Read Online PsyCop 6: GhosTV by Jordan Castillo Price - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jordan Castillo Price
Tags: mm
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“Sorry for the inconvenience. We’ll need you to step in back. The sooner we start, the sooner we’ll get you on board.”
Jacob pitched his voice low and casual. And he didn’t fool any of us.
“Start what?”
“It’s procedure,” said the big guard. “Not you,” he glanced at Jacob’s badge, “Detective Marks. But him.” He nodded at me.
“This way,” the guard with the clipboard told me. When I moved to follow her—because what else could I do?—the dog strained toward me and started doing a tapdance. The click of its claws on the floor sounded like a high-powered nail gun sealing my coffin.
“Listen,” I whispered to her, “I must’ve picked up some kind of smell in the evidence room.”
She glanced at me, but didn’t offer any words of encouragement.
“I’m a PsyCop too,” I went on. “I’ve got a card. If I show you my card, can I go catch my flight?”
“Before you do anything,” Jacob was saying, “let me call my sergeant and see if we can straighten this out.”
I heard the big guy tell him, “It’s procedure…” as the woman led me through a thick metal door into a windowless office with more doors on three sides. The walls were blue. My scalp began to prickle with sweat.
Here I’d been worrying about ghosts at the airport. Who knew I’d be revisiting Camp Hell at the security station?
“Place your weapon and your cell phone in this locker,” the guard told me. I didn’t want to, but what else was I gonna do, shoot her and then call an ambulance? “A security specialist will meet with you in room three. Step in, remove your clothing, and place it in the marked tray.”
“You’re not serious.”
“It’s procedure.”
“You can’t strip-search me,” I said. But a sick feeling in my gut told me they damn well could—because of the Patriot Act, and Terror Level Orange. Because of that fucking dancing dog.
If I’d thought it would help me to fall to my knees and implore the guard, in the name of everything that’s right and good—mom, baseball and apple pie—to take a few steps back and let me out of that damn room…I would’ve done it. In half a second. But that look in her eye, flat, closed-down—I’d seen that look too many times to count on the faces of the nameless, rotating orderlies at Heliotrope Station.
Nothing personal, man. Just doing my job.
The panic attack had Heliotrope Station all over it, no doubt, but the thought of being strip-searched threw the panic right off the charts.
The notion that had my uvula quivering and my gut clenched up like it’d just taken a sucker punch was this: I can’t deal with you strangers seeing me naked.
“Non-compliance is a federal offense,” the guard told me.
“I need to call my lawyer.” I didn’t have a lawyer, but the Fifth Precinct had one, didn’t they? I’d call Sergeant Warwick, that’s what I’d do.
And he’d figure it out.
“Look,” she said in a hushed voice. “We’re being videotaped. If you have something to declare, do it now. It’ll all go faster if you start cooperating—and maybe we can even get you on the next flight.”
“But I’m not not-cooperating. I don’t have anything on me.”
“Put your sidearm and your phone in the locker. Please.” I flipped open the phone and hoped my panicky brain hadn’t scrambled the location of my memory-dials.
“Detective,” the guard said, “if you do that, then procedure dictates we physically restrain you. Save us—and yourself—the embarrassment. The quicker we search you, the quicker you’re out of here.” Physically restrain? I’d thought I was panicked before, but now I actually couldn’t have told you Warwick’s memory dial—or my own phone number, for that matter.
My hand was shaking when I placed my phone in the locker. Great.
I’m sure that made me look totally innocent. While I wasn’t so crazy about putting my Glock away, I knew the chances of me getting shot by security (and their
Jacob pitched his voice low and casual. And he didn’t fool any of us.
“Start what?”
“It’s procedure,” said the big guard. “Not you,” he glanced at Jacob’s badge, “Detective Marks. But him.” He nodded at me.
“This way,” the guard with the clipboard told me. When I moved to follow her—because what else could I do?—the dog strained toward me and started doing a tapdance. The click of its claws on the floor sounded like a high-powered nail gun sealing my coffin.
“Listen,” I whispered to her, “I must’ve picked up some kind of smell in the evidence room.”
She glanced at me, but didn’t offer any words of encouragement.
“I’m a PsyCop too,” I went on. “I’ve got a card. If I show you my card, can I go catch my flight?”
“Before you do anything,” Jacob was saying, “let me call my sergeant and see if we can straighten this out.”
I heard the big guy tell him, “It’s procedure…” as the woman led me through a thick metal door into a windowless office with more doors on three sides. The walls were blue. My scalp began to prickle with sweat.
Here I’d been worrying about ghosts at the airport. Who knew I’d be revisiting Camp Hell at the security station?
“Place your weapon and your cell phone in this locker,” the guard told me. I didn’t want to, but what else was I gonna do, shoot her and then call an ambulance? “A security specialist will meet with you in room three. Step in, remove your clothing, and place it in the marked tray.”
“You’re not serious.”
“It’s procedure.”
“You can’t strip-search me,” I said. But a sick feeling in my gut told me they damn well could—because of the Patriot Act, and Terror Level Orange. Because of that fucking dancing dog.
If I’d thought it would help me to fall to my knees and implore the guard, in the name of everything that’s right and good—mom, baseball and apple pie—to take a few steps back and let me out of that damn room…I would’ve done it. In half a second. But that look in her eye, flat, closed-down—I’d seen that look too many times to count on the faces of the nameless, rotating orderlies at Heliotrope Station.
Nothing personal, man. Just doing my job.
The panic attack had Heliotrope Station all over it, no doubt, but the thought of being strip-searched threw the panic right off the charts.
The notion that had my uvula quivering and my gut clenched up like it’d just taken a sucker punch was this: I can’t deal with you strangers seeing me naked.
“Non-compliance is a federal offense,” the guard told me.
“I need to call my lawyer.” I didn’t have a lawyer, but the Fifth Precinct had one, didn’t they? I’d call Sergeant Warwick, that’s what I’d do.
And he’d figure it out.
“Look,” she said in a hushed voice. “We’re being videotaped. If you have something to declare, do it now. It’ll all go faster if you start cooperating—and maybe we can even get you on the next flight.”
“But I’m not not-cooperating. I don’t have anything on me.”
“Put your sidearm and your phone in the locker. Please.” I flipped open the phone and hoped my panicky brain hadn’t scrambled the location of my memory-dials.
“Detective,” the guard said, “if you do that, then procedure dictates we physically restrain you. Save us—and yourself—the embarrassment. The quicker we search you, the quicker you’re out of here.” Physically restrain? I’d thought I was panicked before, but now I actually couldn’t have told you Warwick’s memory dial—or my own phone number, for that matter.
My hand was shaking when I placed my phone in the locker. Great.
I’m sure that made me look totally innocent. While I wasn’t so crazy about putting my Glock away, I knew the chances of me getting shot by security (and their
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