PsyCop 5: Camp Hell (35 page)

“You want to play ball on the winning team for a change? You know where to find me.”

My blood turned to ice in my veins. I looked up at the clock. “Zig? Can you get me to the MCC in forty minutes?”

“This time of day? We’d need a cruiser, and we’d have to run the siren all the way downtown.”

I jumped up from my desk, flew past Betty, and took the stairs down two at a time. I spotted Officer “Andy” at one of the interchangeable desks where the patrolmen work. He was filling out some forms for an earnest-looking Hispanic guy who was nodding a lot, and had the look of someone who didn’t speak very much English. “Andy’s” partner was at the opposite end of the station, hovering around the coffee pot. I skidded to a stop beside “Andy.” He looked at me, startled.

“Give me your cruiser.”

“Andy” stared at me for a second. His Adam’s apple bobbed. Then, lo and behold, he unhooked his keyring from his belt and handed it over without a word.

Zigler caught up with me at the front door. I tossed him “Andy’s” keys. “Let’s go.”

The way Zig handled that squad car was a thing of beauty. The speed, and the whoop of the siren, and the precision with which he wove in and out of traffic, all of that combined into a steady buildup of adrenaline. I was charging. And Roger Burke was at the end of that charge.

Not that I was sure I knew what to do once I got there. But at least I’d make it on time.

“So,” Zig said. “You planning to tell me what this big emergency is? Who’ve you been checking on at Metropolitan Correctional?”

I glanced at Zig, and tried to get a feel for whether I should tell him or not. Warwick wasn’t snitching on me, I was pretty sure about that—unless he was the world’s greatest actor, and that thing about his nephew was a script the FPMP had put together for him to gain my trust. But I doubted that. The blotches on Warwick’s neck never lied.

Zig, though? Even if my gut instincts were totally worthless, I’d met his family, his kids. And that, alone, made me want to trust him.

I took a deep breath and steeled myself. “It’s Roger Burke.”

Zigler huffed out a sound of disgust. “What about him? Is he being sentenced today? You trying to make it there, see if you can get the judge to add a few more decades to his time?”

“About that….”

My phone rang.

I checked caller I.D.—Russeau and Kline. “Sorry, Zig. I need to, uh….” I hit the talk button. “Hello?”

Stefan’s voice was velvety and calm. “You left in a hurry last night.”

Did I? The main thing I remembered about the night before was exorcising the fire ghost with Jacob, who glowed even more brightly than she did. I thought back to our appointment, and the regression. That’s right: I’d been a little squeamish about that blow job. And I didn’t really want to go into it in a closed car with Zigler.

“Is that a siren?” Stefan asked.

“Yeah. I’m at work.”

“I’m concerned about your job. I picked up a fair amount of anxiety from you when I brought it up yesterday.”

Again, yesterday seemed like ten years ago, and I tried to imagine what might’ve been bothering me about work. Zig had just tried to walk off the case. And I was scared of the fire ghost—who wouldn’t have been? But other than that, work hadn’t really been an issue. “No,” I said. “I don’t think so.”

“Are you sure? Sometimes anxiety feels generalized, when it’s actually got a specific cause. Think back. Did anything unusual happen yesterday?”

A driver in the right lane panicked when she saw our lights, and swerved like crazy onto the shoulder. My heart pounded in my throat. “Now’s really not a good time.”

“Are you driving?”

“No.”

“Then what’s the harm in it? Tell me something you did yesterday.”

Zigler swung toward the off-ramp. I checked the time. Fifteen minutes to get to Metropolitan Correctional. “Look, I’m sorry, but I really am busy. I’ll call you back.”

“Will you?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Traffic snarled up at the bottom of the ramp as some drivers tried to move to the right, and others tooled along, oblivious to the siren.

“Stress is a leading cause of poor performance at work. I just feel that unburdening yourself of some of these things you carry around can only help you out in the long run.”

“I’ll call you back. I promise. Swear to God, I’m right in the middle of something.”

“Riding in a car. If it’s not work that’s got you tied up in knots, maybe it’s your lover. What’s going on with him lately?”

“Jacob? We’re fine. Things are….” I glanced over at Zig, who looked like he was trying his best not to hear me, and failing miserably. “They’re fine.”

Metropolitan Correctional loomed up ahead. We had eight minutes to spare, so Zig cut the lights and the siren. I made a circular motion to indicate he should go around the block, and luckily he was quick enough on the uptake to understand what it was supposed to mean.

“He hasn’t said or done anything out of the ordinary lately?” Stefan prompted.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I gotta go. I’m sorry.” I fought down the urge to apologize for repeating myself, disconnected the phone, and turned it off.

Zigler cleared his throat. “You want me to park, or…?”

“Go around. I want to see who’s here.”

There were civilians outside the doors, and a couple of uniforms. Was that unusual? Maybe so. Every time I’d gone to see Burke, the outside had been clear. But it was nearly noon. Maybe some people worked nearby and were taking their lunch breaks. Still…I didn’t trust myself to tell the difference between an office worker and a reporter, not in the middle of winter where everyone’s wrapped up in a coat.

“I don’t mean to pry,” said Zig, once we’d turned a corner and the front of the prison was out of sight. “But was that your therapist?”

I gave a small, humorless laugh. I supposed that label was as good as any. “Yeah.”

Another two turns, and we approached the front of the building again. “Hope you don’t mind me saying, but he seems kind of pushy.”

“I guess. We’ve known each other a long time. He doesn’t feel like he needs to beat around the bush for the sake of being polite. Pull over here.”

Zig pulled the cruiser into a bike lane.

“You want me to come along?”

I did. But I didn’t want to get him into trouble if things went south. “Nah. It’s better if you wait in the car.”

“If you want the number of the doctor I’m seeing, she’s pretty good. She’s got a lighter touch. Easy to talk to.”

“Really. It’s okay.”

Zig held his hands up in surrender. I got out of the cruiser, sized up the people milling around the prison entrance, and opened my overcoat and jacket so I could draw my sidearm if I had to. Not that I thought I’d actually need to shoot anyone. But just in case.

I walked with my head down and wished I had a pair of sunglasses on me. That cameraphone shot of Jacob and me had me spooked. Heck, everything that’d happened since Burke had told me about the FPMP had me spooked.

One of the uniforms approached a couple of civilians and told them to move along. I should show him my badge, introduce myself. Hide behind him, if necessary. But between Burke, and “Andy,” and whoever was sending those fucking faxes to Dreyfuss, I just didn’t know who to trust anymore.

So I didn’t think it was Warwick leaking information about me, and I didn’t think it was Zigler. Who else did I see with any regularity? Betty? She was the keeper of the personnel files. But I couldn’t see that she had access to much else. Heck, she hadn’t even figured out that I was queer. Which I’d actually discussed with Warwick earlier, without even meaning to.

Okay, so none of them. And “Andy” probably couldn’t do much more than report on my general movements, given that he needed to actually perform his police job to maintain his cover.

I didn’t socialize with any of my neighbors, and I didn’t have any friends, other than Crash. Okay, that was beyond sad.

Stefan would probably spin some kind of psychiatric mumbo-jumbo out of my inability to make friends. I’m sure my lack of personal connections was indicative of an inferiority complex, or trust issues, or some other failing in my personality makeup.

I felt exhausted even thinking about how that conversation might go. I made a mental note to steer the discussion in a new direction if the topic of friends ever came up. There had to be some way to shift topics. Work, for instance. He always acted so curious about what was happening at….

Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ.

No.

Not Stefan. Not him. God damn it, anyone but him.

My fists clenched up so hard that my fingernails cut into my palms. I struggled to catch my breath for so long that in an attempt to keep myself from blacking out, I ended up crouched like a guy who’d just run a marathon.

“Sir, we’re gonna need you to clear the area.”

Black polyester pants and a heavy belt hung with gun, flashlight and pepper spray filled my vision. I straightened up, and somehow, managed to breathe. And to even talk normally.

“Detective Bayne, Fifth Precinct,” I said. I pulled my badge.

The uniform glanced at it, and then at my holster, and for whatever reason, decided not to make anything out of the fact that I was having a panic attack. Either that, or he figured I’d just run the last couple of blocks. “Officer Collins, Twenty-Third. You here for the ex-PsyCop’s release?”

I figured I couldn’t claim that I’d just happened to run by in search of a deli. I nodded.

“They’re over there, on the other side of the van,” he said.

They? I knew I should probably ask, but that would blow whatever credibility I’d stumbled upon. “Thanks,” I said instead, and walked toward the van as if that was exactly where I’d been headed all along.

A cluster of businessmen on cell phones approached on my left, and I stepped up the pace to blend in with their pack while I scoped out the van. More people in suits, some of them in sunglasses. Plainclothes officers? FPMP goons? No, probably not FPMP. You’d never spot them. They looked like Roger Burke, and Jennifer Chance, and Constantine Dreyfuss, and Officer “Andy,” who I’d only spotted because I felt paranoid that day, and I noticed he was looking at me a little too hard.

One of the suits near the van turned, and I realized I’d seen him before. Caucasian. Middle-aged, but fit, on the muscular side. I detached from the crowed, backed up to the building, and pretended to take a phone call, holding the phone as naturally as I could while I shielded my face with my hand.

I waited for another group of civilians to walk by, and I risked another look at the suits behind the van while the people passed between us.

I knew that guy. Damn it. Think.

There was a gap in the crowd, and I turned toward the wall. I wondered if I should actually talk to my phone, or if that would make it even more obvious that the thing was really off. I settled for nodding.

A couple of women in business suits and bright white sneakers passed by, and I risked another glance behind the van. I totally knew that guy. But I’d never connect the dots, not now, not when I was in a tailspin and the whole world felt like it was crashing down around my….

FBI. That’s it. He was one of the agents who met up with me in Missouri after they nailed Roger Burke. Shit. I hadn’t counted on anyone having met me before. And of all people, him. Was he the one who’d been on the receiving end of my phony recant? Or was it his partner? Or did it even matter?

Lying had become such a way of life for me that I couldn’t figure out why I felt like such a heel for spinning the story that would set Burke free. It made no sense. Swearing under oath? What was an oath to someone who couldn’t even picture God? But the fact that I’d recanted gnawed at me anyway, deep down in my guts.

I put some distance between me and the Feds to try and avoid being spotted, which suddenly seemed way more important than getting a look at that smug, smiling bastard when he emerged from those bulletproof doors.

The front of the building was a nightmare for anyone trying to hide, which I imagine was no mistake. The only shelter anywhere near the door was that van, and of course, I needed to hide from the agents who were hiding there.

I approached a Plexiglas bus shelter that was father away than I would’ve liked, and more transparent, too. But it was better than nothing.

Maybe if I positioned my head directly behind one of the torn, faded handbills, I could keep my eye on the proceedings.

There was a civilian in the shelter, a businesswoman. I would’ve preferred my very own spot, but there was nowhere else for me to lurk. I hunched into the far corner and tore a corner off a poster so I could see the doors, and I hoped the bus would come soon so I could be alone.

I had to crane my neck to see the doors, but I had a pretty good view of the feds. One minute they were relaxed—for Feds—and the next they were coiled for action, tapping earpieces and talking to their Bluetooth mics.

Crap. I couldn’t see. A group of uniforms appeared at the doorway, and a guy with a handheld video camera.

A bus wheezed up on its deafening pneumatic brakes, and it blotted out what little sunlight filtered through the El tracks. The bus door opened. I expected the businesswoman to get on, but she didn’t. I glanced at the bus driver. He was staring at me, annoyed. I shook my head, and he closed the door and rolled away.

I knew why I didn’t get on, but what about the businesswoman? I looked at her, and froze.

Not only was she staring at me—I’ll assume for the same reason I’d looked at her—but I knew her. She was more familiar than the Fed, even. It was Laura, Dreyfuss’ secretary, in head-to-toe shades of designer gray.

I really, really wanted to pretend I hadn’t noticed her and just go on with my snooping, but that option had evaporated the second our eyes met. “Dreyfuss couldn’t be bothered to do his own spying?” I said.

“Why are you here, Detective?”

“Why?” It seemed pretty obvious to me. “I have a little history with Roger. I guess I just…needed to see what he’d do next.” Besides, her boss had been the one to give me the heads-up, so wasn’t it obvious? Or was it? That had been the first time Dreyfuss had ever dialed me directly.