Dead4u Page 7

  “What kind of dreams are we talking?” I inquired, lodging tongue visibly in cheek. “You mean like flying or being naked in public?”

  He stopped eating to look at me. “Anything that feels unusual to you. If your dreams normally feature a lot of prancing about in the raw, that wouldn’t interest me.”

  “Really?” I put a finger in my mouth and simulated oral sex. “Even if you participated in those dreams?”

  “I’m a scientist,” Griffin answered stiffly. “Not the pervert you appear to imagine.”

  “Whatever you say, doc. Excuse me.” Going total spaz with wide-open mouth, I feigned deep-throating action. “Hard to talk with my mouth crammed full. Oh yeah. Oh baby.”

  Griffin didn’t laugh. So I stopped. And we resumed our healthy meals in silence.

  Couple minutes later, reaching in sync for mineral waters our hands brushed. The contact was brief. Meaningless. Or so I told myself. Yet his skin felt warm on mine and I wondered, for just a fleeting moment, how he’d be in the sack. Which was totally stupid. After all, this was the man who’d made a digital copy of my mind and dumped it into a sociopath’s brain. Griffin couldn’t be trusted. And yet . . .

  We looked at each other, then away. During that evening’s movie, we maintained a discreet distance.

  Can’t be too safe, yeah?

  House/Day3-7

  Day Three: no more “aspirin”. Also absent: nagging about dreams, nausea and headaches. Suspicious much? Still, it made me wonder if I’d overestimated their importance. After all, a bit of nausea or the odd nightmare seemed like normal reactions. Bound to be some stress having your mind zapped into unfamiliar neural configurations. In any case, that unnerving sensation of dreams forgotten had passed like a dark cloud from my sunshiny thoughts.

  Everything was chill now. I was adjusting and making friends. Even considered taking a creative writing course or mastering vegan cuisine blindfolded.

  La-la-la.

  And so the rest of that first week dragged on with more of the same dreary bullshit. Running. Weights. Gymnastics. Intelligence. Ending of course with good old Hammer 101 presented by my new bestie: Wolseley The Wonder Dog.

  The healthy meals, endless water breaks and gut-ripping exercise turned into a blur. A week of this regimen had me going stir crazy. Just when I thought my poor head would explode, Novak told me that we were going on a field trip. Tomorrow.

  “Just us ladies,” she said brightly.

  I blinked. Had I heard right? Or had the voices in my head been talking again?

  “Why?”

  My question appeared to fluster Novak. She tried to hide it by smoothing out the lapels of that day’s skirt suit, a peach number adorned with topaz brooch. Clearing her throat, she said:

  “We’ve thrown a lot at you over a very short timeframe.” She held up a hand. “I know this isn’t your first undercover job, but it’s completely unique. No one has ever attempted something like this before. So we need to be sure that you can . . . handle yourself . . . in public, I mean.”

  Handle myself?

  A dirty mind’s a terrible thing to taste.

  Okay, I was positive this bitch was lying through her artificially whitened teeth. The Lane Novaks of our benighted world experience allergic reactions to truth. Makes them break out in hives or speak in tongues. Forked tongues, naturally.

  “Worried about me?” I put on my best Deep South drawl. “Why I can’t hardly wrap my li’l ole head ‘round that, ma’am.”

  “It’s not a big deal.” She made a throaty sound. “Baby steps, Nikita.”

  Yet I sensed this might be a very large deal. SpecOps was taking me out for a test drive. And my gut said this was one test I had to ace.

  Griffin suggested I turn in early. He could see how excited I was. Did I want something to help me sleep?

  I said no. Griffin left. I went to bed, closed my eyes and dropped like a stone into the lukewarm bathwater of oblivion.

  ◆◆◆

  “She’s dreaming again. Check the movement under those eyelids.”

  “Shush! I think she can hear us.”

  “Who cares? She’s totally clueless. Even if you told her straight out, she wouldn’t believe you.”

  “So why don’t you tell her? Maybe she’ll listen to you.”

  “Give her time. She’ll come around.”

  House/Day8

  Day Eight began with Griffin knocking on my door. When I yelled for him to go away, he apologized but insisted I hurry. Lieutenant Novak was picking me up in fifteen.

  That woke me up. Fast.

  ◆◆◆

  Given the time crunch, I chose a quick shower and tooth scrub. Wrapped in towels, I returned to my room to change into something clean. Only to find McCord’s mucky clothes laid out for me.

  I picked through the stuff. None of it had seen the inside of a washing machine. Gingerly raising the wrinkled black T-shirt to my nose, I sniffed and nearly gagged.

  I turned to search for Griffin and give him a piece of my mind. But he was standing at the door, arms crossed expectantly.

  I said, “This is my first time out in public as McCord. You expect me to walk around in this stuff?” When he said nothing, I added, “What the hell did you do? Drag her clothes through an alley and piss on them?”

  Griffin looked uncomfortable. He said, “We treated them to corroborate your cover story. Most women find that body odour worsens during their period . . .”

  I held up a hand to cut him off. Mansplaining can be funny. Being lectured on the fine points of menstruation? Not so much. “Just tell me it’s classified. Please.”

  He grimaced. “Crystal liked to cut loose after a gig. She’d binge on tequila and bennies. Smoke a little weed. Then she’d hit the clubs and hunt up couples looking for a third player.” Griffin made a “meh” face and shrugged. “We’re pretty sure Sweet knew what she was up to.”

  We?

  How did Griffin, a specialty contractor, know more about this case than I did? After seven days of briefing torture, a lab nerd was feeding me classified intelligence in pellet form. Did they think I was going to run a maze?

  Idiots.

  I said, “She liked getting trashed. So what? That doesn’t prevent her from doing laundry like a normal person. Or washing behind her ears. Some people even like to shower after a good sweaty screw. Or so I’ve heard.”

  Griffin held his hands palm up. “Not my call,” he said with a grin. “You can ask Novak when she gets here.” He paused as a door opened and footsteps thudded down stairs. Losing the grin, Griffin muttered, “Speak of the devil . . .”

  “And she shall appear,” I finished. “Fine. Stall her while I change, okay?”

  “You need to stay in character, Nikita.” Griffin gave an exasperated sigh. “McCord wasn’t a shy little wallflower, you know. The woman was hyper aggressive.”

  “Aggressive?” I hooted. “Give me a break. Men call women aggressive whether we say no thanks or make the first move. Anything outside the male chauvinist playbook is way too scary.” I glared at him. “And now this little wallflower would like to blossom in private. Okay?”

  Throwing up his hands, Griffin nodded and left. I heard voices arguing in the hallway. Novak didn’t sound happy. I could guess why.

  Pulling on McCord’s panties, I grimaced. Then it hit me. I was in McCord’s skin. This was McCord’s underwear. I wasn’t going to contract some nasty bacterial infection from my own underwear. I was being prissy for no good reason.

  The rest of her outfit was equally grungy. Ripped jeans with a couple condoms in one pocket. Clunky combat boots. Dressed to fuck or fight. As DEAD4U’s commentator would say: “You’ve been crunched, baby!”

  Fully dressed, I went into the hallway. Novak stood there in yet another skirt suit—electric blue this time. The toe of one ballet flat tapped an impatient Morse code.

  Novak gave me a quick once-over. Then she handed me a black leather sling purse. “That was on McCord when we pic
ked her up.”

  I took it from her. The bag was heavy. What the hell had McCord carried in it?

  Arching one eyebrow, Novak said, “Come along then. We’re burning daylight.” Turning, she stomped off on those black ballet flats. Leaving me to trail in her electric blue wake.

  Test Drive

  Novak’s vehicle was a budget-conscious compact. Dark grey. Two-seater. It personified mass-produced blandness. You could almost smell the taint of fastfood grease and cheap coffee.

  Given Novak’s lankiness, I found her choice odd. The woman was ten centimetres shorter than me. And her bony limbs required a lot more legroom than this plastic death cube would allow.

  “It’s small,” Novak conceded. “But parking’s a snap.”

  Great. This was going to be fun. Squeezing my large self through the passenger door, I banged my forehead against the car roof.

  “Shit!” I explored the affected area with a finger. “That’s going to bruise.”

  “You okay, hon?” Novak clucked her tongue. “Try not to scratch the paint. It’s a rental.”

  I gritted my teeth. Pushing with my legs, I levered my butt inside. Knees ended up grazing my chin. The rest of me spilled over and around the seat.

  “Buckle up,” said Novak. “We don’t want to get stopped for a seatbelt violation. Too many questions and not enough time.”

  Felt weird riding down the same stretch of road I’d been running for the past week. Snuck a peek at the odometer as we started off. When we finally reached the highway, I checked the odometer again.

  Twelve kilometres. My runs had stopped a mere two K from thumbing a ride to civilization. Would I have made it before SpecOps pulled the plug? As I mulled the odds, Novak said:

  “You were smart not to run. Don’t get dumb now.”

  ◆◆◆

  Riding in that toy car was a truly freaky experience. Got me to thinking how I’d lived in a petite bubble all my life. Everything had fit just so. There was no discomfort, effort or adjustment to make. Why? Because the world had been designed for women exactly like the one I used to be.

  Except now I’d become somewhat larger than life. I was Madam Crunch: ninety kilos of mayhem and murder. And the whole fucking world was cramping my style.

  Then I had a thought. Novak had rented this torture device to give me insight into Crystal McCord. But a moment’s reflection told me that was ridiculous. This was a job. Not Method Acting 101.

  As I chuckled at my stupidity, Novak gave me a sharp look sidewise.

  “Care to share?” she asked.

  “You first.”

  Novak relaxed her shoulders. “What do you want to know?”

  “Whatever you know that I don’t. Let’s start there and work forward.”

  She didn’t answer. Just pursed those thin lips and kept driving. Not liking the silent treatment, I snapped:

  “You want results? You have to trust me.”

  Novak’s bony fingers tightened their grip on the wheel. “We work on a need-to-know basis for a reason. The department has leaks. You said it yourself. But anything I can tell you, I will tell you—especially if it impacts the mission. But we can’t permit carte blanche access to SpecOps data. You need to respect our boundaries. Okay? Imagine if everyone in the department knew that Nikita Chen was alive and kicking as Crystal McCord.” She paused to let that sink in. “How long do you think you’d last in the real world, Detective?” Novak snorted. “If Sweet sussed you out, he’d have you put down like a rabid dog.”

  “Point made,” I allowed grudgingly. “Give me what you can.”

  Novak thanked me for understanding her position. When I asked if that would be doggie or cowgirl, she did that annoying fake laugh people use to let you know they’re not amused. Very ha-ha unfunny.

  I checked my nails for dirt and yawned.

  Realizing I wasn’t going to ask again, Novak proceeded to list known scumbags to whom—per our snitches—Sweet had pieced out bits of his operation. It was a long list. Some of the names were familiar. Most weren’t.

  Halfway through, I zoned out. No way I’d remember this much info without flash cards. And what was the point, really? If Sweet and his crew accepted me into the inner circle, I could file this cloak-and-dagger chitchat under U for Useless.

  Leaving the industrial park, we entered the outskirts of a vast housing development. Mountains of earth dotted this giant sandbox. Bulldozers scooped; trucks hauled it away. Men, in yellow hardhats and vests, swarmed over the torn surface. Above, a bright morning sun glistened through puffs of black diesel smoke.

  We were driving into the city.

  Ghosting Along

  Novak took us westside. This was the pricey part of town. It boasted two major universities, wooded parkland, a zoo and several white sand beaches—one clothing optional. The city’s movers and shakers chilled here after hard days of swindling widows and orphans. Their gigantic glass mega-mansions stood shoulder to shoulder on a leaf-covered boulevard overlooking an ocean they’d helped pollute with industrial waste.

  Okay. I was in a mood.

  Novak parked in front of a private boy’s school. Being summer, the schoolyard was empty except for a shirtless fat man in baggy shorts seated on a red riding mower while sucking on a yellow lollipop.

  Shirtless Man ignored us. I was only too happy to do likewise.

  Novak said, “Don’t worry. I park here all the time. They don’t even have summer school here. All those rich brats are off skiing or trashing their parents’ yachts.”

  I glanced at Lieutenant Novak. There was a bitter edge to her tone. Money problems? Or envy? Lane Novak, I decided, had unresolved issues just like the rest of us.

  We walked along the parkway under a canopy of oaks and maples. The ocean wore a calm blue face today. There were no clouds. A light breeze ruffled my hair and caressed my face. It was a perfect day. So perfect I nearly forgot I’d been murdered and lived on in my killer’s body.

  “What are we doing here?” I complained. “It’s nice, but . . .”

  Novak stopped and grabbed my arm. She pointed at a mega-mansion tucked away behind a cedar hedgerow taller than me. All I could make out was a glass balcony jutting out from the second floor.

  “You’re going in there,” she whispered.

  “Why? And what’s with the whispering? Are the bushes listening?”

  She held a finger to her lips.

  “That’s one of the properties Sweet bought to launder his money. Your name’s on the deed, by the way.”

  “This is . . . mine?”

  “Registered owner is Crystal McCord.”

  Visions of my squalid apartment paraded like ugly postcards through my head. As a city detective, the better parts of this town had always lain beyond my financial grasp.

  I shouted, “Holy fuck! I’m rich!”

  Novak rolled her eyes. “Lower your damned voice, okay? The place is wired inside and out.”

  I whispered back, “Do I get to keep it?”

  “No. Money laundering is a crime. The proceeds of criminal activity are subject to seizure and forfeiture.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “You didn’t know money laundering was illegal?” Novak coughed. “Better brush up on the law, Detective.”

  “No. I mean I don’t get why McCord does what she does when she’s got all this.” I waved at the hedgerow. “You can buy a small country for the price of one of these.”

  Novak gave a bitter laugh.

  “McCord didn’t know. She thought Sweet owned it. In fact he bought the place through an offshore corporation yet neglected to inform the owner. Imagine that.”

  “If a corporation purchased this place, how is it mine exactly?”

  “You hold fifty-one percent of the company’s stock—at least on paper. Sweet controls the rest, with an option to buy you out for one dollar in the event of your untimely demise.” She paused to let me digest this nugget. “You can see why he didn’t want McCord to know.”
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  “One dollar?”

  “I’ve seen the corporate filings. You’re listed as company president; he’s the treasurer.”

  “So I’m President McCord—as long as I’m alive. Wonderful. And why am I going inside?”

  “Sweet’s people are watching McCord’s house. But she and Sweet stay here sometimes. Odds are she’ll have clothes stashed for the odd sleepover. Worst-case scenario: you come out with a toothbrush and fresh undies.” Novak cleared her throat. “When you see him next week, you’ll explain how you wanted to get your head straight and needed some alone time. He can check the home’s security cameras and verify that you showed up here to grab some stuff.” She paused. Arched one perfectly plucked brow. “Got all that? Or am I going too fast?”

  This bitch had to die. “No worries,” I told her. “I’m a quick study.”

  “Check your purse. That’s all McCord had on her when we picked her up.”

  I unzipped the sling bag. There was a wallet, key ring, emergency tampon and a Glock 19 with spare clip. Pulling the gun out carefully, I checked the indicator. There was a round in the chamber. I looked at Novak.

  “Relax,” she muttered. “McCord didn’t shoot you with that gun. She used a knife.”

  The thought of a blade slitting my throat or puncturing a kidney made me wince.

  “Am I going to need this?” I asked.

  “Probably not, but we can’t afford to lose you.” Novak handed me a key. “Alarm code is 780175. Panel is in the kitchen. You’ve got one minute to enter the code before the security company calls Sweet.” She smiled. “Place should be empty. Meet me back at the car.”

  ◆◆◆

  The key fit. I found the control panel and entered the secret code. Thankfully, it worked. No doubt SpecOps had bribed someone for the master code or—more likely—breached the security company’s firewall. I took a moment to scan the place.

  Place was straight out of those ritzy interior design rags. Airy. Open concept. Posh with a capital P. Beige walls. Beige rugs. Beige armchairs. Beige couch. Glass tables—of course. Design magazines were strewn casually on the mantel of a beige fireplace that had never seen flames. And over that beige couch: a beige oil painting with three pink dots positioned asymmetrically.