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  “Well, that’s just great,” Carolyn snapped. “Those dead pedestrians will stand around in the intersections forever, but the one that has evidence we need just up and disappears.”

  In the ghosts’ defense, the accident victims were mainly repeaters, and any evidence I found on them would be fairly incidental.

  Jacob was none too keen on being left to deal with Carolyn on his own, but he was even less eager to report to Laura Kim. While the two of them regarded each other with a great deal of professional respect, I doubted the Director would ever really get over him accusing her of murder—even if it technically had been her finger on the trigger. I got Laura on the phone and filled her in on the situation at The Clinic. There was a small, tense pause in which I suspect she was wondering whether or not I was possessed, but luckily I’d thrown around enough federal agent jargon that she believed I was actually me—without even seeing that although it wasn’t quite 10AM, I’d already dribbled coffee on my shirt.

  “This isn’t the first report about Kick that’s come across my desk,” she told me, “but it’s definitely the scariest. Tammi Pauls taught grammar school at a special magnet program for emerging Psychs. She was a good resource for the Program. I’d met her several times. A real sweetheart—lit up the room. And now…I can’t help but feel like we failed her. We need to find out whatever we can about this drug. Where it comes from, what it does. The DEA recovered a few pills, but we need to find the source and cut it off before it spreads.”

  “Couldn’t Darla get in touch with Tammi and find out where she scored?”

  “Unfortunately, Agent Davis is on assignment.” The words themselves weren’t particularly alarming, but the implications were. The fact that Darla was completely uninterruptible made me worry that she could potentially disappear for good. “Vic, I’m reassigning you to The Clinic, but I don’t want to create resistance there by sending in Carl—Dr. Bertelli has a tendency to be leery of the FPMP. But under no circumstances am I okay with you investigating potential spirit activity without backup. I hate to ask Agent Marks to double task with his ongoing investigation of Kamal—”

  “I’m sure he’ll jump at the chance. Anything to get a break from the wall of paperwork.”

  “Good. I’ll pull together whatever documentation I can find and have it to you within the hour. I know street crimes aren’t your specialty, so I really appreciate you stepping up to bat.”

  “I’ll give it my best shot,” I said. And I was profoundly glad that Laura Kim wasn’t a human polygraph. Otherwise she’d probably hear me thinking that I had a lot more first-hand experience with street drugs than most ex-cops. “And another thing. We’ve got company. Chicago PD has PsyCops on the case.”

  I felt like a Benedict Arnold tattling on Zig and Carolyn, but no matter what I did or didn’t report, word would get back to F-Pimp eventually. It always did. So I might as well try to work it to our advantage. “Listen, if the cops are already involved…maybe we should team up.”

  “Absolutely. I’ll make the arrangements.”

  I stared at my phone for a second or two after Laura hung up. Guess I still wasn’t used to my superiors agreeing with me.

  On TV, when federal agents get involved in a police investigation, it invariably turns into a pissing contest of the highest magnitude. But in terms of police business, my real life wasn’t much like TV. When I was a homicide detective, occasionally a fed would step in. My typical reaction wasn’t mulish resentment, though—it was: Great! I get to clock out on time tonight.

  One thing you can say for Laura Kim—she knows how to pull some strings. By the time I found my way back to the emergency room hallway, official pings were landing on everyone’s phones informing us that until we stemmed off the budding Kick epidemic, we were one big, dysfunctional family again.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  There’d been some changes at the Chicago PD. From the few curt answers we were given, I gathered that with Jacob no longer at the Twelfth and their Sergeant assigning Carolyn to work with anyone and everyone who suspected their perp was lying, she decided enough was enough. Her contract stated she’d have a permanent Stiff, and when a Stiff wasn’t forthcoming, she put in for a transfer. Warwick scooped her up for the Fifth, and Zigler opted to stick around after all.

  Even with all our combined years of experience and resources, the four of us would have our work cut out for us, no doubt about it. Carolyn assessed the situation and said, “We’ll need to interview the staff as soon as possible, while the incident is still fresh in their minds.”

  It was still chaos in the emergency bay, even though time of death for the girl in the purple glitter nail polish, Tammi Pauls, had officially been called. There’d be plenty of personnel to go around, that’s for sure. Zigler pulled out his notepad and started divvying up the staff between us, but I interrupted him and said, “I’ll take Gina.”

  Zig shrugged and moved her to my column.

  Gina had always acted maternal around me, despite the fact that she couldn’t have been more than a dozen years older than I was. While the dress code at the clinic was subdued and jewelry was kept to a minimum, Gina managed to skirt the unspoken rules by hanging her reading glasses around her neck from beaded, baubled chains so colorful and psychedelic they had the capacity to provoke a seizure.

  A key part of the whole “carpool” plan had involved introducing me as Jacob’s fiancé (who was only incidentally a federal agent.) While the staff hadn’t exactly greeted the news with a spray of rainbow confetti, in their eyes, this nugget of personal information humanized both Jacob and me. And a small contingent—the ones eager to hear my opinion on their baking—all women, mostly older—was inexplicably smitten with us.

  I’ve been called plenty of things in my life. “Adorable” had never been one of them. Until I’d started ingratiating myself to the backroom staff of The Clinic.

  When I approached Gina at the computers, she met my eyes briefly and shook her head. Her cheaters danced on the ends of a bright beaded chain. “Poor Tammi,” she said. “So young. What a shame. I’m glad I’m not the one who needs to notify her family.”

  I was just about to question Gina like a cop when I realized what a waste it would be for me to blow all the friend-cred I’d made. I shifted gears and pitched my voice gossipy instead. “I heard someone say it was drugs.”

  Gina leaned in and whispered, “They call it Kick—I guess it kicks up your psychic ability. Nasty stuff, and who knows what it’s cut with. From what I’ve heard, the side-effects are really unpleasant. Nausea, cramping.” Yeah, that about fit my own experience of pharmaceutical psyactives. “What I heard? The NPs who dabble with it don’t try it again, but Psychs start looking for their next hit the second it wears off.”

  That last part was disturbing, to say the least. Because even though psyactive horse pills let me do neat parlor tricks like astral projecting while I was awake, at no time was I eager for another hit.

  I found I didn’t have to act scandalized and intrigued—I actually felt that way. But before I could see what else Gina’d heard about Kick, Dr. Bertelli snuck up in his expensive Italian loafers, and Gina quickly swung her attention back to the computer.

  Smoothly, he said to me, “Agent? Mid North is truly grateful for any assistance your team might provide. But given the seriousness of the medical emergency and any residual issues, the Board of Directors insists we ask all non-medical personnel to vacate the premises for the day. I’m sure you understand.”

  He’d phrased it as a request, which was trickier than him actually pulling rank. Given that I knew Tammi’s ghost had moved on, I figured it wasn’t the time for me to challenge that request. Not yet, anyhow.

  My colleagues must’ve come to the same conclusion. We gathered in the parking lot between the Impala and the Crown Vic and tried to figure out our next move. It was too cold—and too public—to reconnoiter outside in the parking lot. But my powerful resistance to reconnoitering at the Fifth Precinct surprise
d me.

  “Why don’t we go back to the cannery?” I suggested…and got three startled looks in return. But the more I thought about the Fifth, with the swaggering, smug cops I’d left behind, the less I wanted to darken its doorway. “There’s no privacy at the Fifth, and the Program’s all the way downtown.” Not to mention the fact that mere cops wouldn’t have the clearance to even get off the elevator in the Oversight Division where Jacob’s office resided. And my office still held an embarrassing treadmill desk.

  Carolyn nailed me with the entirety of her telepathic focus and said, “This isn’t some sorry attempt to act like everything is smoothed over just because we’re working a case together, is it?”

  No, it was a burning desire to avoid the Fifth Precinct. “Not at all,” I said with utter conviction.

  Grudgingly, she said, “Fine. But only because it’s closer—plus I hate the way that annoying Officer Raleigh is always smirking at us.”

  Once we were alone in the car—and out of Carolyn’s range—Jacob said, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “What do you mean? The porn’s all upstairs. We didn’t leave out any incriminating lube, did we?”

  He thought for a moment. “No, it’s in the medicine cabinet. I’m talking about this whole partnership. Ever since your undercover assignment, you’ve been a really convincing liar.”

  “Gimme some credit here—I’ve always lied like a rug.”

  “But in a tone of voice that made it obvious you were just saying whatever someone wanted to hear to avoid the conversation. Lately, though, you’re a lot better at inhabiting a role. I see you playing those women at The Clinic.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Take it as a compliment. I didn’t realize you had it in you to schmooze like that. But you can’t block against Carolyn’s talent like I can, so you’ll be back to square one. I just don’t want you to get discouraged.”

  I laid on the horn at someone dawdling at a left turn—probably more aggressively than I needed to—and said, “Don’t worry about me, I’ve had plenty of practice at being discouraged by now.”

  And while I might not be a telepathic lie detector, I did know Jacob pretty darn well. He wasn’t worried about how I’d handle close quarters with Carolyn, he was worried about himself.

  Carolyn and Zig were waiting for us when we pulled up by the cannery. We let them in, and I leapt over a fresh pile of catalogs and barged ahead while the others were still hanging up their coats. Nothing X-rated was lying around, but I did bury the lube behind all of Jacob’s hair products to make sure no one mistook it for a hand sanitizer.

  “I’ll put on some coffee,” Jacob said, while I moved to clear the dining room table. Normally, it was too big for just the two of us, which was why so much random paperwork piled up at the far end—but four investigators and their laptops would fit just fine. When I grabbed an armload of mail, a catalog slid out and landed at Carolyn’s feet—one with two brides in white fairy princess dresses gazing adoringly into each other’s eyes.

  She scowled, then looked at the bundle in my arms—which touted champagne and photographers and rings—and realization dawned. “You’re getting married.”

  That was the plan, anyhow, if we could ever negotiate all the details.

  While I scrambled to figure out how to answer truthfully without hurting anyone’s feelings, she turned to Jacob and said, “Were you going to invite me?”

  True Stiffs are so rare, Jacob has only had the most general of FPMP Psych training. And when you blindside him, his shields tend to slip. He stammered out, “I—it’s—we haven’t—”

  “We’re not that far along in the process,” I said.

  “But were you going to?”

  Of course, he clearly wanted to say. But then he reconsidered his words and admitted, “I don’t know.”

  Carolyn squeezed her fists so tight her knuckles went white. “After everything we’ve been through, you just cut me out of your life—”

  “I’ve tried reaching out!”

  “You’ve tried giving me excuses. You’ve tried making me wrong. You’ve tried painting yourself like the good guy, and making me the bad guy for not following you into a new job that’s so dangerous, the Director himself went into hiding. There’s a reason you got the nickname Mr. Perfect—and, newsflash—it’s not because it’s true.”

  Things had escalated to yelling by now, and Carolyn was turning an unfortunate shade of red. Before Jacob could say anything in his own defense, she turned on her heel and stomped off toward the bathroom. Jacob looked to me. I held up my hands helplessly—I’m the last one you want to ask about mending fences. And then the guy no one was paying attention to piped in. Zig said, “The thing about most women is, when they walk off like that, they expect you to follow them. Ask me how I know.”

  Jacob blanched and hurried after her.

  Zigler and I stared awkwardly at the hallway for a moment, and then he said, “I’ll take that coffee.”

  We retreated into the kitchen where the sounds of Jacob trying to explain himself were somewhat muted. I dug out the artificial sweetener packets from the cupboard, put them down in front of Zig, and said, “Teaming up was a shitty idea.”

  “From what I gather, no one’s been able to tolerate Carolyn as long as Agent Marks. All that truth…it’s not easy to handle. No big surprise she feels lost without him.”

  “How about you? How’s it going?”

  Zigler gave a rueful smile that looked mostly like a twitch of his mustache. “First day out she told me my breath smelled. Now I go easy on the garlic, brush my teeth after lunch, and everyone’s happy. It was just a shock to deal with someone who says exactly what she’s thinking.”

  Whether she wanted to or not.

  As Zigler and I both focused on avoiding the drama taking place at the other side of the cannery, I realized what a relief it was that Zig and I were both okay—with each other, at any rate. He still looked somewhat haunted by what he’d seen on my watch. But if anything, he was probably relieved I’d moved on so he could partner with a different Psych.

  We settled in with our coffee and Zigler pulled out some notes. “Fortunately, Kick has only been spotted in and around Chicago. So far, at any rate. We need to put a stop to it before it spreads.”

  “I’ve gotta admit,” I told him. “I’m out of my element here. Without a body or a murder scene to investigate, I hardly know where to begin.”

  Zig considered this. “I thought dead addicts had a lot to say.”

  He had a point. Addicts did seem to be prime complainer material. And though I wasn’t sure you could compare a Psych OD’ing after a few doses of Kick to a longtime junkie—psychologically, at least—it might be a decent lead. I checked my F-Pimp inbox and, as promised, Laura Kim had stuffed it with all the info she currently had on Kick.

  I could tell by the way Zigler was focusing over my shoulder that it was more than he’d had access to through the Chicago PD, but I didn’t feel smug about it. Not after all the time I’d spent on the force hating that Con Dreyfuss and the FPMP were continually one step ahead of me. I had to admit, though, I didn’t mind being the one with the good intel for a change.

  Thanks to the presence of fentanyl in the heroin supply, an unfortunate number of users OD faster than emergency responders can whip out the Narcan. The average statistic is about two overdoses a day. In the past week, it had doubled—and the new folks weren’t testing positive for opiates.

  Narcan might avert a potentially fatal heroin overdose, but it did nothing at all for Kick.

  “Three of the non-opioid ODs are at LaSalle General,” Zigler noted.

  And we were well acquainted with LaSalle—we’d spent a good week exorcising the joint once I rousted a horrifying fire ghost from the basement. I called up current info on the hospital, and discovered I just might have a promising lead after all. “One of us needs to go tell Jacob and Carolyn to wrap things up,” I said. “It’s time to pay Dr. Gillmore a v
isit.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Dr. Gillmore looked the same as usual. Same rumpled lab coat. Same no-nonsense natural hair. Same weary expression. When we showed up at LaSalle General, we found her scrubbing blood off her hands. Probably a bad time. Then again, it was always a bad time to interrupt her, so I opted to wait. Eventually, she turned off the faucet, grabbed a big wad of paper towels, and said, “Whose doctor-patient privilege are you disregarding today, Detective?”

  “Actually…it’s Agent now.”

  She gave me a ‘yeah, sure’ look, then motioned for me to hand over the goods. “And I’m just supposed to believe you? Show me.”

  I handed over my F-Pimp license, to which she said, “Hmph. At least this one’s laminated. Okay, I’ll bite. What brings you to LaSalle?”

  “We’re trying to get a handle on Kick. What can you tell me?”

  “From what I’ve seen—generally, mind you—it’s hallucinogenic, with nasty side effects. Headache, nausea, severe cramping, but the biggest danger is a nasty combination of a spike in blood pressure and seizure.”

  “That’s fatal?”

  “Can be. If it causes an intracerebral hemorrhagic stroke.”

  “Which might or might not have happened to some of your recent ER patients.”

  She gave a shrug which could have meant anything, but I took for a yes.

  “This week it’s three patients—what if next week it’s thirty? We need to find the source.”

  “Which is your job. Not mine.”

  We were on the same side, and Gillmore was a sharp woman. But there was only so much of her obstinacy I could take.

  “Look,” I said. “I get it that you need to stand up for your patients. But you should be more worried about the ones who haven’t come through that door yet, not the ones who’ve already bought it.”