The outburst was as unexpected as a nineties guitar solo in an acoustic art house navel-gazing three-piece. The milling crowd froze, which made the creep’s escape seem all the more imminent…until Jacob blocked the door. Not with arms crossed, like a bouncer making a big show of himself in hopes of avoiding a fight with a drunk, but with his hands loose at his sides, like someone who knew how to handle himself.
The kid stopped, cowered, then spun around, searching desperately for another way out. But unless he was prepared to swan dive out the window, he was trapped. “Sorry to break up the party,” Jacob told the gaggle of stupefied coffee drinkers who couldn’t quite process what was happening, “but you’d best get going.”
His tone was clear—obey me—and everyone set down their mugs and trooped out the door. The thief desperately wanted to slip into that line, but even he wasn’t that stupid. Jacob motioned for him to sit back down on the couch, and so he sat.
“There’s no reason to run,” Jacob said soothingly. “No one’s going to hurt you.”
Actually, I sorely wanted to clock that jackass, but I refrained from saying so.
Jacob said, “Let’s all just take a few deep breaths. That’s right.”
While we gathered ourselves for a nice, civil discussion, someone jackhammered the other side of the door and sent the kid flying out of his seat. “In here,” Jacob called, and Carolyn whammed the door open. Fuckin-A, who taught her to knock, the Incredible Hulk? Up until then, I didn’t think she looked very cop-like when she wasn’t wearing a suit with a heavy badge hanging from the waistband. But now, even in jeans and T-shirt, her stance marked her as law enforcement. That, and the gun on her hip.
“Everything’s fine,” Jacob insisted, stunningly calm. “We’re just going to chat.”
I’d thought Carolyn’s body language was aggressive when she was making the weepy receptionist let loose the waterworks. I now realized I hadn’t seen nothin’ yet.
Jacob said, “Your name, sir?”
“Reggie?” the guy squeaked out.
Jacob looked to Carolyn. Carolyn nodded yes.
“Do you have any identification on you?” Jacob asked.
Reggie shook his head “no.” Jacob looked to Carolyn, and she mirrored Reggie’s headshake, negating his “no.”
“It really is in your best interest to show your I.D.” Jacob told him. “Unless there’s something you’re trying to hide.”
Reggie shook his head again. So did Carolyn.
The questioning went on like that. Jacob calmly asking. Reggie answering, scared out of his gourd. And Carolyn, also calm, confirming or denying his answers.
When you see psychics on TV, they’re pretty dramatic, like the ship’s captain on Clairvoyage who’s always announcing the upcoming storm with a dire, booming voice—and, no, I don’t watch it myself unless I’m at Maxine’s. She’ll go into a tiz if she doesn’t catch the end of the show. What chilled me to the bone about these two was how they came off as placid as a customer on the receiving end of a full-body massage…though a hell of a lot more intense. And it was obvious that Jacob treated Carolyn’s psychic impressions as if they’d rolled right off a polygraph machine.
The thing about Clairvoyage is that, duh, of course the crew is going to make it through alive to the next episode. Reggie, though, I wasn’t really banking on. If he had a weak heart, he might very well expire right there on my couch.
In his calm and entirely reasonable way, Jacob proceeded to extract all kinds of information from Reggie. Where he lived, where he worked, names of family members and associates. The guy had a shit job and he drove a shit car. And he also had a hard-on for H, which can put a real ding in a part-time fast food cashier’s paycheck.
When Jacob then asked me how many people had been at the party, Carolyn turned her attention to me, even though I wasn’t the one under the microscope. At least, I think I wasn’t. I conjured up a mental guest list. “Maybe thirty, give or take.”
Jacob looked to Carolyn, and she nodded.
A sickening chill raced down my spine.
The questions continued but I tuned them out. Mostly I was marveling at how I was suddenly so spooked by both of them—my margarita buddy, and the guy who’d tossed my salad the night before.
I’m not sure if they were pushing too hard, or if there’s a natural point in interrogations where resistance overshadows fear. They reached an impasse at which Reggie’s answers started earning more headshakes than nods, and at that point, Carolyn stepped into the captain’s position.
When she started questioning the guy who’d robbed me, I wondered if I should’ve arranged for him be sitting on a towel. Under her terrifying scrutiny, he admitted to everything I knew was missing, even the cash. Obviously the money was gone. My laptop and tablet too. He hadn’t ditched my wallet, though.
Carolyn looked to me again. Still my same old friend, I told myself…but I’d be lying if I said the hair on the back of my neck wasn’t standing at attention. She cocked her head toward my kitchen and said, “Let’s talk.”
I followed her back, chafing gooseflesh off my arms.
“While Jacob’s keeping an eye on this guy,” she said, “I need to know how you want to proceed. You never told me about this robbery so I take it you didn’t report it. Was there something involved you didn’t want to end up on a police statement?”
“Like what, drugs?” I half-laughed. “Nah, I can’t be bothered with that scene. Just cash, and I figured it was long-gone anyway.”
She nodded, as if to herself, and I realized she wasn’t just asking me friend to friend…she was doing that thing, the thing she did with Jacob.
I lowered my voice and said, “So this is how it works, huh? You can seriously read that guy—not only that, you’re reading me?”
She looked at the floor. “I’m always reading you. I always have.”
I shivered.
“It’s not just you, I’m always reading everyone. And most people talk a big smokescreen of half-truths and outright lies. Weaving words and stories out of lies is so prevalent it’s just a matter of course. It’s refreshing to be with someone brave enough to say what they mean.” She met my eyes again, and now she was the one who looked spooked. “And I suppose this changes everything.”
“Why?”
“Because it always does.”
I almost blurted out, No it wouldn’t, but then I caught myself. “Maybe. But not in the way you think.”
The potential of her catching me with my pants on fire was not the issue. The thing that turned my world around was the indisputable evidence that she could sniff out an untruth as easily as I could spot a counterfeit cologne.
“If drugs aren’t involved, there’s no reason not to press charges,” Carolyn said.
“What’s the point? It won’t recover my stuff. Call me sentimental—I just want my wallet back.”
Chapter 25
Evidently, even though Jacob was off-duty and outside his precinct, he was still within his jurisdiction. A few phone calls later and a pair of actual cops showed up, decked out in checkered hatbands and bulletproof vests. They cuffed Reggie and stowed him in the back of the baconmobile while Jacob filled them in on the situation. The uniformed cops jotted a few notes, then hauled off my “guest,”
Since our adventure had eaten up the time I’d normally use inching toward ClipLand on the Damen bus, Jacob gave me a lift to work. It was silent in the car. Not a companionable silence, but a stunned and awkward space where words would have been welcome, but felt too damn elusive to grasp.
We pulled up in front and idled. The orange striped awning felt surreal. “Are you okay?” Jacob asked.
“I don’t know how I am.”
He unbuckled his seatbelt so he could lean into me, and caressed my cheek with his knuckle. “I’m here for you, okay? If you need anything, just let me know.”
I had no idea what I needed.
The shift was a blur. Visions of Reggie’s interrogation playe
d and replayed with every comb through, every snip. It wasn’t Reggie who spooked me, though, it was my friend and my lover, who were now cast in entirely new roles. Human truth serum. I felt a little queasy. It was like I’d been acting out an edgy sex fantasy, then discovered the toy gun was not only real, but loaded.
I found Jacob waiting for me when the shop closed at nine. He was still him—the guy who made good marinara and bad jokes, who hogged the bed and then accused me of throwing the pillows on the floor. And yet he was something more. Something scary. Something…thrilling?
He leaned into a brief hello-kiss, and though I returned it, I couldn’t help but feel like it was a stranger’s mouth on mine. As we all know, I’ve got no problem with that. But, still.
“We should eat,” he said. “Do you have anything at your place?”
I gave a short, humorless laugh. He scoped out a nearby a drive-through, then ordered two grilled chicken sandwiches with enough sides to feed a small army. It had been a few hours since I’d witnessed Reggie’s interrogation, enough time for the adrenaline rush to calm back down. But my stomach was still doing queasy flips, part fear, part titillation, over the sight of Jacob.
We climbed the narrow stairs, same as always, and I turned the key in my lock, same as always. Except my hand shook a little, and that was new.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, and the hair on the back of my neck prickled.
I opened the door, flipped on the lights, and scanned the room. It was still set up for the party, so it looked more like a shabby commercial showroom than a place where someone lived. I was disoriented. My boyfriend, my home, everything felt entirely surreal, and me without a lick of intoxicant to blame.
Jacob busied himself unbagging the food and setting it out on the coffee table. I stood and watched. When dinner was served, he turned to me.
“Tell me something,” I said.
“What is it?”
“Levels and talents, mind reading and spoon bending, all of it is really real?”
“Well, the spoon bending turned out to be a hoax.” A valiant attempt at humor, but I was so not in the mood. Jacob rounded the sofa and eased me out of my leather jacket. “Eat something. You’ll feel better.”
I allowed him to lead me to the couch and sit me down. I put food in my mouth, chewed and swallowed, and didn’t taste a damn thing.
“Are you up for talking about it?” Jacob asked.
I shrugged.
“Officers recovered your wallet, but not your laptop or tablet, and no cash to speak of. They’ll need a statement from you for the criminal suit. The guy’s only other record was juvenile, and since there was no violence involved, no forced entry, it’s unlikely he’ll get anything more than community service.”
I waved the explanation away. Not only was it my own fault for leaving my front door open for strangers to traipse in and out with my stuff, but Reggie was a little weasel I could pound with one hand tied behind my back. It wasn’t thoughts of him that had me spooked. “Who was reading minds, then? Carolyn or you?”
“I thought you understood the basics of how PsyCop teams work.”
Evidently, I didn’t understand the basics of jack squat. I made a “go on” motion, looping my fingers through the air.
“Carolyn is a telepath. I’m an NP. We question the subject as a team. She uses her telepathy, I use observation and common sense…plus I do the paperwork.”
“So, it’s true. The whole time you guys were grilling Reggie, she was reading his mind?”
Jacob stirred his coleslaw for a long while before he answered. “Lying is her trigger, and nothing else, just the lie itself. That doesn’t mean she sees the truth, necessarily. Only that she can always sense when something’s false.”
“Even, y’know, a diplomatic fib?”
“Even that.”
Wow. The weepy receptionist never stood a chance.
We ate. Despite the queasiness, my body must’ve needed the fuel, because I didn’t hork anything back up. Jacob was especially attentive—the perfect boyfriend. He refilled my iced tea three times and cleared the table when we were done, while I sat and stared at the carpet, and wondered what it all meant.
If someone can see the future, does that mean everything is predestined?
If someone can speak to the dead, there must be an afterlife.
And if someone I knew could always spot a lie, what the hell had I said to her over the course of umpteen conversations that I really might need to revoke, or at least qualify?
Jacob interrupted my deep thoughts by suggesting, “If you’re not up for putting your apartment back together, I can pull out your mattress and lay it on the floor.”
Right. My bedroom was still crammed against the wall in the closet that called itself an office. It was tempting to take him up on that offer, but it seemed like it would be easier for la cucarachas to crawl up and join us in the sack with the mattress on the floor, despite the fact that they could undoubtedly climb up the bed frame without breaking a sweat.
We moved a couch, dragged out the headboard and started screwing everything back together. By the time the mattress was stacked, the sheets smoothed and the pillows fluffed, the clock struck midnight and my adrenaline shakes had morphed into tremors of exhaustion.
“You’re still wired,” Jacob said. I nodded. “Do you have anything that might help you sleep? I can run out to the store and grab something.” He pressed up against my back and nuzzled the crook of my neck. “Or we can try a more natural approach.”
I took his hands and clasped them around my middle, and allowed myself to sag back into him. When I spoke, I was so weary that my voice sounded like it belonged to an older, dustier version of me. “Never thought I’d hear myself say this…but not tonight.”
He turned me in his arms and kissed me. Not with insistence, but tenderness. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”
Noble sentiment. But with reality cracked open to reveal a writhing nest of alien tentacles where the logical levers and pulleys were supposed to be running the show, what good were a couple of feeble NPs?
* * *
I can’t say I slept well, but I did sleep. Jacob is usually a zombie in the morning, but when I woke up, he was still in high chivalry mode, focused and alert. Not only was he already up and at ’em, he had coffee brewed—the good stuff, not the store brand mud I use in the old percolator. He brought me a cup and perched on the edge of the bed while I unglued my mouth with that first bitter sip.
“Are you working today?” he asked.
“Of course I am. It’s a weekend and my seniority is squat.” And then I was supposed to meet Maxine for our standing Sunday meal. I was daunted by the thought of busing it to a neighborhood that didn’t terrify her. I’m sure Jacob would have jumped at the chance to not only drive me, but to join us. But I just couldn’t deal with having both of them in the same room.
Not yet, anyway.
He watched me trying to absorb the caffeine by steaming my face with the mug. It was weird, this solicitous show of concern. Maybe somewhat intriguing, but mostly weird, since I’d been a lone wolf ever since I could remember. When finally the pressure of his scrutiny started giving me the heebie-jeebies, I sighed, set my coffee down, and said, “What?”
He flinched like I’d called him out on something he thought he’d gotten away with. “Nothing, really.” Some hemming and hawing sounds, and then, “Just a little…it’s no big deal.”
Sure. I cocked an eyebrow at him and fortified myself with another sip.
He stood and paced around the room a few times, then went and retrieved a small box from his jacket pocket. “After I dealt with Reggie yesterday, I picked up a little something…just to satisfy my curiosity.”
Whatever this thing might be, it was no bigger than a pack of smokes. He turned it around a few times as if he didn’t know where to begin.
I’ve had plenty of awkward conversations in my three decades on this earth, but this one didn’t se
em to have anything to do with a humiliating kink he was struggling to share. Given that he was game to say or do most anything in bed, whatever had him so stumped, it was nothing so pedestrian as a sexual aid. He made a few more stammery attempts to explain, and at that point my impatience got the better of me. “For crying out loud, what is it?”
“A game.”
“A game,” I repeated, with a tone that projected, bullshit.
“Cards. That’s all.”
Obviously it was more than just “cards,” but heck, whatever the catch might be, how could I refuse? After all Jacob had done for me over the past 24 hours, he’d built up his fair share of boyfriend credit. “C’mon.” I patted the edge of the bed. “Whatever it is, can’t be any weirder than certain hookups I’ve endured.”
He peeled a film of plastic from the box, picked open one end and slid the deck into his palm. “Focusing on me, not the cards, I want you to guess high or low.”
“Whatever tingles your jingles.”
He held the top card so the back was facing me, and he looked. “Okay, whenever you’re ready.”
“Low,” I said randomly. He flipped another. And another. And another. “Low. High. Low.”
“Focusing on me,” he repeated.
“I heard you. And I’m doing exactly what you said. I’m guessing high or low.”
“Focusing on me.”
“Yes, Jacob. Focusing on you.”
Here’s the thing about people like Jacob: overachievers, do-gooders—people who think they’re perfect. They tend to presume you’re basically a knucklehead. In my case, not because I’m inherently stupid, but because I’m willfully thwarting his wishes. Focusing on Jacob, what I could see was that he was annoyed. “Just” a simple game, maybe…but as he drew card after card, it was obvious I was managing to play it wrong.
I grabbed one of the discard piles, the “high” pile, and turned it over, expecting to see a bunch of twos, threes and fours. Except there were no numbers. Or suits. Or the mystical mish-mash of symbology from Lydia’s deck.
Skin After Skin - PsyCop 8 Page 19