“‘Actually,’ Detective Finnegan replied with a lazy smile, ‘I figured that out a couple of days ago.’
“‘We might not know where the blood is coming from,’ he said, ‘but the other ingredients are a different matter.’
“Detective Finnegan was able to isolate some of the compounds used and track them to their distributors.
“These other ingredients weren’t illegal, per se. They were mainly base components used in a variety of alchemical concoctions. That did not stop Detective Finnegan from using enthusiastic forms of persuasion to find out those who were purchasing these ingredients.
“‘It’s the pleasure in his eyes,’ Detective Olsen mentioned to me, once, while watching Detective Finnegan question a suspect. ‘The pleasure he takes in inflicting pain. It is unsettling.’
“The screams were quite loud, but they did not last long before the suspect told the detectives everything they wished to know. Moreover, the suspect they questioned was drafted into working for Detective Finnegan as an informant and released. The information that he provided, the names of those who were purchasing supplies from him, gave Detective Olsen a wealth of information to sift through.
“Shortly thereafter, Detective Olsen was able to map out the patterns of distribution of the substances until, finally, they located one of the major suppliers of the drug. A Mr. Carlyle. Once they had his name, it was short work to find him.
“Where he was hiding, though, it was quite odd.
“Normally, if a suspect is illegally escaping the city to go into the mortal world, especially if they are killing mortals and endangering the secret of our existence, the suspects are terrified of being apprehended. The prospect of spending all of eternity in the Pit is a deterrent to most.
“Mr. Carlyle, however, seemed relieved that we found him. Several used vials surrounded him, now drained of the blood drug that Detective Finnegan was calling Daydream. Mr. Carlyle smiled and wept as the detectives picked him up.
“Detective Finnegan was most thorough in questioning Mr. Carlyle. They found the passageway he had been using to gain access to the mortal world and sealed it. He had been solely responsible for creating and distributing the drug, so the supply of Daydream was eliminated.
“The case was closed, and the sentence carried out. It was to be the Pit for Mr. Carlyle. But I sensed that Detective Olsen was troubled.
“I asked what his concern was, but Detective Olsen struggled to convey his thoughts to me.
‘It was the memories in the blood of the last batch of Daydream,” Detective Olsen said. “Carlyle hadn’t distributed them to anyone; he kept them all to himself and kept taking more and more of the drug derived from that victim.’
“Detective Olsen told me that Carlyle just kept repeating the same things: ‘Their eyes,’ Carlyle had said. And, ‘They are coming for me.’
“Typical rantings of an abuser of mind-altering substances, I had argued. And Detective Olsen nodded but seemed unconvinced.
“When Mr. Carlyle was brought before the Pit, there was relief in his eyes. I expect that it was a relief to be out of the hands of Detective Finnegan, at last. He whispered something to Detective Olsen, right before he was cast in. When I asked the detective about it, about what Mr. Carlyle had said to him, Detective Olsen looked troubled.
“‘He said that he would finally be safe,’ Detective Olsen told me. ‘That they couldn’t follow him in there.’”
On that note, Ms. Greystone falls silent, pondering her own story.
“That’s interesting, Ms. Greystone. What is it supposed to tell me about Finnegan?”
She gazed levelly at me. “To use caution, Detective Green. Mr. Carlyle preferred being thrown into the Pit for all eternity rather than spend another minute in the care of Detective Finnegan. Whatever else you do, be extremely careful.”
Chapter 24
I sit down at my desk across from Marsh. He’s leaning back in his chair, legs crossed with one ankle resting on his other knee, hands folded across his belly. He’s staring at me. I shuffle a few pieces of paper, moving them from a stack on the right to the left side of my desk.
He’s still staring. Finally, I meet his gaze. “What?” I ask.
Marsh shrugs. “Anything you want to tell me?”
“No,” I reply irritably.
“OK, then.” He continues staring.
I can only take it for about ten seconds. “Seriously, Marsh?”
“Hey, you don’t wanna talk, don’t talk. What the hell do I care?”
I glance away and notice Armstrong is glaring at me. Wow, I always thought shooting daggers with your eyes was a dumb expression, but I’ve never seen anyone look at me like this before. I look at the other detectives. Meints and Burchard are studiously NOT looking in my direction in a way that tells me they are paying attention to nothing else. Kim is looking curiously between Armstrong and me. Finnegan notices everyone looking at me, frowns in disgust, and turns away. Clark looks like he wants popcorn to enjoy the show.
I turn back to Marsh, who is still staring at me. His face is expressionless, but I can tell he’s enjoying my discomfort. “Have you found out anything about the case?” I ask him.
“Nope. What about you?” he replies, smirking.
“No,” I stammer, trying to play it cool. I think about the missing files that one of the men in this room is responsible for making disappear. One of them is related, in some way, to this case, this murder case. I swallow nervously. “No, nothing.”
“Well, then,” Marsh says, not moving an inch, “looks like we’ve got some work ahead of us, don’t we?”
“Right,” I mumble, digging into some more files.
The hours drag slowly by. Nothing of interest jumps out of the files I study. No one comes running into the office confessing to the crimes. Finally, I can’t take any more. I make a lame excuse, and I duck out a few hours early.
Ms. Greystone, can you find Jessica for me? I ask her with my mind as I’m walking back home.
“If I must.”
That’s the spirit, Ms. Greystone, I think to myself. At least, I hope it was just to myself. I pause and listen in my head, but I don’t hear an angry huff, so I must have kept that private.
Ask her to meet me at my apartment again if you don’t mind. We’re going to go undercover again.
I’m hoping for a little bit of time to rest, but Jessica is waiting for me inside my apartment when I get there.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she explains, standing up from the chair where she was sitting. “You don’t keep it locked.”
“No, it’s alright. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to spend effort trying to move anything out of here. I, uh . . .”
She walks over to me and hugs me fiercely, crushing me to her chest, and she kisses me on the cheek. “Thank you for calling me,” she breathes huskily. She doesn’t immediately let go, but Ms. Greystone floats through the nearby wall, giving me the excuse I need to shuffle out of Jessica’s grip. Jessica smiles, ignoring the scowl coming from the ghost.
“We need to follow someone else now,” I stammer, walking over to the chair and sitting down.
Jessica walks over to get her materials. “Someone else? What happened to what’s-his-name, Armstrong?”
“Turned out to be nothing. We got it all cleared with my captain,” I answer evasively. The situation with Armstrong is confidential, and I’ve messed it up enough already. I don’t want to potentially complicate it further. “We’re going to follow another of my coworkers.”
“Must be serious,” Jessica muses as she picks up a small box. “You guys are even investigating each other now.”
I really wish I didn’t need her help, but I have to admit, her disguise, that glamour she put on me, really worked. “Something like that,” I agree.
I’m sunk in my chair as Jessica walks
over to me, sets her box down on the floor, and she abruptly sits on my legs, straddling me, resting her arms on my shoulders, clasping her hands together behind my neck, and arching an eyebrow. “How much of a hurry are we in?”
“Big hurry!” I gasp, squirming.
“Really, Miss Everin,” Greystone says, disapprovingly.
“Hush, you,” Jessica responds without even looking at her. She leans in closer to me, brushing her lips against mine. The only way I can get away is to dump Jessica on the floor, and I’m about two seconds from doing that when she leans back pouting.
“Fine,” she says, picking up her supplies and starting to work. “I’m doing this out of generosity for you. I want to help. But a guy needs to be nice to a lady. I certainly wouldn’t mind some appreciation.”
I force a smile. “Of course. I’m sure I can find a way to make this up to you.”
I’m hating Finnegan more and more by the minute.
Everything goes on more quickly as Jessica is more familiar with what she’s doing this time around. As we’re finishing up, I turn to Greystone.
“Ms. Greystone, can you locate Finnegan? Let us know where he’s at, and we’ll meet you there.”
Greystone gives a suspicious glance at Jessica while replying to me. “Certainly.”
Greystone floats out the door, which I quickly open and escort Jessica through. I don’t want to get stuck with her alone in my apartment, not until I can figure some way out of communicating my disinterest without losing her willingness to help me out.
It’s warmer tonight. More humid. If there were a breeze, it would be almost pleasant. Jessica holds my hand as we walk, and she chats about the play she and her troupe are working on. It seems like such a normal conversation I almost forget where I am, the foreign weirdness of it all. After wandering the streets heading in the general direction of the precinct, I hear from Greystone.
“We may have a problem,” she says.
What’s up? I ask, think, whatever.
“I can’t explain it, entirely. Let me come to you.”
There is a bookstore up ahead, so we duck into there. I nod at the clerk who gives us a disinterested glance as we slowly weave our way through a labyrinth of shelves and books stacked to the ceiling. I’m curious what passes for written entertainment here, but Greystone shows up before I can start digging into what surrounds us. I’ll have to remember to come back here later.
“What’s the problem, Ms. Greystone?” I ask quietly. We’ve found a corner of the store where we are alone.
Greystone has her arms folded across her chest, and her brows are furrowed in concentration. It’s distracting that I can read the titles of the spines on the books behind her as I look through her.
“Detective Finnegan is able to sense me somehow.”
I frown, confused. “Is he attuned to you like I am?”
“No, definitely not.”
Jessica wraps her arms around mine and pulls close to me. “How do you know he can sense you?” she asks.
Greystone looks like she isn’t going to answer for a second but reluctantly concedes. “As soon as I get him in sight, he stops what he is doing and looks around. Within a couple seconds each time, he is able to see me.”
“It sounds like a Ward,” Jessica laments.
“Of some kind, yes,” Greystone responds, and before I can open my mouth to ask, she continues, “Wards are a means of preventing actions from affecting the Ward’s owner.”
“Magic,” I say.
Jessica waves away the term. “Yes, if he has a Ward against surveillance, it may even stand up to my glamour. My glamour makes others see us how I want them to, but it doesn’t prevent them from seeing us all together.”
“He saw me even when I was invisible,” Greystone mutters.
“You can turn invisible?” I ask. Why am I always a few steps behind every conversation I get into? I hurry with a follow-up question to make me seem a bit smarter. “How does he get this Ward thing?”
Greystone shrugs, her scowl deepening. Jessica explains, “It is most likely an object or totem of some kind on him. They are expensive, delicate items. I find it surprising that he has one that can survive the rigors of his job.”
“Like a necklace or bracelet or something?”
“Yes, or a ring or tablet. Really anything that can hold an image engraved on its surface.”
“Tattoo?” I ask.
Jessica hesitates. “It’s possible to do that, but unlikely. Too risky. A tattoo would continually drain energy, and to power something like a Ward, it would eventually drain him of his life force. It would leave him conscious but trapped in a husk of a physical body.”
“It has to be an object of some kind? He can’t just wave his hands and cast a spell?”
Greystone answers this one. “Yes, technically he can, but again, the amount of power required makes this impractical. Most Wards of this kind require the creator to remain motionless, in a state of constant concentration. To be able to cast a Ward against surveillance while walking around would only be possible for the most powerful of practitioners to perform.”
“And Finnegan isn’t a practitioner?” I question. I can’t believe I’m having a serious conversation about magic—the practicalities and intricacies of casting spells and maintaining them. I’ve had conversations like this with people when I’m playing computer games. In the context of a video game, this isn’t strange at all. But talking about someone in real life, actually casting spells? It’s hard to wrap my brain around.
“No, he would have to register as such,” Greystone replies. “A practitioner is different than someone who can merely cast spells or create glamours. Practitioners are mages of the highest order who have spent decades or centuries perfecting their craft. And the guilds would have claimed him decades ago if they had detected him capable of such levels of power with the Art.”
“OK, so in order to follow him, we’re going to have to find that object of his,” I say, hoping one of them will contradict me.
They don’t.
Chapter 25
A week later, and I hate Finnegan more than I thought possible. A full week of him staying one step ahead of me the entire time, without even knowing he is doing it. The case is going slowly, and we haven’t turned up anything new. No new bodies, fortunately, but no new clues either. Every spare second I can find, I try and tail Finnegan. And no matter what methods we try, he immediately knows he’s being followed.
Greystone had to quit after the second day. Finnegan is suspicious on the best of days, and even the dimmest person is going to notice a familiar ghost tailing you every time you turn around. Each time she got him in sight, he would stop whatever he was doing and start looking around until he saw her. The first few times, Greystone would tell him some inane bit of work-related information, but that wasn’t going to hold up for long. She had to call it before he started looking into what was going on.
Jessica and I didn’t have much more luck on our own. We would get Finnegan in sight, and almost immediately he would pause what he was doing. He would surreptitiously start looking into window reflections to see behind him or cast random glances back over his shoulder. At least twice by my count, he identified Jessica. Both times she gave him a flirtatious batting of her eyelashes, but he would just scowl and walk away. He must not have been able to see through the glamour Jessica put on me because he never confronted me at work about following him and didn’t treat me any lousier than he usually did.
And what did he do during this time?
Absolutely nothing that I could see. An entire week of playing pool against various people he didn’t seem to know and playing card games with people who didn’t like him. He’s skinny, wiry, and pretty quiet. He shouldn’t be that intimidating, especially not when compared to some of the really creepy folks that can be found around here, but he
’s the one who sends shivers up my spine more than anyone else. I dread getting caught alone by him. He never yells at anyone, never pushes anyone around. If something goes wrong, he just stares at a person, and they back down. I saw at least one heated altercation while he was playing cards—some big guy yelling in his face. Finnegan just stared at the stiff until the other guy backed down and hastily apologized. I’m telling you, creepy.
We only observed him for a few seconds at a time. That was as much as I could glimpse before he’d start looking around to see who was so interested in him. I could never put an actual distance to his awareness; he just seemed to know he was being scrutinized as soon as we got him in our line of sight.
“This isn’t working,” I say to Jessica after ducking into an alley, so Finnegan doesn’t see us. “We can’t even peek around a corner before he senses we’re here.”
Jessica pouts, leaning her head on my shoulder. “Have you found his totem?”
I shake my head in frustration, trying to ignore her squeezing up between me and the wall. “I haven’t seen anything. He doesn’t have any rings, any jewelry. Not even a watch. From what you and Greystone tell me, it can’t be anything flimsy like clothing or paper.”
“This is true,” she verifies absently.
I’m going to have to come up with a new plan. “C’mon. If we try any more, he’s going to search us out. We’re pushing our luck with him not noticing us yet.”
We get back to my apartment. I walk straight over to the refrigerator and grab two bottles of beer. They’re slightly colder than room temperature, which is distressingly warm. I’ll never be able to sleep in this heat.
I turn around to offer a beer to Jessica, and I see her a few feet away dropping her blouse to the floor.
“Uh,” I say, trying to set the beer in my hands on the counter. I have to try a couple times; I keep missing the counter. My eyes are riveted on what I’m seeing in front of me. Jessica doesn’t have anything on underneath her blouse. She’s leaning forward, her hands clasped behind her back. She licks her lips, slowly walking towards me.
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