Hidden Things (4 page)

“Thanks,” Lauren murmured as Calliope held them out to her.

“No problem.” Calliope sat down and picked up her coffee. “You're right about that room; it smells a little Sam Spade in there.”

“It smells like Sam Spade's ass,” Lauren said. Calliope laughed out loud, and the other woman turned to her. “What?”

“Oh . . . nothing. You're just a little out of character today.” She raised a hand at Lauren's expression. “No complaints. You're more than entitled.”

Lauren turned back to the window and knelt, working her shoes on. “Thank you, incidentally, for telling them off on my behalf. But why did you lie?”

Calliope raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me, Counselor?”

Lauren straightened, shaking her hair back into a semblance of order. “The vagrant. I don't remember much about that, but I didn't get the impression he was going to leave simply because you asked him to.”

“Okay, I kicked him in the chest and
then
I told him to leave and he left.” Calliope waved her hand. “Details.”

“They're the police.”

“They're
people
. That's it. People doing a job, which right now is finding out what happened to Josh. Our visitor didn't have anything to do with that.”

“Agent Walker—”

“Admitted that a teleporting hobo is an unlikely suspect.” She eyed Lauren. “Let's say I tell them everything and they think it might be a clue. So they waste two days on bullshit instead of working on the real case. Hell with that. It happened. I handled it. It's done. None of their business.”

“But they're the
police
. How—” Lauren pursed her lips and cut herself off. “I need to get home. My parents probably called them in the first place.”

“Sounds reasonable.” Calliope's words hung in the air like a judgment.

Lauren ducked her chin rather than reply and walked out the front door. Calliope watched her cross the street to her car and swore to herself in the quiet of the empty office. After a few moments, she locked up and headed back to her house, replaying the morning's conversations, the surreal exchange with the vagrant the night before, and finally the evening talk with Lauren.

“I don't know
why
he broke up with you.”

In the middle of the drive home she pulled off onto the shoulder, crying too hard to see.

5

“Calli?”

Slowly, the room comes into focus. Calliope smiles up from her hospital bed.

“Hey . . .” She manages a smile. “How are you?”

Josh's eyebrows rise. “How am I? That's funny, considering I'm not the one in ICU. How are you?”

She shrugs. Regrets it. “Did the cops find the guy?”

Joshua nods, his lips tight. “Yep.”

Calliope traces the lines of tension on his face with her eyes. Her fingers shift on the coverlet. “I'm okay.”

“I know.”

“It was just a precaution.”

“I know. You just . . .” He looks out the window. “Can't keep putting yourself in situations like this. You're the only pseudofamily I've got.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Think you're forgetting your wife.”

He makes a face. “That's not what I mean. You can't pick fights with three-hundred-pound guys no matter how many self-defense courses you've taken.” He shifts forward. “I should have gone with you.”

“So you . . . wanted to make it up to me by bringing me his head?”

“Hmm?” He glances down at the large paper bag in his hand. “Oh. I brought you . . . stuff.” His eyes flicker in a way with which Calliope is quite familiar. She smiles.

“Stuff?”

“There were balloons, but they wouldn't let me bring them in here—said they'd mess up the monitors.”

“Screw the balloons, what's in the bag?”

He glances inside. “Flowers, candy, a bear from the gift shop, and a few toys.”

She waggles her eyebrows. “I
like
toys.” Her grin grows when he reaches into his jacket pocket instead of the bag and places a narrow, six-inch cylinder of black metal in her hand. “Is this the thing you were talking about?”

Josh retrieves the cylinder and gives it a strong flick with his hand—the tube telescopes out to eighteen inches.

“They wouldn't let you bring in balloons, but
this
was okay.”

“It never really came up.”

“Cool.” She holds out her hand, looking up at his face when he doesn't hand the baton over. “What?”

“Did you think about the other thing?”

“I'm not quitting.”

“It's not—”

“I. Am not. Quitting.” She reaches her hand out farther, grimacing. “Now, gimme the damn thing.”

“Do you have a permit for that?”
asks a half-familiar voice from the doorway.

“Who—”

A ringing phone jerked Calliope out of a sound sleep. Fumbling, she ripped the receiver off its cradle. “Josh?”

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line. “Ms. Jenkins, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you.” Detective Johnson's voice was apologetic. “Again.”

Calliope jerked her head off her pillow, checking the windows and clock. Afternoon. Three.

“Sorry, Detective. I laid down for a second—”

“Completely understandable, Ms. Jenkins.”

Calliope lay back, frowning at the ceiling. “I was supposed to be at the office. You were going to—did you, what did you find out about the answering machine?” She sat up on the edge of the bed and pushed her hair out of her face.

“We got some more of the recording, although the techs say some of it simply isn't there to be recovered.” There was a pause and Calliope could hear the rustle of papers over the line. “Do you know . . . someone called the fat man?”

Calliope paused, wondering if she's misheard.

This is the part where I realize I'm dreaming.

“Ms. Jenkins?”

Calliope shook the thought away. “I'm sorry; I heard you ask if I know ‘the fat man'? Please be joking.”

The papers shuffled again. “I'm definitely not joking, Ms. Jenkins. The last portion of the recording seems to be ‘the fat man knows what's going on, so just get hold of him and he'll be able to explain most of this to you.' ”

“I'll see you soon,” Calliope murmured.

“Excuse me?”

“ ‘I'll see you soon',” she repeated. “That was the very last part of the message.”

“Yes,” the detective replied after a moment. He didn't say anything else, and the silence stretched to the point of being awkward.

Calliope cleared her throat. “The fat man.”

“Exactly.”

“I have no damn idea what he's talking about, Detective. I'm sorry.”

There was a pause. “You're sure?”

“I am,” Calliope said.

“Would you mind if we had an officer check over Mr. White's files for some reference to this?”

“Oh, who do you hate that much?” Calliope whispered.

“I'm sorry?”

“Nothing. Thinking out loud.” Calliope pulled herself upright. “Yes, Detective, that would be fine; you're welcome to it.” When he didn't respond, she added. “Detective?”

“I'm sorry, Ms. Jenkins. Thank you. Could we meet at your office in an hour?”

“I'll be there.”

It was well over two hours later when Calliope finally pulled up at the office in her Jeep. Two cars—unmarked, but unmistakably law enforcement—waited outside. A younger agent climbed out of one as she pulled up, followed by Johnson in the other.

“Sorry for making you wait. The traffic was terrible.” Calliope could hear the tension in her voice; she'd never minded being late, but it irritated her when the delay wasn't her doing.

Johnson shook his head to deflect the apology. “Not at all, Ms. Jenkins. This is Agent Hyde. He works with Special Agent Walker.” The younger man offered his hand in greeting. Calliope filled it with a spare office key. “Door you want's on the right, coffee's in the cabinet. Feel free to pull files into the front room to get away from the smell.” The younger officer hesitated, then nodded in a way that felt like a salute and headed inside.

Calliope watched the young man walk away. “Junior agent?”

“When I was a rookie in homicide they made me categorize the dog feces samples taken from a crime scene at a county animal shelter,” Johnson deadpanned. “Walker's letting him off easy.”

Calliope smirked. “If that's everything, Detective?”

He scanned her face.
He's got police eyes,
she thought.
Sad, and nice, but still police eyes.

“Everything regarding this,” Johnson replied. “But can I ask an unrelated question?”

Calliope crossed her arms against the evening chill. “Sure.”

“Don't be offended, but I was expecting you to ask for a warrant.”

Calliope studied his face in turn. “This should be done right, Detective.” She looked at the front window of the office, through which she could see the young agent carrying a stack of the desktop files she'd gone through the night before into the front office. “I don't want to look back on this and think I might have been part of the problem.”

Johnson said nothing.

Waiting.
She glanced at him, then back at the window.
Police waiting. Goes with the eyes.
“And . . . I can't think of anything else to try.”

Johnson rested his hands on his hips, letting his eyes drift to the front of the office. “I don't think that'll last,” he said, glancing at her sidelong, the corner of his mouth quirked upward.

Calliope gave him a curious squint. “I'm sorry?”

He raised one hand and let the hint of a smile grow into something open and comfortable. “Please don't take offense, Miss—” He shook his head. “May I call you Calliope?” He extended his hand. “I'm Darryl.”

She looked at his hand for only a second before taking it. “Sure . . .”

“Thank you.” He released her hand, now somehow awkward in a way that made Calliope return his smile. “Anyway, what I was saying; you don't strike me as the sort of person who goes very long without any ideas. If you
do
think of something else to try, I'd just . . . appreciate it if you let me know.”

“Ahh . . .” Calliope shook her head, bemused. “Sure. Absolutely.” She smiled; small, but genuine. “Darryl.”

“Thank you, Calliope. Have a good night. Happy Halloween.” He turned back to his car.

“Happy . . .” Calliope's voice trailed off. “Oh. Huh. That explains the traffic.”

“Glad I could help.” The detective smiled as he opened the door. “I'd better get home. Trick-or-treaters.” He climbed behind the wheel.

“Sure,” Calliope said, though his door had already closed. “Happy Halloween.”

Johnson raised his hand in a final mute farewell and pulled away. Calliope watched the car roll down the street.

“The police won't be able to help,” said a rough, almost familiar voice.

Calliope's head snapped around. “What the—”

The vagrant from the night before was standing next to the old Jeep's dented rear bumper. His hands were jammed deep inside his coat pockets. His hood moved a fraction of an inch as he spoke. “What I don't understand is, the message on the answering machine told you to talk to someone who'd have answers.” The strange cadence of his speech made him sound like a mystic oracle born and raised in New Jersey. “But
you
just said you've got nothing else to try. That . . . that confuses me.”

Calliope pointed at the lighted office window, her eyes locked on her stalker. “There is an armed federal agent sitting right in there.” Her heart hammered at her chest. “You might want to call him for help.”

 

Calliope slipped Josh's gift baton out of her jacket pocket and flicked it open with the very satisfying and noticeable
snick
that always got people's attention. She could see the vagrant's attention shift. It was one of the reasons she liked the thing—between that sound and the resulting eighteen inches of black metal jutting from her fist, most people never noticed anything else.

When the spray from the can in her off hand went into the depths of his hood, the transient's head jerked back so violently it bounced off the side of Calliope's Jeep. She was walking up to him by the time he hit the ground.

“Seventeen percent oleoresin capsicum,” she commented, her voice conversational despite the violent writhing of her victim. “I went for the optional identifying dye mix.” She held the can at an angle to the light shining from her office, pretending to read the label that she'd long since memorized. “They say the loss of sight is temporary, and they
seem
to be right about stopping ‘even the most aggressive assailant', so I wouldn't worry.” She paused about five feet from the growling, mewling form curled in a fetal ball before her. “This is the riot-control-rated version the police use, so I
could
have hit you from about twenty feet away. You should probably remember that from now on.” She watched his gloved hands clutching at his face inside the hood. “Yeah. It'll be about thirty minutes before you stop wanting to rip your own eyes out. It'll seem longer.”

She walked toward the front of the Jeep, tucking her things away. “I was going to hit you a couple times with the baton, but I think it's important for you to remember that I didn't
have
to.” She opened the door to the vehicle. “Leave. Me. Alone.”

Calliope climbed into her Jeep and backed into the street, leaving the stranger lying on the pavement behind her.