marked up, run-of-the-mill stuff too. Not just powdered creamer. Three kinds of powdered creamer: plain, hazelnut and diet vanilla.
Normally, I go for the plain. Call me a purist. But today I chose stinky-sweet hazelnut to ensure Jacob fully understood whatever point I was attempting to make.
The kid at the register was in the midst of a phone conversation, and he wasn’t about to interrupt it on my account. He counted my change with glacial inattentiveness, then spent several long, baffling moments attempting to bag the purchase. The plastic bag was stuck to itself so firmly he couldn’t find the opening. He plucked at it again and again, all the while mumbling some inarticulate stream of nothing at whoever was on the other end. I crossed my arms. Tapped my foot. And wondered what else I could possibly do to signal my displeasure without resorting to saying something.
Finally, I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I sighed.
The kid looked up at me as if I’d just now appeared there, like an intersection car crash repeater at sundown. He looked down at the plastic bag just as stupidly, then licked his thumb to try and tease open the handles. Like getting slimed by last night’s entree wasn’t bad enough. “Give me that.” I snatched my creamer out of his hand and strode out the door.
Fully aware how ridiculous I looked charging down the street with my canister of powdered nondairy creamer, I could at least appreciate that Jackie had found someone else to bother. Or so I thought. When I stopped for a traffic signal, she blurted out, “You got my rock? Huh? White boy, you got my rock?”
I re-routed myself to the opposite side of the street in hopes that it was out of range, and charged toward my apartment, power-walking with my creamer.
“So now you can’t even answer me back? Why you be all moody and shit? Prolly need to get laid. When’s the last time you been with somebody who show you a real good time?”
Well, actually….
My expression must have shifted, because suddenly Jackie changed her tune. “Hold up, hold up, now I feel you. The reason you don’t wanna party with me is cos you got a lady upstairs. Know how I know? That fancy cream. Only reason anyone would bother this early in the morning. You trying to make an impression.”
That was one way of looking at it.
“You and her,” she asked, “is it a one-night-stand, or something serious?”
We were drawing abreast of my car now. Jacob’s black Crown Victoria was squeezed into the spot behind it, bumper to bumper, dwarfing my subcompact. Taking up
my mattress, my floor and my fridge weren’t enough. Now he was edging into my parking space, too. “It’s pretty serious. Apparently.”
“Whatever you do, don’t let her catch you looking at no naked pictures on the computer. And make sure you always say her hair look nice.”
As if Jacob ever had a hair out of place…and as if my computer ever ran anything but an antivirus program crying wolf. I paused beside Jacob’s car and a thought almost fleeted past before I saw it for what it was: an opportunity to bail. I could “helpfully” bring whatever stuff he’d strewn around my apartment down to his car. Then he’d take the hint to back off and give me a little…space.
Except his car was full of stuff. Not just stuff he’d tossed aside in his eagerness to get where he was going, either. The backseat held several gym bags, a milk crate full of notebooks and a couple pieces of luggage. A garment bag stretched along his passenger seat, and a slim case on the floor looked suspiciously like a laptop carrier.
“You be living out your car now, white boy?”
“It’s not my car.”
“Cos if you don’t move it every day or two, the police come ’round and start bugging you.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I said absently, and slipped back across the street through a break in the early morning traffic. Jackie, hot on my heels, rattled off some more sage advice about how to sweet talk a lady, but I was no longer hearing her. By that I mean, I still heard her, but my brain had been hijacked by the stunned realization that Jacob wasn’t in my bed because he was feeling clingy.
He simply couldn’t deal with going home.
And that changed everything.
What if I hadn’t stormed out the door for predawn powdered creamer? What if I’d succumbed to my own demons, shaken that big lug awake and told him to back off?
What if I’d killed this thing between us before it even managed to take its first gurgling breaths? Somehow I’d managed to squeak by without cramming my foot so deep in my mouth it came out my ass. It was close—too damn close. I’d almost blown it. Almost. But thankfully, not quite. Not yet, anyway.
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