chapter ten

“Aw, jeez, again with goddamned BOFFO?”

We all turned at the sound, and the techs stopped pretending to be busy and actually became busy. Because Special Agent Greer was upon us, and mighty was his annoyance.

“We heard you guys had no clue how to catch bad guys, so we figured we’d come over and help you out. You’re welcome.” George grinned. Law enforcement was one of many perfect jobs for someone who thrived on and lived for confrontations. Also politics, door-to-door sales, and collections.

(A terrifying digression: George paid for college by working for Cutco. Cutco is a company that makes and sells knives. Their salespeople go door-to-door. George Pinkman talked his way into peoples’ homes with a big bag of knives and sold them potential murder weapons. Do I have to add that he was their top salesman three years running? I do not.)

“And you!” Greer added, appearing doubly peeved.

No. Not me. Greer had meant Cadence, and the silly man couldn’t tell us apart. How a law-enforcement officer could confuse a near-six-foot blue-eyed blonde with a barely-over-five-foot Asian-American with black hair and eyes was frightening to contemplate.

Not to mention, Dr. Gallo’s silent presence made the situation that much more startling. I was both pleased and irritated to see that Lynn had drawn him off to one side, leaving George and me to weather the wrath of Greer.

“Talk to you guys a minute?” Greer asked, a silly rhetorical question.

“You know, you could, except we’re busy taking care of this pesky serial killer thing,” George said with a bright, bright smile. “You know, the one your bosses gave to our boss, who gave it to us? Which is why you don’t have it? Which is why I’m wondering what your fat ass is doing here?”

“Stop!” I commanded before Greer’s jaw had dropped open to retort, and his hand dropped and clenched into a fist. “Of course. We all want the same thing.” Lie. “We’re all professionals.” Um … lie. “Come, we’ll step outside.” Truth!

George could kill Greer. But one never knew; Greer might get the upper hand. Then I would have to avenge my partner’s death by killing Greer. Then I would have to turn myself in to the authorities for killing Greer. Then, at best, my sister Adrienne would set fire to the jail. Somewhere in that turn of events, Dr. Gallo would flee the state, horrified and/or driven insane by the violence he had been a helpless witness to. None of these things would lead to the capture of the killer, which was paramount. More important than Greer’s pride. More important than George’s lack of mental muzzle. More important than my inappropriate fascination with Gallo.

So we stepped into the hall, and then around the corner by a soda machine, and the time needed to do that was necessary because, as I mentioned, Greer and I had not met. But Cadence had had a memorable encounter with him. I could not recall something that had not happened to me. But I could see it through Cadence’s eyes, and I had just enough time to do so.

*   *   *

It would have been a memorably unpleasant day anyway, and I had to meet up with the FBI guys who’d been told (told, mind you, not asked) they would now have to play nice with BOFFO. Past experience had taught me this would be trouble. Cops tended to be territorial.

Which is why Special Agent Greer greeted me with, “Are you kidding me with this shit or what?”

“It’s nice to meet you, too.” I was busily pulling on bootees and gloves. “I’m Cadence Jones.”

“And I’m pretty damned annoyed they’re calling you weirdos in.”

I just looked at him. I hated confrontations. Why couldn’t everybody just be nice all the time? I sort of hoped Shiro would come out and smack him around. Okay, not really. Wait. Yes, really.

“Why are you staring at me?”

“Uh … sorry.” Stupid Shiro who wouldn’t show up on command. “Listen, you get that it’s not my fault, right?” I heard my tone: anxious. Trying to soothe. Pathetic. Shiro! Come out already! This guy can probably smell my wanting-to-please, like a dog smells fear, or Snausages. “I mean, it wasn’t my decision or anything. You get that?”

“BOFFO? Friggin’ False Flag Ops? They’re handing this unbelievably tragic mess over to the nuthouse inmates?”

Was he asking me or telling me? “Um. Yes?” That seemed safe enough.

Shiro? Hellooooo? Anybody home?

Darnitall! Therapy was starting to work a little too well. It had been focused, of course, on fewer blackouts, and fewer kidnappings of my body by my sisters. But according to my doctors and, more important, my boss, Michaela (who had no investment in stroking me), I had created Shiro and Adrienne to help me in stressful situations. I created them when I was little, when I watched my father run over a Canada goose with a riding lawn mower and then get murdered by my mother. So where the gosh heck fiddly darn were they?

“This really hurts.” Greer was still bitching. I reminded myself that I could be in a worse situation: I could be standing over that poor boy’s body. I could be that boy. Count your blessings; count your blessings. So I just stood there. “First off, you guys are more like some sick urban legend than an actual department, okay? Most of the Bureau thinks you don’t exist. You’re the Area 51 of the FBI.”

Good.

“But to find out you do exist … and to find out you’re all…”

“Heavily medicated?” I suggested. “Emotionally disturbed?”

“No. I’m heavily medicated and emotionally disturbed; I’m in the middle of my third divorce. You guys are all certified crazies.”

“That’s true,” I admitted. “We are.” And we had the charts to back it up.

But Greer wasn’t interested in a conversation; he wanted a rant. So he groaned and moaned and made yanking motions in his hair—which would explain his monk’s fringe—and shook his head and rolled his eyes. I expected him to burst into flames at any moment, and/or collapse into a seizure.

And his suit was dreadful: shiny at the elbows, frayed at the cuffs. His paunch was emphasized by the coffee stain between his third and fourth shirt buttons. I might be crazy, but I’d been able to drink without spilling since I was four.

He smiled, and it completely changed his face. He instantly looked younger and much less testy. He almost looked friendly. It was like a magic trick! A really good one with lots of mirrors and a pretty girl in an indecently short sequined costume. I wondered why he didn’t smile more often.

“Do you feel better now?”

He thought about it. “Yeah. I kinda do. Sorry. Thanks. Uh, I know you’re just following orders.”

“That’s true,” I teased. “I am.”

“I hate today. I’m supposed to be at my daughter’s baseball game right now.”

I nodded. “Fourth of July stuff.”

“Yeah! I’m the Number One Guy on the Grill.” That’s just how he said it, too. You could hear the capital letters. “I got all this hamburger meat at a huge discount—my cousin works for Lorentz Meats.”

“Oh, yum,” I replied, impressed.

He nodded. “I know! And about fifty kinds of brats, and now my wife’s gonna cook and she’d burn water. You should have heard all the bitching when my pager went off. And not just from me. My wife was pretty mad, too. Instead I gotta…”

“It’s unbelievable! Crazy people wearing sidearms?” He scraped at his shirt with a fingernail. “It’s like a bad joke.”

“Or a genius idea,” I suggested. “Set a thief to catch a thief, and all that.”

“No, it’s a joke. Did Congress approve this? Where’s your budget coming from? Are you telling me somebody looked at the proposal for BOFFO and said, ‘Yup, sounds like a plan. Here’s a check, and don’t worry, we’ll keep ’em coming year after year. Now let’s be careful out there’? I don’t believe it!”

I blinked. He didn’t? That was strange. How was this a puzzle? “It’s the government.”

A short pause. “Okay, well. That actually makes sense.” A fellow government employee, and thus tortured by the same payroll/health benefits/administration personnel, he had to admit the truth, even if he didn’t like it. “But come on. You’ve got kleptomaniacs pilfering at crime scenes—”

“He eventually bags anything he can’t help grabbing.”

“—agents who are convinced their reflections are out to get them—”

“How do you know they aren’t?”

“—agoraphobes who live in your office—”

“Yeah, but think of all the money’s she’s saving on commuting costs. And rent.”

“—claustrophobes in tents on the roof of your office building—”

“It’s cheap 24/7 security.”

“—a phallically obsessed department head—”

I didn’t really have an argument for that one.

“—and agents who … well…” He gestured vaguely at me.

“Who have multiple personality disorder, now more commonly known as dissociative identity disorder,” I supplied helpfully. “Sybil Syndrome. Please don’t ever call it that.”

“Yeah, that. And don’t even get me started on Pinkman.”

“Nobody wants you to get started on anyone.” Especially George Pinkman. I paused. “Since you know about us anyway, I figure there’s no harm in explaining.”

“Oh, goody.”

“What civilians and the occasional Fed don’t understand is, I’m effective because of my psychological quirks. Though quirks may not be the strongest word, to be fair.

“A sociopath thinks nothing of bending a few rules to get his man. And a kleptomaniac knows how to take things away from a bad guy right under his nose. A histrionic can turn in an Oscar-worthy performance in any undercover situation. Like that.”

“Mmmm, sure. Just like that. Uh-huh.”

“So, are we at all helpful?”

“You’re being rhetorical, I guess.”

I answered myself. “Sure we are. Are we a pain in the tuchus? Yes. Worth the hassle to get the job done? Well, we have an eight-figure budget that sails through congressional budget justification every single year. What does that tell you?”

“That I should have voted for the other guy.”

I giggled. “Do you have anything else to get off your chest?”

He gave me an odd look. “What are you, my therapist?”

“No. Just someone who wants to catch this guy. Like you.”

“Catch him.” He nodded slowly. “Yeah, well. I don’t want to catch him. I want to hang him by his testicles until they fall off.”

“It’s good you’ve got goals.” In this instance, he had my sister’s goals.

“I’m sorry you had to leave your family on a family holiday.”

“You, too.”

I didn’t volunteer anything, and when I didn’t say anything he sighed, then opened the front door for me. “Come on. Kid’s in the basement.”

Thus making the basement the place I didn’t want to go. But I had work to do. We all did, thanks to the killer.