7. Tallus

7

Tallus

D iem drove us to Mackie Wells’s apartment complex while I considered the best approach for bypassing the kid’s mother should she be home or attempt to intervene. I didn’t want to ask Diem’s advice since he’d put me in charge of the case—I was still reeling—and wanted to appear competent.

How I had so easily talked him into going along with my wildly outrageous theory about murdering, mind-controlling psychics was the question of the century. Kitty was right. I had powers beyond my reckoning. A young Peter Parker. What had Uncle Ben said? With great power comes great responsibility. I would need to remember that. Kitty was right. Despite Diem’s daunting and somewhat menacing exterior, he was a squishy and vulnerable marshmallow inside, especially when under my spell.

However, despite my unforeseen power, I wasn’t sure I could convince Diem to ask me out on a date. Time would tell. I wasn’t a quitter, and despite the cramped timeline, I’d be damned if I lost a bet to Memphis.

Did I want to date Diem Krause, Man of Many Moods, Keeper of Secrets, Wearer of Scars, and Mr. Anti-Touch himself? I didn’t know for sure.

I wasn’t as opposed to the idea as I’d once been, but we would have plenty to discuss if we crossed that bridge any time soon—and talking was not Diem’s forte. Dating, for me, meant kissing, sharing a bed on occasion, and initiating some displays of affection. I didn’t care if they happened behind closed doors or in Time Square on New Year’s Eve in front of millions, but they needed to happen. Diem could have all the childhood trauma he wanted, but I would not be starved for affection if I finally decided to give up my life as a single man and date someone.

Who was I kidding? I might have been wily and manipulative, as Kitty suggested, but I wasn’t freaking god. Never in a million years would I convince Diem Krause to ask me out on a date.

Dammit , and I really wanted to force Memphis to lick HP sauce off his new leather shoes.

Diem’s attention shifted from the road. “Why are you smiling?”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. You’d better not do anything to jeopardize my license.”

“I won’t.”

“I can’t afford to be out of work.”

“Relax.”

Diem did not relax. He continued scowling, shifting his attention from the road to me as he strangled the steering wheel. “You’re up to something. I can tell.”

“Because you know me so well.”

“I know your face.”

“Because you can’t take your eyes off me.” I batted my lashes.

“That’s not…” He growled. “What are you thinking?”

I dreamily sighed. “About where we might go on our first date. Suggestions? I was thinking candlelight, soft music, and wine.”

That shut him up. Diem faced forward and ground his teeth the rest of the drive.

By the time we reached the Wells’, I had devised a flimsy strategy in case Mackie’s mom got in the way.

Diem parked, and I shifted to face him, schemingly rubbing my hands together. “Okay, coach. Here’s the plan. On the off chance Mackie’s mother answers the door, we’ll tell her we’re recruitment officials from the Ontario Youth Sports League—not a thing, I made it up—looking for potential athletes for an international youth competition happening this fall in Markham.

“During our studious research, we came across Mackie’s name and were impressed by his statistics. We feel he has potential, and we’re interested in chatting with him to see if he’d be willing to come to an event this weekend and try out for a team we’re putting together. We’ll be running drills and evaluating certain skills so we can assemble the most elite group of youth athletes Ontario has ever seen.”

Diem wore an unreadable mask. His stormy gray eyes picked me apart. I liked Diem’s eyes. Most days, they were impenetrable steel prison walls keeping me out, but on occasion, they were windows into his troubled soul, and I saw things I knew he didn’t want me to see.

Diem released a grumbly exhale that rattled his chest as he moved his attention to the beige brick high-rise, scanned the parking lot, then refocused on me. “Did you come up with that on the spot?”

“Yes, I did. Impressive, isn’t it?”

“No. It’s stupid.”

I dramatically gasped. “Um, rude.”

“What sport is this elite youth team we’re recruiting for?”

“It’s… a… few different sports. Combined. With running… and… jumping. A ball might be involved, so… kicking? You know, stuff sports people do. They could have sticks.”

Diem rubbed an oversized hand over his mouth. I thought he was covering a smile. No, not possible. Diem never smiled. But when the sun peeked out from his storm cloud eyes for a fraction of a second, glimmering on their surface, giving me a peek at his inner soul, I grew skeptical.

“Are you trying not to smile?”

“No.” The surly man cleared his throat. “I know I said this was your rodeo, but… your plan needs help.”

“Oh really? Says the man who resorts to bribes all the time because he can’t be bothered to come up with plans in the first place.”

“Money talks.”

“It’s wasteful.”

“It gets fast results.”

“So will this.”

“And what happens if Mackie’s not home and his mother wants a pamphlet, a business card, or something as proof we are who we say we are?”

I waved a dismissive hand. “Then we tell her we didn’t bring any packages or forgot them in the car. We can leave her my number and tell her that if Mackie wants to contact us, we can discuss it in more detail.”

“And if he doesn’t contact us?”

“Why wouldn’t he contact us? It’s an opportunity of a lifetime.”

Diem stared, unblinking.

“Fine. If he doesn’t contact us, we go to the school tomorrow, wait for classes to get out, and catch him when he leaves the building.”

Diem shook his head like I was a lost cause at this detective work. “That’s perfect.”

“Thanks.”

“Excellent plan, Scully.”

“You sound sarcastic, and why do I have to be the girl?”

“Nothing creepy about two gay men in their thirties lingering outside a high school, waiting for little boys to leave so we can roll down our windows and offer them candy and a ride. Sounds like a good way to get arrested.”

“See, you’re a Negative Nancy. And shame on you, Guns. How dare you age me like that? I am a young twenty-six. Nowhere close to thirty. Although I feel it some days,” I mumble-added. Particularly when Memphis dragged me to Gasoline, and it was crowded with barely legal college students. “Besides, you make it sound worse than it is.”

Diem deadpanned.

“Okay, fine. I see your point. But the original plan is still good, so cross your fingers Mackie’s home and we don’t need a plan B.”

Faint hints of humor returned to Diem’s eyes as he waved to the building. “Lead the way.”

“Call me Mulder this time.”

“No.”

“You suck.”

In the end, we didn’t require my stellar acting skills or excellently crafted script at all. Mackie was home alone, chilling and eating a wholesome dinner of Ruffles sour cream and onion potato chips—he answered the door with powder-coated fingers and the family-size bag under one arm.

The instant he heard we were opening an investigation into his sister’s death because we believed his suspicion that Amber had been killed through mind control—the unrelenting bear who lived behind Diem’s ribs grumbled—Mackie was quick to toss his meal aside and usher us out the door as he licked sour cream and onion potato chip dust off his fingers.

“We can’t talk here, yo. Mom will be home in, like, twenty, and she’ll go cray if she knows why you’re here. Let’s go to the pizza joint across the street. I’m starving.”

Mackie Wells was one of those scrawny teens who likely ate his mother out of house and home without gaining an ounce of weight. I’d been the same at sixteen. Although my prepackaged food and takeout diet hadn’t changed, I consumed significantly less than I did as a growing boy.

I could tell Mackie was a swimmer or a track star but visualizing him on a field playing football was a hard sell. He was matchstick thin and lacking anything resembling muscle definition. One hit by a linebacker would break him in half or land him in the emergency room.

Diem didn’t say a word as we followed Mackie across the busy street and into the pizza parlor.

“So, you’re, like, detectives or something?”

“Investigators,” I replied, squaring my shoulders at the title.

“That’s so cool. Ever read Jessica Jones ?”

“Who?”

“She’s a Marvel PI superhero. So kickass. And yo, she’s hot as shit. Has her own show now. Krysten Ritter plays her. You know her, right? I’m totally in love. She’s killer. Solid ten out of ten. I’d do her. So, like, are you guys like her?”

“Not quite.”

“Well, yeah, I guess. I mean, you’re dudes.” Mackie chuckled.

“And not from the pages of a comic book.”

“True.”

I didn’t look at Diem. He struggled to connect with adults on a good day. I could imagine the level of self-restraint required when dealing with teenagers. Diem was of the opinion that all teenagers—he didn’t discriminate—had no brains.

The restaurant wasn’t crowded. By the time the kid had ordered three enormous slices of pizza and a jumbo-size Mountain Dew and collapsed in the booth across from us, Diem couldn’t seem to erase the venomous look from his face. Mackie didn’t seem to notice.

“I can’t believe someone finally believes me,” the kid said as he folded one of the slices in half and jammed a huge portion into his mouth. Grease ran down his chin as he chewed and talked at the same time.

“I know it looked like suicide, but it wasn’t. Nuh-uh. No way. I told the cops Amber was murdered, but no one listened. Even my mom wouldn’t listen, and she saw the same changes I saw. Amber and I were tight, yo. She told me stuff she didn’t tell no one. It’s like, I knew she was getting all frustrated about the constant migraines and how Dr. Henley wasn’t helping to fix them, but she wasn’t, like, ready to kill herself over them. Nuh-uh. It wasn’t like that.”

Mackie swallowed a mass of chewed dough and cheese he’d been moving around his mouth and slurped from his oversized drink. After an obnoxious belch, he stuffed another ungodly amount of pizza into his mouth before resuming his story.

“So, like, Amber decided to seek outside help for the migraines. She read about herbal treatments online and talked to some lady at a natural health remedies store or something like that. She tried yoga and meditation. She went to a hypnotist because I guess they can fix migraines sometimes. She tried acupuncture, and oh”—bits of pizza sprayed onto the table—“she also got that piercing thing that’s supposed to help.” He motioned to his ear. “What’s it called?”

“A daith piercing?”

“That’s it.” Mackie shook his head. “Didn’t work. Looked cool though. When Amber told me she was going to see some psychic chick—” Mackie flinched and slapped a hand to his mouth, swallowing with what seemed to be pain. “Sorry. I bit my tongue. Fuck that hurts.”

“Maybe stop talking with your mouth so fucking full,” Diem snapped.

I elbowed him in the ribs. “Hush. My case. Don’t ruin it.”

He growled under his breath and sat back with his arms crossed over his barrel chest.

Mackie seemed to notice Diem for the first time—how he’d missed the six-and-a-half-foot menacing brick wall was beyond me.

Mackie put the remainder of his slice down and licked grease from his thumb and pointer finger. “Sorry. That was so not cool, yo. My mom yells at me for that all the time. Anyhow, where was I?”

“The psychic healer.”

“Right. So, the healer chick was the worst of them, in my opinion. Amber said the woman told her she could stop her migraines, but it would take time. She said Amber would need to go to all these sessions so she could cleanse her aura of a lingering spirit that was inside her brain or some shit.”

Mackie shivered and twirled a finger around his ear, “Crazy, right? I told Amber it was BS, but she kept throwing money at the woman. That’s when I realized her migraines must have been awful if she was putting her trust in that weirdo. Well, like, two weeks later, Amber started acting strange, and I asked her what was wrong. She said nothing, but it wasn’t nothing. She always had a blank look on her face, so I asked if her head hurt. Amber said her migraines were better now. But, yo, she wasn’t all there. She was, like, a motherfreaking zombie. I know my sister, and something was way wrong.”

Mackie picked up the half-eaten slice he’d discarded and was about to stuff it into his mouth when he seemed to remember Diem’s annoyance. He glanced at my partner in crime and put the slice down.

“So, after a few days when she was still acting all Village of the Damned , I said, ‘Yo, Am,’ I called her that sometimes. I said, ‘Yo, Am, are you sure that chick took the spirit out and didn’t put one back in because you look possessed.’ Amber kinda laughed and brushed it off. But even her laugh was wrong.”

Mackie leaned over the table and lowered his voice, “I’m telling you. Amber was not okay. She was listless and distant. She would walk around the house like she was in a trance. It was not depression. I don’t care what my mom says, and what does Dr. Henley know? He saw her, like, three times in a year. It was that woman. Things changed when Amber started seeing that woman. But no one listens to me. Then, boom! I come home from school one day, and Amber’s dead. No way it was suicide. I’m telling you, that psychic who was supposed to take the bad juju out of Amber’s brain put something in it instead.”

I didn’t need to look at Diem to know he was exercising all his self-control so he didn’t inject his opinion into the conversation.

Mackie seemed to be done talking. The teen shifted his attention between us and pointed at his pizza. “Is it okay if I eat now? I don’t want it to get cold, and I’m starving.”

“Go ahead.”

As Mackie stuffed ungodly amounts of pizza down his gullet, I considered what to do with the information. I had to admit, the whole notion of mind control was less believable in person than when I’d researched it endlessly. No wonder Diem had been so aggressively against investigating. He must think I was a joke to bring this to him.

Diem slapped the table, surprising me and making Mackie jump. “Question. Could your sister have been on drugs? Did they do an autopsy?”

Mackie shook his head, chewing fast and swallowing. “No, sir. No drugs. Or rather, not like what you mean. Mom asked the same thing. Amber was on stuff the doctor prescribed that was supposed to manage her migraines. She took over-the-counter allergy medicine because her hay fever was bad in the summer. Other than that, they didn’t find anything suspicious.” Mackie glanced at me. “I’m telling you, that woman fucked with her head.”

“Who was the hypnotist?” Diem asked.

I sat straighter. The hypnotist? Was Diem thinking…

“Oh man. I can’t remember.” Mackie squinted into the middle distance as he seemingly strained his brain to its limits. It looked painful. “Some guy name Hill… ton? Hilly… Hickey… Hackly”

“Hilty?” I asked.

Mackie pointed at me with the crust of his second slice. “Yeah, that’s it. Hilty. Dr. Hilty.”

I glanced at Diem, then back to Mackie. “When did she see him?”

“Um… maybe a month before she saw the psychic chick. I don’t remember exactly. It was one time. Amber didn’t like him. Said he smelled like patchouli, burned a lot of incense, and made her uncomfortable. One of those people who stand too close to you when they talk. You know, like, they invade your personal space.”

“Story of my life,” Diem muttered, too quietly for Mackie to hear.

“Anyhow, an old guy asking my eighteen-year-old sister, who was not ugly, by the way, to lie on his couch and close her eyes is ten kinds of creepy, yo. Amber said she wasn’t able to relax enough to be put under. I think it was for the best. Can you imagine? Dude could have totally taken advantage while she was out of it.”

Mackie shivered at the thought and stuffed more pizza into his mouth as he shook his head in obvious disgust.

I glanced at Diem, whose face was an unreadable mask. “What do you think?”

“I think if I have to sit here and continue to watch this kid eat pizza like a fucking Hoover vacuum, you’ll need bail money to get me out of jail.”

I chuckled. “That’s fair. Did we collect enough information?”

“Not my investigation, Starsky.”

“Aw, come on. I wanna be Hutch. He was way smarter.”

Diem glared with the heat of a thousand suns.

“Alrighty then. Starsky it is. He’s the dark-haired one, right? No, he’s the blond. God, I don’t know anymore. That show was long before my time.”

More glaring.

I cleared my throat and stood. “We should go before the beast breaks free from his cage. We’ll talk to you later, Mackie, my man. Thanks for your help today.”

“Are you going to arrest her?” With his mouth full to bursting, the question was garbled.

Diem’s live-in bear growled, so I snagged his arm and dragged him away before he leveled the kid. “We’ll keep looking into it, Mac. I’ll keep you posted.”

When we were outside in the street, Diem wrenched his arm free like I’d physically assaulted him. He hated unsolicited touch—which, for him, was all touch.

I pointed at his arm. “That was weird, right? Me dragging you. It’s normally the other way around.”

“What?” His tone cusped the edge of hostility. Likely too long in a stuffy restaurant, listening to a teenager rambling nonsensically.

“The… never mind. I would apologize for touching you without permission, but I’m not sorry. In fact, you should be thanking me. I recognized the imminent danger of the situation and proactively diffused a bomb before it went off. How’s that for learning to read your cues? We work well together.”

I patted his chest. “Anyone ever tell you how extremely fit you are?”

Diem stared for several intense beats, then pivoted and headed toward the parking lot and Jeep. I followed, jogging to keep up with his strides. The man had crazy long legs and far more stamina.

“Do you think it’s suspicious that Madame Rowena and her ex-husband both saw Amber before she died?”

“No.”

“Are you saying that to be disagreeable, or do you mean it?”

“It was a coincidence. The girl was on drugs.”

“They didn’t find any in her system. Would you slow down. Are we in a hurry?”

He did not slow down.

“Diem, there were no drugs.”

“And you’re going to take the word of a sixteen-year-old?”

“Um… yes. Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because he has shit for brains, yo.” Diem, mimicking Mackie, made a gang sign on the last word, and I laughed.

“Wow, that was… so not you. Don’t do that again. Not a good look.”

Diem aimed for the passenger side of the Wrangler and forcefully tugged the door open, holding it ajar. “Shut up and get in.”

I pretended to stumble a step as I clutched my chest. “My gracious. Diem Krause, did you just open the car door for me? Swoooon.” I fanned my face with a hand and batted my lashes. “Careful, sweetie pie, I just might fall in love. All that chivalry. Mm. I like it.”

“Fuck’s sake.” He slammed the door and stormed to the other side of the Jeep, got in, started the Wrangler, and revved the engine, in case I didn’t know he was in a mood. He would likely not wait if I didn’t hurry my ass up.

Laughing, I got in and buckled the seatbelt as he burned rubber away from Mackie’s building.

“You’re so testy sometimes.”

Nothing. No response.

I waited until we were a few blocks away before asking, “So what next?”

“Not my case.”

“I know that, and I’m flattered that you put me in charge, but I value your opinion. Partners work together.”

“We’re not partners.”

“Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night. I think we should talk to Allan’s neighbor, then maybe make a date with Madame Rowena’s hypnotist ex-husband.”

Diem muttered something incomprehensible as he took a corner too fast and changed lanes.

“Say again.”

He dashed a questioning look across the middle console. “What?”

“You’re grumbling under your breath, which isn’t helpful. We’ve discussed it. Use words.”

He drove another block before spitting, “I have a contact.”

But he didn’t elaborate.

“Okay. Good. Who?”

“Kelly Woodsman.”

Another long pause where Diem refused to explain.

“And Kelly Woodsman is?”

“A records clerk.”

“Oh my god, I’m a records clerk. I wonder if I know him.” The sarcasm was triple-layer-cake-thick. “Diem! I swear to god, do not turn this into a dental procedure. I will give you a manual about the art of conversation and make you read it out loud, cover to cover, while standing naked in my living room. Try me.”

His neck took on an interesting shade of red. “He works downtown at the Center of Forensic Pathology.”

Another long pause ensued, so I prompted, “Annnd?”

“And he can take a look at the girl’s autopsy and confirm if we’re looking at drugs. It sounds like drugs. I bet it’s drugs. It’s fucking drugs. You heard the kid, and if I’m right, you’ve solved your case, and we don’t have to poke around anymore. We can put this ridiculousness to rest.”

I scoffed. “No, if you’re right, you’ve solved my case, and I’ll be sad because playing Sherlock is a dream come true, and since I’m the lead, I want to be the one to solve it.”

Diem worked his jaw.

I dramatically pouted.

He growled under his breath and spat, “Fine. I’ll find information for Allan’s neighbor, and we can pay him or her a visit.”

Sighing, acknowledging my petulance, and basking in the glory of winning the battle, I relented. “Never mind. Contact your friend.”

“He’s not my friend.”

“Shocking. I understand now why you don’t have friends. Contact your contact. I’ll go home, sit on my couch with a glass of wine, and wait to hear if I’m out of a job as lead investigator.” I inserted a full dose of dejection into my tone—on purpose—and topped it off with a heavy sigh.

My ego wasn’t as bruised as I let on, but upsetting me made Diem visibly uncomfortable, and it was glorious to see. He squirmed and dashed a few surreptitious glances in my direction, not saying a thing. His thoughts were loud. It took a dozen blocks and him losing at least a solid layer of enamel on his teeth before he muttered, “I could be wrong.”

“No, no, you’re probably right. What do I know? This whole thing is stupid anyhow.” And because I was exactly the manipulative bastard Kitty claimed, I added, “I’ll call Memphis and tell him to go ahead and meet with Madame Rowena, then I’ll get out of your hair. I didn’t mean to upset your life.”

I was going to hell. It was too easy.

The woe is me card worked like a charm. As did the mere mention of Memphis. In my defense, Diem needed a push to break him out of his overly contemplative shell. Plus, I only had five days to get that date and couldn’t spend them off the case.

If Diem had feelings for me—which he so obviously did—I wanted him to own them, which meant being in his space as much as possible. I wanted to stop dancing around the subject and stop caving to his random booty calls. I wanted him to do something about it. Like ask me the fuck out.

Diem drove several more blocks before speaking. “Don’t call Memphis.”

I suppressed a smile. “Why not? He’s my… friend.”

The scar near Diem’s eye crinkled with the strain on his face. His elevated anguish shone. I wanted to reach out and run my fingers over his shorn hair to calm him down—even when I’d caused the suffering on purpose. I wanted to trace the curve of his misshapen ear and ask what had happened to cause it to be so disfigured.

Maybe someday.

When he explained, his tone was more subdued. “Madame Rowena has an extensive criminal record. We should be sure she’s not up to her old ways before subjecting your fuck bud… your friend to her potential cons. She’s not murdering people with mind control, but she could be scamming them out of money. That stupid kid back there said his sister kept going back to her because the woman claimed she needed multiple sessions to cleanse the bullshit. That right there is a red flag.”

“I love it when you talk with words. It’s super sexy.”

“Shut up.”

I chuckled. “So we aren’t done with the case? Is that what you’re saying?”

Diem squeezed the steering wheel, worked his jaw, and mumbled, “No. We’re not done.”