Spook Squad (10 page)

Nothing.

“This was Jennifer Chance’s room?” I asked Richie.

“Who?”

I was about to throw my hands up and say, “For heaven sakes!” when I saw the agent in the hall was watching me. He gave a single small nod.

I wondered if he’d been the one to press a gun to her forehead and pull the trigger. I broke eye contact and turned away. “What is it you think we’re doing right now?” I asked Richie.

He pondered the question, then said, “Looking for ghosts?”

“And who usually gets locked up in these rooms?”

“I dunno.”

“If you had to guess….”

“People.” He sounded like the subject bored him. “I dunno.” He galumph-walked around the room staring fixedly at the wall.
 

Was he better at keeping secrets than I thought, or was he floating on a bigger cloud of blissful ignorance than yours truly? “You’ve never heard of Jennifer Chance?”

“Nuh uh.”

“And you don’t know what these rooms are for.”

“Don’t know. Don’t care.”

I shouldn’t have been surprised about his thought process, or lack thereof—and yet, somehow, I was. Maybe I’d expected him to learn a few things over the years. Maybe he had—he’d figured out how to milk a skybox from the Regional Director of the FPMP, after all. But deep down inside, he was the same old Einstein.

Maybe Richie’s ignorance wasn’t the thing that was bugging me. Maybe it was the parallel I couldn’t stop drawing between him and me.

At least I could say this for myself: I did care. I did want to know if Con Dreyfuss had ordered those guys in his office to be put down, or if someone else really was responsible for the trigger-pull. I did want to know if Jennifer Chance was still a danger to anyone.

I did want to know if all the years I’d sunk into the police department were nothing more than busywork.

“It’s time for lunch,” Richie said. “You don’t want to miss lunch.”

Could I even bring myself to eat? I supposed if I cared as much about the truth as I was telling myself, I would need to. Every moment I could spend at the FPMP was another chance at finding the puzzle piece that would click everything around it into place.

The lunch room was as quiet and subdued as the rest of the building. I suppose I’d imagined some kind of cafeteria, a grid of bright white plastic tables with black-suited federal agents all lined up in rows. They’d be wearing sunglasses and bluetooth earpieces. And none of them would be talking.

The reality was nowhere near as freakish. The room had windows, and even though they overlooked a tangle of train tracks and a switching station, it was still a welcome view. There were a few round tables covered in white cloths where relatively normal-looking men and women ate in small groups. They were wearing dark suits, but they weren’t all overlarge thirtysomething Caucasian men. You’d peg them for corporate drones if you didn’t know better. A sideboard held chafing dishes and a small assortment of bottled waters and juices on ice. A serious young man in an immaculate chef jacket stood next to it, stirring one of the dishes so it couldn’t skin over.

Richie charged up to the food, jammed his face against the open dish, then snatched the spoon from the cook and started stirring the dish like he was digging for gold. “Where’s the meat?” He stirred harder, and I caught a subtle whiff of herb and butter. “It’s all vegetables. Who eats this crap?”

I resisted the urge to apologize to the kid in the chef coat. He was probably used to it. Although I hinted that some people ate vegetables by making a point of taking the vegetarian entree, my choice sailed over Richie’s head as he filled his plate with sirloin tips in gravy. He then launched into a detailed and grandiose criticism of the Bears’ quarterbacking strategy that made me wish he’d suck a mouthful of steak down the wrong pipe and choke on it a few minutes to give me some small reprieve. While I considered the likelihood of me successfully vaulting over the empty chair beside me to get away from the never-ending football talk, the Regional Director sat himself down in it, blocking my escape. “Judging by the look on your face,” Con said, “I’m guessing this morning was a bust.”

“You could say that,” I answered.

“I take it you didn’t stay for lunch to soak up the ambiance.” He glanced out the window at a freight train trundling past. “You’re probably itching to get the hell out of here and be done with us. Willing to stay and do a floor-by-floor scan?”

“It does seem like the next logical step.”

“Okay. Good.” He drank down half his bottled water in a few long swallows. “I’ll need to get you an escort with more clearance.”

Chapter 9

What a relief. Not only was it growing painfully obvious that Richie knew nothing, but he was getting on my very last nerve. Once the grownups were done talking, Richie began his analysis of the Bears’ offense versus the Colts’ defense while Dreyfuss tooled around on his smartphone and I tried to determine what was on my plate. Evidently, I’m better at naming herbs and spices in a botanica than I am in an entree.

I was poking at something green trying to determine if it was spinach or kale when Dreyfuss motioned someone over. I recognized the bald head and the striking eyes immediately—the guy from the holding cells.

“You’ve met Jack Bly?” Dreyfuss said.

“Not…formally.”

“This is Detective Victor Bayne,” Dreyfuss supplied.

“The PsyCop,” Bly said.
 

I wasn’t quite sure where to look since Bly was watching me so hard. Hopefully he wasn’t gearing up for some kind of pissing match. “The PsyCop,” I confirmed, and went back to my spinach, or maybe kale.

“Are they out of steak?” Richie asked. I saw that Bly had picked the vegetarian entree too. “They’ll make more if you tell them to.”

Bly turned his unflinching gaze to Richie and said, “I like chard.”

Richie couldn’t fathom that other people might want to drive some other model of car, or spend Thanksgiving somewhere else, or eat a different meal, so he looked like he’d just been slapped with a rubber hose. When he recovered, he gave out a tentative, “Heh-heh.”

As we finished our food to an account of next year’s draft order and an opinionated assessment of a handful of free agents, Dreyfuss asked me, “Will you be requiring Agent Duff’s services this afternoon as well? Or shall I leave you in Agent Bly’s capable hands?”

Obviously he was trying to manipulate me into doing one of those two things, but given the likelihood of multi-reverse psychology, I was at a loss as to which option he was gunning for. “Richie doesn’t need to come along,” I decided, not because I was trying to thwart Dreyfuss, but because I’d grown profoundly weary of the subject of football.

My experience of the FPMP wasn’t quite the same with Bly as my babysitter. Sure, it was a lot more peaceful. If he had any strong opinions about the Bears’ defense, he kept them to himself. Something about him set me on edge, though. While he seemed knowledgeable about the building, and while he did answer whatever questions I asked, there was a subtle knowing in his eyes that made it seem like he was holding back a lot more than he was saying. Plus, I had the sense that he was watching me too closely, kind of like the fake cops Dreyfuss had planted at my precinct.

Fine. I’d keep one eye on him, one on the tour…and another on potential spirit activity. Luckily, the facility didn’t require much attention. An office is an office—and we saw plenty of offices. No spirits, though. No repeaters, and no sentient ghosts, either. Once we’d exhausted the offices, we took a walk through the parking garage. Plenty of Lexuses. No ghosts.

I supposed it was possible Dr. Chance had moved along sometime in the past few months. I wouldn’t know for sure until I asked Lisa. Although it might be for nothing, poking around all the dark corners of the FPMP had made me feel less antsy about Jacob spending his days here. Unless you were worried about developing a nasty case of carpal tunnel syndrome, there was really nothing to be scared of at the FPMP headquarters beyond the surveillance we already endured as a known Psych and Stiff.

The elevator released a herd of dark-suited agents who dispersed to their respective Lexuses. Good thing the headlights flashed when they tapped their key fobs, otherwise they’d be roaming around down there all night trying to determine which Lexus was whose. One by one, they rolled toward the exit. As we watched the cars begin to file out, Bly actually initiated conversation. “So, how do you like being a PsyCop?”

“If Dreyfuss recruited you to extol the virtues of the FPMP,” I said, “it’s not gonna work.”

“Nope.” Bly cracked a smile, the first one I’d seen on him all day, and gave a dismissive laugh. “Just curious.”

The last thing I felt like doing was chatting, especially with him. If I had been feeling chatty, I would have made a quip about being unaware that there were actual set work hours here since Jacob had been putting in ten and twelve hour days. I didn’t need some stranger to be privy to that very personal bit of information, though. Especially one who seemed to want to know me a lot more than I wanted to know him.

I understood that trying to figure out who killed Roger Burke was the type of task Jacob wouldn’t be able to drop until he found an answer. Maybe now that I’d introduced good ol’ Roger’s final “statement,” Jacob would be that much closer to his big discovery. What I hoped was that he’d find out Roger was lying; it wouldn’t be news to anyone that my ex-partner wasn’t exactly trustworthy. Or maybe he’d find that Laura Kim was some kind of double-agent…a very convincing double agent who did a damn good impression of a thirty-something office worker.
 

What I was worried he’d discover, though, was that Con Dreyfuss had put out that hit himself, and then saddled Jacob with the case to distract him while I was lured into the FPMP fold. And that Dreyfuss had concocted some kind of whammy to cover his tracks so the sí-no couldn’t expose his machinations.

As I imagined the smoldering look in Jacob’s eyes, the look that resulted from all that thinking and deducing and knowing, the man himself stepped out of the elevator and veered in the direction of the black Crown Vic. Then he noticed me standing there with Bly, since nothing slips by him. He course-corrected and headed toward the corner of the parking garage, the spot where we stood to watch the agents, one by one, head home.

Jacob approached. Bly said, “Agent Marks?” and offered his hand. “Agent Bly.”

Trying to get a read off Jacob was futile. I made an attempt anyway, since I was curious if he’d turned up any new info while I was touring a bunch of boring office space. I came up with nothing. His expression, his posture, his voice, everything about him was placidly neutral. Though he did seem to spend an extra nanosecond sizing up Bly. “Just about wrapping things up?” he asked me, which meant he was ready to leave—on time, even—and that he also had some juicy news, too. I could hardly wait to get home and—

“We’ve seen everything but the lab,” Bly said.

I paused with my weight shifted in the direction of my car.

“You’re not going to take off before you check out the lab,” Bly said, “right?”

Crap. If I’d known there was a lab on premises, I would have looked at it first, before I wasted my time poking through archives and personnel.

“Mind if I join you?” Jacob put in smoothly.

Bly gave the laminated badge clipped to Jacob’s lapel a quick glance. Just checking, or looking for a reason to turn Jacob away? Hard to say, but apparently he was satisfied with whatever clearance level he found there. “The more, the merrier. Let’s go.”

*
 
*
 
*

It’s bad enough that we head underground. Add to that the thickness of the steel doors and the creepy wheezing sound they make when they close. Top it off with a scientist who’s
way
too happy to meet me. Now you’ve got a good idea of how comfortable I felt in the FPMP lab.

“My name is Kudryasvstev,” our host said in a lilting Russian accent, “so everyone calls me Dr. K.” This scientist didn’t look much older than Jacob, but he exuded an unflappable, worldly, hard-earned jocularity. Nothing would shock this guy. Nothing would slip past his notice, either. The whole time, he’d be content to observe the proceedings, rocking on the balls of his feet with his belly thrust forward, hands jammed into the pockets of his lab coat, and an enigmatic gaptoothed smile on his broad Slavic face. A smile that was currently turned on me. “And you…are the PsyCop.”

I dry-swallowed. “That would be me.”

“Thirteen years,” he said. I almost corrected him and said
twelve
when I realized he was right. Why did he know more about me than I did? “That’s a long time.”

“Not necessarily.” Although lately, I’d been feeling every last minute of it.

“Long enough,” Dr. K said. “Especially in the field of Psych. It’s like aeronautics in the thirties, or computers in the eighties. Psychic research is the most compelling science of the twenty-first century, and it’s evolving every single day.”
 

He led us through a warren of white linoleum cabinetry and stainless steel countertops in which every bin, door and drawer was labeled—seriously labeled. It looked like someone with clinical OCD had been handed a label-maker and turned loose on the science department.
Pipettes. Burettes. Bulbs. Forceps. Clamps.
“So what is it you’re testing?” I asked.

“The results are classified,” Dr. K said. “But generally speaking, we’re trying to figure out the specific mechanism of how Psych works. How much is genetic? How much is environmental? How common is it, really? And how can it be augmented?”

I bit back a disdainful snort. Augmentation? That was rich. All the Psychs I knew would be happier to get fitted with an off-switch.
 

We delved deeper into the lab. The coffee supply bins in the corner were clearly marked as
regular, decaf
and
tea
…
sugar, sugar substitutes
and
creamer. Cups. Napkins. Stirrers
, too. I supposed I should find that encouraging. If there was any medical hardware I wanted to steer clear of, it would be easy enough to identify. Even to an amateur like me.