Patrick nodded, a sympathetic expression on his face. He’d never asked Joyce why she needed the cane, but gathered it was something that she didn’t much enjoy talking about. He momentarily considered asking her now, but then she quickly moved to change the topic.
“Seriously, though,” she said, glancing over at him, “what’s the long-term plan here? I know that, as things stand, neither you nor Agent Lefevre want to take this to your superiors. And I’ll keep things vague in my reports as long as possible. But eventually you’re going to bring in backup on this, right? Are you hoping to build a solid enough case that they’ll listen to what you’ve got to say, and not just order psych evaluations for the both of you?”
Patrick thought about it a moment before answering. “I’m not sure, to be honest. That was the plan when I called Izzie in, definitely. I knew she would hear me out, wouldn’t dismiss my suspicions out of hand. But the deeper we dig into this, the bigger it gets.” He chewed the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. “When I thought that it was just a matter of there being a connection between the Reaper murders and the Ink, that was one thing. But it’s so much more than that. I mean, whatever we’ve uncovered, it’s been going on in this town for a long, long time. Or else this kind of thing keeps happening, over and over again. Somebody must have tried to take this to the authorities before, right? So why wasn’t anything ever done about it?”
“What, are you saying there have been cover-ups? Conspiracies, that kind of thing?”
Patrick turned to meet her gaze before answering. “What other explanation could there be? I mean, Izzie thinks that the Guildhall fire back in the forties was part of all this, and those guys practically ran the town back then. So sure, if there was something hinky going on, they could probably keep it out of the newspapers and the courts for a long time. Maybe somebody found out about what they were doing and got fed up trying to get it through the system without any luck, and took matters in their own hands.”
“Wait.” Joyce reached over and took hold of his elbow, stopping him. He turned to look in her direction, and saw a worried expression on her face. “Is that what you’re planning to do?”
Patrick let out a ragged sigh before answering. “Like I said, I’m not sure. But with someone like Martin Zotovic mixed up in this, I’m not ruling out the possibility that he might be gaming the system. Ever since Zotovic got the mayor reelected, the city has been cutting all sorts of sweetheart deals, both to Parasol and to his real estate outfit, Znth. He even managed to buy the Undersight mineshaft out from under Ross University, and the Ivory Point lighthouse, too.” He rubbed his eyes, exasperated. “So let’s say I manage to convince my captain that this is a real case we’re working. And say that he is able to convince the Deputy Commissioner. All it would take would be one word from Zotovic to the mayor, and the whole case could be thrown out and I’ll be busted back down to issuing parking tickets.”
“That’s a lot of ifs and maybes, Patrick.” Joyce’s tone was supportive, but there was a harder edge underneath. “And it sounds like you’ve already talked yourself into taking matters into your own hands.”
“No, I haven’t. Seriously.” He reached forward and took hold of her shoulders, locking eyes with her. “I honestly haven’t decided anything yet.”
“But it’s still on the table.” She narrowed her eyes, her jaw tightening.
“I just . . .” He lowered his hands from her shoulders, looking away from her hard gaze. “I’m just not dismissing the possibility that we might have to work outside the system, is all.”
Joyce stood looking at him for a long moment, without speaking, and then turned and continued walking up the sidewalk, her cane tick-tacking on the pavement with each step.
They walked in silence for the next few blocks. Aside from a few places that were open for brunch, the majority of the restaurants and bars that this part of the Oceanview was known for weren’t yet open for the day, and so there were few people out on the streets. The occasional jogger braving the chill air, or people out walking their dogs, but not the sorts of crowds that spilled out onto the sidewalks in the evening hours. Which, Patrick felt, made the silence that stretched between them that much more awkward. He knew that Joyce was disappointed in him, and to be honest he was a little disappointed in himself. He hadn’t joined the police force to work outside the law; he’d joined up to be a good cop. But what they were facing was nothing that they’d covered at the academy.
When they were crossing Delaney, he became acutely conscious of the fact that they were now outside the “Little Kovoko” corner of the Oceanview neighborhood, and that the nearest of his Uncle Alf’s protective markings were some distance behind them. Whatever defense was offered by those spiral whorls with the sea-salt embedded within, they were outside that sphere of protection now.
As each new person came into view, rounding a corner with a dog on a leash, or carrying recycling out to the curb, he studied their faces for any sign that they might be under the influence of Ink. Was the man stepping out of that taqueria up ahead one of the Ridden? Was that woman putting coins in a parking meter being controlled by an intelligence from another dimension?
When they reached Bayfront Drive without incident, Patrick realized that he was probably being paranoid. But if a little paranoia served to keep him observant and alert enough that he was ready for an attack when it did come, then it would have been worth it.
A few minutes later
