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  “Exactly! You know, I never would’ve pegged you for someone with an interest in esoteric matters. It just goes to show how far off-base a snap judgement can be.”

  Not necessarily. All things considered, I probably would be just the sort of guy to scoff at psychic ability, had I not seen the air around her swarming with nonphysical jellyfish. “If you don’t mind my asking, what was it you thought would show up on your tests?”

  “Astral projection. But since there’s no empirical measure—since I couldn’t do it at will—I was told I was probably just dreaming, thank you very much, goodbye.”

  I made a mental note to talk to Darla about adding another section to the Clinical Pre-Assessment for Mediumship.

  Bethany uncrossed her arms and gave her forearms an absent brush. Habit demons recoiled.

  “Tell me something,” I said. “You had second thoughts about Kick just as soon as it hit your system. But if there was another dose right in front of you…would you be tempted?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You sure about that? Just…y’know…in case you maybe didn’t give it a fair shake?”

  She frowned, and habit demons swooped down and sank in their tethers.

  If I powered up my white light, could I knock them aside like so many cobwebs? Maybe. But then there was the chance that, just like cobwebs, they’d only end up sticking to me. Hastily, I added, “You made the right choice. That drug you took is highly addictive.” The habit demons stirred, but remained stuck to her. “It’s not an herbal supplement, either. It’s as manufactured as they come.”

  A single habit demon dropped off. One out of at least a dozen. And it didn’t even disappear—it just hovered nearby, waiting to reattach. How crazy would I come off asking her to do a visualization with me and walking her through a white balloon? She did that type of thing at the end of her yoga sessions, but that was yoga. This was urgent care. “Give me your hand,” I said. She held it out, and I pulled the baggie of sacred salt from my pocket and tipped a small mound onto her palm.

  “Is that…salt?”

  “The crystal structure has a beneficial vibration. Clinically proven.” I pictured white light flowing into it from the heavens, and thanks to the range of the GhosTV, it lit up to my inner eye. In an ideal world, the activated salt in her hand would be enough to send the habit demons packing. So, naturally, nothing of the sort happened. They noticed it, all right. The closest ones rippled, then sniffed at it. But it wasn’t the abject fear I’d been hoping for, just curiosity.

  I told her, “This will sound a little bit abstract, but you’ve got to center yourself. Whatever that means to you.”

  She was giving me a puzzled look that conveyed, The awkward guy from the gym is telling me to do what? But when she smoothed her long hair back, a few more habit demons detached. And then, one by one, they faded. Wow. All those years of yoga must have given her some phenomenal control.

  “I found three fans—I hope that’ll help.” Gina walked in with a small electric fan in each hand and one tucked under her arm, power cord dangling. We all looked at the mound of salt in Bethany’s hand. No doubt Gina had seen plenty of unusual things at The Clinic, since all the patients were certified psychics. Even so. I picked up a nearby trash can and held it up for Bethany, who wordlessly tipped in the salt with a self-conscious brush of her palms.

  Once Gina handed off the fans with her blessing, Bethany looked pointedly at my ringless left hand and said, “How’s your husband?”

  The urge to keep up the charade was strong—but if private lessons could potentially be in my future, it would be inconvenient to make Bly come over and pretend he lived with me. “Things didn’t work out,” I said. Would she end up running into him again, too? Anything was possible. “Turns out he’s straight.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Jacob’s ringtone sounded. His timing was great. By taking his call, I excused myself from having to go into my speedy divorce. “There’s something you need to see,” he told me. And while most people would think he simply had a relevant tidbit of information to share, I could tell from the amount of control in his voice that whatever it was he was onto, it was big.

  Was the GhosTV doing something interesting? That hunk of electronics was a royal pain in the ass—and terrifying, to boot. It was about time for it to earn its keep. The dials were hardly exact, and something would invariably get knocked out of alignment in transport. Maybe this time around, I’d tuned it into something Jacob could see, or feel, or somehow tangibly sense.

  I rapped on the door and he let me in, and now, seeing him with my own two eyes, I could tell he was practically bursting at the seams. “Take a look at this,” he told me.

  But instead of leading me to the GhosTV, he pulled up something on his laptop and spun it around for me to see.

  Surveillance. From the pharmacy. I craned my neck to see if the GhosTV was playing without sticking my head between the console and the wall. But I was no longer leaving tracers behind and Jacob wasn’t looking red and veiny, so probably not.

  Jacob said, “Right there, at the timestamp I’ve marked. Bertelli pockets something.”

  Did he? I poked at the controls until I figured out the one that would let me step back. “It’s kind of blurry.”

  “No, he’s pocketing meds. I’m sure of it.”

  I checked the timestamp, and then my watch. All this had happened while Bethany transferred in and the staff was busy. I played back the few frames of video at normal speed, then half-speed, then normal speed again. He might have been pocketing something. Or he might’ve just had an itch.

  “We need to see what he’s skimming,” Jacob said. “Antipsyactives?”

  “Why would he do that?”

  Jacob looked at me knowingly. “In case his homemade psyactive goes wrong.”

  Did Bertelli strike me as an innocent man? Not by a longshot. The guy was way too slick, and it was obvious he was hiding something. And of course I didn’t buy his whole “liability” song-and-dance, either. He wanted to limit our access to the building. In fact, he would’ve preferred to get us locked out completely. And yet, I wasn’t entirely convinced he had anything to do directly with Kick. “I showed Bertelli’s picture to our latest guinea pig, and she says he’s definitely not the one who gave her the drug.”

  “So he’s not in it alone—there’s another guy handling the distribution. It’s not the footsoldier we want, anyway, it’s the mastermind. All we need to do is establish possession of psychic pharmaceuticals.”

  “He’s the director of a specialized psychic medical clinic.”

  “But he doesn’t have an antipsyactive prescription—I’ve checked. And I’m sure he doesn’t have carte blanche to skim from the pharmacy while Erin is looking the other way. Someone’s gotta search him.”

  If you’ve ever been targeted by a mall cop, you know what it’s like to be forced to turn out your pockets. Lucky for me, I’d never been tempted by five-finger discounts. Once, back when I was in high school, a ruddy-faced security guard thought he’d pulled one over on me when, apparently, I’d spent too long hovering by the Teen Beat magazines. Thankfully, there was nothing in my old Wranglers that afternoon but a partially-sucked Gobstopper.

  If we accused Bertelli of smuggling out meds, we really couldn’t afford to be wrong. Even my teenaged self had been affronted over being accused of stealing—even as I was trying to cultivate the reputation of a tough mohawk guy.

  Jacob said, “The longer it takes for us to bring him down, the more people will die. People we know. People like us.”

  True. All of it. And not only did I know the psychics who were dying…but they were leaving really fucked up ghosts behind.

  Jacob stood. “If you don’t take care of him, Vic, I will.”

  “No. I’ll handle it. It’s my investigation.” That’s the reason I gave him. Not the fact that if he was wrong, it would be like the Laura Kim murder accusation all over again. “Call HQ and have them se
nd some experts to search his car and office. I’ll confront him now, before he has a chance to ditch any evidence.”

  It wasn’t in my jurisdiction to place a civilian under arrest. Not anymore. In fact, the only people I had any kind of authority over these days were already dead. But my findings carried more weight than they ever did when my paychecks were issued by the Chicago PD. If I pointed my finger at Bertelli, someone would show up and arrest him. And whatever he was charged with might actually stick.

  At least…it should.

  But the nearer I got to Bertelli, the more I second-guessed myself. In law enforcement, you need to pick a lane. Make a decision and follow through. But finding out that the legal system had failed me these past several years, that murderers I’d brought to justice had been walking free? It did a number on my self-confidence. And even though I knew Laura Kim would have my back, I was hesitant to confront Bertelli in a space where whatever happened would be his word versus mine. I paused in the doorway of his office and said, “Can I see you for a minute?”

  He looked up from his paperwork. “I’m really very busy.”

  “It can’t wait.”

  “Fine. But make it quick.”

  I fixed a surveillance camera in my line of sight. “Not in there. Out here.”

  Since he wanted nothing more than to get rid of me, he did as I asked. With a long-suffering look, he put down his pen and came to join me in the hall. I held out my hand and said, “Remove your jacket.”

  He looked at me like I’d asked him to take off his own head. “You’re serious.”

  “Sir?” I said this in my coppiest cop voice. The one designed to elicit compliance. “Remove your jacket now and hand it over.”

  He wasn’t used to hearing that kind of tone from me. Then again, no one on staff was…and a couple of the nurses poked their heads out of a nearby exam room to see what all the stern voices were about.

  I thought Bertelli was going to keep on defying me to buy himself some time to ditch the pills in his pocket. People do it all the time. Pitch their stash out the window of a moving car, or at the very least, toss it in the back seat and hope the traffic cop who stopped them is phenomenally unobservant.

  Very few people in this world enjoy submitting to authority, and bigwigs like Bertelli are particularly averse to being challenged. I was so sure he’d make a huge stink about it, it surprised me when he stood up, crossed the room and unbuttoned his blazer. I backed up a few paces to ensure he was well within range of the mechanical eye and he matched me step for step. He peeled off the jacket and presented it to me. As he did, he murmured, “I have no idea what you think you’ll find, but I have no doubt you’ll be sorely disappointed.”

  “Anything sharp I need to worry about?” I asked.

  “Of course not.”

  Right pocket, cell phone. Left pocket, spare change. Fine. I was just covering all the bases before I got to the big reveal—the inner pocket. There was something in there, all right. Something substantial. I pulled out a palm-sized leather case, flashing back to all the times Con Dreyfuss waved a pill-minder under my nose to tempt me with yet another Seconal. His was cheap plastic. But Bertelli was too fancy for that, and I doubted he owned a cheap plastic anything.

  I met his eyes just as my thumb found the latch to flick it open. And in that fraction of a heartbeat before I exposed him for all to see, I registered the tiniest hint of a smile.

  The leather case? A business card holder. Nothing more.

  Normally, I would just figure he’d stashed the drugs somewhere in his office. I still hoped that would be the case. But that fleeting glimpse of a smile made me wonder if whatever I’d seen on the pharmacy surveillance had been nothing more than a stray itch after all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  We called in the cavalry, on the off chance that if Bertelli had indeed taken drugs from the pharmacy, he hadn’t yet managed to dispose of them. Specialized investigators combed through his office, men and women who took finding things very seriously. A couple of them were even clairvoyant.

  Nothing.

  Bertelli was equal parts resigned and inconvenienced. But I had the sneaking suspicion he was also pleased.

  The afternoon wasn’t a complete shit show. On the upside, Bethany was stabilized enough to be released. As they wheeled her out the emergency door into a waiting cab, we exchanged numbers and I made her promise to call me if she remembered anything that would help me track down the dealer. I hoped I wouldn’t regret it. She might start peppering me with details like his resting heart rate or his shoe size.

  We were on our way home and I was lost in thought, replaying that video of Bertelli in my mind’s eye. He really had appeared to be reaching in that pocket…the one that contained nothing but a business card holder. The specialists had even gone over the jacket to ensure I hadn’t missed anything. I hadn’t.

  Jacob must’ve been processing the day too. Neither of us said a word the whole drive. The silence in the car was so profound that when the fuel gauge beeped, it startled me enough to make me flinch. We could probably squeeze one more trip to The Clinic out of it, but now was as good a time as any to fill up. Jacob veered off toward a nearby gas station before the beep got any more insistent.

  While Jacob dealt with the pump, I wandered through the mini-mart. The coffee smelled amazing. You can always tell when it’s fresh by jiggling the vacuum thermoses. Later in the day, you’ll want the ones that are pretty full. Otherwise, there’s a chance you’ll end up with something that’s been sitting around since noon. But even though I found a coffee that was good and heavy, given that I would need to go to sleep in a few short hours, I couldn’t afford to indulge.

  Were the brightly colored slushy drinks churning through their specialized machines crawling with caffeine? No idea. But since most things I knew to be caffeinated were brown, I was pretty sure the slushy was safe. At least in terms of keeping me awake, anyhow. I couldn’t really speak for the brain freeze.

  I grabbed one and went back outside. The car was gassed up, but Jacob had shifted his attention to the windshield. The squeegees at the pump are usually ragged and the fluid they’re soaking in is filthy, but for some reason, Jacob was experiencing the urgent need to clean that window. He scrubbed at the remainder of a bug splat for all he was worth, then dropped the squeegee back into the slot, planted his hands on his hips and glared. I cut my eyes to the slushy and said, “Did you want some of this?” He’s not usually big on processed sugar…but he seemed pretty put out. “Or I could get you your own.”

  “It really did look like Bertelli was pocketing something. What else would he be doing, standing there in front of the pills and rifling around in his jacket?”

  I recognized that tone. It was the tone of someone unaccustomed to being wrong. “Sure. And just because we didn’t find anything doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Only that he was one step ahead of us.”

  “Don’t say that just to make me feel better.” Yeah, right. Like he’d rather have me simply agree that his idea didn’t fly? “As if Laura’s not leery enough of me already…now I go and blow the wrong whistle. Again. But here’s the thing: no one audits a pharmacy that much unless they’re up to something.”

  “Or he’s got suspicions of his own.” Though if he did, he’d throw his own staff under the bus in a heartbeat. My gut told me Bertelli had something to hide. But my gut’s been wrong before—spectacularly wrong. And there was a good possibility I just wanted him to be breaking some law for the simple satisfaction of seeing him get caught.

  “I just don’t get it,” Jacob said. “Not only is our new surveillance useless, but we go through all the trouble of taking the GhosTV off mothballs and it doesn’t do us a damn bit of good.”

  “Actually…before we zeroed in on Bertelli, I did notice something.” I struggled to explain, and decided I just couldn’t say “habit demons” with any chance whatsoever of being taken seriously. I trooped out the official F-Pimp term. “Nonphysical entit
ies.”

  That grabbed Jacob’s attention. “Ghosts?”

  “More like…etheric…parasites.”

  I’d been trying to make the creatures sound less goofy, and I’d succeeded. In fact, I’d gone straight from ludicrous to horrific. As I scrambled to backpedal so as not to burden Jacob with any new nightmares, a shiver played across the back of my neck. Initially, I attributed the chill to the frozen drink…until I heard, “Hey, white boy.”

  I got my bearings. We were three and a half blocks from my old apartment.

  Jacob had at least ten thousand questions about the etheric parasites, but as he drew a breath to begin asking them, I held up a pause-finger and said, “Hey, Jackie, what’s up?”

  “I seen some folks talking about Kick, over by the corner store. You know the one. With all the roaches.”

  Actually, yeah. When I lived nearby, I’d done my best not to shop there. And when I did, I only bought things that were really well sealed. “Was it just a conversation, or did something change hands?”

  “Nuh-uh. Nobody hit that. You don’t take nothing from a man without no street cred, you know what I’m saying? Who knows what he try to pass off as a good high.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “An old white guy.”

  “Right. I get it. Like me.”

  “Well…not that skinny.”

  “Would you say he was closer to sixty or forty?”

  “I dunno. Y’all look the same.”

  “What about his hair? Was it long, short, dark, light?”

  “You didn’t say I had to memorize his hair!”

  Jackie was getting pretty annoyed, and if I pushed the wrong buttons, she’d storm off and leave me standing there talking to myself. But the thing about businesses these days—even the tiny corner stores—was that they all had surveillance, and it would help if we could narrow our search window. “Listen, how about this—what time did you see him?”