I’d done my best. Psychology, tactics, a plethora of information. I’d read almost all of it, though I wasn’t sure how much I’d actually retained.
Veronica led me further into the melee, where a small team awaited me, surrounded by a bunch of clothes. “The place you’ll be checking out for us is the opposite of your beautiful cannery. Not that people will be opening up cans of food and dumping them out.” I was still getting a handle on her sense of humor. “Everything’s new, brand new. Built three years ago. It’s a townhouse condo, really narrow. Makes more use of the small footprint. Three and a half residential floors and a basement—a lot of stairs, I know, but your knees are young and limber. They can take it.”
I nodded. You’d be surprised how easy it is ignore my body when there are ghosts in the vicinity. “So what about the spirit activity? They built the condos on an abandoned cemetery, or what?”
“Original owner died in her sleep last month.”
“Okay, and my new clearance starts when?”
“Hold your horses—you can’t file reports without intel. First order of business is to determine if she’s still around. I’ve sent you the briefing to read on the way.”
So that was the ding that sounded on my phone.
As Veronica detailed my assignment, a pair of very serious women measured my waist, my inseam, and the length of my arms. A rack of clothes had already been preselected, and they narrowed it down. Casual stuff: jeans, sweatshirts, a pair of big white sneakers. They draped some of those clothes over a changing divider, but I wasn’t sure what kind of crack they were smoking back there before I showed up. No adult person could fit in those jeans. Veronica looked at me expectantly. “Well, go ahead. Get dressed.”
“I think someone needs to take another look at their measuring tape.”
“Skinny jeans. All the kids are wearing them these days.”
“Seriously….”
“Aw, go on. If anyone can pack themselves into a pair, it’s you.”
Grudgingly, I stepped behind the partition and stripped out of my suit. I felt like I was in the locker room back in high school, except that I had a bit of privacy. And a gun.
I never considered myself to be particular about jeans, but working for F-Pimp challenged my self-assumptions on a regular basis. Normally, when my jeans are getting too threadbare, I go to SaverPlus, try on the Wrangler straight legs in the size I’ve been wearing since I was sixteen, and when I see they still fit, buy half a dozen pairs. The so-called skinny jeans just felt wrong. I’m not sure the denim was even denim. It stretched a little bit. And that little extra “give” made it even more clingy.
Although there wasn’t a mirror inside the partition, looking down, it was clear to me I shouldn’t be allowed anywhere people had eyes. Not because I looked like I had giraffe legs, which I did, but because the stretch denim was hugging my junk way too intimately. I moved it to one side, then the other. Then decided I really needed to stop touching myself with a bunch of middle aged ladies waiting for me on the other side of the partition. Luckily, the sweatshirt covered the worst of it, if I slouched just right. I walked out from behind the partition like a cat in a Halloween costume and declared, “I need a size up.”
In unison, the wardrobe ladies both shook their heads, and Veronica said, “No, that’s perfect for the undercover identity. You’ll be playing the part of a Gen Y stay-at-home writer.”
Whoever this fictional guy was, I already hated him.
“Let’s work on your hair.” She walked me over to a makeup station where I suspected the stylist was looking at my junk. But he had the professionalism to keep himself from leering at it.
“Once you’re further along in your training, you’ll get to construct your identities yourself, but for the purposes of this mission, we’ve assigned an appropriate cover story. You’ll find it in your inbox—but the gist of it is this: you’re young, successful, confident.”
Seriously? Why not make me a world-famous astronaut while they were at it?
The stylist worked something into my hair to make it look less clean than it actually was. I was accustomed to having my hair manhandled, so the hair aspect of the makeover didn’t seem too bad. Or so I thought. Until the hat came out.
A baseball cap, slightly worn, with Chicago Bulls embroidered across the front. The stylist fit it onto my head, and just when I thought I couldn’t look like any more of a tool, he tilted it at an angle.
Since there were mirrors all around us, I could see the dismay on my face, plain as day. “You probably don’t want to put me in any situation where I’m expected to know something about the sportball.”
“Then give yourself a crash course in current events sometime soon. You’ll need to start talking to people about non-PsyCop-related topics.”
“And I’m really not a hat person.”
“All the better to inhabit your cover identity. Most importantly, a hat changes the gestalt of your head.”
I hadn’t been aware that was even a thing.
As I was pondering the state of my head, a familiar, Russian-accented voice called out, “What a momentous occasion! My favorite medium goes undercover. Just in time to field test my new invention.” F-Pimp’s Head of Research, Dr. Kudryasvstev, strode into Tradecraft with the cheerful grandiosity of a favorite uncle showing up at Sunday dinner. He slung a tactical bag onto a nearby barber’s chair and pulled out an assault weapon. Most hairdressers would flinch if that happened in their shops, but the ones working for the Program had apparently seen it all.
“This canister is filled with Florida Water, the other one with salt. CO2 propulsion. The two don’t mix until the point of impact.”
I wasn’t sure that would really matter, but he seemed proud of it, so I kept that opinion to myself. Sometimes it’s more important to play nice than to be honest, and while my time in Camp Hell has left me with a healthy distrust of researchers, Dr. K hasn’t yet tried to cut me open.
He hefted the weapon at me and said, “Give it a shot.”
I’ve trained with various weapons at the FPMP range, but none of them were balanced like this. I supposed the accuracy wasn’t in question, though. Not if it sprayed salt and cologne. I hefted the gun and aimed for a nearby wastebasket…and ended up with a cascade of rock salt pinging down onto my foot.
Dr. K snatched the weapon out of my hands. “Still working out the kinks. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t send it into the field unless it was 100% ready.”
I shook salt off my shoe while he hurried back to his lab.
“Well, that’s for the best,” Veronica said. “I didn’t have the heart to tell him it would be out of character for you to be carrying artillery. Anyhow, Agent Hinds has already been briefed—as your real estate agent.” That worked. My partner Carl might be about as warm as a leather car seat in February, but I was accustomed to him. “Your assignment is straightforward. There’ll be enough time to read through the documentation by the time you get there.”
So, the salt gun might be overkill, but…. “What about my sidearm?”
“You won’t be needing it. Remember, you’re not a cop anymore, and our undercover assignments don’t typically pose a risk. We’re not sending you in to buy weapons or narcotics, and nothing illegal is taking place. The Program’s goal isn’t law enforcement, it’s seeing to the welfare of psychics without disrupting their lives any more than necessary. And sometimes that means a cover story and a disguise. Besides, no one’s shooting at you today—but if you were to be attacked, Carl is a specialist in hand-to-hand combat.”
I squinted at her. Was this more of her weird sense of humor? She and Carl did have a relationship outside work, but…I dunno. Carl’s actual job title was Security Tactician—not Medium Babysitter. And when I gave it some thought, maybe I could see him going Bruce Lee on someone’s ass. Lucky for Richie it hadn’t been him.
Veronica said, “The biggest concern at this point is the potential for a haunting. Director Kim takes the matter very
seriously. That’s why she’s sending in our heaviest hitter.”
I wasn’t even sure which sport had birthed that particular metaphor—boxing or baseball. I swallowed my impending stage fright and fought the urge to straighten out the baseball cap.
It could wait until I got to the car.
3
Not only was the FPMP storing numerous pairs of skinny jeans for squashing their operatives, but a section of the garage was equipped with vehicles other than dark Lexus sedans. I wondered who got to ride the motorcycles, then decided any undercover operation that required motorcycle use was so far outside my ability it wasn’t even funny. Carl picked up the keys to a minivan with a Chicagoland Citywide logo on the door, and together, we headed toward the site.
I scowled open my Program-issued smartphone and pulled up the briefing. The home’s deceased resident, Amelia Griggs, was a sixty-seven-year-old woman who’d trained exotic animals for the film industry. Back in the day, she was known as the Rat Queen of Chicago. If you needed a stunt rat to run across your movie set, Amelia was your gal. She had past ties to various left-wing groups and causes—not the sort who’d plant bombs or shoot up shopping malls, but the type of “peaceful” protestors who’d flop down in your way and refuse to move, and think they’d accomplish something by getting themselves doused in pepper spray. She’d died of natural causes at the property, and her body was shipped off to the crematorium just as soon as the Cook County ME’s paperwork went through.
The neighborhood was familiar. Jacob and I spent plenty of money eating, shopping, and even nursing the occasional drink in Boystown. I’d been about to toss the dumb baseball cap into the back seat, but when I realized I stood a pretty good risk of running into someone who knew me, at least by sight, I decided that maybe my stagers really did know what they were doing after all. Not only would I hate to blow my first undercover assignment—but I might very well die if anyone realized the clown in the shiny red parka was me.
A big chunk of the block had been bought by developers who’d crammed a row of five adjoining townhouses into a space that would contain two or three normal-sized brownstones. The mere sight of them shoved all together like that made me feel claustrophobic. They were tall and narrow, with fake brick façades on the ground floor, and siding the insipid color of a manila file folder above. On the tiny strip of front lawn, the second unit over had a for-sale sign that matched the crest on Carl’s maroon blazer. He looked to me for orders. I shrugged and said, “Okay. Let’s head in.”
As soon as we cleared the minivan, he started talking. I did my best not to do a double-take, because it sounded nothing like the Carl Hinds I knew, my office mate who was always acting like someone was encroaching on his territory and he damn well wouldn’t stand for it. This Carl was…affable. Which meant he’d somehow transformed himself into another person entirely.
“Three bedrooms, two and a half baths with a master en suite,” he said, as if he was confident those words would impress me. “Nearly twenty-two hundred square feet. And the condo fees are very reasonable for this area.”
I was unprepared for how difficult it would be to act like a totally different person, especially since I’d spent so much of my life trying to act like a cop. What would be a convincing exclamation for a gay hipster writerly type to utter? No freaking idea. Luckily, Carl didn’t seem to be expecting a reply.
Although the sidewalk was shoveled, it didn’t take footprints in the snow to see there’d been a lot of coming and going from the decedent’s townhouse. Melted snow left its own kind of film behind, crusty with salt and gray with pollution, and judging by the varying treads on the stoop, there’d been plenty of non-psychic activity keeping the place busy.
Not a crime scene, I reminded myself. And I wasn’t a homicide detective anymore.
We stepped into the entryway, closed the door behind us, and got our bearings. I asked Carl, “Is that baseboard heater gas or electric?”
“How should I know?” And just like that, he was the same old Carl I knew and coexisted with.
You hear about actors who take up residence inside their roles for the duration of a movie shoot. That always seemed a little precious to me, but now, maybe I could see the logic. It might be a relief to drop the act when you were alone, but it would be a challenge to keep remembering when you were supposed to be nice…and when you could actually be yourself.
The property was mostly empty. Like me, it had been “staged” to look normal, but hopefully my crew had done a better job in outfitting me. There was an emptiness to the place, and a stiltedness, too. The artwork on the walls was the generic sort of stuff you’d find in a waiting room, and the furniture was sparse. I’m generally a fan of sparsity, but the townhouse had an abandoned vibe that put me on my guard.
I was trying to imagine what it was about the furniture that screamed out “fake” to me when I realized Carl was standing very still beside me, waiting for my cue. I cleared my throat. “Nothing obvious on this level. We’ll go once around the first floor to check more closely, then walk through the basement.” Given my well-earned mistrust of basements, I’d found it a lot easier to just get them over with.
A preliminary glance showed no spirit activity, but if the FPMP was worried enough to send me in, I figured I shouldn’t be too quick to call it clean. I pulled down some white light and looked again. Still no ghosts.
We headed downstairs. As basements went, this particular one didn’t trip many of my triggers. The landscaping around the property had been graded, so that really, only half of the basement level was underground. The back was a rec room type situation with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto a narrow, snow-covered patio. We walked around—still no ghosts—then came to a door that led into the garage. I paused inside, and marveled at the thought of having somewhere to put my car that was not only sheltered from the elements, but well and truly reserved for me, and not some random person who didn’t realize the cannery was supposed to be haunted. “Should I set out the ritual mat?” Carl asked.
“No, it’s fine.” There was even space to store out-of-season lawn furniture. Imagine that.
We trooped upstairs to the second floor, where one bedroom had an ugly, oversized stuffed bear slumped in the corner beside a pair of twin beds, and the other was done up as an office. Not a bad office. Better natural light than the one we had at home, in fact…then again, pretty much anywhere had better natural light than we had at home; we hadn’t picked out the cannery for its light.
I reminded myself to stop house-shopping and scan for ghosts.
It was clean.
Overall, the experience of the townhouse was nothing special. Maybe the FPMP was taking baby steps with me, sending me undercover on easy assignments where the most problematic thing was the creeping feeling of skinny jeans hugging my crotch. I was just about ready to sweep the top floor and suggest lunch when it hit me: the sweet-rot smell of decomp.
I paused on the stairwell and attempted to take a breath over my shoulder, but it was too late. The molecules of decay were all around me. I’m no stranger to decomp, but usually, I get a little bit of warning first. “Need some menthol?” Carl offered.
I shook my head. “I’ll live, but it’s impressive that you have it with you.”
He swiped a smear of mentholated rub under his nose and pocketed the tiny tube. I wondered if I should have taken him up on it, then decided not to bother, since that initial whiff is really the worst part. Then I thought about whether the type of guy who worked from home in skinny jeans would’ve taken the menthol…and I realized undercover work was a lot harder than my fellow agents made it look.
My initial impulse was to pull on rubber gloves and paper booties, but we weren’t walking through a crime scene. I climbed the remaining few stairs and found myself in a bedroom that spanned most of the third floor. The staging was even sparser than it had been downstairs. Just a single queen-sized bed with sheets that still had their creases from the packaging. It wasn�
��t so much that the smell of death was strong—but it was definitely persistent. The walls were freshly painted landlord white, and the carpet was new. Someone had done their best to clean it up, but death has a way of leaving a mark. Just like my knee-jerk reaction to go for the latex gloves was ingrained by more than a dozen years on the force, my impulse to suck down white light and fling up the protective barrier was automatic. That fleeting sensation of psychic lightheadedness washed through me, and I realized I was looking a lot harder for ghosts now. But as with the rest of the house, there was nothing to see.
“Just because someone dies in a place, that doesn’t make it haunted,” I told Carl.
“Good to know.” He massaged the back of his neck. “The smell, though….”
“No big surprise it’s still on the market.” I checked the adjoining bathroom—the en suite, as he’d called it—and while part of me wanted to bask in the thought of having a three-head shower right off the bedroom, most of me just wanted to do a prophylactic ghost-cleanse and get the hell outta there. “All clear. Let’s get the salting over with and go home.”
4
No doubt, Jacob would’ve had something to say about those skinny jeans. But, thankfully, the tradecraft department hadn’t made my old clothes disappear. Once I changed, I went right home, musing over the fact that, all things considered, my first undercover assignment had been surprisingly benign. Even if it had left me with a serious case of garage envy.
Murder House Page 2