Murder House (PsyCop Book 10) by Jordan Castillo Price

Author:Jordan Castillo Price [Price, Jordan Castillo]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: JCP Books LLC
Published: 2019-04-15T18:30:00+00:00

20

Every time I’ve spotted an FPMP agent in the field and felt smug about it? I take it back. All of it. Pretending to be someone else is really freaking hard.

I was fully aware how lucky I was to be paired up with someone as well-versed in undercover work as Bly, and even he was getting frustrated with Hale. Together, we walked the few blocks back to the murder house with our hands jammed in our pockets and our heads bent against the cold. “How did the old guy outpace us?” Bly wondered.

“He probably hopped a cab.” I sighed, and my breath gusted out in a cloud of February frost. “God, that was excruciating. I’m glad you showed up when you did and saved me from having to try to talk about the thing I supposedly wrote. Bad enough trying to get through the reading. I pity the poor schlub who had to write it.”

“I randomly generated those things based on a few lists of keywords.”

I shot him a “Seriously?” look.

“What do you want from me?” he sniggered. “If you’d looked at them yourself, you would’ve figured out some way to get out of the reading.”

We trooped up the front walk and Bly held open the storm door as I fit my key into the lock. Those gay intellectuals at the bookstore weren’t the only ones moving in sync. Bly might abandon me to the tender mercies of our neighbors during the day, but we’d still spent a fair amount of time in each other’s company lately, and the two of us were starting to coordinate our movements like a real couple.

These days, I was definitely thinking about him less like the random empath at work—one who’d taken a serious volley of ectoplasmic spewage from Jennifer Chance—and more like an actual…what? “Friend” was a bit presumptuous, but “colleague” seemed awfully dry.

I handed off my coat since he was closer to the coatrack, and realized it was the same type of casual action I would’ve taken with Jacob. Not a particularly splashy move, just a nod to pragmatism—a dropping of the inconvenient please-and-thank-you you’d use with a co-worker.

The best term for what Bly had become for me over the past few days was a partner. It might be a loaded word. But it fit.

We headed off to the kitchen to eat our skimpy dinners and talk in low tones beneath the camouflage of music. He’d endured a stressful day. Something about sorting out a stockbroker leveling an accusation of undocumented unethical precognition at one of his competitors. It sounded complicated. Probably because I was still leery of the FPMP’s purported mission. And also because I’d never had much to do with civil litigation.

As he spoke, I considered how deep he was in with the Program. Pretty damn deep. He was the pet empath of the last director. He must’ve been given a stunning amount of info on Con Dreyfuss’s projects—one of which had been me. Heck, he’d even admitted that he’d recently seen my file.

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