immediately—the guy from the holding cells.
“You’ve met Jack Bly?” Dreyfuss said.
“Not…formally.”
“This is Detective Victor Bayne,” Dreyfuss supplied.
“The PsyCop,” Bly said.
I wasn’t quite sure where to look since Bly was watching me so hard. Hopefully he wasn’t gearing up for some kind of pissing match. “The PsyCop,” I confirmed, and went back to my spinach, or maybe kale.
“Are they out of steak?” Richie asked. I saw that Bly had picked the vegetarian entree too. “They’ll make more if you tell them to.”
Bly turned his unflinching gaze to Richie and said, “I like chard.”
Richie couldn’t fathom that other people might want to drive some other model of car, or spend Thanksgiving somewhere else, or eat a different meal, so he looked like he’d just been slapped with a rubber hose. When he recovered, he gave out a tentative, “Heh-heh.”
As we finished our food to an account of next year’s draft order and an opinionated assessment of a handful of free agents, Dreyfuss asked me, “Will you be requiring Agent Duff’s services this afternoon as well? Or shall I leave you in Agent Bly’s capable hands?”
Obviously he was trying to manipulate me into doing one of those two things, but given the likelihood of multi-reverse psychology, I was at a loss as to which option he was gunning for. “Richie doesn’t need to come along,” I decided, not because I was trying to thwart Dreyfuss, but because I’d grown profoundly weary of the subject of football.
My experience of the FPMP wasn’t quite the same with Bly as my babysitter. Sure, it was a lot more peaceful. If he had any strong opinions about the Bears’ defense, he kept them to himself. Something about him set me on edge, though. While he seemed knowledgeable about the building, and while he did answer whatever questions I asked, there was a subtle knowing in his eyes that made it seem like he was holding back a lot more than he was saying. Plus, I had the sense that he was watching me too closely, kind of like the fake cops Dreyfuss had planted at my precinct.
Fine. I’d keep one eye on him, one on the tour…and another on potential spirit activity. Luckily, the facility didn’t require much attention. An office is an office—and we saw plenty of offices. No spirits, though. No repeaters, and no sentient ghosts, either. Once we’d exhausted the offices, we took a walk through the parking garage. Plenty of Lexuses. No ghosts.
I supposed it was possible Dr. Chance had moved along sometime in the past few months. I wouldn’t know for sure until I asked Lisa. Although it might be for nothing, poking around all the dark corners of the FPMP had made me feel less antsy about Jacob spending his days here. Unless you were worried about developing a nasty case of carpal tunnel syndrome, there was really nothing to be scared of at the FPMP headquarters beyond the surveillance we already endured as a known Psych and Stiff.
The elevator released a herd of dark-suited agents who dispersed to their respective Lexuses. Good thing the headlights flashed when they tapped their key fobs, otherwise they’d be roaming around down there all night trying to determine which Lexus was whose. One by one, they rolled toward the exit. As we watched the cars begin to file out, Bly actually initiated conversation. “So, how do you like being a PsyCop?”
“If Dreyfuss recruited you to extol the virtues of the FPMP,” I said, “it’s not gonna work.”
“Nope.” Bly cracked a smile, the first one I’d seen on him all day, and gave a dismissive laugh. “Just curious.”
The last thing I felt like doing was chatting, especially with him. If I had been feeling chatty, I would have made a quip about being unaware that there were actual set work hours here since Jacob had been putting in ten and twelve hour days. I didn’t need some stranger to be privy to that very personal bit of information, though. Especially one who
“You’ve met Jack Bly?” Dreyfuss said.
“Not…formally.”
“This is Detective Victor Bayne,” Dreyfuss supplied.
“The PsyCop,” Bly said.
I wasn’t quite sure where to look since Bly was watching me so hard. Hopefully he wasn’t gearing up for some kind of pissing match. “The PsyCop,” I confirmed, and went back to my spinach, or maybe kale.
“Are they out of steak?” Richie asked. I saw that Bly had picked the vegetarian entree too. “They’ll make more if you tell them to.”
Bly turned his unflinching gaze to Richie and said, “I like chard.”
Richie couldn’t fathom that other people might want to drive some other model of car, or spend Thanksgiving somewhere else, or eat a different meal, so he looked like he’d just been slapped with a rubber hose. When he recovered, he gave out a tentative, “Heh-heh.”
As we finished our food to an account of next year’s draft order and an opinionated assessment of a handful of free agents, Dreyfuss asked me, “Will you be requiring Agent Duff’s services this afternoon as well? Or shall I leave you in Agent Bly’s capable hands?”
Obviously he was trying to manipulate me into doing one of those two things, but given the likelihood of multi-reverse psychology, I was at a loss as to which option he was gunning for. “Richie doesn’t need to come along,” I decided, not because I was trying to thwart Dreyfuss, but because I’d grown profoundly weary of the subject of football.
My experience of the FPMP wasn’t quite the same with Bly as my babysitter. Sure, it was a lot more peaceful. If he had any strong opinions about the Bears’ defense, he kept them to himself. Something about him set me on edge, though. While he seemed knowledgeable about the building, and while he did answer whatever questions I asked, there was a subtle knowing in his eyes that made it seem like he was holding back a lot more than he was saying. Plus, I had the sense that he was watching me too closely, kind of like the fake cops Dreyfuss had planted at my precinct.
Fine. I’d keep one eye on him, one on the tour…and another on potential spirit activity. Luckily, the facility didn’t require much attention. An office is an office—and we saw plenty of offices. No spirits, though. No repeaters, and no sentient ghosts, either. Once we’d exhausted the offices, we took a walk through the parking garage. Plenty of Lexuses. No ghosts.
I supposed it was possible Dr. Chance had moved along sometime in the past few months. I wouldn’t know for sure until I asked Lisa. Although it might be for nothing, poking around all the dark corners of the FPMP had made me feel less antsy about Jacob spending his days here. Unless you were worried about developing a nasty case of carpal tunnel syndrome, there was really nothing to be scared of at the FPMP headquarters beyond the surveillance we already endured as a known Psych and Stiff.
The elevator released a herd of dark-suited agents who dispersed to their respective Lexuses. Good thing the headlights flashed when they tapped their key fobs, otherwise they’d be roaming around down there all night trying to determine which Lexus was whose. One by one, they rolled toward the exit. As we watched the cars begin to file out, Bly actually initiated conversation. “So, how do you like being a PsyCop?”
“If Dreyfuss recruited you to extol the virtues of the FPMP,” I said, “it’s not gonna work.”
“Nope.” Bly cracked a smile, the first one I’d seen on him all day, and gave a dismissive laugh. “Just curious.”
The last thing I felt like doing was chatting, especially with him. If I had been feeling chatty, I would have made a quip about being unaware that there were actual set work hours here since Jacob had been putting in ten and twelve hour days. I didn’t need some stranger to be privy to that very personal bit of information, though. Especially one who
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