Skin After Skin - PsyCop 8

by Jordan Castillo Price

  “Glad to hear I’ve managed to leapfrog over that particular right of passage.”

  Now that I knew I actually knew the guy—seriously, much more intimately than the last dozen guys I’d bonked—I couldn’t help but wonder, “You really think your Amazon account is being watched?”

  “I don’t just think so, AshMan. I know so.” He pulled a money clip out of his faded hoodie and peeled off a few hundred-dollar bills like they were singles. I’d had no idea my online crony was so flush. “The credit card companies…they can access all kinds of data too.” He held up the last hundred and worked it between his fingers. “Believe me when I say, this is the only kind of paper trail you want to leave. And if ebooks are potentially damning, you can imagine what a goldmine your web history can be if it falls into the wrong hands. Sad but true, you can burn a book. But like I’ve told you a million times, digital echoes are a heck of a lot harder to silence.”

  I double-checked his emotional barometer. Still normal. Disturbingly so, given the implications of what he was telling me. “Don’t you think that’s a little extreme?”

  “I wish it was, my friend. I wish it was.”

  Once Con hauled half my reading section out the door, I had to wonder. Did he know I’d stumbled across Red’s banner ad, or was he talking about my PsyCop research? Or had he just been making a general observation, and my own niggling suspicions filled in the details?

  I shouldn’t have anything to worry about. Thanks to his online coaching, I only researched PsyCops and GhosTVs where the trail wouldn’t lead back to me.

  But I couldn’t be so sure about Vic. And if I told him not to look up any of that stuff himself, he’d go and do it just because I told him not to. So what if I’d blown the empath test—I could read him like an unencrypted web page. It would be easy enough to put him off researching GhosTVs and make it seem like his idea. Get technical. Start talking particles and waves, and he’d glaze over and change the subject. Then a web search would be the farthest thing in the world from his mind.

  That’s what I thought. So, of course, the very next moment the two of us were alone, the first thing out of his mouth was, “Hey, you know about computers, right?”

  Chapter 41

  It was after the move-in, which had been awkward as hell, though not for the reason I’d thought. Instead of feeling pissy over the fact that Jacob and Vic got to live in a gorgeous loft together while I squatted in my crappy hovel alone, I was busy strategizing how I could introduce the subject of cyber safety without freaking everyone out. Jacob and Carolyn were both called in by their precinct. Alone with me, Vic was his usual sweaty, awkward self. Likely he was so busy figuring out how to stop Vibing that he didn’t notice I was preoccupied.

  We’d emptied the truck, then he asked me to help him hop online. I attempted to get a wireless network going, gave up, and plugged his laptop directly into the modem. He breathed down my neck for the first ten minutes, but pretty soon he got bored and wandered off to start dragging boxes around.

  If my clandestine searches for the GhosTV earned me a cautionary warning, I could only imagine how much info Vic leaked out for all and sundry to see. To my massive relief, his operating system was ten years out of date, and the location services that could broadcast his whereabouts didn’t even exist. And not only had it been more than a month since he’d even been online, but his browsing history was innocuous. Weird, but innocuous. Sites about police bullshit and natural sleep remedies, and searches on questions like, Why so many traffic lights? and How do you spell burocracy? and What is soy milk?

  I locked down all his permissions tighter and set his browser so its default mode was private. I considered clearing his cookies, but figured it was possible he’d lose his every last password and blame it (correctly) on me. Then I set up a little peer-to-peer chat so that in the future he could come to me for answers, rather than flinging out anything hazardous on the shockingly traceable World Wide Web. And in an effort to get him to navigate somewhere safe and normal, I planted a little seed of a suggestion. “So. Why couldn’t you wait for Mister Perfect to help you hook it up? Gonna download some porn to keep yourself occupied?”

  “No.”

  “Jacob doesn’t get jealous of porn, does he?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Probably not with you. You’re such a good, faithful boyfriend, you don’t give him any reason to doubt your loyalty.”

  “Yeah. I’m a saint.” Laboriously, he navigated to a browser, pulled it up, and hunt-and-pecked the words find person.

  Fantastic. I stifled a sigh.

  His laptop gagged on the request for a good few seconds, and as it did, I wondered if the machine was really that geriatric, or if Big Brother’s spyware was slowing it down. The lag resolved, and then a list of potential people-finder sites appeared. Mostly clickbait, so obviously lame that even the flip-phone aficionado didn’t bite. He said, “I want to look up an old friend of mine from Heliotrope Station, see how he’s doing.”

  “Camp Hell’s classified,” I said. “You won’t find anything about it online.” He ignored me and typed it in anyway. A bunch of nothing came up. And since the can of worms was now officially open for business, I figured the best bet would be for him to get the damn search out of his system. “Pop your buddy’s name in there. I’ll bet you don’t get anything.”

  I watched his profile while he typed to see if he was bullshitting me. I didn’t think so. Any hesitation he showed in typing in the name looked less like subterfuge and more like a basic inability to read the keyboard.

  He huffed and typed in Cook County Mental Health Center, and was annoyed when it popped up. He tried a series of names—some scored hits, some didn’t. Either result only served to piss him off. I recognized his brand of stubbornness. It takes one to know one. Maybe, I figured, some acknowledgement would be enough to satisfy him. At least for the moment. “Some evil shit went down at Camp Hell. I’ll bet you’ve got a story or two to tell, Victor Bayne.”

  “No.” He closed the laptop and it let out a long, shrill beep.

  I angled it toward myself and opened it again. “You want me to change the preferences so that it goes into standby mode when you close it?”

  “I don’t care.”

  He sauntered off and started beating up some cardboard boxes, while I stared at the screen and wondered how to look out for someone who clearly didn’t want to be protected. If he was bound and determined to search himself, there wasn’t much I could do to stop him. I went out to watch him shove furniture around for a minute or two, then said, “I know I give you a hard time, but seriously. If you wanna talk, it won’t get any farther than me.”

  “Okay, great.” Discombobulated and pissy—baseline normal. For him, anyhow. He snatched up his keys. “Let’s go. It’s late.”

  He stewed all the way back to my place while I decided if he wasn’t going to bring it up, I might as well. “Ever do a web search on yourself?”

  “No. Why would I?”

  “Idle curiosity. People search their own names all the time.”

  “Why do you ask?” He refused to look at me. “Have you?”

  “Maybe. According to the World Wide Web, you don’t exist. But you and I know differently.”

  “Don’t search me on the web.”

  I could ask the same of him, but if I did, he’d go straight home and key in his own damn name. Instead I pointed out the hickey he’d been angling away from me all night. “Sure thing, tiger. I snagged a picture of that pulsing love bite on my cell phone. What more do I need?”

  I left him fuming in the car and emerged from the heady cloud of confusion and need with half a chub. I was debating whether to check Tanngo, take matters into my own hands, or skip the pyrotechnics and go right to bed when I stepped into my stairwell and was struck by the smell of urine. Not just a lingering trace, either, but a fresh pong of rankness. And I saw the mail carrier had disgorged a pile of packages up against the wall in his usual ha
phazard way. And they were all soggy.

  And the top one was addressed to Sticks and Stones.

  What compelled people to be such fucking assholes?

  I would’ve loved to pitch the goddamn box out onto the street, but given that it was full of merch, I couldn’t afford to indulge my frustration. Instead, I sliced it open with my keys, determined that the resin inside was all wrapped in plastic and the plastic hadn’t been breached. I picked up the cardboard—it was moist—removed the contents, and tossed the saturated box out the door.

  I tried to tell myself it wasn’t as if I’d never touched someone else’s urine. Watersports aren’t my bag, but as long as no one gets hurt, I’ll give anything a good shot. This was different, though. An insult. A violation.

  My place felt like a hovel. Fuck staying in. My hair was a glorious shade of Envy Green, plus my arms looked all pumped from hauling furniture. Someone would be willing to buy me a few drinks, take me home—to a place that didn’t smell like piss—and make me forget my troubles.

  I was struggling into a pair of overly elaborate boots when hickey boy called. “Changed your mind?” I teased. “I was just getting dressed to go out for a drink. You’re welcome to come upstairs and undo all these buckles.”

  He pointedly ignored my flirting. “You said you found out online that I was fifth-level.”

  “Oh. So you do pay attention when I talk.” I gave up on the boots and lit a smoke. “I thought you were too busy picturing me bending over the nearest horizontal surface to hear my conversation.”

  “So which time were you lying—when you said I’m nowhere on the Internet, or when you bragged about finding out my test scores?”

  “I’m probably lots of things, but I’m no liar. Ask Carolyn.”

  “Either I’m online, or I’m not.”

  So. I hadn’t been particularly successful in dissuading him from Googling himself. “The actual words—in a password-protected Usenet group, I might add—were ‘a certain Chicago medium tested out at fifth level.’”

  “A certain Chicago medium.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What makes you even think that means me?”

  “Do you know any other certified mediums in Chicago? Let alone Class Five?”

  “I’m going.”

  He hung up. I considered calling him back to propose a trip to the library in the morning to show him what was what, but chose to let the matter rest. My muscles were sore, my temper was short, and my boots were just not cooperating. I kicked off the boot, stripped down, had myself a good, hot shower, and climbed into bed.

  Just as soon as my eyes drifted shut, my phone rang again.

  I was under no illusions that Vic would actually break down and join me for a quickie. No doubt he wanted to keep arguing about what was, or wasn’t, online. Although I knew it would be summarily rejected, I was formulating my invitation to rendezvous anyhow when I blearily noted it wasn’t Vic’s name on my screen, it was Jacob’s. And he wouldn’t be calling me at half past one unless something was wrong.

  * * *

  “What’s up?” I said cautiously.

  He sat quietly for a long moment—I could hear him breathing—and eventually he said, “I’m outside. Can I come up?”

  Funny, how much easier he was to read over the phone. A more suspicious person might have thought he was coming to make trouble. But immediately, I could tell something had him worried.

  If I felt tired and sore from the day’s activities, I could only imagine how burned out Jacob must be. He stood in the doorway in his suit and tie, shoulders slumped. I stepped aside and gestured for him to come in.

  An echo of the times we’d curled together on my sofa made me nostalgic for the furniture I’d sold off. I led him into the office, made him sit in the rolling chair, and perched on a two-drawer file cabinet that was even less comfortable than it looked. Eventually, he took a few deep breaths, and said, “In all the years I’ve worked sex crimes, nothing’s hit me as hard as this.”

  I made a murmur of encouragement, and he went on.

  “This poor old woman was assaulted in her bed. She’s so vulnerable, Crash. So…so completely vulnerable. She can’t even walk. She can’t get up and leave. Can’t do anything but just lay there and….” He stopped, gulped air, and said, “He raped her. Multiple times. And then ejaculated…on her…face.”

  He stood up so quickly it startled me, darted through the kitchen in five good strides, and ducked into the bathroom where he folded to his knees and retched into the toilet.

  Damn. Not much fun when porn actors in bakers’ costumes aren’t involved. I refrained from making the connection aloud. Whether or not I was still bedding the guy, I didn’t want to be the one to ruin his favorite nude pastime. I stood in the doorway and watched him for a few minutes. He was mostly bringing up spit and bile.

  I turned back to the kitchen, put a big mug of water in the microwave, then ducked out into the shop to raid my bulk herbs. I didn’t bother firing up the lights. Instead, I lifted the lids of the old apothecary jars and picked out the flowers and roots I was looking for by scent. Chamomile, peppermint, ginger root. That would do. I grabbed a hefty pinch of each, mixed it in my palm as I walked back to the kitchen, then tossed it into the hot water and carried the whole stew back to Jacob.

  He was no longer actively spewing, but he sat up against the tub with his knees bent, arm draped over them, and his head down on his forearm. I tweaked his cowlick and said, “Come on, big guy. Don’t sit on the floor. You’re only giving the six-legged houseguests an opportunity to migrate over to your new place.”

  I gave him a hand up and swung him over to my bed. It was unmade, and rumpled, and it looked even narrower than usual with his bulk denting it. But, so what. We didn’t need to sleep there, or even try to fuck. Just sit.

  If Jacob felt sorry for me, with my twin-sized mattress in its closet-sized bedroom, he didn’t show it. He just sat on the edge of the bed and put his head in his hands. I set the tea on the nightstand, then squeezed in beside him, propped myself against the wall, and considered him.

  He dealt with this sort of atrocity on a regular basis, and where did he turn to sort it all out? He didn’t think I could handle this side of his personality, back when we were intimate. Physically intimate. He’d only wanted me to see the strong parts, not the vulnerable ones.

  What a shame.

  Suffering is an annoying little ditty, and according to the folks at the meditation center, our own resistance to “what is” only turns up the volume. Jacob wouldn’t alleviate the old woman’s suffering by adding his own to it. But I could hardly fault him for trying, since seeing him agonize made my heart ache.

  I planted my foot on his thigh and kneaded his quads with my toes. Nothing’s permanent. Not even suffering. While no one’s ever told me they found me particularly consoling, I couldn’t help but offer the encouragement, “You’ll figure out who did it.”

  He slid me a look in return that I had no idea how to interpret.

  “What?” I said.

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Cameras, security…none of it saw a damn thing. And maybe a year ago I would’ve chalked it up to a delusion of her aging mind. But now, knowing what I know and seeing what I’ve seen—not as a PsyCop, but as a human being? Now, I’m worried that maybe I will figure it out. And whatever did this, I won’t be able to stop it.”

  I wasn’t sure whether or not our little chat did him any good, so I was surprised when he showed up the next day at closing time with a heaping helping of pasta primavera from the deli up the block and a burning need to tell me about his day. I had duties to tend to—money that needed counting and shelves that looked like someone had suffered a seizure against them—but Jacob and me, we’d spent too damn much time together to require that squirmy, dewy-eyed attention you’d lavish on someone you actually needed to impress. He got dinner plated without any help from me, and I absorbed the horror of his day without comment. It was just like old tim
es, everything but the part where we’d go back to his place and roll around naked when we were done. And I didn’t really miss that part as much as I might have expected.

  Apparently, the seal of our moratorium was broken. Jacob started texting me again, and showing up at oddball times of the day to vent his concerns and talk through his frustrations. And me, well, I started looking forward to his visits. It beat the tedium of reorganizing a rack of books that would just be shuffled back around the minute anyone browsed it.

  We’d fallen into such an easy rapport that I nearly forgot about his impressively tall and intensely awkward boyfriend—the one he now lived with—until Vic showed up on my doorstep with a cheap suit on his back, an irritated look on his face, and a young Hispanic chick at his side.

  “Lisa,” he said, “this is Crash. He owns the store.”

  “I’m Carolyn’s best friend in the whole world,” I clarified. “You must be the infamous Lisa Gutierrez, secret psychic.”

  * * *

  I’d imagined Lisa Gutierrez would be taller. Hell, the way Jacob had made her out, I thought she’d be rocking a Wonder Woman getup and spouting off ominous predictions. But, no. Like every other PsyCop I knew, Lisa looked like a regular person in a suit. An off-the-rack polyester blend, at that.

  Burning with curiosity, I led both Psychs into the shop and put on some coffee. Lisa glanced at the makeshift shrine I kept behind the counter where a plug of incense was smoldering, and asked, “You burn copal?”

  “Yeah, I dig the vibe. It works for me.” I supposed it would be too forward of me to see if she had any sage advice to offer, kind of like the guys who thought they were entitled to a lifetime of free haircuts after a quick tumble in the sack.

  Vic, meanwhile, ranged up one aisle and down another. Before I could ask what he was looking for, he snapped, “She isn’t here.”

  “Would you chill out? You just got here.” Gooseflesh prickled my forearms. I still had trouble wrapping my head around him talking to Mattie. “And why are you both wearing cheap suits? You on duty? I thought your sergeant made you ride with that Ziggy-whatsisface.”