The room was small and cozy, with a leather couch, a glass-fronted bookcase, and a large television mounted to the wall. It presumably had a good Wi-Fi connection as well — everything someone would need to wile away the time when stuck in one place. The only discordant notes were the bare linoleum floor and a recliner with sturdy leather straps where someone's chest, waist, and wrists would be.
Bowers got up from the couch when I entered. He looked better — his skin had lost that translucent quality and he had clearly showered before changing into FBME sweat pants and a t-shirt — but there were lines around his eyes that hadn't been there that morning. The casualness of bare feet made him seem like a different person from the immaculately dressed man I saw at work. Still, in comparison, I felt grubby and out of my depth.
"You're looking good," I said, forcing the light tone that everyone used when visiting sick people in the hospital.
He cast me a withering stare. "Stop acting like I have a terminal illness. I'm fine. Have a seat. Do you want coffee or something to eat? They have a decent chef here."
"No, thanks." Deciding the recliner had too much of a bondage vibe going for me to relax in it, I sat on one end of the couch and pulled the duffle bag into my lap. "I brought you a present."
"You didn't have to…" He trailed off as I dug out his gun and the magazine that I'd stored in a spare evidence bag. "Thanks. I assumed you'd handed it off to the crime scene techs and I was never going to hear the end of it."
"I didn't improve the FBME's reputation when I had to ask one of the Silver Edge people to make it safe for transport," I warned him. "I didn't want to put it in the duffle bag and accidentally shoot someone on the subway."
He blinked. "We should go to the range so I can show you how to safely handle a weapon. Just in case."
Though my initial response was to refuse — Why would I need to know anything about guns when I was back in my real job? — I considered everything that had happened in the last two days. "Okay."
We lapsed into silence. On my part, I was trying to find the best way to say Hey, I think someone is trying to kill you without sounding like a complete idiot. His thoughts were apparently running in a different direction.
"I wanted to thank you," he said finally. "I know I've been treating you like you aren't qualified for the job, but you handled yourself like a pro in that apartment. If you hadn't, it would have been bad. Really bad."
I started, "Bowers." Then I stopped and started again. "Sorry, if you're going to be barefoot, I'm using your first name."
"Agreed," he said gravely.
"Okay. Simon," I said, stressing his name, "you couldn't find anyone less qualified to do the job I've been cosplaying for the last two days. You've been showing me how it works without being a condescending ass about it. And I think you're not giving yourself enough credit."
"For nearly losing control and killing you?"
"For keeping it together long enough for help to arrive," I corrected. "All those deaths in Seattle? You're the only one who's survived to say what happened."
He stared at me.
I waved a hand. "Look, can we put your emotional crisis to the side for a few minutes? We have bigger issues." I paused. "Wait. That came out wrong. I'm not saying your feelings aren't important."
Simon rolled his eyes. "Get on with it."
I took the exit he'd given me so I didn't dig the hole any deeper. "Can you think of any reason someone at work would be trying to sideline you?" Attempting to be as coherent as possible, I ran through my reasons for the question, from my suspicion that a trap had been set for him at Mo's apartment, to the deliberate sabotage of the evidence we'd gathered there, and ending with the neighbor's report of an FBME agent hours before we'd found the bodies along with the deadly bracelet.
He leaned back and considered my words. When I finished, he grimaced. "All that could just as easily have been aimed at you. You're the one who almost died both times."
"Yeah, but there would be no point in killing me. I don't run investigations — I just write reports for the artifacts they hand me. If I died, there are another fifteen people who would keep going."
He shook his head slowly. "Your lack of ego is amazing."
I sighed and flopped back on the couch. "If only my dissertation advisor had agreed with you."
With a throaty noise I suspected might be his version of a laugh, Simon said, "You have a reputation, you know. Even up on the sixth floor."
For a moment, I stared at him, horrified, convinced that my drunken ramblings at the departmental Christmas party had surfaced to kill this career as well. Then I remembered that nobody at the FBME would care what I'd said about the department chair at the university. "What?"
"The reports you write. People request you for their cases by name because the reports don't get torn apart on cross examination."
That was the first I'd heard of it. Though it might explain the unexpected hostility I'd encountered from a coworker a few weeks ago. I'd just assumed I'd run afoul of another unwritten rule about sending questions directly to the investigator. "Okay, but being good at my job and being worth killing are two different things. I still think it must be you."
"Or it's just coincidence."
I'd been afraid he might say that. "Soaking the evidence in salt water couldn't have been coincidence."
"No, but you didn't lick any last night before we logged them in, did you? Maybe it was a residue leftover from setting the spell. And, by the way, licking evidence is a really stupid thing to do. Who knows what you might have exposed yourself to?"
"I needed to know," I protested. "What about the FBME agent the neighbor saw? How do you explain that away?"
"Maybe she lied. Or maybe her vision isn't great, and she misidentified the person who came by. I'm not saying there isn't something going on, but a conspiracy within the FBME? Do you know how unlikely that is?"
He wouldn't like what I said next. After putting the duffle bag on the ground, I kicked off my shoes and brought my knees up, turning so I was facing him. "I kept the bracelet we found at Joshua's."
"You what?" He tilted the left side of his head toward me, as if he hoped he would hear different syllables if I repeated myself.
"I never logged it in. I've still got it with me."
His gaze locked on the duffle bag at my feet. "In there."
"Yes."
Simon closed his eyes. "Let's ignore the fact that you brought it here, the building with the highest concentration of vampires in the city. You just tampered with evidence. If any charges get filed for those deaths, they'll have to exclude the findings."
"It's been in my possession the entire time," I argued. "There would be no reason to exclude it." There would also likely be no case — both Joshua and the vampire who had killed him were dead.
He opened his eyes and looked at me for a long moment, all trace of our earlier rapprochement gone. Finally, he said, "I need to call Salt."
Well, feeling like I wasn't a complete failure had been fun while it lasted. He was probably right. I'd based my decision on faulty information.
Shoving my feet back into my shoes, I asked, "You want me to leave it here with you?" I dug through the duffle bag and pulled out the mahogany cube, still sealed in its evidence bag.
With his phone pressed against his ear, Simon held out his other hand and took it between two fingers. I stood and shouldered my duffle bag. "See you on Monday." Assuming I still had a job on Monday after Salt found out I'd been hanging onto evidence. And honestly, with the way things had gone the past two days, that might be just as well. Maybe I could go back to tutoring undergrads.
Between now and Monday, I still had to get through Julie's memorial service and avoid answering any questions my mother asked about my father. Screw the FBME. I didn't need the extra stress.
My sense of being out of place grew as I stood in the empty hallway waiting for the elevator. What had I been thinking, taking a job at the FBME? I'd never fit in there. I certainly didn't fit in here, at Silver Edge. Half an hour from now I would be lounging on our lumpy couch in my most comfortable sweatpants and it would be glorious.
The elevator dinged just as Simon called me. "Perkins! Wait!"
When I turned, I saw him standing in the open doorway, his feet still bare. The elevator door slid open behind me, but I didn't move.
He beckoned me toward him, and I realized he might not be able to leave the room. "You have to hear this."
For two seconds, I considered getting on the elevator and leaving. He wouldn't be able to stop me. Telling Trix about my day would go a long way in helping me process it.
But there hadn't been enough time for Bowers to tell Salt what I'd done and then wait for her to finish yelling about it.
I stayed where I was. "Why?" Maybe what I'd done was so serious she was sending someone over to take me into custody and Bowers was supposed to detain me until then. If so, my best bet was to run, unless I wanted to spend the next decade in federal prison. The FBME onboarding paperwork had made it very clear they didn't screw around when there was malfeasance.
But Simon looked worried and unsure of himself, not like someone who had the strength of the FBME behind him. "Someone attacked the CSI van on their way back to The Vault and torched all the evidence they'd collected. You might be right."