Spook Squad

by Jordan Castillo Price

  “I don’t need a—it’s fine, it’s nothing weird.” Relatively speaking. “It’s no worse than anything else I do.”

  We turned a corner and stopped talking while we passed a frazzled-looking woman strapping a wailing toddler into a car seat. Once we were clear, Warwick said, “A few years ago, a PsyCop from the Twentieth was moonlighting where you’re working now: Detective John Wembly, an empath.” He let out a sigh, and the wind carried its white tendrils away. “He disappeared.”

  “From his job?”

  “From everywhere.”

  The image of the repeater who’d swallowed a bullet in the conference room flashed through my mind’s eye. Could an empathic cop be neutralized by locking him in a room with his sidearm and a bunch of suicidal head-cases? Talk about an elaborate way to take someone out. Not that I thought it was implausible, mind you. I’ve seen too much weird shit to discount the possibility. Just that it seemed like a hell of a lot of effort.

  “I think it’s in their best interest to keep me around,” I said. “Who else can monitor their ghosts?”

  “And if one of the higher-ups had to choose between keeping you around and making sure no one else had the benefit of your expertise? Don’t get cocky. Everyone’s expendable, Bayne, even you.”

  If I was expendable, I’d be dead by now. I didn’t say it. Hell, I was shocked I’d even thought it. Shocked and angry. I was tempted to tell him to fuck off for calling me expendable, but what came out was, “At least the things I do there matter.”

  His reply was a level glare.

  I did my best to glare back without tripping over a crack in the sidewalk. “How many of my collars get acquitted?”

  His eyes widened—he hadn’t seen that one coming. But then he took stock and said, “Too many.”

  We both looked away and focused on our brisk, pointless walking. After another block we’d already passed twice, he said, “Defense attorneys are starting to realize they can play the Psych angle and hang a jury, at least if they’re lucky enough to land a judge who doesn’t ride the fuck out of ’em in the courtroom.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Look at it this way…a public defender ain’t gonna use that tactic. The criminal’s gotta hire high-priced defense to get off like that. These scumbags mortgage their houses, their families’ houses, sell everything they own and then some to pay for some slick lawyer to work it. They’ll be paying the rest of their lives.”

  Maybe so. But not like they should. Not like the guys in orange jumpsuits.

  “If you need that car,” Warwick said, “call and ask me about your ‘mileage receipts.’ I’ll leave the guy’s number in the planter in front of the diner on Kedzie by the end of the day.”

  Part of me thought all the cloak-and-dagger was an elaborate hoax, because this was the boss who’d been glaring and barking at me for the past dozen years. Ted Warwick bitched about my penmanship and my Auracel use. He didn’t dream up elaborate schemes to procure getaway vehicles.

  “And if I were you, I’d start investing in prepaid credit cards, gift cards, any kind of untraceable plastic. Christmas is coming—it’s a good time to stock up without anyone noticing. And make sure you pay for them with cash.”

  Why hadn’t I ever thought of that? “All right. Yeah.”

  We were nearing my street, and he slowed as if to determine whether we’d need to go around the block again. “And what about Zigler?” he said.

  “What about him?”

  “Do I really need to spell it out?”

  Apparently he did. I shrugged.

  “Is he laying low to buy you time off,” he asked, “or do I need to go check on him too?”

  “He’s out of town for a funeral.” At least, I presumed he was—but maybe Dreyfuss had told him to say that to steer me toward the FPMP. Who the hell knew anymore? “Check with Betty. I’m sure he gave her a call.”

  Warwick grunted, not exactly in agreement, but not disagreeing, either. I turned down my block, thinking he’d follow. He didn’t. He kept right on walking…to wherever it was he’d actually parked.

  * * *

  Now my nose was running from the cold. I should have just invited Warwick in and spared myself the exposure. According to Lisa, the cannery’s free from surveillance devices. In addition, Jacob’s gym pals sweep it regularly for electronics, although they’ve never found anything. And Crash does a sage smudge and protection ritual every new moon.

  We also run the blender when we talk about anything important. It’s especially loud if you fill it a quarter of the way with water and add some ice.

  I gave Jacob the skinny on my talk with Warwick and the mysterious Detective Wembly. “One day he was doing a side-job for Dreyfuss,” I said, “and the next…gone. I’m guessing he got himself shot. There are five gunshot victims in that building, five that I’ve seen. Probably more if Richie’s continual exorcisms are rubbing them out.”

  “So you think I should drop the Laura Kim angle and start looking into this Wembly?”

  “I don’t know what to think.” Wembly wouldn’t have anything to do with Jacob’s case—the timeframe was all wrong. “You’ve got your hands full. I should be the one looking for Wembly.” That seemed a lot safer, too. I’d hate to have someone check on Jacob’s work and find him digging up dirt that had nothing to do with Burke’s shooting. Jacob’s physical investigations could be traced, whereas I could always stand around looking dumb if I didn’t want anyone else to know what I was doing.

  “Okay, I’ll see what I find on the video surveillance and establish a timeline. What about you?”

  “Jennifer Chance has got Dreyfuss seriously freaked out. She’s supposed to be number one on my hit-list.” Maybe it was for the best if I focused on finding Chance and kept as many repeaters as possible intact. I might need them if I wanted to see for myself how Wembly met his end. I had a feeling he was the suicide in the boardroom—but maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was Triple-Shot. Or Throat Bullet. Or some other poor sap in a suit getting mowed down over and over in a dark corner they’d neglected to show me. Without a photograph of Wembly, there was only one way I’d know if his repeater was still moonlighting at the FPMP.

  “Yoga must be over by now,” I said, “don’t you think?”

  I pulled out my phone, but Jacob touched me on the wrist before I could hit my memory-dial. “Vic…not a good idea.”

  “You don’t even know what I’m trying to do.”

  “You’re going to ask Lisa a sí-no about that PsyCop, which violates the FPMP privacy policy, on a cell phone that anyone can pick up with a cheap antenna.”

  Okay. He had me there. I put the phone back in my pocket and turned my mind to rehearsing dinner conversation for later, when I’d have Lisa to myself. Could I get away with asking the murder-related sí-nos I’d been building up before we started talking about her love life, just in case the conversation turned out to be more difficult than I was anticipating? It was probably something dumb she was being so cagey about. Some total non-thing. It just seemed like a big deal to her because she was caught up in the thick of it…which I really didn’t want to imagine, given that she’s the closest thing to a sister I’d had since foster care.

  The blender changed pitch as the ice cubes were pulverized into a thin slush. I rested my finger on the off-button, but before I pressed it, I whispered, “No matter what I do, I feel like I’m playing right into Dreyfuss’ hands.”

  Jacob shook his head. “We should have known there’d be nothing straightforward about this exorcism you owe him.”

  I’d never expected anything at the FPMP to be what it seemed. Dreyfuss wanted to string me along? Fine. All the more skeletons I’d dig out of his closet. Plus…all the more “payment” for me.

  Chapter 13

  When I reported to the Operations Coordinator’s desk, she seemed surprised to see me. “You came in! I wasn’t sure…I mean, when you didn’t show up…”

  My general level of anxiety usually lands me
everywhere five minutes early, but thanks to Warwick’s unscheduled visit, both Jacob and I were half an hour late. “Yeah. We ran into a little snag at home.”

  She leaned in, dropped her voice, and said, “I’m really glad you’re here.”

  Jacob had been about to stride on back to the archives, but he slowed to catch the rest of our exchange. I can’t say I blamed him. Given that I could place Laura at the scene of Roger Burke’s unsanctioned execution, she should’ve been a hell of a lot more leery of me. “You are?”

  “Agent Duff is exterminating this floor today.” She gave me a meaningful look. “He does it every Thursday, but now with you here for backup, there’s a chance of it actually sticking.”

  Great. Just what I needed. Richie mucking around in my sandbox. “Where is Agent Duff, anyway?”

  “Agent Dreyfuss’ office. They usually spend a good two hours there.”

  “Do you think I could…?”

  “I’m buzzing him now.” A pause. “Detective Bayne just reported. Yes. Okay.” She hit a button and said, “Agent Marks can walk you there.”

  As Jacob and I were clicked through the airlocks, I did my best to convey, “Great, now they’re going to rub out any chance of me figuring out what happened to Wembly,” with a widening of my eyes. Jacob acknowledged this micro-expression with a brief eye-widening in return.

  The door to Dreyfuss’ office was open, and Richie’s voice carried down the hall. “…thinking about taking it back. They should make these things easier to use. One minute it’s working, and the next minute the screen is black with the words ‘no disc’ flashing in the corner. All I wanted was to see what was on ESPN2.”

  Jacob left me to Dreyfuss’ tender mercies and let himself into a locked office just down the hall. The Regional Director himself glanced up at me from behind his desk. “Well, look who decided to join us for another day of fun and games.”

  “What did you expect?” I said. “I wasn’t finished.”

  I cut my eyes to Richie to indicate my displeasure with this whole exorcism I hadn’t been invited to. Dreyfuss returned the shadow of a smile. And then I realized that I didn’t want to talk to him via micro-expression. That channel should be reserved for Jacob and me, damn it.

  “It’s Thursday,” Dreyfuss said placidly. “And on Thursdays, this is what we do. Richie is a stickler for his schedule…and we wouldn’t want to upset the talent.”

  “If you ever worked here for real,” Richie said, “you can’t be late more than once a week or your paycheck gets docked.” As he educated me about the FPMP’s policies, his helper, the world’s most stoic black man, was rolling out a printed floor mat. It was almost like a game of Twister, except instead of various colored circles where you’d plant your hands and feet according to the whim of a small plastic spinner, there were circles indicating where candles should go at the cardinal points, as well as crosses and doves and writing in what looked like Hebrew.

  Probably not quite as popular at parties.

  Dreyfuss said, “Agent Bly tells me you paid a visit to the lab. I’m surprised, given your track record with exam rooms and medical personnel.”

  I tried to think of a smart reply to that when I was distracted. Under his scrappy hooded sweatshirt, I noticed, he was wearing gloves. Thin white cotton gloves.

  “Find anything of interest down there?” he asked. I shook my head. He watched me for an extra couple of seconds, narrowing his eyes like he was waiting for me to have second thoughts and feed him an interesting tidbit I’d been withholding. I dropped his gaze and focused on the white gloves.

  “Maybe you should spend a little more time among the test tubes. Dr. K’s psychic enhancements aren’t strictly pharmaceutical in nature. He has some interesting toys.”

  “What toys?” Richie asked.

  “All the latest and greatest Psychic paraphernalia you’ve come to know and expect, Richard. Your prayer mat. Your Vatican holy water. Your beeswax candles from Assisi. Our research department collects it all, from the stoutest Bible-thumping, Jesus-loving Christian icons to the airy-fairiest woo-woo New Age trappings. You need gear? Dr. K can set you up. Meanwhile, Detective Bayne is so poorly supported by his agency he’s gotta score his own salt down at the corner minimart.”

  Richie snort-laughed, then wiped something unfortunate that had sprayed out of his nose onto his cuff. Then he said, “No wonder your ability runs hot and cold.”

  Given the level to which I obfuscate my talent, that remark shouldn’t have pissed me off. Yet somehow, it did.

  “If you’re lucky enough to get a job interview,” Richie told me, “they make you take a polygraph test. Just make sure you don’t lie while you’re doing it. ’Cos somehow, they figure it out.”

  “Good to know.” Maybe I’d pass the polygraph and maybe I wouldn’t. The day I put in my job application at the FPMP, they’d be driving snowplows in hell.

  Richie and his assistant—Carl, his name was, judging by the Carl, do this and Carl, do that—set up their exorcism with the precision I might use to tidy up the hallway where Jacob was constantly dropping his dirty socks. I sat in one of Dreyfuss’ office chairs and tried to figure out where to look. Should I burn the images of the repeaters into my mind’s eye? It was unlikely I could dig up an official snapshot of Wembly the PsyCop on the Internet for a match, but maybe, through my cop-connections, I could score a casual photo of him. I was leery of staring at the repeaters for too long, though, for fear of broadcasting that I had an actual visual on them…and that I could medium circles around “Agent Duff” with his Vatican holy water and his irritating laugh.

  I could watch Richie, but it seemed to me he spoke louder when my eyes were on him. He got a little strut in his awkward walk, and he made Carl hand him things that he could have reached perfectly well himself.

  And of course, not five feet away from me was Constantine Dreyfuss. He would have loved to engage me in conversation…which, of course, meant he was the last guy on the planet I wanted to talk to. “So,” he said. “cold enough for you out there?”

  I wasn’t sure if he was attempting ironic weather-related small talk or if he was asking about ghosts. I grunted.

  “It’s okay to sit back in your chair,” he told me. I hadn’t realized I’d been perching on the edge. “Enjoy the show. I’ll pay you for your time today, Detective. Never fear.”

  Maybe it was for the best he was having Richie take a stab at the repeaters instead of me. That way I could refer back to them once I dug up that photo of Wembly. Still, it wasn’t in my nature to sit on my hands and wait. I allowed myself a glance at Dreyfuss to see if I could tell what he was really up to, and my gaze fell on those cotton gloves again. Some new psychic tool I should be aware of? Or maybe a blatant attempt to get me to leave fingerprints on something without contaminating the evidence.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “Ask.”

  “What?”

  “You want to know what’s up with the gloves.”

  I shrugged.

  He tilted back in his big leather executive chair and crossed his ankles on the corner of his desk. “It’s an attempt to break a comforting lifelong habit. My fingernails are nasty, so I’m told.”

  Was he bullshitting me? I narrowed my eyes.

  “You think you feel gay when you’re playing Brokeback Mountain with Agent Marks? Try getting a manicure.” He sighed. “Then chew through the freaking thing two hours later.”

  The sharp pungency of frankincense prickled my sinuses. My eyes watered. Richie announced to the room, “We’re gonna start now.”

  “By all means,” Dreyfuss replied.

  Carl had placed red velvet kneelers at the east and west points of the diagram. He and Richie settled in, rosaries wrapped around their hands, and Richie began to pray. “Our Father who art in heaven, hello be thy name….”

  Hello?

  I felt Dreyfuss’ eyes on me and couldn’t resist looking back at him. He was smirking.

  If I didn’t know better
, I’d think Dreyfuss hired an actor, a character actor with a gift for channeling an utter moron, and planted him here so I’d be broadsided by a work ethic I didn’t even realize I harbored. Hello be thy name? How could Einstein possibly manage to exorcise a repeater when he couldn’t even recite the Lord’s Prayer?

  Then again, he hadn’t exorcised these particular repeaters yet, despite the weekly attempt. I swiveled my seat to watch, horrified, as Richie ran through the prayer without an iota of understanding, reducing it to a bunch of meaningless, disjointed words and sounds. He then moved on to a Hail Mary, creating bizarre, run-together word groupings. “Holy Mary, mother-of-God, pray-for-us-sinners, now and at the hour-of-our-death, amen.”

  Throat Bullet went down in a spray of spectral blood.

  “What I wouldn’t give for the Victor Bayne ticket to this event,” Dreyfuss murmured. “You’re right on the fifty-yard line.”

  “And today’s exorcees,” I whispered. “Who are they?”

  “Dunno. I was living in Tampa at the time.”

  So he claimed. “If you were to guess….”

  “I just so happened to put together a few likely candidates.” He hit some keys on his keyboard, and his triptych monitors lit up with a grid of photos. Some mug shots, some candids, some work I.D.s. “Maybe you have a ‘sense’ of who it is we’re actually talking about here.”

  Did he actually want the repeaters identified for some mysterious purpose of his own, or had my entire conversation with Sergeant Warwick been recorded and analyzed, and he knew who I was really gunning for? I scanned the photo lineup. There were a couple dozen in all, most of them thirty-something white guys, with a couple of Hispanics or Arabs sprinkled in. One black-suited guy looked familiar—not from the repeater show, though. Maybe from yesterday’s lunch, or the underground parking lot. Which would mean Dreyfuss had seeded the lineup with fake hits to see if I was lying. I dunno if he thought I’d pick wrong because I couldn’t really see the repeaters, or because he thought I wanted to misdirect him on purpose.