“Give me the name, age and last known residence. I might know someone who can do a skip-trace without leaking it to anyone at the Fifth.”
-FIVE-
The snow was coming down in big, heavy flakes, so traffic moved slowly on my way back from Zigler’s. That was fine. It gave me some headspace to try and come at Camp Hell from a different angle. But try as I might, I could only come up with one. Jacob knew something, and he’d never told me.
I got back to the cannery and tore it apart in an attempt to find the sheets. I found a set, but it went with my old bed. I tried to make it fit on Jacob’s mattress anyway. There was elastic all around the edge of the sheet, and I figured that elastic stretched. Not that much, evidently.
Traffic was even slower on my way to SaverPlus. Again, I stewed on Camp Hell, and again, came up with nothing new. The SaverPlus parking lot was a nightmare; snow had covered up all the yellow lines that told people where to park, and suddenly no one could figure out that cars fit better when they were parked in rows.
I was tempted to turn around and go back home, but I figured that I could put Jacob in a more receptive frame of mind if there were sheets on the bed. It hadn’t occurred to me to measure the mattress. I stared at all the sizes and did my best to guesstimate. I came up blank. I had to go all the way to small appliances to find a salesperson, a kid half my age who probably didn’t know any more about mattress sizes than I did, and asked him which sheets were the biggest. He set me up with a California King—off white, since picking out a color or pattern felt even more daunting than picking out a size—swiped my credit card, and handed me one of those goofy orange SaverPlus bags.
It took me nearly fifteen minutes to find my car. It looks really different with three inches of snow on it.
Traffic had gone from even slower to excruciating while I’d been buying sheets—sheets that didn’t fit Jacob’s bed. Damn it. Seems that “King” and “California King” aren’t the same thing, and even with a fifty percent chance of choosing correctly, I’d blown it.
I headed back to SaverPlus. At this point traffic was so slow I wondered if it would have been faster for me to walk. I tried to exchange the sheets, which they wouldn’t do because I’d ripped open the side of the package instead of using the resealable flap on top which I hadn’t seen, and finally I gave up and just bought a second set. On my way out the door I spotted a display of snowblowers, ice choppers, and bright plastic snow shovels. I bought a shovel. I hadn’t touched one since I was a teenager, but I was hoping it was one of those skills that you never forget. If I could take my pent-up frustration out on my sidewalk, I figured I’d be less likely to go back and make a scene at the return counter.
It was well after dark by the time I got home, made the bed and started clearing the walk-way. Jacob showed up with a bag of Korean takeout when I was about halfway through.
“You look sexy when you shovel.”
I sniffed. Right. My nose was running. Real sexy. “Did you get your guy?” He shook his head. It was hard to read his face. Maybe the mention of his case had made him scowl, or maybe he was just trying to keep snow out of his eyes.
I squinted and tried to pick out the official edge of our sidewalk. “I’m almost done. I’ll just finish up so I don’t have to come back out later.” I figured that once I was warm and full, the last place I’d want to be was scraping around my house with a blue plastic snow shovel. And besides, I hadn’t unpacked a single box all day. I had to look like I was good for something.
I finished the front walk and then cleared a trail to Jacob’s car. I noticed a bag of trash on the passenger side floor and decided to be an extra-good Samaritan and throw that away, too.
The back alley that houses our garbage cans is home to at least one ghost, a kid named Tiffany, but if she was around, she didn’t have anything new to tell me. The top of the can was heavy with wet snow, and I heaved it open awkwardly. The can itself was full of discarded moving trash, bubble-wrap and tarps and even a broken white laminate end table that I hadn’t noticed was missing. I jammed the trash bag from Jacob’s car into a small gap, and packed it down hard to ensure that the lid would close so we wouldn’t get a fine from Streets & San.
The lid wouldn’t shut.
Damn it. That’s what I got for trying to make up for a whole day’s worth of dawdling with a few random acts of kindness. I pulled out one of the laminate shelves and set it on the ground, then tried to jam the garbage bag in again. It split open. The wind kicked up and sent a handful of things scattering to the ground.
Nothing too nasty, mostly cups, wrappers and napkins. I stomped on the nearest cup lid before the wind could send it sailing down the alley, and told myself that I was only going to chase the stuff as far as our property line. That’s where my responsibility as a hom-eowner ended. I ran in a low crouch and scooped up a napkin, a protein bar wrapper, a coffee cup, and another coffee cup. A few napkins skittered out of my reach, and I didn’t try to stop them. I stomped back to the garbage can.
It was determined to stay open, and I was equally determined to successfully complete one damn task even if it killed me. I took the broken laminate shelf and used it like a plunger to jam the trash bag into the can. I squeezed the coffee cup flat and tucked it into the corner, and then found a pocket where the napkin wad would fit nicely. The logo on the napkin protruded from the pile. It was from Greener Bean, which, to my mind, was the least appealing name a coffee house could have, environmentally friendly or not.
Greener Bean had sprouted up in Wicker Park, and parking there was just as lousy as it was by Crash’s store. Why would Jacob go all the way down there for a cup of coffee?
Unless they’d franchised and worked their way up Damen. Not that I could imagine a coffee house with such a dumb name opening up another location, but weirder things have happened.
When I got back in the house, Jacob was in his sweats, and dinner was set out on the coffee table.
I sat down on the couch and peeked into a carton hoping for some ribs. Not that Jacob ever buys them; he says they’re a heart attack in a box. I found some garlic shrimp instead, and poured a few shrimps and pea pods onto my plate. I was dying to ask him about Camp Hell, and the Internet, and me, but I figured I should probably see how receptive he seemed, first. “How much longer do you think it’ll be? Any leads? Anything new?” Jacob stirred his barbecue chicken and vegetables. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Is it just a lack of witnesses? Because I don’t see how anyone could really hide anything from Carolyn and you.”
Jacob shook his head and focused on his food. “Vic, really. I don’t want to go over it. What do you think I’ve been doing all day?”
“But, I mean, maybe I could think of something. You know, like a fresh set of eyes.”
“The victim’s room was locked. Her rape kit came back negative. But she swears she’s been assaulted, penetrated everywhere—vaginal, oral and anal. And that the guy, whoever it is, taunts her the whole time, daring her to tell someone, because nobody’s going to believe her.” Jacob rubbed the stubble along either side of his goatee. “Carolyn says she’s telling the truth.”
On the surface it made no sense, but a case that didn’t make sense was nothing new to me. Obviously there was a loophole somewhere. It could’ve been anything as mundane as someone with a key sneaking in and assaulting the victim with a technique that didn’t show up in the tests. There was all kinds of medical equipment around, right? All it would take was a really sick mind to put some of those instruments to some screwed-up, per-verted use. Then again, it could’ve been something as exotic as an invisible sex demon.
Just for example. I’m sure that if it was an invisible sex demon, it would have some kind of fancy proper name that I hadn’t been paying attention to when they’d taught it at Camp Hell.
“You’ve cross-referenced the Psy-database at the Twelfth. Right?”
“That thing is five years out of date.” Jacob put his fork down.
Hard. “I know you’re trying to help, but I just can’t…. I see her there, lying in her bed in that room, and I think, my God. What if that was my grandmother? What if that was my mother? I’ve got to do something, but I can’t figure out what to do.”
“And you’ve questioned the residents, the staff…?”
“I’m serious. I just can’t talk about it anymore, not right now. Give it a rest.”
“Did it happen just the one time? Or is it…?”
“Vic.” Jacob’s eyes snapped up and met mine. He meant business. “Trust me. I’m really not in the mood.”
I chewed on a shrimp that’d gone rubbery in my mouth. Cripes. I only wanted to help.
So much for softening him up so that we could talk about Camp Hell. “Okay, fine. Look, tomorrow’s my last day off, and I have no idea what to unpack. If you want to leave me a list or something, I’ll try to make some headway.”
Jacob’s shoulders relaxed marginally from my change of subject. “What do you want to unpack? What do you need first?”
I looked past Jacob into the kitchen, where my crappy laptop kept the countertop warm.
I wondered if I could segue into the Internet if we were on the subject of computers. Or better yet, I could make it seem as if it had just occurred to me to search for myself, and do it right in front of him. “Do we have a wireless uh…thing?”
“We do. You want the computer hooked up?”
He seemed surprised, and I didn’t blame him. I’d opened my laptop maybe twice in the four months we’d lived together in my old apartment. “Yeah. I mean, my laptop’s plugged in now, but I have to stand at the kitchen counter to use it.” Jacob nodded. “Okay. We can set mine up in the office, if you want. It’s faster.” And Crash’s little window full of “cyber” requests wouldn’t pop up on it either. Or would it? I’d never really understood how the Internet worked. I tried to imagine the mechanics of it. I drew a blank. Even so, I was pretty sure that the chat program with its stupid nickname, 69-whatever, was specific to my laptop. “Yeah. Let’s do that.” Jacob hauled the heavy computer boxes back upstairs while I put away leftovers and tried to do the dishes. The kitchen was a joke. It took me half an hour to find dishwashing liq-uid. Maybe it was for the best that I had something to keep me occupied. With me out of his hair, Jacob had everything up and running by the time I balanced the last damp spoon on the countertop—where a dish drainer would have been, if I’d been able to find it. “I’m creating an account for you,” he said when I walked into the office. “Put your password in here.”
“I don’t need a password-protected account.”
“It’s easier that way. You can keep all your settings just the way you want them.”
“Nine-nine-nine-nine,” I said out loud as I typed the number in, to prove I wasn’t going on the computer to “cyber” with anyone. Even though my original purpose had been to look up Stefan. But not to “cyber”. Just to see how he was doing.
“I’ll set up the router and we should be online.” Jacob went downstairs and hooked up a stack of small plastic boxes with red and green lights on them that intermittently flashed or glowed steadily as if something very complicated was happening inside them. “Think you can do without the printer and scanner?” he asked. “It’s getting late.”
“Yeah, sure.” It was almost midnight. He should have been in bed already. Sleeping, even.
“The office looks like an office now.” And not a pretend bedroom that would allow us to use the “roommate” story if anyone from my precinct other than Zigler came over. I realized now, watching Jacob climb the stairs, that he’d never go for an idea like that in a million years. Good thing I’d had some time to mull it over before I’d blurted it out.
“You can hook up the rest of it tomorrow,” Jacob said. “Just go through those boxes and see what you need.”
Me. Hook things up to a computer. I figured Jacob must be giddy with lack of sleep. It was chillier in the new bedroom than the old one, but I stripped down to boxers anyway. Jacob watched me climb into bed with his hand on the light switch, and I think his expression maybe softened a little. I skootched over toward the middle of the bed. I did see a smile.
A faint one, but it was there. “If you can find the bedside lamps,” he said, “we won’t have to navigate the bedroom in the dark.”
“Leave me a to-do list,” I said. It occurred to me that I might not like what a to-do list might entail, but I couldn’t really figure out a way to hedge. Here it was, bedtime, and I hadn’t brought up Camp Hell. I’d really come off as a jerk if I sprang it on Jacob at midnight.
“A list? No problem.” Jacob flicked off the light. “Marco.” What? I waited for some kind of explanation so I could figure out what Marco was supposed to mean. And then I realized. The dark. “Polo.” I heard the blankets at the foot of the bed rustle. “Marco.”
“Polo.”
Jacob was a huge silhouette looming in the faint green glow of the numbers on the alarm clock. The blankets rustled again, and the bed creaked ever so slightly as he climbed in beside me. His hand slid over my bare arm, down along my side. He pulled me against his chest. So incredibly warm.
I’d never known Jacob to get snippy, but I suspected I’d come close to seeing it when I asked too many questions about his case. It was smart of me to put off the Internet discussion, I decided, especially when Jacob was running on a few hours’ sleep and I’d already pushed my luck earlier.
I pressed my head into the crook of his neck and settled my cheek against his collarbone. Jacob hooked his heel behind my calf and pulled my leg between his, tangling us together.
-SIX-
Furniture groupings were starting to spontaneously develop within the maze of boxes and clutter. There was a sofa/coffee table area, and a book and media area, and then there were stacks upon stacks of boxes.
I stared down at the chaos from the lofted hallway that connected the bedroom, the office, and the teeny-tiny upstairs half-bath. Light filtered in through glass-block windows and Jacob had left for work hours ago. The cannery was pretty peaceful, in its own industrial way. Even if it wasn’t painted white.
I went downstairs and squeezed past some boxes. My hip brushed a box marked TV. That would be mine. Jacob’s TV couldn’t be contained by a regular cardboard box. My 13” set would fit in the bedroom. I was pretty sure there was some porn in that box, too. I decided to set up the DVD player so we could turn in early. There. I felt a sense of accomplishment from the mere planning of it.
In the kitchen, I found the to-do list I’d asked for lying on top of the closed laptop. Damn.
Jacob had actually written one down. Well, I had asked for it. I figured I should see what he thought I was capable of handling.
Hang up clothes, find the bedside lamps, more snow shoveling and a stop at the grocery store. Okay. It was doable. In fact, I should be able to have it completed by noon. Filled with a new determination to make the cannery more of a home, I was a list-crossing fiend.
Not only did I hang up our clothes, but I put each of our wardrobes on opposite sides of the closet so they weren’t all mixed up. I found Jacob’s shoe boxes and stacked them under his suits. I even put the winter stuff towards the front.
I shoveled the walk before I went grocery shopping. How’s that for organization? I did have to go back out and hit a hardware store to buy a power strip and plug in the bedside lamps and the little TV, but I’d finished up the list by early afternoon. With just a little bit of guidance, I was capable of impressive feats.
The newly hooked-up television set and its stack of well-watched DVDs beckoned to me, but I decided to wait until Jacob was home to break out the porn. Call me a romantic. As far as I knew, we had no cable service and no antenna, so unless I wanted to zone out to a snow channel or dig up a movie where everyone kept his clothes on, I’d gone as far as I could with the TV.
As I went toward the stairs I caught a glimpse of Jacob’s computer, stately and impressive with its big, flat m
onitor and wireless keyboard. Although I knew it connected to the same Internet as my crappy laptop, it seemed that maybe with this impressive machine, I could actually find Stefan.
Hadn’t Jacob said there were more pieces of equipment to be hooked in to this electronic work of art? A dozen boxes labeled “office” were stacked beneath the window. This would be Jacob’s stuff, since I’d never had an office, myself.
I spread out the boxes and started peeling off tape. I found a printer. A scanner. Those wire baskets where you leave your paperwork to die, and a phone that looked way too complicated for its own good. I even found a box marked “Misc.” I know it doesn’t seem like it should be a personal triumph to discover that Jacob had stuff he couldn’t quantify—but living with him and his steel-trap mind, I couldn’t help but feel just a little bit satisfied.
So what was it that stumped super-PsyCop Jacob Marks? A small fan. A few black and white photos of boring cityscapes in black lacquer frames. A bundle of hangers. A video camera, still in its box.
We could tape ourselves having sex.
Wait, no. I only wanted to see that video if Jacob took up the whole frame. Or maybe if it was really dark, and the only thing I could make out clearly was the talking, all that nasty, dirty stuff he liked to say to me.
I opened the box and pulled out the camcorder. It was small enough to fit in the palm of my hand. I flipped open the viewscreen. The controls looked pretty straightforward: play, record, forward and back. I was just about to hit record when I realized that I’d probably better make sure that I wasn’t taping over somebody’s wedding. I hit play, and a strange room filled the screen, a room full of windows and light—Jacob’s old condo, which neither of us could think of anymore without imagining an incubus exploding at the foot of his bed.
The bed I’d been sleeping in all week. Gross.
The frame traveled across the room, revealing a bunch of details that I only vaguely remembered, and then settled on the gigantic leather sofa.
PsyCop 4: Secrets Page 5