Marked (6 page)

“What do you have to lose, Nelson?” I asked.

He sighed, and told Turner, “Take him back to his police friends. I'll see you tonight,” he told me then. “I expect you to stay out of my way and not cause trouble. Or I will cash in that chip, and you will end up dead.”

“Understood,” I said. Oh, joy, I was caught in a power struggle of epic Guild proportions. For a dangerous cause I had nothing to do with. And, worse, I was late to work.

CHAPTER 5

Turner dropped me
off in the Guild transport vehicle two blocks from the department. She opened up the car door in the back, gridded-off section. I got out, cautiously, feeling like a criminal in a way I hadn't since my drug convictions.

“Now, remember, I will pick you up tonight at five thirty,” she said. “I will have additional backup available. If you do not show on time, I will come and get you.”

“I'll be in the police station,” I said, huddling deeper in my coat against the wind. It seemed colder than usual today, colder than usual all month, actually.

“I will get a teleporter,” she said. “I'm not playing. Pack an overnight bag. You may or may not end up back here for your job. Rex and Nelson were both very specific. Guild first.”

“Yeah, that seems to be a theme these days,” I said, and started the hike to the department, feeling like something the cat dragged in.

•   •   •

I knocked on my boss's doorframe, metaphorical hat in hand. Might as well head this off. Lieutenant Marla Paulsen didn't like being interrupted for anything short of an asteroid barreling toward the earth—but neither would she accept silence when I was this late to work.

“Have a minute?”

She waved me in, pulling together a set of papers and putting them on top of an already overflowing stack. There were deep circles under her dark eyes, and the lines on her face had deepened, seemingly overnight. She was a young sixty-mumble black woman with high standards and endless energy, but today, she seemed older and somehow smaller. Judging from that and the general feel of exhaustion coming off her in Mindspace, I'd be shocked if she'd gotten any sleep at all last night. That made two of us.

“We've got final budget arguments this afternoon, and so far it's not going well,” she said. “I have ten minutes at most, and that only because of the stunt you pulled yesterday. You realize you were over an hour late to work today. After you left hours early yesterday, with no information.”

“I left a message,” I said. “I'm here now.”

“And trust me, that's all that's keeping you in the job right now. Clark is angrier than I think I've ever seen him. He had to pull a double shift on no notice. What's going on?” She sat back in the chair, seemingly tired and kind, but I knew better. If I didn't have a good reason, she would roast me over the coals. Slowly. “You look like hell.”

“Kara called. There's been a death in her family and she wanted me there,” I said, which was true but not the whole truth.

“And Kara is . . . ?” Paulsen prompted.

“Remember the Guild attaché who came down to help us with the Bradley case last August? We were engaged a long time ago. She's helped the department more than once.”

“Ah. Chenoa. I'm sorry to hear about that,” Paulsen said. She sighed. “It's not family. You can't take unplanned leave if it's not family. Those are the rules. You owe Clark an apology and at least a couple of double shifts to make up for his time loss earlier. You also owe me some pay—I'll dock for the entire week.”

“What?” I protested. It's not like I got to see the money—the department handled my finances for me—but a whole week? “That seems out of proportion.” I knew I'd have to bring up the Guild at some point, especially if I couldn't do the double shifts, but I didn't know how to do it.

“Be glad that's all I'm doing,” Paulsen said. “The department is under extreme surveillance by the powers that be, and I am out of rope with you.” She paused. “Speaking of, the review board is less than two weeks away. Do you have your license?”

I swallowed. The PI license. Great, not another thing. “Not yet.”

“I told you to have a license prepared by now. Your Guild inquiry didn't work out. What do you have?”

I took a breath. “I'm in final stages of appealing. There was no reason for them to slow down the process in the first place. Legally, I have passed all the requirements. I have all of the filing paperwork for you to show if you need to.” It shouldn't be this hard.

“Appealing?” she said. “That means they denied you.”

“I passed every test,” I said defensively. “I've jumped through all the hoops for the Second Chance Act. I've done the rehab. You yourself have mandated the drug testing. We have, what, three and a half years of records?”

“Closer to four,” she said flatly. “They're giving you issues about the felonies.”

“Well, yes.”

I could feel her pulling back a cloud of negative emotion, lassoing it, and setting it aside. Cops didn't like felonies. They didn't like felons. And me . . . well, mine were all drug related, and what I did made up for them. Mostly. On most days.

Finally she spoke. “I hope for your sake that you get your approval. I warned you already, if you don't have some kind of license going forward, the odds are that the review board will terminate your contract. That review is in two weeks.”

“You said you were going to stand up for my job,” I said very, very quietly. I'd fought tooth and nail to get here this morning at all. I needed this job. I wanted this job. And she'd promised.

“I said I would do what I can,” she returned, and looked down at another pile of folders on the side of her desk. Cutbacks, likely, again. The county was cutting back far too much from far too many directions lately. As she put it, “real cops” were losing their jobs. What right did I have as a felon to be here?

Obviously I couldn't tell her about the Guild issue right now, not and keep my job. It was Friday—I had the weekend to figure this out.

She was still waiting on me.

I sighed. “I'll get the certification. I will. I can't promise timing, though I'll do my best. I may need you to fill out a few forms.”

She looked up as Captain Harris knocked and opened her door. “Yes?”

“We have a problem,” Harris said, in an intense tone I only seemed to hear from cops when people were actually bleeding to death. “There's an arbitration situation that is about to turn violent.”

Paulsen looked at me. “Emergency?”

“No,” I said, and found myself ejected out to the hallway before I could blink. The door closed with a
snick
as I looked at it.

The captain had been taking on arbitration gigs for years, and had been stepping up the high-profile ones lately (according to Paulsen) to help fund department paychecks. I wondered where the violence was coming from. Union situation? Gangs? Politicians with knives? Impossible to know. Whatever it was clearly was more important than me.

•   •   •

Instead of going downstairs to the interview rooms like I was supposed to, I locked myself in the coffee closet and took several deep breaths. I had debated going outside for a cigarette, as it had now been so many hours I couldn't count since the last one, but they'd taken my cigarettes at the Guild, and my sponsor, Swartz, said people before poison.

The coffee closet was dim today, one of the two lightbulbs burned out, the coffeepot still heating from last night; the smell of burned coffee and ozone filled the space. The two donuts left were so stale they clanked, and a small scout ant poked at the crumbs on the table.

I killed him, feeling bad about it, but knowing there would be two hundred more in an hour if I let it go. You didn't see many ants in the winter; I was betting they had an inside heated spot somewhere. Trouble.

Okay, now I was putting this off. I wiped off my hands, picked up the phone receiver, and dialed Swartz's number.

Ringing came on the other side of the line. He was still at home, resting up, with any luck having remembered to turn the ringer on again.

“Adam,” came over the phone, in an out-of-breath voice. “Where the hell were you this morning? I called the station, but they said you weren't assigned anywhere. Do I need to come down there and kick your ass?”

I took a breath. That voice—that voice was the most comforting thing I'd heard in a long time. Swartz had been my Narcotics Anonymous sponsor for years, and he always knew the right thing to say. To do. To think about. He didn't let me get away with crap, and even since his heart attack, he was there when I needed him. When I didn't know what to do. “Yes. No. Maybe. I don't know, Swartz. No drugs—I haven't even had a cigarette this morning. The Guild—”

“What about the Guild, son?”

“Well . . .”

“I assume you're on break. Might as well spit it.”

Something inside me loosened. “Yeah. The Guild locked me up and then decided to tell me I was going to solve a murder for them.”

“A murder?”

“A guy I knew back in the day. Kara's uncle. He's, well, majorly important at the Guild now. On the Council.”

“Intimidation? Really? What does Kara say about this?”

“She helped them throw me in that cell after I broke some stupid rule. Maybe I did, I don't know. But they're threatening me with a lot of crap, and I . . .” A pause over the phone, in which I saw another scout ant. I killed this one too. I hadn't told him about the debt. “I feel like I have to do this.”

“How stupid a rule?” Swartz asked.

I poked at the crumbs. Of all the things for him to pick out of that . . . “Some privacy thing. It's a matter of interpretation. They've tightened up standards a lot since I left, and I don't think all in a good way.” I thought about telling him about the mind-fight, about Green outmuscling me—it disturbed me still, confused me still—but I couldn't figure out how to say it quickly. “Either way it's do what they say or bad things happen.”

“You need help getting out of town, kid?” Swartz finally asked, serious.

I laughed, long and hard. “Ah, no, thanks, though. The Guild are controlling bastards as usual, and I don't know what's going on with Kara. But madness is no joke, and neither is suicide, if that's what this is. Meyers was good to me, and he deserves somebody who will find out the truth.” I sat back, blinking, realizing all of that was true. I'd made up my mind, even if I hadn't realized it yet.

Swartz's voice softened. “Good for you. Good for you, kid.”

I smiled then, a real smile. “Listen, about the service project this weekend . . .”

“I'll give you a pass if you're working,” Swartz said. “But we're having a meet-up. I don't care what you have to do to make it happen.”

“I understand,” I said, still smiling. We said our good-byes, and I sat back.

I still wanted a cigarette. I was still exhausted within an inch of my life. But for the first time, I thought maybe I could do this. The weekend was coming up, two whole days for investigation at the Guild. Two whole days, and maybe I could do some good.

Maybe I could end up not dead and not imprisoned. That would be fun.

•   •   •

When I showed up at Cherabino's cubicle, Michael had donuts. Real donuts, fresh-baked today, with gooey fillings and sticky yogurt frosting flavored with heavy spices I couldn't put names to. He waved me over to the box and I helped myself to three. And copious amounts of coffee. I'd already gotten a cup from the break room of the burned stuff, and had myself a cigarette.

“Everything okay from yesterday?” Michael asked.

Mouth full, I shrugged.
Don't really want to talk about it, thanks.

His eyes widened and he was suddenly on his feet.

Crap, amateur mistake. I must be way more tired than I'd thought. Cherabino would have kicked my ass back when I was new to this. Some cops still would.

Michael stood there, holding back his hostility.

Cherabino stood too, and patted his shoulder. “Takes you by surprise the first time, I know. Boy Wonder does back off if you tell him to.”

“Okay . . .” He was taking her advice, and calming, without only the occasional look in my direction.

Cherabino shrugged. “Don't ask about the nickname. It's a long story.”

Forcing myself to calm, I finished chewing the amazingness that was my new favorite donut and swallowed. Took another gulp of coffee. “I didn't mean to cross a line,” I sighed. “I'll try not to do it again, but with the way my week has been going, I'm not making any promises. I've just been around telepaths a lot in the last twenty-four hours, over with Kara. It plays with your sense of personal space.”

Michael was frowning, but he didn't say anything else, and it seemed hypocritical to read him at this point.

“These are really good donuts,” I offered, to change the subject, then for good measure added, “Do we have any new information on the Wright case? Since I was down there for the murder scene, I want to help if I can.” That's what I was getting paid for, right?

Cherabino gestured to an uncomfortable metal chair at the back of the cubicle. “We're about to leave for the Cardinal Laboratories. We could use your skills there, actually. I want to interview most of the staff, and I need to be back by two for the task force meeting.” She had a sudden thought I could actually see crystallize.

I stopped walking with the chair halfway to the front of the cubicle next to the two more comfortable ones. “What?” I asked her.

“Clark was looking for you yesterday. He seemed pissed. Should you really be working on the case with us? I'll understand if you need to be in the interview rooms.” She didn't sound happy about this; Cherabino had the highest close rate in Homicide because she got grabby and obsessive with cases. But I knew she would share resources if she had to. Bransen's department hadn't ever been willing to pick up my full-time salary and she had to be comfortable with that.

“I'll be here a little longer,” I said, firmly squishing any internal guilt that might be leaking over the accidental Link with Cherabino. I was here, I needed to work, not feel sorry for myself. “What's going on with the task force?” I asked.