Dead to Me

15

I left the restaurant and took three separate cabs back to the Lovecraft Café to make sure I wasn’t being followed. Pounding out a report was the last thing I wanted to do at this late hour, but I wanted to get all the details of my conversation with Jane down before they faded. Surprisingly, the Inspectre was still in, and he sat me down in his office to go over my dinner conversation with the enemy. I recounted the details as best I could while the old man poured himself some tea and processed everything I had told him. I could have kissed him for the hours he saved me on paperwork.

“I think she could break, sir,” I said with confidence. “She hasn’t been with them for long, and I think she might be our best chance at getting some useful intel on Irene and the wooden fish.”

“You really think so, my boy?” the Inspectre asked, sipping his tea.

I nodded.

“Hroomh,” he said. “I already have several avenues being pursued concerning this Sectarian Defense League, but if you think you have an angle…I say go for it.”

“Me?” I said and caught myself before I broke out laughing. “I’ve got a mountain of paperwork waiting for me as it is, sir. Maybe we could get a Shadower team on it…”

“Nonsense,” the Inspectre said. “You think I want Wesker’s lackeys in on this? Besides, they’re already overburdened. I’ve got faith in you, my boy.”

“That’s very kind of you, Inspectre,” I said, hoping I was coming off as polite as possible, “but it’s not really my jurisdiction. I really am swamped and Connor will kill me if—”

“Blast it, son!” he yelled, slamming his cup on the desk. Tea flew over the rim and soaked into the pile of papers beneath it. “Not your jurisdiction? What part of the Other in Other Division do you not understand?”

Quimbley wanted more intel, and that meant I would have to do my own surveillance work. I was looking forward to that in the same enthusiastic way I might look forward to a debilitating kick to the crotch. I didn’t mind offering up my services to the Department as far as my psychic abilities were concerned, but the type of work Shadower teams did was far too invasive for my liking.

“I’m not really comfortable with the idea of spying on someone, sir.”

“Well, then,” he said, reaching into one of his drawers and pulling out a pad with Fraternal Order of Goodness written across the top in Gothic-looking script. “What better way to get acquainted with surveillance work than with diving in both feet first! That’s a good lad.”

He wrote on it briefly, tore off the sheet, and held it out to me.

“Here,” he said. “Give this to whoever’s on duty in the supply room. I’ve made a list of surveillance equipment you’re going to need. Get some rest tonight, though. You look horrible. I want you out there skulking and stalking like the best of them tomorrow night, understand?”

I stood there, staring at the paper in his hand, but I didn’t reach for it.

The Inspectre sighed and stroked his mustache with his free hand. “I appreciate your concern over being a Peeping Tom, Simon, my boy. I truly do. But blast it, man, buck up! That’s an order.”

I took the paper from him and turned toward the door.

“That’s my boy!” he said, sounding like a dad at a father-son picnic. “Now go be lascivious!”

As high-tech as the spy gear in the black aluminum case was, the weight of it was almost more than I could contend with. Combined with the rest of the workload I brought home with me, it made an inconspicuous entrance into my apartment impossible.

Not that it would have mattered. When I opened the door, Irene was waiting expectantly on the couch and rose to greet me.

“Any luck?” she asked and the hope in her eyes just about killed me.

“The wheels of government-sponsored paranormal investigation turn slow,” I said, paraphrasing something I had heard Dave Davidson say.

Her face fell. “Well, how was your day anyway? Did you do anything exciting?”

I was reluctant to bring up my dinner “date” with the enemy so I simply shook my head. “Nothing special.”

“Well, I do hope you and Mr. Christos have better luck in the future,” she said. She sat back on the couch, but she was still visibly upset.

“I’m sorry, Irene,” I said, sitting on the couch next to her and throwing the aluminum case on the floor, “but on the plus side, I have this.”

The weight of the case had shaken the floorboards when it hit.

“What in God’s name is in that?” she said, eyeing it suspiciously.

“Technically, it’s part of your case,” I said. I flicked it open. The contents were a collection of gismos and gadgets that James Bond would have been in awe of. “I’ve got a little reconnaissance that needs doing.”

“Oh my,” she said. “I hope it’s nothing too dangerous.”

I slipped on my gloves. I picked up a pair of electronic eyes, fished out the instructions, and started reading up on how to calibrate them.

“Let’s hope not,” I said. “I signed on with the Department of Extraordinary Affairs, not the Department of Life-Threatening Affairs.”

She smiled.

“Does it have to do with anyone I know?” she asked. “Or anyone I would know if I could remember anyone I know?”

She was trying to make light of the situation, but her body flickered in and out for a second, showing her frustration.

“No one I can discuss yet,” I said, avoiding any talk of Jane for reasons both personal and professional.

“Well, what can you talk about then?” she snapped, and I looked up at her, taken aback. “Sorry.”

I thought for a moment of something safer to talk about while I fiddled with the light sensitivity on the eyes. How the hell was anyone supposed to figure these things out even with the instructions?

“Do you know anything about a wooden fish?” I asked. It seemed harmless enough to bring up something that I knew had been her property.

“A wooden fish?” she said, laughing. “No, I think I’d remember that.”

“Does the name ‘the Westmore’ mean anything to you?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Sounds like a hotel or an apartment complex. Did I die there?”

“I can’t really tell you,” I said, “but off the record? No. Not there.”

Nothing I mentioned was triggering any memories of her past.

“Speaking of apartment complexes,” she said, “I do believe you had a call from your building manager. He was going on about you falling behind on your maintenance…”

“Crap,” I said. I selected a parabolic mike from the case and futzed about, trying to open the satellite-dish-shaped cone around it.

“I take it that’s a bad thing?”

“Yes, it’s bad,” I said. “Unfortunately, working for the forces of Good isn’t quite as profitable as…um…my old profession.”

“Is there anything you can do?” she asked.

The concern in her voice was touching. I looked down at all the equipment spread out before me.

“Yeah,” I said with resolution, “I can probably take care of it tomorrow during the day. I’ll have to call in sick, though.”

“Are you not feeling well?” Irene asked.

“Outside of being ashamed for falling behind on my maintenance fees?” I said. “No, I feel fine.”

“Then what is it?”

“I need to play a psychometric round of The Price Is Right,” I said and threw the equipment back into the case. By tomorrow night, I was sure I would have figured out how to use it…