Marked (15 page)

“Hello? Who is this?”

“Hi, this is Rachel Muñez,” a woman's voice said crisply. “Is this Adam Ward?”

“Yes,” I said, and sat down on my cot. “What is it?” Rachel had been one of the department accountants handling my money for years; she wasn't warm, but she wasn't cold either. The numbers were just the numbers to her.

“I realize it's Sunday, but we've got audits all week and I wanted to make sure that I talked to you. It's going to be the weekend before I finish up the paperwork and get the final books update done. Honestly, maybe next week. These political guys are driving me nuts. Anyway, I don't want to hold up your accounts. If you're willing to work with the paperwork I have right now, I can transfer ownership this morning. You'll have one more paycheck coming, but we can—”

“Hold on. What?” I asked. I felt like I was tracking every-thing. It was still pretty darn early.

“I'm sorry. Was I unclear?” her voice asked, very tired. “Which part?”

“You're transferring which accounts?” I asked.

A pause came over the phone. “Um, I was told you were leaving the department.”

I swallowed. “Well, yes. Paulsen's department anyway.”

“Do you anticipate other arrangements?” Rachel asked. “I'm not trying to push you into anything. But with your relationship with the department ending, the money relationship does as well. You have a right to your accounts if you want them.”

I looked up at the ceiling.
Years
of other people having to approve every purchase. Like I was a child. “I do want them,” I said, a crazy, bright sense of relief popping up in the back of my head. “If we can get this done this morning, let's do it. How much do I have?”

“Well, with the recent transfers to the Guild Medical Fund and the—”

“How much?” I asked.

“Oh. Just a second.” The sound of shuffling papers came over the line. “You have about seven thousand ROCs in cash, and another thirty in investments, plus the usual retirement funds. I've withheld tax for the rest of the year already, so that's not a concern.” She paused. “Do you have a preferred bank?”

I blinked. Holy crap, that was more money than I'd had at once since my Guild days. Way more than I thought I'd had. “I thought we cleaned out the accounts for the medical stuff,” I said.

“Not quite. And you've been spending considerably less than you've been making for years. We talked about investing several times, Adam. You said to go ahead.” Her voice was annoyed. “Did I do wrong?”

“No,” I said. “No.” I racked my brain, and finally came up with the name of a credit union who'd been particularly difficult to get information from in the last case. “Let's put the money there,” I said.

“I'll get it done today.”

“Thanks,” I said, and hung up.

•   •   •

“Well, I have good news and bad news for you,” Cherabino's voice said over the phone. I'd called her presumably to ask about the Wright case, but actually to hear her voice. With everything else . . . well, I just needed to hear her voice right now.

“Give me the good news first,” I said. I needed good news.

“Well, I read your mysterious file and did some research on the soldier project. Then I called Cornell to ask her about them. You know, Wright's supervisor at the lab? It turns out Wright was upset when the project turned from a medical monitoring and stabilization device to an enhancement project for the military. He objected to the secretization of what they were doing—supervisor said he literally screamed at her at one point, something about the good of all mankind.”

“She didn't strike me as the kind of woman who'd be all that offended by that. Socially awkward and all, but she seemed to be satisfied that justice was done when he got fired.”

“That wasn't my read of the situation at all,” Cherabino said, thinking it through. “She seemed satisfied all right, but her employees all seemed a little afraid of her. One said she had a way of lashing out at him when he did something wrong. She could say really cutting things, he said, and when he tried to defend himself he thought she was going to throw something.”

“Are you sure we're talking about the same woman?” I asked. “She seemed so harmless to me.”

“Let's be honest, Adam, you were hanging on her every word. Of course she seemed harmless to you. I didn't like her.”

“I spent a lot more time with her than you did, and there's always that one guy who complains,” I said. Cornell'd had such an interesting mind it was hard to believe she was a bad guy, but maybe I had been distracted. “Did she set off your cop instinct?”

“She didn't seem normal,” she said cautiously.

“Really, Cherabino. Do you think she could have swung the ax that much? She's not a big woman.”

“She runs marathons, according to her file. She has the fitness level. And the ax was at the most five pounds.”

I was disturbed at the thought that I had met someone who potentially could have killed someone that violently. Especially someone with that cool new kind of mind. “She just . . .”

“Doesn't seem the type? Maybe. I don't believe in types anymore. I've seen too many people do too many bad things.”

I took a breath. “What was the good news again?”

“Ah. The ME found a tendril of some kind of foreign biologic matter in what's left of the back of Wright's head. She's been running every test known to man on it, and coming up blank. I sent her a copy of the report—and she thinks it's a piece of this thing they were testing.”

“Contamination?” I asked.

“No, she thinks it was installed—I don't know with or without the lab's permission—and Wright was using himself as a test subject. And get this, Adam, the report references a section in this creature-thing designed to go down the skin on the top of the arm, you know, to control it or something. I don't really understand the science.”

“And we had that missing piece of the arm.”

“And the back of the head,” she said almost gleefully. “Yes, exactly. That gives us motive. I say the supervisor killed him in retaliation for spilling company secrets, take it a step further, say stealing company property. She takes it back—and the rest of the ax wounds are there to cover up her primary purpose.”

“That's . . . diabolical,” I said.

“You said whoever killed him got really focused there at the end. That it was about control. That would fit.”

I tried to remember the scene in detail. “Yeah . . . but that mind . . . I didn't think it was a female.”

A pause. “Is that something you could get wrong? Or do I need to keep looking?”

I looped through the footage of the scene in my mind, the feel of that mind, the violence. Then back to my interactions with the supervisor. “She doesn't have a typical female mind. And that kind of violence would skew any kind of read I'd have of someone. Most people don't get that violent in everyday life.” I took a breath. As much as I didn't want to think it . . . “Yeah, it's as good a theory as any. It explains the missing pieces. If you can bring her in and get a confession, that will get one more case off your desk.”

“I'd rather you interrogate her, given the choice. She likes you already. When are you going to be here? I have some leeway in scheduling, though I'd like to get her here in the next few days.”

“Um, the thing is . . .”

“What?”

Might as well just jump in. “Paulsen said I can't work in the interview rooms anymore, because of the Guild thing. Apparently I've lost my credibility.” I didn't understand it even now. I mean, what credibility did I have to lose? I was a felon, and the cops never let me forget that anyway.

“You got yourself fired
again?
Wait. What Guild thing? I swear I'd like to jump through this phone and strangle you. You have to tell me this shit if I'm supposed to get you hired back!” She made a low, frustrated sound. “How bad is it? What exactly did Paulsen say?”

I sighed, and caught her up with what had happened, and about the case I'd taken on for the Guild, partially for Kara, and partially because I didn't have any choice. I left out the debt but included the threats. “I mean, the only thing she said was that I definitely couldn't do interview room work again right now. She said what Bransen wants to do with his team is up to him.”

She made an airy growling sound. “So I have to clear this with Bransen now.
Why
didn't you tell me before we started talking casework?”

“I already have all the pieces. It's not an information concern. Look, I know you're overwhelmed. I figured I'll see this Wright case through, give you as much help as I can, maybe use the results to talk to Bransen about coming on full-time. If not, there's always the FBI.”

“I thought that was stalled.”

I sighed. “Who knows?” I paused. Worse comes to worst, if I was out on the street again . . . “Want to open a private detective agency, just you and me?” I asked, half joking.

“Don't tempt me,” she said, a little too quickly. “They gave me another two cases yesterday. I don't know where they think I'm getting the time for this.” Knowing her, she was already sleeping at the office to try to catch up.

“Like I said, I'd like to help.”

She sighed. “I appreciate it. Let me arrest this woman and see if we can get a confession. If we can, I'll bring you in on a couple more cases if Bransen says it's okay. Um, I have no idea if you'll get paid for it.”

“If it helps get me rehired with his department, I can do without the money for a while. Besides, it helps you out.”

She huffed. “Thanks. Really. I'll feed you at least.”

“Mexican?” I asked. She hated Mexican food, my favorite in the world.

“Not all the time.”

“Okay.”

No matter what I told Cherabino, I knew it wasn't all that likely Bransen would hire me on at the end of all of this—for one thing, I'd have the exact same problems justifying my job that I'd had with Paulsen. I really did have to call the FBI, and see if they'd meant that job offer a few weeks ago. But here, now, I didn't have anything else to lose, and Swartz's words just wouldn't leave me.

“Cherabino?” I asked.

“What?”

I jumped in, no prep, rip the bandage off. “I wondered if you'd like to accompany me to a restaurant tonight.”

There was a pause, and I knew her well enough to know what she was thinking. We'd been to restaurants plenty of times; why was I asking? “Like a date?” she asked.

That didn't seem promising. Normally I was better at this, damn it. “I—”

“Okay. But you're taking me somewhere nice, right?”

I closed my mouth so as to avoid the appearance of a dead fish. “Um, well—”

“Yeah, your payment thing. I'll bring my wallet and you can get the accountants to reimburse. We can go Dutch. I can play the feminist card. Whatever. That's not really the point, is it?”

“No, not at all.” I blinked. Really? That was a yes? I thought on my feet. “How about the French place on the square?” They had candles on the tables and everything; you could see them through the window.

“I've never been there.”

“Want to walk over after work?” I asked. Cherabino was one of those health nuts; she'd rather walk anywhere than drive, and I was getting so I didn't mind. “Let's say seven? I can meet you at the station.”

There was a long pause on the phone.

“If tonight's not a good—”

“No, that'll work,” she said. “Seven sounds good.”

A minute or so later, I hung up the phone. Part of me had relaxed. The rest was twisted up in knots. What in the world had I gotten myself into? I was going on a date. A date. With Cherabino.

Was there time for me to buy a new shirt?

CHAPTER 14

Selah answered
the
phone. “Hello?”

“It's me. Is Swartz around?”

Her voice seemed bleary. “Adam, it's eight thirty on a Sunday.”

“Don't you have church at eleven?” I asked.

She took a deep breath. “Not today. He's sleeping. It's been a hard week for him. He already came out to meet you Friday.”

“Can I come by later?”

A pause. “I don't think it's a good idea. The doctor says he needs to rest. His heart is still struggling to adjust. Adam?”

“Yes?”

“If you need something, maybe you should go to a meeting.”

I thought about that. “Is there one on a Sunday morning?”

She sighed. “I guess I can look it up for you.” I heard footsteps, a cabinet door opening, then the rustling of papers. “Here it is. Higher-Power-based meeting, heroin focus, ten a.m. Sunday in the East Atlanta Community Center.” She read me an address, which I wrote down. “Or there's one at noon in Tucker. That one's faith-based.”

“Thanks, Selah. I really appreciate it.”

“You're welcome,” she said. “If you can, send a card or something this week. He's feeling pretty isolated.”

“You got it,” I said. “If you decide I can visit—just to say hello—let me know.”

“Okay.”

We said our good-byes and hung up. And I was left with the address of a meeting in East Atlanta. Assuming the buses ran on time, I should be able to make it a little early, even.

•   •   •

The East Atlanta meeting was held in a brick building that smelled of old sewers, with industrial carpet that hadn't been changed in decades if not before. But the feeling in Mindspace was like a well-loved sweater, worn over and over until it sat like a hug. Children's art projects were displayed proudly in the lobby. Even a little dirt couldn't take away from that.

A printed sign pointed down a hallway to the right, and I followed the smell of coffee. People greeted me warmly, but when I didn't want to shake hands, didn't push. Looked like it was a men's-only group, and the overall feel of the group was like the feel of the building, well-worn and comfortable. This room had framed leaves up on the walls, somehow still green, and of course the ubiquitous display of program leaflets. Maybe I should poke through those to look for survival techniques while juggling two jobs—the program probably had a brochure with the topic. They had a brochure on everything.

I settled in with a cup of coffee to my preferred place about halfway back, where I could see everything but not be the center of attention. The leader, an older black man with a calm personality and nearly white hair, opened us up with the usual readings for the month, words that washed over me like a balm.

Selah was right. I was feeling better already.

Men told stories, funny stories, tragic stories, everyday stories, around their recovery and their struggles. Like Selah had said, they were mostly heroin addicts here, but some of my best friends on the street had been in that category, so it felt as familiar as anything else. My drug was an odd designer one anyway.

I listened to a guy get up, raw and new, and start talking about his first weeks without his drug. I started turning over things I could say—until he caught my attention.

“I thought it would be easier, you know, since I switched to Satin from Blue the year before. I mean, even together they didn't hit you with the same wallop. But I still want Blue, and when I don't want Blue, I want Satin. It hurts. I still walk by the same block and I wonder if Jimmy still has the stuff.”

One of the older guys spoke up then. “Sometimes you gotta take another bus.”

“Walk a different street,” someone else put in.

“It's easier to stay a long way away than say no up close,” a younger guy said. “You're making it tougher than it has to be.”

I took the effort to read the new guy then, and found, unexpectedly, that he had a significant precog Ability. Those kinds of future flashes could be as much a curse as a blessing, and I could understand wanting to get away from them. Satin would have hooked him hard and fast, just like it had me; the chemical affected the part of the brain that hosted Ability, so that the stronger you were, the stronger it hooked you.

While I was in his head, insidiously, I stole the information about which block he was talking about, a place at Little Five Points where he got most of what he wanted, what Jimmy looked like, and what you said to get him to sell to you. He was thinking about the topic anyway, so the breach wasn't too terribly deep, I told myself.

I hated myself for it, but I stored the information away carefully, in case of future need. The drug, as they said in the program, was a wily foe.

If Swartz had been there, I would have stepped up and talked about that, maybe, a little. Here, in a group where I was a stranger, another older guy spoke and the moment was over.

•   •   •

I went to the bank and got real money, just to hold, just to have, and bought myself lunch—an excellent deli sandwich and a cup of hot soup to ward off the cold. Then I went back to the apartment. It was still hours before I was supposed to meet Cherabino.

I picked up the phone and dialed, expecting to leave a message at the FBI switchboard.

Instead a man's voice picked up. “Special Agent Louis Jarred.”

I sat back on my small couch and told him who I was. “I hadn't expected you to be there on a Sunday.”

“Paperwork waits for no man. What can I do for you, Ward?”

I shifted. Might as well rip the bandage off and just ask. “Listen, we talked a while ago about a possible job consulting with you guys on cases. Is that offer still on the table?” I winced, waiting. That could have been smoother. That could have been a lot smoother.

He cleared his throat. “Ward, I'll be completely honest with you. The bureau has managed to hire a part-time consultant telepath. We've been very happy with her work.”

“Oh.” My heart fell into my stomach. No job? I'd just lost the thing at the police station, and now no possibility of FBI work?

“I'm sorry, Ward. I don't see us looking again for a while.”

I swallowed my pride. “Well, if you have a heavy workload of cases or something local, you can call me anytime.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Jarred said.

“Please do.”

There was a pause over the line. I tried to think of a good small-talk question. I was terrible at that sort of thing.

“There may be an opportunity for a contract job, a week or two at the most, occasionally. But it would be on no notice.”

I paused exactly two seconds, so as not to appear desperate. “Subject to the approval of my boss here, that should be no issue. And they can approve quickly.”

“Good to hear.”

A minute or so of small talk—which he ran—and it was over.

Maybe, just maybe, there was a glimmer of hope on the horizon.

•   •   •

A fresh shave later, my apartment was excessively clean, and I was debating the merits of the new shirt I'd bought versus the older, more-broken-in one. Which would make me feel less awkward? I went back and forth before deciding I was expecting too much out of a shirt. I sat down, gut churning, and reminded myself of what Swartz had said. She'd already seen me at my worst. I'd already basically lost my job. What was I really nervous about?

That didn't help at all.

So I called Swartz, and he was actually awake and willing to come to the phone. He calmed me down and gave me homework. Swartz was useful like that.

•   •   •

A woman in a tight blue dress stood at the bottom of the police department steps, a dark coat set over one arm. Her breath fogged in the light of the streetlight behind her.

My thoughts trailed off as the woman turned.

It was Cherabino, her hair down and set in some kind of new curl. It stretched halfway down her back and framed her face to perfection; a new cut perhaps. I hadn't seen it down in months. The dress was modestly cut, but it clung to all the right places; it was a little too tight across her significant breasts, which I appreciated.

I drew my attention back to her face, which had subtle makeup on, the most makeup I'd seen her wear outside a funeral. I pulled my brain out of my shorts and said, “You look beautiful.” I added a pulse of sincerity through the Link so she would see sincerity, admiration, and a pleasant surprise. “You didn't have to dress up,” I said.

She smiled, and was suddenly Cherabino again through all the layers of beauty. “I don't get to wear a dress very often anymore. Don't worry. I still have a gun.”

“Where?” I asked before I could censor myself. The dress was tight.

“Don't ask,” she said, but she was smiling.

“Shall we?” I asked, gesturing in as gentlemanly a way as possible toward the square.

“Sure, why not,” she said. “Here, help me with my coat.”

I took the coat and folded it out. She put one arm in, and I helped her find the other, bending over slightly to her level. We were close; my breath warmed the back of her neck.

She shivered and pulled the coat around her carefully, turning around.

I waited for the rebuke, but none came. She was soft, and beautiful under the streetlight. The moment seemed to stretch forever.

Cherabino glanced back up at the well-lit glass windows of the police station; a siren sounded, likely someone coming in with a suspect. “Let's get out of here,” she said.

So we did.

•   •   •

I vowed to myself that at no time during this miracle of an evening would I talk about the police department or my recent firing. Knowing myself—and knowing her—I had done what Swartz nagged me to do, and planned ahead. Taken most of the afternoon, but there it was. I had a list of not-work topics carefully handwritten in my pocket in case I got stuck.

Who knew if the evening would ever happen again?

We walked along Church Street, the flyer dealership to the right closing down for the night, the small local-owned nightclub to the left already forming a line in front. The high notes of Irish electric fiddle spilled out through the door as someone entered. An old homeless man had found an out-of-the-way corner near the heater vent at the side of the club; Cherabino noted him but let him be.

“How is your sister doing?” I asked, first on my list of topics. “With Jacob and the new teacher?”

She looked up and smiled. “Jacob's doing very well, like I said. My sister is at her wits' end with his stunts, but to be honest she's thrilled he has the energy.”

“A good teacher can make all the difference,” I said, out of rote, and then caught myself. It had been a long time since I was a professor. Some shred of pride in it still remained, obviously; maybe there was a reason I connected so well with Swartz.

“I just wanted to say thank you again,” Cherabino said quietly. “I would have had no idea how to handle the situation. I'd do anything for Nicole, especially with Jacob. It's been a hard road for him, and he's . . . he's a special kid. I'd do anything for him as well.”

“You're welcome,” I said. Our conversation was constrained, of course; probably no one in the crowd was Guild or had Guild interests, but we couldn't take the chance. Until Jacob was old enough to join the Irish Telepath Corps in his own right, the Guild discovering him would be a disaster. It was unlikely he'd survive the harsh world of the Guild.

But I'd let the conversation lag too long. Now she was thinking about my firing, and her conversation with Bransen, which hadn't gone as well as she'd hoped. I told myself I wasn't supposed to be snooping in her thoughts, and put some distance and a wall between us.

I searched for a topic, any topic. Finally: “Jacob has brothers and sisters, right?”

“That's right?”

“How are they handling all the extra attention for him?” I asked.

“Oh, the usual kid stuff.” Cherabino moved into a funny story about a failed water balloon fight in the backyard, and the awkwardness was put aside, at least for now.

We passed the Decatur MARTA subway station and several small luxury-goods shops: a handmade woodcraft shop, a jewelry store, even a toy depot and a paperback bookstore, along with a small specialty deli on the corner. The conversation went pretty well, my list coming in handy.

Then we found the restaurant, and the maitre d' seated us, doing that fancy thing where he pulled out the chair for Cherabino and settled the napkin on her lap. I could
feel
her tension at a stranger getting that close without warning, but she held on and I held on to her earlier laughter.

Then the waiter was filling water glasses and the moment was very quiet, and very romantic. A real flower graced the table. A candle burned, a spot of light in a dim room. And soft music echoed throughout the small space; we were away from the window, as Cherabino had requested, all the way back in a corner with her facing the room. I felt comfortable enough that I'd feel a mind approach before it got close not to mind facing away.

“This is a pretty place,” Cherabino said quietly, and looked anywhere but at me. It wasn't about the firing, but I couldn't tell what it was.

The menus arrived, and I looked through them, more for something to do than out of any real hunger. I paged through a few times, and realized absently that after ten years away, I could still puzzle out the French terms. My French was borrowed, not properly learned, from Kara. Her mother's side was European, based out of Brussels and Sweden but living all over Europe, and multilingual all. I had a couple of languages in my head that way, but French and German weren't at all common in the cases we worked; more Spanish and Japanese than anything.

The waiter came, and Cherabino ordered a few items in badly accented French; that made me close the menu and stare. I knew for a fact that she did not speak anything but halting Spanish; apparently she had access to my skills through the Link. I ordered in English, worrying the whole time. Had I done something? I'd promised her that the Link would be temporary. Was I breaking my promise?