PsyCop 3: Body and Soul by Jordan Castillo Price Page A
Authors: Jordan Castillo Price
Tags: mm
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the onion-looking thing that tasted weirdly sweet for the fennel, and waited for Jacob to tell me about the real estate he'd seen.
Only he didn't. He kept me company while I ate, got me a refill on my soda, and told me he was going to go and read.
No condos. No duplexes. No brownstones. No bungalows.
Huh.
I took a shower, then walked through the apartment and turned on the two lights that were still off—a crooked torcheire behind the futon sofa and a reading lamp next to the laptop that I never open.
I found Jacob propped up in bed with all the pillows, reading a manual that looked like a cousin to that monster text that Zigler'd been reading at work. "What," I asked, "did someone reissue all that inconclusive bullshit they pass for psych research nowadays? The publisher must've wanted a new yacht."
Jacob smirked over the edge of the book. "It's the new PsyCop procedures that NYPD's going to put into place the first of the year. Chicago probably won't be too far behind."
I made a snoring sound.
Jacob shrugged. "You're not the only PsyCop in the room anymore, mister."
Sure. Only the most neurotic one. I stripped down to my boxers and crawled over Jacob with the intention of just resting my eyes for a couple of minutes. I faced the wall with my back toward Jacob and my head pillowed on my bent arm, and that was it for me.
I woke up confused. The bedroom lights were off, but there was enough light to see by from the living room spillover. Jacob was curled against my back and I was using his arm as a pillow. We were warm, almost too warm, but not quite yet, and his chest hair tickled my back when I shifted.
Then a noise from the kitchen: my cell phone ringing and clattering around on the countertop from its vibrating.
Had I overslept? I looked at the clock—two in the morning.
At least, I assumed it was morning. I needed a digital alarm clock with a gigantic am/pm that was impossible to miss.
Jacob peeled himself off my back and re-established his domain over all the pillows. "You want me to get that?" he said.
"No. It's Warwick." I rolled over Jacob clumsily. He was smirking. I take it he recognized the ring and hadn't actually been offering for the sake of being helpful. I'd need to watch out for that sense of humor of his.
The call had gone to voice mail by the time I stumbled to the kitchen. It was silent for a moment, then started ringing and dancing around again. I got it in one ring, that time.
"Bayne."
"The NPs turned up Andy Lynch's wallet in a Dumpster three blocks from the park. Money and credit cards gone, everything else intact."
Andy Lynch had been robbed? And then what? A whole bunch of crime scene techs were probably very, very happy that it was below freezing out as they combed through Dumpsters for body parts. Those things smelled bad enough even when they were frozen solid. "You need me to take a look?"
"Come down to the station, grab Zig, and get over to that Dumpster. It's the best lead we've had so far."
I took a quick shower, blow-dried my hair for two minutes on full power, and stepped into my shoes. Jacob met me by the door with my winter coat, a plain black wool number that I'd bought on impulse one day when I was freezing my ass off outside a Big & Tall shop. It had always fit me exceptionally well. It looked a lot better than I remembered it, what with all the lint brushed off and the buttons sewn on. "No rest for the wicked," Jacob said. He pressed himself against me and took my chin in his fingers, steering my mouth against his for a long, slow goodbye kiss. His lips lingered over mine, mostly chaste, except for a hint of tongue that grazed my lower lip, leaving me wanting more. He pressed a travel mug of coffee into my hands and unlocked the deadbolt. No mention of real estate. None whatsoever.
My previous boyfriends would've been baffled by the late-night summons to the station, had we ever been in the habit of sleeping in the same bed. Jacob was a PsyCop too; he understood
Only he didn't. He kept me company while I ate, got me a refill on my soda, and told me he was going to go and read.
No condos. No duplexes. No brownstones. No bungalows.
Huh.
I took a shower, then walked through the apartment and turned on the two lights that were still off—a crooked torcheire behind the futon sofa and a reading lamp next to the laptop that I never open.
I found Jacob propped up in bed with all the pillows, reading a manual that looked like a cousin to that monster text that Zigler'd been reading at work. "What," I asked, "did someone reissue all that inconclusive bullshit they pass for psych research nowadays? The publisher must've wanted a new yacht."
Jacob smirked over the edge of the book. "It's the new PsyCop procedures that NYPD's going to put into place the first of the year. Chicago probably won't be too far behind."
I made a snoring sound.
Jacob shrugged. "You're not the only PsyCop in the room anymore, mister."
Sure. Only the most neurotic one. I stripped down to my boxers and crawled over Jacob with the intention of just resting my eyes for a couple of minutes. I faced the wall with my back toward Jacob and my head pillowed on my bent arm, and that was it for me.
I woke up confused. The bedroom lights were off, but there was enough light to see by from the living room spillover. Jacob was curled against my back and I was using his arm as a pillow. We were warm, almost too warm, but not quite yet, and his chest hair tickled my back when I shifted.
Then a noise from the kitchen: my cell phone ringing and clattering around on the countertop from its vibrating.
Had I overslept? I looked at the clock—two in the morning.
At least, I assumed it was morning. I needed a digital alarm clock with a gigantic am/pm that was impossible to miss.
Jacob peeled himself off my back and re-established his domain over all the pillows. "You want me to get that?" he said.
"No. It's Warwick." I rolled over Jacob clumsily. He was smirking. I take it he recognized the ring and hadn't actually been offering for the sake of being helpful. I'd need to watch out for that sense of humor of his.
The call had gone to voice mail by the time I stumbled to the kitchen. It was silent for a moment, then started ringing and dancing around again. I got it in one ring, that time.
"Bayne."
"The NPs turned up Andy Lynch's wallet in a Dumpster three blocks from the park. Money and credit cards gone, everything else intact."
Andy Lynch had been robbed? And then what? A whole bunch of crime scene techs were probably very, very happy that it was below freezing out as they combed through Dumpsters for body parts. Those things smelled bad enough even when they were frozen solid. "You need me to take a look?"
"Come down to the station, grab Zig, and get over to that Dumpster. It's the best lead we've had so far."
I took a quick shower, blow-dried my hair for two minutes on full power, and stepped into my shoes. Jacob met me by the door with my winter coat, a plain black wool number that I'd bought on impulse one day when I was freezing my ass off outside a Big & Tall shop. It had always fit me exceptionally well. It looked a lot better than I remembered it, what with all the lint brushed off and the buttons sewn on. "No rest for the wicked," Jacob said. He pressed himself against me and took my chin in his fingers, steering my mouth against his for a long, slow goodbye kiss. His lips lingered over mine, mostly chaste, except for a hint of tongue that grazed my lower lip, leaving me wanting more. He pressed a travel mug of coffee into my hands and unlocked the deadbolt. No mention of real estate. None whatsoever.
My previous boyfriends would've been baffled by the late-night summons to the station, had we ever been in the habit of sleeping in the same bed. Jacob was a PsyCop too; he understood
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