Laura said, “Agent Hines had some personal business to attend to, but since Agent Marks is a veteran PsyCop NP, I thought pairing him with you would be the most seamless way to keep the Boswell case progressing.”
The words all made sense. Yes, Jacob had been a Stiff. And yes, he was perfectly capable of packing my exorcism kit and keeping an eye on me while I was busy hunting for ghosts. But yesterday, Laura hadn’t been all that gung-ho to track down Boswell. And I’d been the one to talk her out of salting the half-seen repeater in case we might need it.
I wasn’t born yesterday. Obviously, there was no “personal business” involved, and Carl was likely enjoying some long-overdue time on a Caribbean beach. What did Jacob bring to the table that had Laura pull him from his duties for an assignment as a glorified babysitter?
Unless it wasn’t his expertise at play, but his performance gaps…and he was up for a big, fat demotion. As if his ego wasn’t wounded enough.
Maybe those “satisfactory” ratings on his evaluationhadbeen something to worry about after all.
“Logistics has located Boswell,” Laura informed me. “Security cameras confirm his location.”
All eyes turned to me. It was my case, after all, but I was utterly clueless as to what they expected me to say. And then Jacob gave me the subtlest of nods.
“Okay.” That sounded natural. “Jacob and I will go check it out.”
Evelyn perked up. “Oh, can I ride along? This would be the perfect time to see what sort of thing you deal with in the field.”
“Sure,” I said, hoping the pause that preceded the word wasn’t too noticeable. “Let’s head out.”
The hit our guys got on Boswell’s license plate when his van pulled into a nearby Jewel-Osco happened not ten minutes ago. It was close, but we’d have to hustle.
Jacob is what you might call an assertive driver. He had us there in no time flat. And the fact that I was busy clutching the arm rests and stomping on the imaginary passenger brake provided a nice smokescreen for whatever other anxiety might have been radiating off me.
We found Boswell’s van in an empty lot near a small warehouse. The vehicle’s windows were covered with black garbage bags and a plastic gallon jug sat beside the front passenger tire…clearly filled with water that had taken a trip through someone’s kidneys and come out the other side yellow.
A bunch of puzzle pieces slid into place. Boswell’s unwillingness to take my call. The fake mailing address. And the clincher—the fact that he was saving his own urine instead of just letting it splash down wherever it happened to land. Boswell was exactly the sort of guy I would’ve rubbed elbows with back in my institutionalized days. Not at Camp Hell, but at Cook County Mental Health.
“Say, Jacob, that apartment review Boswell posted…have you got it handy?”
He sent something to my phone, and I pulled it up and read.
I don’t know who these other people are who say this building is good but they must all ride bikes because there’s nowhere to park and their bikes are everywhere and they are not letting me park which is crazy because I have a parking spot and this guy told me that I could park here but then that guy was like no you can’t and he was yelling at me about it so anyways this is a shitty place. Plus there’s that dead lady always in the bedroom in this day and age you should have to disclose something like that. What good were the Ganzfeld reports if landlords can get away with renting an apartment that’s clearly haunted and not have to mention it. At the very least there should be a discount on the rent I’m thinking at least a hundred bucks a month.
I’d deliberately avoided reading it so I could form my own opinion of the scene. Now, I could see why Laura would want me to check it out—the lady in the bedroom was especially creepy nestled in there among all the mundane ravings.
Plus, the bedroom had been exactly where my flickering shadow was headed. Which either meant there really was a ghost after all…or Boswell had glimpsed a similar reflection bouncing through the dining room window.
Boswell would probably be better off with a visit from a social worker. But he was getting me. We got out of the car and walked toward the van. Jacob slowed as we approached, his gaze sweeping over the cracked windshield and mismatched hubcaps. Evelyn fell in behind us, silent but tense. She hadn’t even laid eyes on Boswell yet, but I could tell she was already tuning intowhatever vibe he was putting out. Fine by me—if she was picking up on his mental static, maybe she wasn’t picking up on mine.
I stepped up to the driver side door and rapped gently on the window, so as not to send the guy flying out of his skin. “Noah Boswell? It’s Victor Bayne—the one leaving all the phone messages. I just need a few minutes of your time.”
I paused. No response…though the van’s suspension creaked as someone inside repositioned themselves.
“It’s in regard to this review you left on ratemyapartment.com.”
Something clinked. But no one emerged.
Building rapport is challenging enough with a normal person. But if this guy wasn’t playing with a full deck, hard to say how, exactly, I should go about it. When Big Brother decided to make contact, some psychics received an amicable visit from a friendly FPMP empath, while others—like me—were treated with kid gloves and observed from afar, like gorillas in the wild.
Now I was beginning to think I should’ve brought along a few bananas.
If I led with the ghost, would that draw him in, or drive him even further underground? It could go either way. I glanced down at the review again, and decided to come at it from a different angle.
“Here’s the thing, Mr. Boswell. Maybe you can recoup some of your security deposit, maybe not. But I won’t know until you answer a few simple questions.”
The window I was shouting at powered down an inch, and a shifty pair of eyes peered out.
“Who did you say you were with?”
