CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I tracked down Jacob wrapping things up for the day in his commandeered meeting room. “Can we get a look at the pharmacy surveillance?” I asked him.
He flipped open his laptop. “Absolutely. Laura arranged for me to tap into that feed just as soon as they figured out a prescription psyactive was involved. What timeframe do you want to look at?”
“Right now. Can we watch it live?”
Jacob hit a few keys, and we were in. We pulled up a couple of chairs and bent over the screen. “The guy in the suit,” Jacob said. “Bertelli?”
I was incredibly sure I’d spot something on the footage—something that would not only incriminate Bertelli, but wrap up the whole Kick investigation. What I saw…was Bertelli’s back. No big surprise, given that he knew exactly where the cameras were, but frustrating nonetheless.
I sighed in frustration. Yeah, it was him, all right, fiddling around at the workroom counter while he completely blocked our view. “Obviously, he knows exactly what the camera can see.”
Jacob stroked his goatee. “But what’s he actually doing?”
“He’s ‘auditing’ the pharmacy—a little too much for my liking. I was hoping to get some idea of what the so-called audit entailed. Maybe I can arrange to have a camera in the pharmacy he doesn’t know about.”
I watched Bertelli shuffling through the meds, and made note of their general location so I could pinpoint which ones he was interested in the next time I hit the pharmacy.
After a few minutes, I realized Jacob wasn’t watching Bertelli’s back. He was watching me. I turned to face him. “What?”
His expression was soft, and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “At some point, you’ll need to stop claiming the only thing you’re good for is talking to dead people. You know that, right?”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, I’m a regular Sherlock Holmes.”
Given how twitchy I felt about being the subject of FPMP surveillance, I didn’t actually mind dealing with the guy in charge of that particular department. Agent Peter Garcia had been part of a four-person team that lost one member to a stairwell and another to a woodchipper. Jacob and I managed to hustle him off to a safehouse before anyone found a creative way to make sure he never planted another bug.
I put in a call to Garcia and told him what I wanted, and half an hour later, he shot me a text to meet him outside. I found an official-looking utility van in The Clinic’s parking lot, with a couple of guys in coveralls tinkering with a cluster of wires that hung off the nearest telephone pole. They were so completely ordinary that even though I knew I was out there specifically to meet Garcia, I had to look twice before I recognized him.
I have no idea what it is that makes Garcia look like he’s actually supposed to be wherever he is. I’ve seen him wearing everything from a power suit to a fast food uniform, but no matter what environment he’s in, he somehow looks like he’s been there all along.
I, on the other hand, knew I’d stick out like a sore thumb for talking to the “utility workers.”
When I hesitated, Garcia pointed at the Crown Vic and barked out, “Hey, man, is that your car?”
I almost wanted to deny it—his natural machismo brought out the avoider in me. But I reminded myself that he was my colleague, not some random workman in a tool belt. “Yeah?”
“Your front tire is low.” He cocked his head toward the car as if to show me, and I ambled over to join him by the car. He crouched by the wheel well and I followed suit. It effectively blocked our conversation from anyone lingering around The Clinic’s lobby who might be tempted to lip read.
Something subtle shifted in Garcia’s expression when it was just the two of us face to face, and he could be “himself”…however briefly. And if he even knew what being himself meant anymore. “I took a look at the surveillance area from the existing footage and came up with something that wouldn’t be out of place.” He reached into his coveralls and pulled out a round plastic air freshener. “Find your line of sight—the higher, the better—peel open the double-stick tab and stick it to the wall.”
I gave it a sniff. “What’s it supposed to be?”
“Lavender. Strong enough to seem real, but subtle enough that nobody’s gonna freak out and toss it unless they’re super sensitive to that kind of thing. If anyone rips it open, it’ll just look like a normal air freshener inside. The important parts are hidden between two layers of plastic. Expect the battery to last about a week.”
Did we have any air fresheners in the cannery? Only in the home gym, as far as I knew—it got pretty musty sometimes. And those had been down there for months.
But who was I kidding? Those things would go right in the trash the second I got home.
I thanked Garcia, pocketed the air freshener, went back inside, and headed straight for the pharmacy. Bertelli was done “auditing” and Erin was hard at work trying to make up for whatever backlog his presence had caused. No doubt I could come up with some plausible FPMP reason for the air freshener other than “spy cam.” I have no compunctions about lying to people if it means I’ll get what I want. But something in my gut was telling me I’d be better off leveling with her.
Then again, my gut can be a phenomenally bad judge of character.
Erin caught me staring at her through the safety glass and snapped, “What is it?”
Maybe I was being way too trusting…but if she was trying to hide something from me, wouldn’t she take greater pains to act nice?
I motioned for her to let me in. She’d been counting pills and would need to start all over, but the damage was already done. “Listen, something’s not adding up.” I held out the white plastic disc. The scent of fake lavender wafted up. “I’d like to place additional surveillance in the pharmacy.”
“Are you kidding me? Like this job isn’t stressful enough as it is. Swear to God, I’ve got an ulcer brewing. Bad enough I’ve got Bertelli breathing down my neck without finding you lurking nearby every time I turn around, and now you want to add your own crap to the mix?”
Erin might’ve had a few more choice words for me, but I wasn’t the only one lurking nearby. At the sound of raised voices, the stairwell door swung wide and Bertelli came power-walking toward the pharmacy. “Is there a problem?” he demanded.
I cut my eyes to Erin. If she blew the whistle on me—if my gut was wrong about her—I could kiss my plans goodbye. Not only would I have procured the camera for nothing, but our chances at sneaking in any surveillance of our own would be lost. Erin looked from me to Bertelli and back again, and her eyes narrowed. Please don’t say anything, I tried to convey with my eyes. I really don’t want to be wrong for confiding in you.
I was no telepath, and Erin was a certified NP. And she really did seem to be working on an ulcer. But when Bertelli swept up to the pharmacy door, all self-important bureaucratic blunder, she said, “No problem here.”
Bertelli puffed himself up self-importantly and said, “Even so, Agent Bayne has broken his agreement to stay within the designated areas for the final time.”
What was he gonna do, arrest me? “I was just following up on a few questions—” I began, but Bertelli wasn’t buying it.
“I’ve tried compromising with you people.” He jabbed a finger toward the red tape in the hall. “I’ve tried to make reasonable concessions. But you’re not holding up your end of the bargain. That’s it—I’ve had it. I refuse to put the health and wellbeing of my patients at risk from non-medical personnel running wild through the building. If the four of you don’t vacate the premises, I’ll have no choice but to declare an emergency shutdown.” He cut his eyes to Erin meaningfully. “Without pay.”
Now he was playing dirty.
Not only would a shutdown seriously compromise our investigation, it would destroy all the connections I’d been working so hard to create—connections that extended beyond the investigation itself and into my role as a patient. Doctor’s appointments were bad enough a
s it was. Just imagine knowing the whole staff hated me because I’d caused Bertelli to dock their pay.
I didn’t need Carolyn reading him to tell me he was hiding something. He’d been hell bent on keeping us from finding something at The Clinic, and this whole “red tape” business was just an excuse to get rid of us. But he was serious about shutting down, that much was obvious, and I figured I’d better not press my luck. “Fine,” I said. “I’m going.”
But as I turned to stomp out the door, Erin sidestepped and blocked my exit. I braced myself for an especially nasty parting shot. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” She thrust out her hand. “My air freshener.”
And right under Bertelli’s nose, she peeled off the tab and stuck my spy cam on the wall.
__
Jacob and I and the PsyCops from the Fifth Precinct packed up our stuff and headed out. Was the camera mounted high enough? Was it sticky enough to stay put? Had Erin stuck it in another blind spot?
Only time would tell.
As I climbed into the car, my phone rang, a special ringtone I set to make sure I never blew off the calls: Laura. Jacob recognized the sound. How strange that our boss was touching base with me on the investigation. Not him. I’m really not accustomed to being the point person unless there’s a ghost in the room. But unless we could go back in time and have him un-accuse her of shooting Roger Burke, given the choice, Laura would rather talk to me.
She greeted me calmly and professionally with, “Dr. Bertelli is lawyering himself to the teeth. Care to speculate why?”
I thought back to the tirade I’d just been subjected to. “Uh…concerned about putting the health and wellbeing of his patients at risk?”
Luckily, despite my dry delivery, Laura knew me well enough to hear when I was speaking in sarcasm. “Any idea what he’s hiding?”
“Hard to say. He’s been a little too interested in the pharmacy, even though they don’t keep psyactives in stock.”
“Maybe he’s triple-checking, just to be sure.”
“Maybe,” I said, more to acknowledge it was potential theory than to agree with her. Hopefully the new spy cam would shed some light on the matter…if it wasn’t randomly aimed at some spot on the ceiling, or maybe a trash can.
The FPMP prefers to fly under the radar, so the big stink that Bertelli was making didn’t sit well with Laura. “I’ve been hoping Jacob could shed some light on who Patrick Barley is really working for, but right now, the drug investigation takes precedence. I’ve put feelers out to the other regional FPMP offices, people I know and trust, and Kick hasn’t shown up on their radar yet. We need to put a stop to this whole thing before it spreads, or else we look like we don’t know what we’re doing. And that’s something we really can’t afford.”
That sounded like a fancy way of saying she was worried FPMP National would march in and replace her. Since she knew the inner workings of F-Pimp better than me, if she was worried, then so was I. When I agreed to join the team, I’d done it because Laura had asked. The more I thought about working for some hardass ex-military type, the less I liked it. Laura might be just this side of neurotic, but she understood me. Probably because of the neuroses. If some macho, hidebound bureaucrat filled her shoes, I’d be screwed. If that wasn’t bad enough, there was the mental image of the first Kick OD I’d seen—the girl in purple. And the way her ghost looked all fucked up. I shuddered and said, “We’re on it.”
Laura’s professional veneer slipped. “I sure as hell hope so.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The next day, we trooped back over to The Clinic with the full expectation that we’d be met with some fresh new resistance. When Bertelli came out to meet us in the lobby, all smiles, I presumed it was because he’d found some bureaucratic loophole that would keep us out of there once and for all. So I was baffled when what he said was, “An emergency board meeting convened last night to address the recent developments. It’s in our patients’ best interest that we assist law enforcement in every way possible—and, as we always say, patients come first.”
We all glanced at Carolyn to see what she made of that. She gave a subtle shrug, like it registered true-ish to her telepathy…and yet she still didn’t quite believe it.
He had Troy buzz the team in, which was done with zero chatting. How I’d face the day without a recap of last night’s lineup, I wasn’t sure. The red tape on the floor was gone. Bertelli led us to an exam room that had been emptied of its medical gear and fitted with a meeting room table and chairs. “This will be your new office space. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like—although I’m sure we’re all hoping that this crisis can be resolved as soon as possible.”
I would’ve considered the possibility that he’d actually had a change of heart, were it not for the shiny new keycard readers on the stairwell doors…which meant the basement level was now off limits. There was nothing down there but storage, maintenance, meeting rooms and pharmacy. And I’d bet my last paycheck he wasn’t trying to keep us out of the janitor’s closet.
Once Bertelli was gone, Jacob asked Carolyn, “What do you make of that?”
“Technically true. They do say their patients come first.”
We all considered that, then Zigler asked her, “You’re a patient here, right? Which means he has access to your files. I don’t know exactly how detailed they would be….”
But I did. When I was on the force, I was given a psychiatric evaluation by The Clinic’s top headshrinker every three months, so Carolyn must’ve been subjected to the same treatment.
And she couldn’t lie.
I said, “We can presume Bertelli knows exactly how Carolyn’s talent works. But I doubt it really makes any difference. Whether or not we had a telepath on the team, he’d still be just as slippery.”
Our new office was actually a lot nicer than the stale meeting room we’d had before. Probably something to do with the stark white walls and piercingly bright exam room lights—always a comfort. As we broke out the laptops and file folders, Zigler plunked down next to me and said, “I got some potential hits on that old homicide you asked me about.” Wow, that was quick. It’s really a thing of beauty to see what someone who knows how to work a database can come up with. “I can send you the reports. Did you want crime scene photos?”
“Might as well.” I didn’t relish the thought of seeing them, but they might help me wrap my head around Jackie’s behavior. “And, Zig? Thanks.”
Jacob rolled out a list of associates for our victims and started to divvy it up between us. It would be a lot of ground to cover, so it was a good thing we had four investigators. I was just about to suggest I go do a quick reconnoiter of the break room when the PA system gave off a shrill beep. “Code Blue!” Gina sounded really stressed. When she repeated the words, I thought it was the same announcement, but then realized it was slightly different the second time around. “Code Blue Star!”
Star? That couldn't be good. We all exchanged a quick look and scrambled up out of our seats to hit the emergency bay.
While Bertelli himself had just welcomed us with open arms, we all knew we were really skating on thin ice. We split up and skirted around the perimeter, tucking ourselves away from all the action while keeping the best line of sight each of us could manage.
Medical personnel surged around me. The doctors called out a bunch of medical sounding jargon in which the word “Kick” stood out like a twitching sore thumb. The team readied everything they could possibly ready. Anticipation danced across the hair on the backs of my hands and I chafed gooseflesh from my forearms through my jacket. I was thinking more like an investigator than a psychic, I realized, and there was a lag between “Oh shit, this is happening” and “Oh shit, white light.” I rued the fact that I hadn’t mastered yoga since the last time I’d thought about it. And I well and truly related to whatever poor sap had decided to take the quick road to psychic enhancement. Hastily, I opened up the valve and drew down the mojo.
Even
though we were prepared for an emergency arrival, when the paramedics came rushing in with a guy on a gurney, it still felt like an onslaught. “Patient started seizing en route.” They handed a small paper card to the lucky doctor…which jangled my sense of déjà vu. “Detective Valdez. Forty-five years old. P3.” P3? Precog. “Fourth Precinct.”
I’m not sure why I had the moment of disconnect. Maybe it was that I hadn’t carried an old-school paper card of my own lately. Or maybe it was that I thought a highly trained psychic would know better than to dabble in something so freaking dangerous. But it really hit home when, in a completely out-of-character moment of dismay, Carolyn cried out, “Oh my God. Oscar?” then darted forward and grabbed onto the gurney.
Kick’s latest casualty…was a PsyCop.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Valdez. Precog. PsyCop. I knew the guy from umpteen boring meetings. We’d sat through all the same dull presentations. We’d squabbled over the last cruller—in fact, I could even remember the last smartass remark I’d made to him as I plucked it from the tray: “Didn’t you see it coming?” And just like that, the whole Kick epidemic went from “too close for comfort” to “one hundred percent personal.”
Maybe it’s a different Oscar Valdez, I thought lamely. One I don’t actually know. But the fact that I was the tallest one in the room meant that I had a bird’s-eye view of the proceedings, and despite all the frantic activity around him—the transfer from the gurney, the IVs and the oxygen mask—there was no mistaking it. The guy twitching on the bed? I knew him.
His head jerked back and forth while his palms and heels pattered against the thin mattress pad like he was keeping time to a particularly improvisational tune.
The doctors barked out orders and the team responded like a well-oiled machine. But despite the fact that they were pumping him full of drugs, the arrhythmic beep-beep-beep of his heart monitor fell into a telltale flatline drone. Someone dove in with chest compressions while the crash cart paddles amped up. The whole thing was urgent. Barely controlled chaos. Which was why my first thought was, “How is he still twitching if his heart’s stopped?”
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