Chapter 42

Oddly enough, after all the excitement, Jacob and I did enjoy some semblance of a weekend. It was maybe two hours long, once I got done debriefing Laura Kim, filling out an interminable amount of paperwork, and strategizing with Darla, but at least I didn’t need to wear a tie. Despite the paltriness of my break, when Monday morning rolled around, I left Jacob struggling toward wakefulness in bed and Darla fixing her hair in the downstairs bathroom, and headed in early to swing by the armory.

As much as I hated Agent Watts referring to me as “Fifth Precinct,” the fact that she’d nicknamed me at all made it somewhat easier to hand over my sidearm and ask her to unjam it. Surprisingly enough, she didn’t razz me mercilessly for not taking the gun apart and fixing it myself. In fact, she handled it very gingerly as she locked it in a case. “The thing with blanks is that the casing doesn’t eject like it would with a real bullet. You could do it manually, but if Barley modified those rounds himself…well, best not take any chances. I’ll have my tech clear it, and get you a loaner for the day.”

I was about to insist that the likelihood of me needing to shoot anyone was pretty much nil, but as she started wading through the red tape involved in handing me another weapon, I reconsidered. Given my track record, I might very well find myself in a situation that required lethal force. And evidently, if the situation warranted, I had no compunctions about taking aim and pulling the trigger.

What did it say about me, that in the moment I fired at the last guy I’d taken out to dinner, I felt nothing but a cold sense of resignation? The ex-cop who’d gunned down Triple-Shot took it so hard he couldn’t bear to keep going, but me? Hard to say for sure, since I didn’t actually connect with my target. Maybe if I’d seen him slump to the ground with three red holes in his chest, I would’ve felt different. Maybe if I saw the light flee from his eyes, that image would be hard to forget.

Or maybe not. Because if I ever did take a person’s life, in all likelihood, I’d be stuck dealing with their pissed off ghost. 

I was ruminating on whether or not my disregard for human life made me a shitty person when I realized Watts was no longer talking guns and ammo. “…so if you could put in a good word for me with Director Kim,” she was saying, “I’d appreciate it.”

Crap. I’d figured it would be safe to tune out for another five, ten minutes. “Because, why?”

“I want the credit I deserve—we hatched this whole thing together.”

“Which…thing?”

“The slug.” I must’ve been looking at her like she was talking about gardening. “The hunk of lead I needed for comparison. Hold on, are you saying you didn’t read my emails? Any of them?”

“Who knows the full extent of what Patrick managed to block?”

Watts shook her head in disbelief. “So you just randomly happened to bring this guy back to the range to shoot twice in the same day?”

Why, no, it wasn’t random at all. I was pumping him for information about my own screwed-up past. “Well, something was obviously up with him,” I said in an attempt to sound at least marginally competent. “But tell me this: if most of the agents carry a Beretta, how’d you narrow it down to him?”

“Process of elimination. Once the lab figured out which batch the bullet was from, I matched it to the agents who were given that particular ammo, then started looking at the newest hires first.”

Good thing I hadn’t managed to strategize with her, since my best idea involved plowing through lists alphabetically.

“Plus,” she said, “no one shoots that badly.” She gave me a look like she wanted to add, Not unless they’re ex-cops, but the dig was way too easy.

“Listen, you were on to him before anyone. Of course I’ll mention it to Laura.”

“Okay, good.” She gave a single nod. “You’re all right, Fifth Precinct.”

Actually, it was the least I could do. Watts had done her due diligence by trying to contact me directly. Relentlessly. Even so, I considered adding the condition that she ditch the nickname, but decided there’s a difference between playful ribbing and malice. Besides, some small part of me was just relieved I’d finally shed Spook Squad.

I headed over to headquarters and got a text from Laura asking me to stop by her office first thing. At least, I was fairly sure it was from Laura. The thought of Jennifer Chance forcing her way back through the veil did have me rounding the corners with extra caution.

Laura greeted me with, “I’m thinking I should move Agent Davis to the Chicago office.”

“But Darla would, uh…. You really don’t need to. I’ve got this covered.”

“It has nothing to do with my confidence in your ability. This proposal the two of you sent me last night shows serious forward thinking.” 

I didn’t really think our plan was all that inspired, just an idea born out of a desire to stop watching the world’s most boring TV show. We took the origin stories of all the mediums and sketched out a questionnaire that would screen for similar early supernatural experiences. Frankly, I wasn’t even sure who’d suggested it. Given what we knew, it seemed like common sense.

But Laura was terrified of ghosts—even more so, now that Jennifer Chance had reprised her role. I’d been as clinical as possible in our report, left out the crazy eyes and the chilling cat-and-mouse smile, but even as dull as I could make it sound, it still had Laura itching to circle the wagons.

She said, “The two of you are strongest as a team. Once we’ve got a better handle on identifying the potential mediums, I’d consider letting her go back—”

“Wait. Hold on. If you order Darla to leave her home and her family—”

“Obviously, I’d make provisions for them to join her.”

“You’re not hearing me. If you force Darla, you’ll only make her miserable. Sure, she kicks ass. But she’s got a life, and so does her husband, and she’s been counting down the minutes until she can head back. It’s not as if we lose her expertise. We’ve got phones and video. And if we really need her, she’s not all that far away.”

Laura frowned in thought. “I suppose it wouldn’t be any more trouble to install a helipad on the roof than to relocate a family. Plus it would come in handy.”

I kept my mouth shut while she convinced herself, so as not to jinx my future chances of scoring a helicopter ride.

“Fine,” Laura decided, “we’ll shelve the relocation discussion, for the moment. Anything else?”

“Actually…it pains me to admit this, but after the unanticipated spirit activity this weekend, the building needs a good sweep, and I’d rather not do it alone. Darla’s talents fall more in the receptive category, but there’s a medium down in Florida who’s got a knack for exorcisms and protections.”

“Say no more. Send me his details and I’ll take care of it.”

When she said that with such decisiveness and confidence, she sounded just like the old Laura. Which, unfortunately, wouldn’t be sustainable in the long run. “There’s only so many hours in a day,” I told her. “And being Regional Director of the Midwest is more than a full-time job in itself. You can’t be your own assistant.”

She stiffened, and I thought for a moment that I might’ve overstepped the bounds of our supposed rapport. But then she gave her head a rueful shake and said, “No kidding. Getting burned by someone so close, it sucks. Now it’s hard to know who to trust.”

I opted not to mention it was her workplace that put fake cops like Officer “Andy” on my tail. “I really can vouch for Bob Zigler.”

“He had a glowing recommendation from Constantine too, but when I offered him a field agent position, he turned it down. Maybe Operations Coordinator would be a better fit.”

No clue if Zig would even want a desk job in the Program, but hey, it never hurt to have options. When she turned back to her computer, I figured I’d been dismissed, and turned to leave—on a fairly high note, too, for all that I’d admitted culpability in conjuring up Jennifer Chance after she should have been dead and gone. 

I’d nearly made my escape when Laura called out, “And, Vic?” I turned back, figuring I wouldn’t get away without being chastised about my ghostly exploits after all. But the only thing she added was, “Thanks.”

I headed back toward the office I’d shortly have to myself again, mostly, if you didn’t count Carl and several dozen houseplants, but found myself so turned around, I realized I was practically on Jacob’s Internal Affairs doorstep. I detoured for a quick pitstop, figuring he’d want to know the vocabulary he’d helped me finesse to make my report sound as non-horrifying as possible seemed to have done its job, and was surprised to find him chatting with Agent Garcia. 

Today the surveillance specialist had on the standard black suit and boring tie the rest of us were wearing. Guess he was working from HQ today. That, or he was going undercover as a bouncer at a high-priced strip club. He turned to me and said, “I heard you didn’t give up the safe houses, even at gunpoint.”

“Kind of a no-brainer. Jacob didn’t tell me where you guys were.”

Garcia looked at the two of us with admiration. “I always figured it would be hard to separate work from home life, and couples had to tell each other everything.”

Simultaneously, Jacob and I warded each other off…probably more theatrically than we needed to. I said, “I’ve got enough on my plate without worrying about his problems on top of my own.” Maybe I was exaggerating a little. But I figured it couldn’t hurt our reputation to play it up.

Garcia gestured for me to join them at Jacob’s desk. “I was just going over some policies and specs with your guy here that you’ll probably want to know about.” He pointed at a report that meant nothing to me. “Your house is clean. No cameras, no bugs.”

“Sure,” I replied.

“I’m telling you, private residences are off-limits without the consent of whoever lives there. Only exception would be if they were a danger to someone.”

Of course there were exceptions. And it would be no problem to pay some crooked professional to sign off on them. My expression must’ve said as much, because Garcia got more insistent. “I combed through all the records, twice. The FPMP is not monitoring your building now, and they never have.”

 My eyes flicked up to meet Jacob’s. I could tell by the mulish set of his jaw, he wasn’t buying it either. He said, “And our vehicles? What about them?”

“Company cars have a tracker in the dash.” Okay. That jibed with what we knew of Andy’s Lexus. “Same as your company-issued firearm.”

I’d never bothered with an off-duty weapon. Now I knew what Jacob could get me for my birthday. Not that I trusted him to remember the actual date, but since the big 4-0 was coming, maybe it was on his mind. 

“Our phones?” I asked. “How private are they?”

“The calls themselves aren’t recorded or monitored, but definitely be smart about what you do on your phone. GPS, emails, photos, browsing history. All of that’s fair game. Not just the FPMP’s phone, but any smartphone. You were a cop—you should know all about the kind of evidence you can pull from the history.”

I gestured at my head. “My expertise was in a different kind of data.” Back at the Fifth Precinct, I never would have made such a bold statement. But at the FPMP, folks were used to dealing with extrasensory abilities, and they knew I wasn’t bragging. My talent was a simple matter of fact. I scowled the lockscreen open and handed it to him. “Since my phone is fair game, maybe you can take a look and see why Laura can’t get hold of me.”

In all of two seconds, Garcia figured out my problem. “Her number’s blocked. Cell, landline, even her home number. And they’re set up to forward to Patrick if you call them.”

I answered with a long-suffering sigh. He set about undoing the damage. “You’ll want to look through all your settings and get a basic idea of what each of them does. Not just the menus, but the submenus, too. Look them up online if you don’t know what they are, you’ll find plenty of explanation. In terms of navigation, I’d recommend turning off your location and using a dedicated GPS if you want to minimize your electronic trail….” 

Was it too late to get back my flip phone? Probably. The litany of things I shouldn’t do on my new smartphone stretched on, but I’d glazed over the moment he got all technical about settings and apps. He paused, and the pause extended long enough that I figured he was through. Except, it didn’t really seem like he was. There was a weird energy hanging there, like maybe he’d stopped mid-sentence. 

“You were saying?” Jacob prompted.

He ignored Jacob, cocked his head, and approached the window—the one with the haggard trees outside—reached into the blinds, and plucked a small piece of plastic off the inner frame of the windowsill. He turned the device around a few more times, then held it up to the light and squinted at it. A couple of tiny wires protruded from the bottom. Before either of us could verify that the mysterious object was exactly what we dreaded, Garcia looked up at us and said, “This isn’t one of ours.”