Брайан Макклеллан - Uncanny Collateral

Justin Hamilton was in his midthirties and had been with OtherOps for over a decade. If he weren’t such a nice guy, I’d probably hate his guts. He was tall, thin, black-haired and svelte, with movie-star cheekbones. He had that kind of easy smile that makes Maggie go ooh every time we see him. We met before he joined OtherOps – back when Ada enrolled me in jujitsu as a teenager so I would be more useful to her.

We’ve been friends ever since, even though I don’t actually get to see him that often. Most OtherOps agents will do anything to fuck with reapers. They resent us because we’re better-paid independent contractors who can get away with murder. We resent them because they have better work hours, government job security, and can get away with murder. Justin and I have never had that issue. I do the occasional favor for the local OtherOps office, and in exchange, his boss gives him quite a lot of leniency when I ask for information that a regular cop would definitely get in trouble for handing out.

We shook hands, and he gave me that damned smile, even though it was eight AM. I was running on less than two hours of sleep, so my response came out as a grimace. “What are you doin’ here so early?” he asked, looking at his watch. “We’re a little too old to have beer for breakfast.”

“Are we?” I joked, following him inside after the rest of the day shift had gone ahead. “We do need to set up that drink. Next Thursday?”

“I’ll make the time if you will.”

“Barring an emergency…”

Justin rolled his eyes. He doesn’t know exactly what my circumstances are with Ada, but he suspects them. One of the reasons we get along so well is because he doesn’t take it personally when I cancel on him at the last moment in favor of work. Other than the seven-hundred-year-old jinn on my finger, Justin is my only actual friend. Which, on its own, is kind of depressing.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Cork and Bottle?”

“Sounds good to me. Hey, did you follow up on that meth house full of dead imps?”

“Follow up on it?” he asked, swiping an ID badge and holding the door open for me. “We brought in a whole team from Columbus to sort through that mess. They were working all night.”

“Any idea what killed the imps?”

He shook his head. “We sent a few samples to the lab, but that shit takes forever to process. Our best guesses were a werewolf or a wendigo.”

“But neither of them really fits.”

“Exactly.” Justin waved hello to one of the night shift and set his coffee on his desk, then leaned against the wall of his cubicle. “Could have been damn well anything. There’re Others out there that we know next to nothing about, so when something like this happens, we sort through the usual suspects first, then head to the more obscure.”

“Let me know if you get anything,” I said. A secretary squeezed between us with an “Excuse me,” and I caught one of the junior OtherOps agents staring at me from two cubicles over. I tend to stand out in a room full of black suits and smart polos. I gave him a toothy grin, and he quickly looked down.

Justin crossed his arms. “So are you going to tell me what all this is about? First you ask me to run an ID on a picture of a dead imp, then a whole meth crew winds up dead at the address I give you.”

“Not sure if they’re related,” I lied.

“Not sure, huh?” Justin asked skeptically. “Where’d you get that picture?”

“Sorry, client confidentiality.”

Justin snorted. “If I were a cop, I’d be suspicious.”

“If you were a cop, I’d be sitting in a little room with two of your detectives and a lawyer right now. Lucky for me, you’re not.” I threw up my hands. “Look, if I come across anything that falls under OtherOps purview, you’ll be my first phone call.”

“Unless your clients ask you not to call me,” he retorted.

Justin is, if you haven’t been able to tell, far too clever for his own good.

He asked, “Did you come all the way out here at this hour just to ask me about that? You could have called.”

“Not exactly,” I said. “Do you still have that necromancer in lockup?”

“Sure I do. He refuses a lawyer and won’t tell us what he’s after or who he is. We know nothing about him or his motives. Until we do, he stays under lock and key.”

A thought struck me. “Do you think that he thinks someone is going to let him out of here?”

“No idea. Don’t particularly care. I’m not a fan of punk kids with a pile of talent and no discipline. Another week or two, and we’ll send him to the pen in New York. He won’t be my problem anymore, which suits me fine.”

I nodded along, trying to figure out what this necromancer kid gained by staying silent. Coming up with nothing, I said, “This is going to sound like an odd request, but can I talk to him?”

Justin raised one eyebrow. “Not against any rules as far as I know. Be my guest.”

“Alone. No cameras. No microphones.”

“Oh, come on. You can’t seriously ask that after a whole bunch of imps wound up dead with you at the scene. We know you didn’t do it, of course, but your name is still on the report for a massacre.”

“I’m not going to kill him,” I protested. “I just want to see if he’ll talk to me when no one’s listening.”

Justin sighed and made a dismissive gesture. “I’ve got to get to work. You do whatever you want to do. Just don’t beat the shit out of him or anything. The guys up top smile favorably on you for that bunyip business, but they’ll stop smiling if you rough up a perp. Our suppression team will be just outside if you need them.”

Five minutes later, I sat behind an empty desk in a small white room buried in one corner of the OtherOps building. It had a single fluorescent light and no windows, and I imagined it was the place they sent new hires who hadn’t yet been given a cubicle. I took a few moments to consider my next move on Ferryman’s case. I knew I couldn’t waste any more time on this necromancer business than I already had. I’d have to hit the pavement again the moment this meeting was over.

None of it made sense. Murdering the imps to cover up the secondhand soul business was the move of an amateur. If they were trying to bury the whole thing, adding a pile of bodies would do little more than attract OtherOps’ attention. But if whoever was doing this had access to a creature that Maggie couldn’t pin down, they weren’t an amateur.

And then there was Ferryman. Whoever stole those souls had to know that Ferryman would get involved eventually, and he’s about the only thing in the Other who will scare literally everyone. Were we dealing with someone who was insane? Stupid? Arrogant? All of the above?

I tucked all those thoughts away for later as the door opened and Nick the Necromancer was led inside by a pair of very large individuals in tactical vests. They shoved him into the chair across from me, shot me a single glance, and retreated into the hallway, where I got a glimpse of an elderly woman with crosses tattooed on her face.

At the sight of her, I felt Maggie stir in the back of my head. Is that the suppression team? I asked her.

It is. She’s a magician – damn good one too. Our buddy Nick might be powerful, but I bet she’d turn him into a pretzel given the chance.

Can she sense your presence? I asked in alarm.

If she can, she hasn’t tried to say hello. I’ve spent five hundred and twenty-three years making sure this ring is hidden from people like her, so I doubt she’ll be a problem.

Right. Let’s hope she doesn’t decide to take a closer look. That’s another thing reapers get jealous of OtherOps agents for: when they need serious firepower, they get it. I mentally cussed out Ferryman once again for bringing his problem to me rather than the people with access to a genuine army.