Murder House Read online

  Contents

  Book Info

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

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  About This Story

  About The Author

  The PsyCop Series

  Murder House

  PsyCop 10

  Jordan Castillo Price

  Find more titles at

  www.JCPbooks.com

  Murder House: PsyCop 10 © 2019 Jordan Castillo Price. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-944779-04-7

  Electronic edition 1.0

  Dedication

  For Andrea, who knows this series even better than I do.

  1

  Combine heavy snow, a startling thaw, and a precipitous deep freeze.

  What do you get?

  A slick sheet of ice, thicker than my skull and twice as hard.

  Who’s to say if it was pride or stubbornness that kept me going? At the moment, gazing over the expanse of our front sidewalk, I wasn’t quite sure which one I was running on. I don’t take pride in many things—maybe that’s why the definition of the word feels slippery in my mind. And the vocabulary wasn’t the only thing that was slippery.

  It was the beginning of February, and in Chicago, that could mean anything from arctic conditions to a balmy thaw. Usually one after the other in rapid succession, so you never knew which jacket to wear to work or where to keep your ChapStick. The Midwest branch of the FPMP was still reeling from Patrick Barley’s stint as Laura’s assistant. Everyone took it personally that they’d been duped by his self-effacing act. Jacob was working all kinds of crazy hours trying to make sure there weren’t any other double-agents at the water cooler. Laura Kim was neck-deep in a job search for a new assistant—one who didn’t moonlight killing people. And thanks to her refusal to dredge up ancient history, I was no closer to getting my hands on my permanent record.

  So I took out my frustration on the ice.

  Most of our neighbors were phenomenally house proud. They owned snowblowers, and they had no compunctions about using them at 4 AM—either that, or they employed someone else to come make excessive amounts of snow-removal noise. But in our home, dealing with the walkway fell to me. I wasn’t keen on hiring strangers to poke around our property. Who knew what sorts of surveillance devices they might plant? And there was no garage where I could keep a snowblower. All of that was fine by me. I didn’t actually mind working off steam with a good, old-fashioned snow shovel.

  But then the weather went and pulled crap like this….

  The ice chopper in my arsenal was a hefty piece of equipment. It was a vintage tool, pilfered from Jacob’s familial shed in a Northern state where winter is not to be taken lightly. There was great heft in its hardwood handle, and the blade had been keenly sharpened at the family-owned corner hardware store by a guy named Vern. When I plunged it into the ice, it resulted in some deeply satisfying cracks.

  It must’ve been tempting to tell me to hold my horses and give things a little more time. The temperature was on the rise again, and in a few hours, I’d be able to chip free those big, satisfying hunks that can only happen when the gap between the ice and the sidewalk starts to thaw. Jacob loves proving that he knows everything, so I’m sure it was with great effort that he kept himself from offering any advice.

  But knowing everything includes seeing when it’s best to step aside and let me hammer away at a dull and thankless task.

  Sometimes chipping ice has less to do with clearing the sidewalk and more to do with clearing your mind.

  Chip…chip…chip.

  Shards of ice flew—stubborn and not particularly satisfying, inch by grudging inch. Much like the redacted paperwork I’d almost died for at the hands of The Assassin. The various reports and memos were so thick with black strikeouts that it was impossible to say what they were even about. On one hand, they were completely useless.

  On the other…they proved to me that something major happened…something that the guilty parties went to great lengths to cover up.

  Technically, Jacob could use his security clearance to crack everything wide open. But even though he was FPMP Internal Affairs—the spy who spied on the spies—any records he called up would leave behind a data trail impossible to erase. It took a lot of coaxing on my part to encourage him to let redacted dogs lie, at least for the time being. We’d spent our whole lives getting to a place where I could practically taste the truth, and it didn’t make sense to blow it now. Not when we were so close.

  Chip…chip…chip.

  That’s what I’d told him, anyhow. I did actually mean it. But there was also the niggling feeling that when he got caught (and it was definitely a “when,” not an “if…”) he’d go down hard. And when he lost everything—career, purpose, respect—who’d ultimately be responsible for his fall from grace?

  Me.

  Oh, I had no illusions that Jacob had given up the search. It’s part of his job to scan for threats, so I’m sure he called up as much information as he could manage to claim as legitimate research. He’s got a keen eye and a brilliant mind. Problem was, he didn’t know what he was looking for.

  Not like I did.

  Chip…chip…chip.

  Once I’d cooled down from my close call with the wrong side of a bullet, I set to work figuring out how to up my own security clearance. Three options presented themselves.

  One: apply for Patrick’s old job—Bob Zigler didn’t want it, which made it fair game…as if I had any chance in hell of learning the phone system.

  Two: hack into the FPMP National servers and suck my information out. I’d get right on that, just as soon as I figured out how to make my phone stop flipping its screen sideways whenever I didn’t hold it perfectly straight.

  And three: raise my clearance level at FPMP regional by training as a field agent.

  I paused and cuffed my runny nose with the back of my wrist, and looked back over the sidewalk I’d been clearing. I’d expected to have unearthed a great swath of concrete…but I’d only unchipped a few paltry squares.

  Nice freakin’ metaphor.

  I was glaring at the hack job I’d done on the sidewalk when a black Lexus pulled up beside me. The Chicago winter hadn’t been kind to it, and its owner had no one to see to the minutiae of having it constantly detailed to keep it free from salt and schmutz.

  Laura Kim eased up behind my dented blue car, cut the engine, and strode over to join me. Her breath streamed behind her as she walked. But like the rest of us, she didn’t much notice the cold. Not with the weight of the whole world on her shoulders. She’d gone somewhere warm over Christmas for an elaborate spa week, and come back with a new short haircut that might’ve looked polished and sassy—if she wasn’t so obviously worn down trying to keep every last plate spinning. With her hands deep in her pockets, she surveyed the ice. Likely, she was resisting the urge to snatch the chopper out of my hands and take a whack at the sidewalk herself. She enjoyed nothing more than a problem
that could be solved with blind perseverance and elbow grease.

  Just one way the two of us saw eye to eye.

  “When you put in an application for fieldwork,” she said, “I couldn’t fathom what your motivation might be. You’re no adrenaline junkie—and besides, FPMP undercover work is nothing like policing. The hours stink. The assignments are tedious. And a stunning amount of red tape is involved, so there’s not even a reduction in paperwork.” She gave me the side-eye. “Plus, I know how you feel about spies.”

  I’m sure she wanted to make air quotes around the word, but it was too cold to expose her bare hands.

  I did my best not to seem too eager. “When your average person sees a threat, they’ll keep their back to the wall. Me? I’d rather have a 360-degree panoramic view.” It made sense. The kind of threats I dealt with breezed right through walls. “I might not be able to read minds, but I’ll have a way better chance of spotting a double-agent once I go through the field training myself.”

  Laura nodded as she absorbed my answer. I’d practiced it already—with Jacob, no less, and he seemed to buy it. And why not? It contained a generous nugget of truth. I did worry about double agents. Plus, I was horrified how blithely I’d allowed Patrick Barley to stand beside me with a loaded gun. But I also knew that most field agents started training in their twenties, and that even a crash course from the top trainers the FPMP had to offer was unlikely to bring me up to speed. Not enough for me to spot a spy who spied on spies.

  Still, you can’t be too careful.

  “Full disclosure,” Laura said. “I had no intention of sending you out in the field. I’ve got a good three dozen agents who can slip in and out of civilian situations without their subjects being any the wiser, but only one staff medium who can do what you do. You’re more valuable to me at headquarters. But then a situation with a potential haunting crosses my desk.”

  I quelled a fist-pump.

  She frowned at the ice. “I don’t believe in fate, but I also don’t want to put any of my agents in harm’s way for the sake of being stubborn. I’m not happy about this. And I’m not one hundred percent sure sending you undercover is the way to go. There’s a lot to absorb—you’ll have a ton of reading and prep-work condensed into a short span of time. Most new field agents get a certain amount of wiggle room, but let’s be clear. If your performance is anything less than stellar, you won’t get a second chance. Are you still interested?”

  Who knew the acting would begin now? I made as if my heart wasn’t pounding out of my chest and said, “Sounds like I’m the guy for the job.”

  “Fine. You’ll report to the Tradecraft Department Monday morning—that’s the third floor—and don’t shave between now and then, in case the stylists need any facial stubble to work with. Any questions?”

  Nope, that about covered it.

  And things had suddenly become incredibly real.

  The sidewalk no longer held any interest. Once Laura took off, I abandoned it partially-chopped and barged back inside. Jacob was upstairs in his office. He had on a pair of well-worn jeans and a T-shirt that was so old and shrunken it clung in all the right places and hitched up enticingly over the small of his back as he knelt on the floor. His office chair was on its side, with an assortment of hand tools arrayed on the hardwood around him in a semicircle. He’s particular about his chairs, and apparently nothing we tried out at the store was as good as the one he was currently muttering creative curse words at. It was the perfect chair, if not for the alarmingly loud squeak, and every so often he took it upon himself to try and discover exactly where the squeak was coming from…to no avail.

  But, hey, we all need our hobbies. And it kept him from overseeing my icy sidewalk.

  I pitched my voice casual to hide my nerves. Not too casual, mind you—that would raise alarms. Just matter-of-fact, so I didn’t jinx my good luck. “So…I’ve got a new assignment to look forward to.”

  Jacob righted the chair and pressed the seat-back. It didn’t squeak—then again, without anyone’s full body weight on it, it never did. “Another cold spot?”

  “Possibly.”

  He rattled a few more parts and shot some silicone spray into the joint. Apparently my delivery had surpassed casual and ranged into boring and completely ignorable.

  I added, “I imagine there’s something ghostly going on, anyhow. Otherwise they wouldn’t go through all the trouble and expense of sending me out in the field undercover.”

  An Allen wrench clattered to the floor as Jacob clambered to his feet. His expression went from surprise to excitement to X-rated at the thought of me learning a few spy terms to toss around in bed. But then the excitement slipped as he realized I’d been tapped for the job. Just me. Not him.

  “If there’s a haunting,” he said, all too reasonably, “you’ll need a Stiff.”

  We both knew I already had an NP…and that no ghost worth its salt would go for non-psychic Carl Hinds when someone like me, with my subtle bodies so easily dislodged, was anywhere in the vicinity.

  Between Jacob’s ego and his sincere desire to right the wrongs of the world (but mostly, his ego) he had a rough time sitting out a juicy assignment. “I’m sure it’ll be nothing to write home about,” I said. “The training wheels of espionage.”

  “Totally. Laura wouldn’t even risk you getting a paper cut. Not after what happened with Patrick.”

  “Right. She’ll probably just have me put on some fake glasses, memorize a weird cover story and throw around a handful of salt.”

  “Sure.”

  “If I even get that much action. Ghosts are few and far between. I’ll bet I’m only being deployed to nose around and see if the salt treatment is even warranted.”

  Jacob’s brow furrowed.

  I quelled the urge to smooth it with my thumb. That never worked. “What is it—other than the fact that you don’t get to ride along?”

  “I was just looking forward to your birthday. That’s all.”

  “But that’s weeks away.” I’d practically begged him not to make a big deal of me turning forty—and only a true sadist would spring a surprise party on someone with as many issues as me—but we’d finally settled on a white-on-white, non-haunted downtown penthouse suite that even I wouldn’t mind lolling around in for a few days, gorging on room service and treating the massive bed to a good workout.

  “After I totally blew it by forgetting last year….” Jacob snagged the hem of my flannel shirt and tugged at me until I relented and pressed up against him. The chair squawked louder as our combined weight leaned into it. He took my cold hands in his and warmed my fingers against his palms. “Anyway, even if there is a ghost, you’ll handle it, no problem. And when your big day rolls around, I’m sure I’ll get the chance to redeem myself.”

  In bed, obviously…not that I was complaining.

  But Jacob wasn’t the only one hungry for redemption. My burning curiosity over my past had blinded me to all the clues that something wasn’t quite right about Patrick, and he’d been able to play me like a cheap kazoo.

  I needed that enhanced clearance to be able to dig through old records.

  The way I saw it, if someone was gonna go down for dredging up forbidden files, it shouldn’t be anyone but me.

  2

  Spy school isn’t known as Espionage Academy, The Shifty Arts, or Lurking 101. The pros refer to it as “tradecraft.”

  The Tradecraft Department of the FPMP was tucked into an oddball corner of the building where the ceilings were high, the lighting was decent, and a cold spot had once lived. According to reports, Richie had negated whatever might have been lingering, and for all I knew, he’d simply felt a fluctuation in the HVAC system that day. But I cleaned that area of the building regularly anyhow. Richie might not score too hot on an IQ test, but his mediumship was definitely not in question.

  The other folks who worked at the FPMP would find somewhere else to be when I did my mediumship thing, so the tradecraft room looked differen
t now, while it was actually in use. What I knew as a plain white room with berber carpets and ample cabinets was currently a hub of activity. The cabinets pulled out to reveal racks of clothes, and bins of accessories were stacked everywhere. At a makeup station in the corner, a female agent chatted while a makeup artist contoured her face to look at least ten years older. And another agent in the barber’s chair was getting an inept trim to cover his pricy haircut.

  Hopefully they wouldn’t need to pluck my stubble.

  Back when I’d put in my application for undercover fieldwork, it seemed like a stroke of genius. Plaster on a fake mustache for an afternoon, submit a few reports, and score the digital clearance I’d need to root around my own past and figure out my origin story. Now I saw I was in way over my head. And I hadn’t even started my assignment yet.

  I paused at the edge of the crowd. Intellectually, I knew FPMP agents went undercover all the time…but I hadn’t given any thought to the fact that a whole crew was in place to make that happen. One of the mob brightened and waved me over—someone with whom I shared only one degree of separation, since during her occasional out-of-town trips, her cats slept on my head.

  Veronica Lipton was a confident woman who was accustomed to walking into totally new situations, announcing that she belonged there, and bluffing her way through days, weeks, or even months without leaving her temporary co-workers any the wiser. She was a handful of years older than me, but I doubted that the few extra years of experience had anything to do with her success—she’d simply been born with a major set of cajones. I’d seen her in various outfits, from a department store greeter’s smock to a bathrobe. Today she looked polished and professional in a navy pantsuit, with minimal makeup and her plain brown hair pulled back. “Over here, Vic,” she called. “We need to get you dressed.”

  There are probably other words you don’t want to hear in a room full of strangers. But I couldn’t currently think what they might be.

  “Your first undercover assignment—isn’t it exciting?” While I tried to figure out how much I needed to minimize, she barreled on ahead without waiting for me to answer. “I still remember my first like it was yesterday—I was a waitress. A waitress, can you imagine?” Actually, I could. She looked like a single mother who’d call you “hon” and try to warm up your coffee even if you’d already had about eight thousand cups. “Thank God that assignment only lasted three days. My feet were killing me, and I got phenomenally close to telling some of the customers exactly what I thought of their cheapo tips. You read through the training material I sent you?”