A few minutes later, when he returned with the bouquet perfectly arranged in a Chinese dragon vase, I attempted to shoehorn myself in by sticking my foot in the door. “Say, can I talk to you about something?”
“I assure you, I’ve told nary a soul about your strapping suitor.”
“It’ll only take a minute.”
“Your persistence is admirable, however, I stand firm. I am in no state to receive visitors.”
His townhouse was built exactly like mine, and the whole first floor was pretty much open. From the glimpse I got of the living room portion, he wasn’t lying. His coffee table was littered with miscellaneous stuff—magazines, a tissue box, cups and dishes—and his couch was piled with pillows and blankets, as if he was sleeping there, and not upstairs.
“But I really need to get a few things off my chest.”
He sighed dramatically. “If you must, meet me at See You Latte tomorrow at eleven, and I’ll allow you to ply me with cappuccino and scones.” He nudged my foot out of the doorway. “Now, sir, I bid you good night.”
I headed back next door, handed off the vase to Bly, and told him about the couch situation.
He set the arrangement on the fake mantle and said, “The guy’s got mobility issues, right? Maybe he can’t get up and down the stairs anymore.”
“And he didn’t think of that before he bought the place? It’s only a few years old. What if the smell is coming from his place—seeping through the walls.”
“The decomp? What, you think he’s got a dismembered body upstairs?”
Probably not. By the time Hale managed to get a cab and give chase, his would-be victim would be well out of reach. We both pondered the situation as we stared at the flowers. After a few moments, I said, “How long till I can throw those away?”
“Beats me. I’ll ask Veronica—they were her idea.”
Cluttery as the vegetation might be, I supposed it had done its job. Finally, I could pin down Hale, loop him into a conversation about ghosts, and get the assignment over with.
Dinner was pre-packaged and bland, and afterward, Bly headed upstairs to work off those few meager calories while I read up on the methodology I could use to get in Hale’s confidence. Unfortunately, theory tends to be lost on me. I’m more of a hands-on type of guy. I learn by doing. I’ve had plenty of bombshells drop in the course of my life, and they were so out of the blue, so baffling and unexpected, all the prep in the world wouldn’t have made a lick of difference. When push came to shove, I floundered along by survival instinct and grit. Nothing else.
Even though all the reading should’ve helped me wind down, once we turned out the lights and climbed into bed, I had a hard time drifting off—despite the white noise app droning by the bedside. My hips were killing me from the yoga, and my chakras were still in overdrive.
I must’ve been lying there for an hour, at least, listening to the tree scratch against the siding. That’s when I discovered that Bly talks in his sleep. Nothing I could use against him, just an indistinct kind of, “No, no, no….”
I took a cue from Hale, grabbed my pillow, and headed downstairs to plant myself on the couch. As I lay there with my hips (and now my back) aching, surrounded by boxes and watched over by a cluttery bouquet, I thought about the way TV and movies make espionage out to be so glamorous.
Yeah, right.
I slept weird, and I slept late. I woke up to the smell of coffee and an evil crick in my neck. Bly was scrolling through his phone at the kitchen counter. He asked me, “What’s the plan?”
“I’m meeting him at eleven.”
“Remember, you don’t want to push too hard, too fast. That’ll only scare him off. Keep the meeting short but plant a seed that’ll get him to come over later, when I’m home. Laura’s still looking for a second in command, so a lot of her people-interface is falling to me. Not gonna lie, I’d love to have this assignment off my plate so I can focus on, uh…. Not to say this isn’t important.”
“Is it? It’s a training mission, pure and simple.”
He handed me a cup of coffee and parked himself beside me. “It’s funny that way, being in the Program. Sometimes it’s just like PsyCop work, and sometimes it’s the polar opposite. I appreciate the variety, ’cause honestly, I’m no adrenaline junkie. Maybe once, when I was younger, but not now. My time on the force aged me. Pre-diabetic, cortisol through the roof. And then, dealing with the drug lords and their enforcers. Terrified of the moment I’d slip up, and not be able to make it look like a joke with a quick empathic shove. Something was gonna give. I guess I should count myself lucky it didn’t end with me in a pine box.”
I glanced over at him, talking into his coffee, and wondered if he suspected I didn’t opt for the couch just because I was wanting some privacy.
“Anyways,” he said briskly. “Dinner. Hale. You can do it, Kemosabe—I have great faith in you.”
And there it was, a glimpse of PsyCop John Wembly, the “guy with the hair” who was always joking around. It cheered me up…but only until he headed off to work. Once he was gone, I wondered if he even knew he’d just flexed his talent—reached into my mind, my emotions, and planted the sense that everything was fine and dandy—or if it was simply his go-to defense mechanism anytime someone got too close.
We really needed to wrap this assignment.
I showered in Bly’s shower, and streamed the weather forecast on my phone as I gooped my hair. Cold—especially cold. Chicago weather can really sort the boys from the men. I headed upstairs to see what my current wardrobe could provide.
Automatically, I filled myself with white light as I approached the top floor. While there were no handy gauges on me to let me know exactly how full I got, it didn’t seem like the chakra-high from the gym was still in force. Maybe it faded slowly, like the afterglow of a good, stiff fuck. Or maybe it leaked out all at once the minute I fell asleep. The sore hips? Still there. Sore ass now, too…and not in the way I usually experienced the malady, either. But as I passed through the death room of the murder house, my capacity for white light felt inadequate to the task.
I did my best to pull in more.
No ghost.
Good.
I was poking through the douchebag’s long-sleeve tees when the decomp welled up. I whirled around, fully expecting a half-rotted ghost to have crept up past the elliptical to lurk behind me while I picked out my clothes. There was nothing. Just me, some boxes, a few machines, and an exercise ball. I envisioned my chakras and tried to recall which yoga posture really got them spinning, but it was no use. I hadn’t noticed the light-headedness yesterday until after I’d finished the whole hour-long routine and stood up from the mat. It would be an even colder day in Chicago when I sat around in that room with my chakras opened up in an attempt to see what was what.
Why did psyactives have to be such a pain in the ass—and not just the yoga. The pharmaceuticals were dangerous, the natural herbs were weak, and the GhosTV had more disadvantages than I could count, not the least of which was the fact that it freaked me the hell out. Still, I wondered if I should requisition the damn thing and have it brought over. But that would involve panicking Laura over something as potentially meaningless as a bad smell. Although, the TV seemed like a pretty good solution, since Bly had seen it before, and Laura must have at least suspected I still had one stashed away. And yet the pessimist in me wondered if one day I’d turn the dial and end up facing off with Jennifer Chance. Again.
I was weighing all the pros and cons when the doorbell made me jump—not nearly as loud as the cannery, but startling all the same. I shelved the idea, and went downstairs to see if maybe Hale decided to skip the walk to the coffee shop and keep our meeting closer to home.
But it wasn’t Hale. No, that would be too easy. It was Terri-Anne.
She’d actually turned away to start walking back across the street, but before I could duck back out of sight, she turned and saw me through the frosted glass. Her blurry form waved brightly. I i
ndulged in a sigh, then opened the door.
“Hey.”
“Good morning! I saw you were home and thought you might be interested in this leftover blueberry crumble.”
I’d have to be a pretty good actor to say I wasn’t tempted with any amount of plausibility, so I figured it was best to play along. “Oh, uh, yeah. Great. That’s great.”
And before I knew it, she’d shouldered past me with her baking dish and was heading for the kitchen. “I’ll just warm it up for you. It’s better…oh my God.”
In the split second where her tone went dramatic, I managed to spin out a fantasy where she was a psychic medium, twice as strong as me, and she’d just gotten a load of the spectral remains stinking up the townhouse. But then I saw what she was staring at: the couch. With a pillow and a blanket and a pair of socks I’d kicked off during the night.
“Why are you sleeping on the sofa?”
“Bly snores.”
The lie had come easily enough, but Terri-Anne wasn’t buying it. “There’s not an ounce of body fat on him, of course he doesn’t snore. Look, Vic, you don’t have to pretend. Not with me.”
Even though I was on a low-stakes mission, a glorified training run, my heart sank when I realized I’d been made. Already. By freaking Terri-Anne. I could hardly imagine being John Wembly in this situation. Instead of Terri-Anne, some asshole with a trunkful of coke and a semiautomatic would realize I was undercover, not a housewife with leftover dessert.
I didn’t have a psychic skill to fall back on like Bly did. Just kidding will get you pretty damn far when you can force people to feel amused. Still, the FPMP had been drilling it into my head not to throw up my arms and buckle to the first challenge to my assumed identity, and that suited my innate stubbornness just fine.
I fell back on my training and said, “I have no idea what you mean.”
She strode into the kitchen and put down the crumble with a decisive clack, then faced me with her hands on her hips. “I’m serious. You can trust me.”
“I dunno what you want me to tell you. There’s nothing worth talking about.”
She took off her coat, hung it over the back of a kitchen chair, and settled in. A gentle perfume wafted off her, something crisp, but slightly floral, and I realized she’d done full hair and makeup just to walk across the street. Not like she was trying to impress me. More like she couldn’t present herself to the world as anything less than perfect. “Listen, I know it’s hard.”
What would Bly do in this situation? Probably quip That’s what SHE said and change the topic. No good. “It’s fine,” I said instead, although I hadn’t yet trained her as to where that phrase rested in my own personal lexicon.
“It’s not fine. I’ve seen the two of you together. Him treating everything like it’s just some kind of joke, and you zoning out like you’d rather be anywhere else. Think about it, Vic, you don’t even call him by his first name. “
“That doesn’t mean a thing.”
“How could it not? That’s a classic way to distance yourself from someone.”
My heart was pounding now. “I don’t know what you think is going on—”
“I’m sorry, I hate to say it,” oh god, “especially with the two of you in this new house,” goddammit, “but I just don’t see you guys together for the long haul.”
“We’re fine,” I said on reflex, but mostly I was riding the giddy wave of relief. She hadn’t pegged me for a painfully inexperienced federal agent. I was just a douchebag who’d slept on the couch.
“It’s hard, Vic, I know it’s hard. Especially when you’re not the one bringing in the paycheck. But a relationship is so much more than just who’s earning the money. Try telling that to the husband, though. Running a household, raising a child, that work is just as important as filling the bank account. You know?”
“Totally.”
“Once upon a time, in a same-sex relationship, you might’ve had trouble getting your fair share. But the two of you are legally married. That counts for something. And if things didn’t work out, God forbid, he would be obligated to keep supporting you. It’s only fair. After everything you’ve done for him…. It’s only fair.”
Unfortunately, Bly and I weren’t heading for divorce court just yet, but Terri-Anne? Outlook not so good. Before I could change the subject, her face screwed up and she started to cry.
Oh, the mascara.
It was Brian, of course. Treating her like a second-class citizen because she wasn’t adding zeros to their bottom line. Scrutinizing all her purchases. Making underhanded digs about every last penny she spent. Whether or not they were in debt, I couldn’t say, although it did look like Terri-Anne was pretty darn good at spending money.
Me, I never really understood the impulse to argue about finances. I was content with anything above a certain minimum threshold, an amount that allowed me to eat and clothe myself and live inside four walls with a roof over my head. My paychecks varied wildly. Jacob’s too, depending on overtime. I’d brought a fat savings account into the relationship, which was drained by a down payment on the cannery. And when major electrical work reared its ugly head, the sale of Jacob’s condo footed the bill. We both contributed, and neither one of us kept score. Would things feel different if only one of us was flowing cash? I doubted it. I was the only one flowing white light. If we were able to work through Jacob’s tendency to steal it, I was hoping we could work through anything. Even me sleeping in another guy’s bed on Valentine’s Day.
“Maybe you should get a job,” I offered.
And boy, oh boy, did that ever open a whole can of worms. She spun out a sordid tale of gaslighting and sabotage where Brian acted like he wanted her to work but made it impossible for her to swing it. I felt bad for her. Me, I would’ve just left, but our situations were nothing alike. She didn’t want to leave Madison with him, but she didn’t want the kid to end up in another school district, either. With no useful advice to give, I just peppered the conversation with the occasional grunt to show I was still there. Unfortunately, even my sorry show of support somehow encouraged her to go on. And on. And on. Before I knew it, I was late for my meeting with Hale.
16
I nearly wiped out on the icy pavement hauling my ass off to See You Latte. And even though I was rushing at top speed, when I rounded the corner, I was treated to the sight of Hale’s back end climbing into a taxi. Before I could draw breath to call out for him to wait, it had already pulled in to traffic.
On the off-chance that Hale might come back, I headed into the cafe. I was too full of blueberry crumble to eat again, but I can always squeeze in another cup of joe. I parked myself at a table with a good view of the entrance, then started forcing my way through the tradecraft articles that had been making the ding of shame sound with discouraging regularity. I didn’t mind having the info. There was just so much of it.
With one eye on the door, I read. It was encouraging to know that a few of my people-instincts weren’t too shoddy. An article Bly had sent on “roping in” a subject confirmed a few notions I already suspected. Question a subject without letting them know they’re being questioned. Be nice, but not too nice. Smart, but not too smart. Most importantly of all, act interested, but not too interested. And then the article went even further. Cut the subject off when they start down the avenue you really want to explore. Interrupt them. Walk away. Make it so they’re burning to tell you their big secret.
Basically, reverse psychology really can work.
But above all, whatever tack you take…don’t overdo it. Human beings have evolved as accomplished pattern-spotters—those of us who saw the viper among the twigs were more likely to pass on our DNA. So when someone doesn’t act like the rest of the group—uses the wrong vocabulary, the wrong amount of eye contact, heck, even so much as stands wrong—the rest of the tribe takes notice.
My bladder is pretty sturdy, but eventually the gallon of coffee I’d consumed needed to get back out, and I abandoned my post a
t the table for the cutesy unisex bathroom at the back of the cafe. The taps were slimy—most likely with the organically sourced lotion sitting there on the countertop—but I ended up wiping them off and re-washing my hands with special thoroughness. As I did, I wondered exactly how much yesterday’s yoga class had power-charged my chakras. Maybe not as much as a dangerous pharmaceutical psyactive that let me astral project standing up, but more than a bar of rashy High John the Conqueror soap. Maybe even as much as a GhosTV.
I wanted to do yoga as much as I wanted to shoot myself in the eye with pretentious hand lotion that reeked of patchouli. My hips still hurt like someone had tried to pry off my legs in the middle of the night. But even I could see the use in being able to amp up my talent without any special drugs or props. And given that Hale attended those classes too, it made sense for me to buck up and enroll.
As I strode out of the cafe I was so focused on my phone—hoping to get hold of Veronica and ask her to make the arrangements before I lost my nerve—that I didn’t notice the woman sprinting after me until I was halfway out the door. “Sir? Sir—is this yours?”
I turned and found one of the neighborhood’s ubiquitous wealthy middle-aged housewives with a plain gold band on her outstretched palm. I stared at it for a moment as if I didn’t quite know if it was a snake or a twig, and she helpfully added, “It was on the bathroom sink.”
It occurred to me my left hand felt pretty comfortable. Whoops. I thanked the woman and slipped on the ring. Was I simply unaccustomed to wearing jewelry?
Or was I sending myself subconscious signals to reject what the band represented?
___
I’d exhausted as much time as I was willing to spend in the cafe—especially now that I’d called attention to myself by trying to ditch my fake wedding band—but I figured I could plausibly kill another hour at Twice Told Tales. I came inside, scraped the salt off my shoes, and headed for the stacks—but as I did, a familiar voice called out, “No bags allowed.”
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