by Battis, Jes
“Right. Of course.” He managed to look embarrassed.
“There.” Selena clicked a button and finally looked up. “You have no idea how many subpoenas and requisition forms that psycho Tremblay left behind. You’d think a killer would be more anal-retentive about doing paperwork, but as it turns out, he was the disorganized schizophrenic variety. Just our luck.”
“Are they at least sending you some help?” I asked. “An intern, even?”
“What do you think?” Her eyes were surprisingly mellow. I found myself scanning the surface of the desk for an empty bottle of Jagermeister. “I just get e-mails about budget constraints and cutbacks. The entire city is in a slump—they’ve cut funding to every social program imaginable, and the CORE thinks that we have to fall in line. We can’t ‘appear’ to have too much money, since at the end of the day we still have to pay taxes like any other facility, and it could look suspicious.”
“The last thing you need is an audit,” Derrick said. “I’ve heard that most of the people who work for H&R Block are vampires.”
“Vampires I could deal with. Netfile? Don’t talk to me about it.” She sighed. “Anyways, don’t worry about it. We always manage to get by. Your concern is figuring out what links these three victims.”
“I spoke with—my contact.” To Selena’s credit, she didn’t say anything wry about my dealings with Lucian. Maybe she was just too tired. “He can get us a meeting with Duessa, but he’ll have to be present. She won’t see us otherwise.”
“If Duessa trusts your boy, then it’s fine—he’ll have to be there. The lady isn’t easy to see.”
“How come everyone seems to know about this Duessa woman but me?”
“Because we’re all trained professionals,” Derrick replied blandly.
“Because Siegel likes to hang around the break room and soak up gossip is more like it,” Selena said, giving him a look.
“So—a little of both columns.” Derrick flashed her a smile. “Either way, I do know what I’m talking about—sometimes.”
There was a knock at the door. I looked up and saw a trim guy, about Derrick’s age, standing in the doorway. He was shorter, five-nine maybe, but solidly built, and his blue button-up shirt clung to his shoulders in a way that made me notice. He had dirty blond hair and brown eyes, which seemed to dart quickly over each and every object in the room. Maybe he had a photographic memory.
“Miles Sedgwick.” Selena stood up. He crossed the room and shook her hand. “Selena Ward. Nice to meet you.” Her voice seemed to ring more clearly as she spoke to him, and I noticed that she maintained eye contact. I guess big shots from Toronto don’t get the standard Selena mutter-and-ignore-you treatment. It made me bristle slightly.
He nodded and smiled at her, and she made a gesture with her hand, encompassing both of us. “This is Tess Corday and Derrick Siegel, the primary investigators on this case.”
She kept looking at Miles as she introduced us, like we didn’t even exist. Great—this was getting off to a wonderful start. I’d be photocopying and running errands for this guy in no time.
I was about to say “Nice to meet you” when Miles turned to me and started moving his hands. The motions were quick, but from what little I knew of ASL, I recognized them as sign. He fingerspelled M-I-L-E-S with an oblique gesture to himself, then brought the middle and index fingers of both hands together, like two people meeting for the first time. He ended by tracing a slight circle in front of his chest with the palm of his right hand, and pointed to me. Nice to meet you.
Great. So I was an asshole. I was the biggest asshole in all of assholedom. Miles wasn’t self-important. He was hard of hearing.
I clumsily mimed the gesture back to him—probably screwing it up—and fingerspelled T-E-S-S. It was hard to get my stiff and unpracticed fingers to distinguish between the E and the S handshapes, which both looked like closed fists.
Miles raised an eyebrow. Derrick began to snicker.
I glared at him. “What?”
Miles made a stylized L shape with his right hand, the thumb barely brushing his chin, and then smiled approvingly.
“You just told him that your name is LEZZ,” Derrick clarified. “He fully supports your gay pride.”
“Oh Jesus . . .” I forgot to look at Miles. “Tell him that—”
“It’s all right.” I was startled to hear his voice, which was soft and slightly nasal—but only slightly. “I’m severely deaf, but I can read lips. It helps if you keep eye contact with me when you’re speaking.”
I turned back to him. “Sorry.” My hand hovered in front of me as I tried to remember the equivalent sign. “It’s, um, been a while—I mean—my ASL . . .” I did remember that one, which I managed to execute slowly: fingers clasped netlike for “American,” as if we were all one big happy family; then two index fingers rotating for “Sign,” and finally, both hands in parting L shapes for “Language.” I was rather pleased with myself. I could almost sign at a kindergarten level.
Miles made a slight face. “Please—don’t use SimCom.” When he saw my expression, which was probably blank with noncomprehension, he smiled and managed to look sympathetic. “Simultaneous Communication—when you sign and speak at the same time. It’s very distracting, like watching a movie with foreign subtitles. They mostly just do that on television.”
“Shit. Sorry.”
“No, I appreciate the effort. But we can just talk like this”—he smiled—“until your ASL gets better.”
“Derrick’s fluent,” I said. “If I suck, you can blame him, since he taught me.”
Miles laughed and turned to Derrick. His hands moved quickly—both rose upward, palms facing him, fingers spread in front of his chest; then he put both of his fists together and had one travel in a half circle around the other, like the movement of a clock; finally, he brought the middle and index fingers of both hands together smoothly, facing perpendicular, fingers barely touching in the R position, and made a gesture that encompassed both Derrick and me. He raised his eyebrow. That meant it was a question. I think it was: How long have you two been partners? Or maybe, Are you dating? God, I hoped it was the former.
Derrick rolled his eyes. His hands moved almost as quickly, but Miles was still obviously faster and better at signing. Derrick held out his right hand at a slight angle, then traced the index finger of his left hand along the thumb of his right, lightly, as if outlining a vein; then he pointed to himself, tapping the crown of his head with a slight flourish. The movement shifted again, and he brought both hands with index fingers extended to his left shoulder, then out again, proffering something (or saying ta-da). Finally, he placed his left palm over his right, both thumbs up, then slid his right palm down and forward, as if on an invisible track.
Miles guffawed. The laugh was so warm, it actually qualified as a guffaw.
“What did you say?” I looked from Derrick to Miles. “What did he say?”
Miles grinned. “He said, ‘Sometimes he thinks since birth.’ ”
“God, you’re such a bitch.”
“Okay, let’s wrap this up,” Selena said firmly. “Tess, you’ve represented your department proudly, as usual.”
I glowered at her, but said nothing.
“Miles,” she continued, facing him, “why don’t you tell Derrick and Tess exactly why you’re here, and how they can help you with this investigation.”
Wasn’t he supposed to be helping us? Obviously, Selena still thought that Derrick and I needed supervision.
Miles nodded and turned to us. His hands started to move—almost, it seemed, of their own volition—but then he obviously remembered my ASL deficiency and thought the better of it. He spoke instead, his voice soft: “I do contract work as a profiler for the Mystical Crimes Division in Toronto. My specialty is analyzing degraded materia flows and linking them to organic and man-made substances—in particular, narcotics.”
“I thought you profiled serial murders,” Derrick interrupted.
“Yes. I do. But I’m not a psychological profiler—I’m a biometric profiler. Sometimes we’re called haptics.”
“He profiles spaces,” Selena clarified. “He can read materia flows like Siegel here can read minds.” Her eyes narrowed. “Well, on a good day.”
Miles looked at Derrick and smiled, almost shyly. Then his hands flickered through shapes, so fast they were almost indistinct. He brought both fists downward with the knuckles facing out, index fingers half extended in the X position. He gestured at Derrick, then mimed the act of reading a book with both hands open. He touched his right hand to his chest, and ended the sentence by tapping his head, eyebrow raised. Even though the movements were almost too fast for me to pick up, I still had a good idea of what he’d asked Derrick.
Can you read my mind?
Derrick looked embarrassed. He started to sign something back, then cleared his throat and shook his head.
“No. I wouldn’t do that.”
The ghost of a grin lasted for a minute on the profiler’s face. Then he shrugged and turned back to addressing all three of us.
“Selena asked if I could do some profiling at the original crime scene. I’d also like to be present for any interviews that you conduct. I’m trained and I know how to handle myself in a fight, so you don’t have to worry about that.”
“Maybe you can teach Derrick how to shoot properly.” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.
Derrick flushed. Miles just grinned.
“Well, I could give you a tutorial, if Detective Ward is willing to let us book some time at the MCD shooting gallery.”
“That’s not going down as overtime,” Selena replied, giving Derrick a firm look, “so don’t even try to submit it.”
“I’d also like to speak with the head of your toxicology lab,” Miles continued gamely, “once the narcotic samples have been properly analyzed.”
“That’ll be our next stop, probably,” Derrick said. “Right, Selena?”
“Yeah, you should all go bug Carla King. She rushed the prelim results for my interview with Devorah, but she’ll have something more substantial now. After that, you can go pick up Agrado. Unless he’d rather materialize out of the shadows.”
“I think he’d prefer the car ride,” I said, flashing her a look.
Jesus. A telepath, a necromancer, and a profiler, all sharing the backseat of Derrick’s rusted-out Festiva. It was going to be a colorful ride. I hoped that Miles wasn’t too necrophobic. Or at least no more so than I was.
“I actually still have my luggage,” Miles said sheepishly, gesturing outside, “so if we could stop at the hotel, that would be great. It’s—um . . .” He reached into his pocket and unfolded a worn piece of paper. “The Holiday Inn at Broadway and Cambie.”
“The Holiday Inn.” I looked at Selena pointedly. “Wow. The CORE spared no expense this time.”
“Budget cuts.” Selena smiled apologetically. “You know how it is. I’m sorry, Miles, but it’s all we can afford at the moment.”
“Oh no, it’s fine. Just as long as they allow pets.”
Selena nodded. “We checked beforehand, and they’re fine with it.”
“Pets?” Derrick frowned. “Did you bring a cat or something?”
“My dog, actually. Baron.”
“Is someone bringing him to the hotel?”
“No, he’s waiting outside in the hallway.”
Selena’s eyes widened. “You got a dog past the security desk?”
Miles gave her a reassuring look. “Baron is quite charming when he wants to be.”
Derrick’s smile was almost childlike. “Can—we meet him?”
God, I forgot about his sweet, wholesome love for dogs. I was a cat person all the way—screw the unconditional love. I wanted something that withheld, like a real human.
Miles shrugged and looked at Selena. “He’s trained to stay. But I guess I could call him if you want. He likes meeting new people.”
Selena rolled her eyes. “If it gets you all out of my office faster—go right ahead. Call the pooch in. Then all four of you can go down to the tox lab. Just make sure he doesn’t poke his nose into a DNA sample.”
Miles turned to the doorway and shouted: “Baron!” With his slight lisp, it sounded more like Ba-won, and I wondered which name the dog actually answered to. Probably just his master’s voice. I used to have a cat who only answered to “Get off the damn table.”
I heard a thump, and then a gorgeous brown and white spotted dog loped into Selena’s office. He was much bigger than I expected—probably a good ninety pounds of solid muscle—but he balanced on slim forepaws as he stood quizzically in the doorway. His eyes were the color of a Mayan hot chocolate. His tail was tipped with gray.
“Hey, handsome.” Miles gestured, and Baron walked calmly over to him, completely unfazed by meeting three new people in a strange place. Miles tapped his chest, and Baron put his paws up, mouth open, obviously excited—but still an exercise in control. He gave Miles a tentative lick to the chin, as if to say, “Everything good?”
“That dog is better trained than my husband,” Selena observed.
Miles grinned. “Yeah, he’s just being good for strangers. As soon as we get to the hotel room, he’ll start running in circles like a hellion.”
Derrick got down on his hands and knees, and as if this gesture was more than he could possibly endure, Baron jumped up and began licking him fiercely. Derrick giggled and wrapped his arms around the dog’s neck, scratching behind his ears and saying something that resembled “whooz-a-guuud-boiohyesheisohmygoodness-whooz the best boi ever in the whole world, yes, mister-puppy-sir—”
“Oh Jesus, I think we’ve lost him,” I said apologetically to Miles.
“It’s Baron’s fault. He’s totally unfaithful.” He watched Derrick playing with the dog, and his eyes seemed to soften.
“Sorry.” Derrick rose, trying to reclaim some of his dignity.
“Too late now. He’s yours for life.” Miles pointed at Baron, who was staring open-mouthed at Derrick as if he’d hung the moon. “What did I tell you? Faithless.”
“In my experience,” I said, “most men are.”
“Don’t drag your love life into this,” Derrick warned.
“Yes. Please—no more dragging anything into this office.” Selena gave us all a pointed look. “You can drag whatever you want into the tox lab, and then Carla can have fun dealing with it. But your director has paperwork to do.”
“Of course.” Miles patted his thigh, and Baron was at his side instantly, waiting for further instructions. “I can put him on a leash if you’d like.”
Selena waved her hand in an air of general defeat. “It’s fine. It was a pleasure meeting you, Miles.”
“You, too.” He looked at Derrick and me. “Are we ready?”
I doubted it.
“Sure.” I put on my best, most expert smile. “Let’s go.”
The toxicology lab used to be part of one big Serology unit—a happy DNA family—until the division got too massive and entangled to control. Apparently, the old director got so tired of staining histopath samples from demons and analyzing short tandem relay patterns from warlock DNA that he just walked out one day, never to return. So it was split into DNA, controlled by the lovely and acerbic Ben Foster (don’t forget the PhD at the end of his name), and tox, which was run a bit more loosely by Carla King. Ben made me crazy, but Carla was like an oasis of wry sanity in the midst of the MCD. She hated three things: gossip, bullshit posturing, and incompetence. And if she was in a good mood, she could run a sample through the GCMS in less than two hours for you, provided that you asked nicely and didn’t look over her shoulder.
Carla was looking through a scanning electron microscope, which delivered pictures with colors and shapes so weird they might have been taken on Mars. This was her baby: the Hitachi Field Emission scope, which could look into your red blood cells and observe the tiniest bit of fibrinogen, or clotting materia
l, as it was born within the platelets and thrombocytes. It took voyeurism to a new level. I thought most blood smears looked like a bunch of purple fish eggs under the HFE, but that’s just me.
“Hey, Carla. Selena sent us for Jacob Kynan’s tox panel.”
“Oh, sure.” Her eyes stayed glued to the lens. “Welcome to the histology drive-thru, folks. Just pull up to that window over there, and we’ll get your order with a side of fries as soon as it’s ready.”
“I want Biggie Fries, then,” Derrick said. “If this is Wendy’s. Is it Wendy’s?”
Miles gave Derrick an odd look. I realized that he couldn’t read Carla’s lips, since she wasn’t looking at him. I cleared my throat.
“Pretty please, Dr. King? We have a guest.”
Carla looked up, saw Miles, and smiled apologetically. “Crap. Sorry . . .” She extended her hand. “Carla King.”
“Miles Sedgwick.” He shook her hand. “I’m consulting on this case.”
Carla made a gesture so quick I almost didn’t catch it: She touched her index finger to her right ear, then to her mouth, and raised an eyebrow. The more polite way of asking: Are you deaf?
Miles nodded. “I read lips.”
“That’s good, because my ASL really stinks.” Carla shrugged. “I’m learning for my niece, but all I can really do is ask her if she wants cookies.”
“Well, that’s an important question.” Miles grinned. He held out his right hand palm upward, then made a motion with his left, fingers scrunched up, as if he were cutting out dough. “I think cookie might have been my first sign.”
Derrick chuckled. “It sure wasn’t the first one I learned.”
Miles turned to him with a smile that was almost devilish, and his hands flickered through shapes: He raised both hands parallel, palms facing together, then reversed the motion and brought them down, as if laying cards down on a table. Then he shook his head, smiled, and wiggled his fingers under his chin, ending with a quick C shape against his forehead. It was a funny kind of slang, but I got it: Bet not, you dirty boy.