PsyCop 6: GhosTV (6 page)

My laptop was still open to the latest miracle piece of plastic, so I decided to see if there might be a legitimate-looking site that would tell me how to use something we already owned. I grabbed a banana and a fresh cup of coffee, and I started poking around for dumbbell workouts. I quickly saw they were now called free weights. Fine. Free weights, then. I found a simple routine, went to print it out, and got a message that my printer was out of ink.

Why did everything always need to be so complicated?

Sure, I could go to the store, buy ink, come back, try to install it and find I’d somehow managed to get the wrong cartridge—but was it worth it? Who was to say I wouldn’t try the workout once and then give up?

Who was to say Jacob even wanted me any bigger—besides Barbara, of course?

It seemed like a shame to go through all that effort for nothing. If there were only some way I could know for sure if Jacob even wanted me to beef up. Without asking him, of course, because he’d only say I was great just the way I was. That’s what boyfriends are supposed to say—that’s just the way the world works.

However…I did know someone who could tell me for sure.

Even as I thought it, I felt petty. My ex-partner, Lisa Gutierrez, was teetering on the verge of locking herself in a room and using her
si-no
talent to solve every crime in every precinct known to man, and then probably a few that hadn’t even been committed yet. Did I deserve to use her to find out whether or not Jacob wanted a little something more to hold onto?

The thing was, we were friends, Lisa and me. And whether or not she used the
si-no
to come by her answer, I’d bet she’d be able to give me some good advice. I opened my email and typed: 

Hey Lis

What’s going on with you…how had summer been treating you, I bet its nice in C.A.

I was thinking about weight training…what do you think Jacob would think about it…I can’t always tell if hes just saying what I want to hear.

You missed vinyl wrist restraint day with some muscle bound guy named Sando, lucky you…I bet you were meditating at the time.

Keep in touch,

Vic

p.s. call me sometime

There. That didn’t sound too desperate. And if her answer didn’t sound like a
si-no
to me, I could always figure out a way to get Carolyn to ask Jacob for me.

I grabbed another cup of coffee and set out to find three exercises I could get started with that were so simple I could memorize them without printing them out, when I saw I had new mail.

My heart raced. Lisa must have been sitting at her computer and done it then and there.
Si?
No.

Briefly, very briefly, it occurred to me to not look at her answer—because if it was no, Jacob didn’t need me to step up the fitness regime, then I’d be missing out on a perfectly good opportunity to increase my strength and endurance—and I’d also squander the chance at a potential hobby, which would be a shame. I’d finally admitted that I had no idea how to play Sudoku.

And if she said yes, then no doubt I’d feel like crap, and I wouldn’t be able to tell Jacob about it either since there’d be nothing he could say that would make me feel better.

I thought both of those things, for maybe half a second. But I’d asked, and if she had an answer for me, then I owed it to her to see it.

I pulled up my email and saw the message I’d just sent, with this in the header:

550 user lmgutierrez23, quota exceeded

550 ... Can’t create output: Error 0

My first thought was that I’d typed it wrong, but no, she was in my address book and the emails always went through before. Besides, when I looked at the message, it didn’t say it was an invalid address.

It said the quota was exceeded.

On a Q-mail account? Those things hold like a million messages.

I memory-dialed Jacob, who picked up after two rings. “Hey, it’s me,” I said. “You busy?”

“Not for you. What’s up?”

“An email bounced back from Lisa. Don’t you think that’s weird?”

“I don’t know.” He considered. “Maybe her account was full of spam so she created a new one.”

“The account was still there, but it was full. A Q-mail account.”

“Huh. But remember when my mother got the digital camera and she sent me a hundred megs of photos because she didn’t know how to work the settings? It might be something like that.”

“When was the last time you actually heard from her?” I scrolled down. “Lisa, I mean. Not your mother. Because now I’m looking, and I see she didn’t answer my last two emails. So it’s been a week. No, two.”

He gave a short sigh. “Okay. I’ll check tonight when I get home.” I was in the basement attempting a lateral raise when the sound of the front door slamming nearly sent me through the ceiling. My gun was in the bedroom. I glanced down at the fifteen-pound freeweight in my hand. It would have to do. I crept up the basement stairs soundlessly and poked my head out, only to hear Jacob’s familiar footfalls on the stairs to the loft. “Vic? You home?” A sick surge coursed through me as I realized I wasn’t experiencing a home invasion. Only my adrenaline level needed to catch up. “Here.”

Jacob turned on the stairs with his tie half-off, looking like a male stripper who’d gotten the address to the bachelorette party wrong.

Then he scowled, which diminished the stripper-like quality. Slightly.

“What were you doing in the basement?”

I could hardly drop the weight behind me and hope it bounced quietly down the stairs, especially since it would probably take out half a dozen of them. “I, uh….” I shrugged.

“Were you working out?”

Busted. “I was bored.”

Jacob backtracked, got over the shock of seeing me with a dumbbell in my hand, slipped his tie the rest of the way off and dropped it over the back of the couch. “I took half a day. I couldn’t stop thinking about Lisa.”

• • •

It had been two and a half weeks since she’d emailed Jacob.

“You can level with me,” I told him. “If she gave you her phone number and not me, I won’t be mad.”

“Me? What makes you think she’d trust me over you? I was the one who couldn’t stop asking for
si-nos
.”

We both looked at each other hard, and then I said, “Carolyn.” While Jacob set to tracking her down, I called Sticks and Stones. “Hey, do you have Lisa’s number?”

“Nope. I got an email address, the same one you have.”

“The Q-mail? It’s bouncing. The message says it’s full.”

“Must be a glitch. Those things never fill up.”

“That’s what I said. What if something’s wrong?”

“You’re the detective. Do something about it.” I wished I was there in person so I could smack him upside the head with my phone. “You’re sure you don’t have a phone number.”

“Are you calling me a liar? I already told you. No. I have an email.

That’s all I have.”

“Okay, okay.” I cast around for some other idea. “So…do you have any kind of feeling about it?”

“Don’t be an ass. I’m not a precog any more than you are.” I hung up with Crash. Jacob had his phone pinned in the crook of his shoulder and was busy going through his wallet. I watched, torn between curiosity and dread, while he pulled out a business card. He looked up as if he’d sensed my eyes on him. “Carolyn doesn’t have her number either. I’ve got one more idea, and it’s a long shot.” I stared harder.

He dialed.

He waited. I waited. He fiddled with the card. And finally, when I’d decided his long shot wasn’t going to pay off, someone picked up.

“Hi, this is Detective Jacob Marks. I’m not sure if you remember me, but last fall you performed an exor—”

A raised voice on the other end of the line cut him off. Talking. A lot.

“That’s actually why I—”

More talking. I couldn’t make out the words, but I caught the tone, all right. Urgent.

“Hold on,” Jacob said. “The Santa Barbara police are—? Uh huh. No, they’re not part of the PsyCop program. It doesn’t necessarily say anything about their procedures…it could be that a referendum wasn’t approved to spend the—right, they’re probably not trained to keep psychic evidence uncontaminated.”

What? Hell, even I wasn’t trained in keeping psychic evidence uncontaminated. I did my best to apply the procedures I learned for mundane crime scene evidence, but ultimately, I winged it.

“What have they done so far? Searched the—uh huh. Did they remove anything?”

Psychic evidence. I wasn’t even sure what constituted “psychic evidence.” It would depend on the Psych, wouldn’t it? For me, it meant ghosts. For Carolyn, statements. For Lisa…well, anything was fair game, with the
si-no.
Which would be a pretty damn threatening realization for a criminal.

My stomach was doing an unpleasant churny thing.

“When was the last time you saw her?”

Lisa missing? A very unpleasant churny thing.

“Hold on.” Jacob thumbed the mute button and asked me, “Do you know anyone named Karen Frugali?” I shook my head. He unmuted the phone. “And how long has she been gone?” He listened, then cut his eyes to me. “I’m not positive my partner will be willing to fly out there and take a look…but I’ll ask.”

They said their goodbyes while I wondered if I might throw up, and once Jacob hit the disconnect button, I said, “If something’s going on with Lisa, you bet your sweet ass I want to go take a look.” He gave me a wry look, and said, “I was counting on it.”

While Jacob dealt with the airline, I called Betty at the Fifth Precinct and let her know I needed a few personal days since I was taking a little trip—which undoubtedly seemed shifty, since I’d just called in sick—and then I set about getting my shit together. Since I didn’t have any kind of instinct about what to bring with me, I watched Jacob pack for California and brought one of whatever he brought.

I’d always figured if I visited the West Coast I’d bring shorts and sunglasses—not a suit and a sidearm.

“Leave your Florida Water here,” Jacob told me. “It won’t make it through security. It looks too much like mace.” I stared down at the Blast o’ Mint container that Zigler had painstak-ingly refilled. “So…I can bring a Glock on board, but I can’t bring some scented water.”

“Airport security is what it is. They understand what guns are; if we go through the right channels, we can carry. But explaining an exorcism…let’s just say I can’t imagine that’d go down very well. Besides, I’m sure they have Florida Water at PsyTrain.” I stared at my tiny exorcism kit. I had no idea I’d become attached to it. “What about salt? I can bring salt on board, can’t I?”

Jacob glanced up from the undershirts he was folding and gave me a look.

“What,” I said, “I can’t?”

“Any substance that looks iffy stands the chance of getting us grounded.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me! It’s…it’s salt!” Jacob smoothed the clothes into his garment bag, then turned toward me and planted his hands on his hips. He was practically as wide as the king-sized bed between us. “How many times have you been through airport security?”

I paused as if I needed to count, and then after a moment, said,

“Never.”

“Then take it from me—keep your Auracel in your checked luggage, don’t put mysterious granules, powders or liquids in your pockets, and make sure you don’t have any holes in your socks so you don’t feel dumb when your shoes are going through the X-ray machine.” I went through my pockets. A vinyl tie from the previous day’s training was coiled in one of them. I left it where it was. I might need it in California, and if they had a problem with it, they could keep it. It was disposable.

At least I’d be able to bring my pills, though I wasn’t exactly sure which ones I should carry in my luggage, and which ones would be better off in my stomach. I went through my nightstand and pulled out some bottles. Valium? No-brainer. I swallowed one dry. Auracel?

That was a tough call. Being trapped on a plane for four hours with a ghost, and me with no exorcism gear, would suck.

Getting off the plane and not being able to see something scary creeping up on us would suck worse. I threw the bottle into my bag.

“Don’t take all of them with you. In case your pills get confiscated.”

“Cripes, we’re law enforcement. Doesn’t that cut us any slack?”

“Roger Burke was law enforcement, too.”

I sighed heavily, retrieved the Auracel, and dumped half the pills out on my nightstand. Then I did the same with my Valium.

The only item of interest left in my drawer was a bottle of lube. I held it up. “I don’t suppose…?”

Jacob’s mouth turned up at one corner. “Security’ll have a field day with that.”

I put the lube away.

It was when Jacob pulled into long-term parking that I started to get nervous. Because long-term parking implied that he and I might be out in California for a while—that maybe something really was wrong.

That I wasn’t just the scrawny kid on the back of the bus freaking out over the car accident no one else could see.

People traveling for business as opposed to pleasure are easy to spot. They walk with purpose from point A to point B. They don’t stop to consult every flight schedule sign, then look around as if they woke up in the airport with no idea of how they’d gotten there. They don’t have a half-dozen screaming kids to corral.

Jacob seemed to know where point B was, or in this case, Terminal 2, from our choices of 1, 2, 3 and 5, so I followed his lead. We each had one of those slick rolling suitcases—obviously he’d had an extra that I could borrow—and he was able to maneuver his case with our garment bag rolled on top like it was weightless.

I managed to keep from getting mine stuck on the moving walkway.

Everything at O’Hare International Airport is reflective. Glass. Mirror.

Chrome. I kept catching glimpses of the two of us in our suits and sunglasses, half a head taller than everyone around us, striding along like we had an appointment at the Pentagon to rid the world of an alien threat—and I had to admit, it was pretty damn cool.

Security at the gate seemed to be geared for much longer lines than it was processing. A guy behind a podium checked I.D.s, then the passengers shuffled, boarding passes in hand, through a snaking maze of stanchions linked by nylon belting. Jacob handed his badge and boarding pass to the podium guard who said something into a two-way radio—indiscernible even from our end—and another security guard came out of an official-looking door and nodded to us both.