“Of course.”
“You know all about breathing. How do I go about using it to lower my heart rate?”
“Well, that depends. Are you looking for short-term relief or long-term transformation?”
Clearly, I was supposed to transform. Why everyone thinks we should constantly evolve is beyond me, and I already regretted opening my mouth. Before she could get any funny ideas about unleashing my untapped potential, I pulled out my phone. Blip was right there on my lockscreen, eager for our next adventure.
Bethany Roberts can hold a five-minute plank without breaking a sweat. But though she tried to stay professional, her face did a subtle shift that screamedbless your sad little auraat the sight of the app.
“Ignore the graphics,” I said. “It’s quick and painless and it helps me get into alpha.”
She took my phone and scrolled through the app, frowning. “I’m not familiar…but I’ll download it and see what I can figure out.”
No doubt her score would be perfect. Not that we were competing.
I headed toward my office and found my partner Carl hard at work. There was nohi, how are you, how about the Bears/Bulls/White Sox/whatever. Who knows when my attempts at pleasantries had stopped, though there was no malice behind it. We were both glad enough to do our jobs and get on with our lives. Making nice is exhausting, and if anything, his relentless dourness was a relief.
And if ever I worried that maybe he was as miserable as he looked…I thought about his last partner and reminded myself I wasn’t nearly as annoying as Richie.
But before my butt was even in my seat, Carl had slid a printout across our shared desk. I perked up and scanned the assignment. A potential medium had cropped up for me to assess.
New psychics turned up all the time, usually in the mental health system, thanks to the standardized psych testing. But very few of them were mediums. Mostly because there was no accurate way to spot them without a handy ghost nearby—and a more powerful medium to confirm their readings.
“This oughta be good,” I said. Only a few places even had protocol in place to ID a potential medium. “Where are we talking? The police academy? The FBI?”
“RateMyApartment.com.”
Huh. That was a new one. I turned back to the page.
Noah Boswell, age 36, currently unemployed. Last known employer was the Chicago Transit authority, where he worked as a gate agent for approximately four months. Prior to that, he held a number of entry-level jobs, none for more than two years.
It went on to detail his education (high school and a few semesters of undergrad) and his marital status (twice divorced), as well as a bunch of hotspots where his cellphone had recently seen some use.
“Okay,” I said. “So F-pimp cares about this, why?”
“Keep reading.”
The apartment in question was a brownstone on a residential side street that was more than a little bit sketchy. The landlord had put up a huge stink about a review that claimed it was haunted—so big a stink that his bitching pinged the FPMP’s radar. I can only imagine how much crap the analysts on the second floor churn through every day to get even a potential hit. You never know which ones will amount to anything. I couldn’t say if I’d end up confirming a haunting or smoothing over a bruised ego.
I called our subject Boswell to get his take on the situation. He hung up on me.
Charming.
Carl was busy packing an exorcism kit—better safe than sorry—and he looked up when I tried again, then clucked my tongue in annoyance. “Great,” I said. “Now he muted me. It’s going straight to voicemail.” Fine. I’d leave a message. “Yeah, we appear to have been cut off,” I said drily. “AgentBayne of the FPMP with some followup questions about the last apartment you vacated. I just need to clarify a few details. Call me.”
I hung up and tilted back in my seat. “Here’s the thing,” I told Carl. “It would be so much easier to just talk to me for two seconds and get it over with.”
Carl didn’t say a word. But the look he gave me in return said,Sure, because you never avoid a damn thing.
I sighed. “Well, unless he’s working under the table, he’s got nothing better to do than meet with us. Let’s go have a little chat.”
We drove separately in case we needed to split up. And even though we’d left at the same time, when I got to Boswell’scurrent address, Carl looked like he’d already been there for ages. He’d parked halfway down the block, pretending to read a newspaper. I pulled up behind his shiny Lexus in my dented blue compact car. My engine light had been flickering, despite the mechanic checking and double-checking the thing and assuring me it was probably nothing more than a loose gas cap. I’d been at the FPMP long enough by now to qualify for a company car, but I was loathe to take them up on the offer. Convenient? Useful? Valuable? Sure. But I didn’t want all my comings and goings logged on my permanent record—even if they were as dull as a trip to SaverPlus.
Boswell currently lived on a block of plain brick postwar duplexes with small porch stoops and smaller lawns. The overall effect was drab and a little joyless, though a few residents tried to jazz things up with pots of flowers and painted woodenwelcomesigns.
Carl joined me on the sidewalk. “Got here ten minutes ago. Place is quiet, and the car’s still in the drive.”
Indeed, it was. A nicer one than mine. We stood on the stoop. I knocked decisively, in case Boswell was in the shower. Footsteps, and the door opened. Just a crack.
