Read Clean: A Mindspace Investigations Novel Online
Authors: Alex Hughes
Clean: A Mindspace Investigations Novel
Praise for
Clean
“Hughes’s world is an interesting mix of old and new, a world of flying cars and noirish, steamy streets that are a fun blend of
Chinatown
and
Blade Runner
. The cat-and-mouse murder investigation between those who can both kill and hunt with the power of the mind is fascinating…. Hughes knows how to unfold a mystery to be sure she never loses sight of her characters’ humanity. She understands the nature of addiction, and has a keen understanding of the human condition, with all of its desires, fears, and frailties. I look forward to jumping back into Mindspace again.”
—James Knapp, author of
State of Decay
“A solid, tightly written story.”
—Publishers Weekly
“I am addicted to this world, this character, and this writer. Alex Hughes spins stories like wizards spin spells…a stellar debut!”
—James R. Tuck, author of the
Deacon Chalk series
A MINDSPACE INVESTIGATIONS NOVEL
A ROC BOOK
ROC
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,
Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2,
Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124,
Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)
Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park,
New Delhi - 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632,
New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue,
Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, September 2012
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ISBN: 978-1-101-59639-5
Copyright © Alexandra Hughes, 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
Printed in the United States of America
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
ALWAYS LEARNING
PEARSON
To Paula Gillispie and Julie Gray, because I promised.
To Dan Marshall, because he deserves it.
CHAPTER 1
My first interview
of the night was Esperanza Mensalez-Már, a thirty-something woman dressed in a pink-pressed suit I suspected cost more than my last paycheck. Not that I’d seen the paycheck, but that was the kind of impression she gave off, like she had too much money to cope. She was here as a suspect in the death of her husband.
A uniformed officer escorted me, today’s babysitter to make sure I didn’t break any laws while interrogating. He took a menacing position at the back of the room and glared at the woman like she was his worst enemy—exactly what I wanted.
I entered, carrying my props: an old-fashioned ream of paper and two sharpened pencils. From the tape they’d given me, I’d pegged Esperanza as a control freak. So I threw the paper down crooked, spilling it everywhere, adding the pencils so they rolled along the table, then slouched back in the chair. I grabbed one of the pencils just before it hit the floor and started tapping it on the table.
Tap, tappity-tap. Tappity-tap, tap, tap
. Just for fun, I altered the pattern every now and then to keep it grating on her nerves.
I stared at Esperanza for a long time while the pencil tapped against the table. Since Lieutenant Paulsen had exiled me to the interview rooms again, I’d be here three
hours or more with nowhere else to go; I thought about that hard, knowing some of it would leak into my face.
After ten minutes, her hand shot out and flattened mine against the table, stopping the pencil. “Stop,” she said. “Just stop.”
Once her hand touched mine, I had what I needed. “I’m required by law in this situation to tell you I’m a Level Eight telepath.”
Her hand shot back immediately. She wiped it against her skirt by reflex, as if she’d touched something slimy. The cold mask she’d worn had transformed into a look of abject horror. “You—”
“I’m also required by law to tell you that skin-to-skin physical contact increases my ability to read your mind. Under certain conditions, it can be hazardous to your health and mental well-being, so for most people it’s considered wise to avoid all physical contact with telepaths.” I quoted the standard write-up the Guild gave the public. In reality, touch was only dangerous when the telepath wasn’t expecting it, and I’d figured her to do just what she had. So I’d blocked as a precaution. Any normal could have told you all she was thinking about was the tapping anyway.
She started to say something, but I cut her off. “I’m very impressed, Esperanza.”
“It’s Mrs. Mensalez-Már,” she said evenly, steel in her voice. I’d hit a nerve.
I slouched back in the chair and started tapping the pencil again, staring at her patiently. I’d noticed in the previous interviewer’s tape that the more he attacked her on a point of her story, the more she’d get cold and professional. So I’d back up, let her own fears work on her a bit. See what would happen.
She couldn’t take the silence long. “You can’t possibly—”
“I can feel how much you hated him,” I stated calmly, in the tone of voice you’d use to start a long story. “But the hyphen on your name was worth, what, four hundred thousand ROCs?”
“Eighteen million,” Esperanza corrected, her eyes narrowing.
“The house alone was worth, what? Maybe two?”
“Three point eight.” She preened.
“It was a masterful plan. You must have set it up two years in advance. More maybe.” My tone was admiring, flattering.
“Four,” she sniffed. “The idiot never even saw it coming.”
I got in three more questions—with answers—before her brain caught up.
Suddenly, her eyes widened as she realized what she’d said, and the ugliness in her soul came out like a plague. “I want a lawyer,” Mrs. Mensalez-Már said. “Now.”
I pulled out a pack of blue cigarettes and lit up, breathing in the nicotine a little desperately. I was on the smoking porch, an old slab of cracked concrete with a little awning behind the main bulk of DeKalb County Police Department Headquarters, where the shadow of the four-story building cooled down the air a few degrees at this time of day. In August in Atlanta, when the heat flattened you like the arms of a heavyweight boxer, you’d take whatever relief you could get.
As I stood, sweat already beginning to gather in a pool at the top of my shoulder blades, I tried to retrieve my sanity from wherever I’d left it last. I wanted Satin, a drug, a habit, a poison—the fantasy I’d denied myself for three long years. It would have been six if I hadn’t fallen off the wagon twice. If it had been six, would this be easier? As my hands shook with a need for something I
couldn’t have, I thought, It has to get easier. I couldn’t have that rush, that stark perfection, not today. Not today.
My hands shook and my brain cramped while I took another desperate drag of nicotine, looking out over the grimy courtyard and the old steel building behind it, watching the drizzly rain migrate more pollution into the soil. I struggled to focus, to remember the cops behind me. There was a reason I worked for them. On my better days, I knew they’d keep me on the wagon or die trying. Never mind the hostility. Never mind that I had to keep up a steady supply of rabbits to pull out of the hat just to earn my place.
When the Telepaths’ Guild kicked me out, I had all the tests, all the ratings, all the gold stars a man could get. Level Eight, seventy-eight-P, I was a stronger telepath than most of the elite, and could predict the future correctly better than three times out of four. Still could, at least when the precog felt like working, but it hadn’t in months. Lately I was starting to run out of rabbits, not good for my relationship with the cops. Speaking of…
Behind me, the heavy door creaked open, and I greeted the mind behind me. “Cherabino.”
Detective Isabella Cherabino was a thirty-something brunette, stacked, pretty, a workaholic, and perpetually in a bad mood. We would have been partners if we had been equals, but we weren’t. I was her pet cobra, maybe, or the monkey with the cymbals that followed her around. If a monkey could solve crimes in Mindspace, or pull rabbits out of hats and interview suspects, if the monkey was a dumb guy who annoyed her at regular intervals, that’s maybe what I was to her. Maybe. On a good day.
On the porch, her nose wrinkled at the smell of the cigarettes.
“I don’t understand why you like it out here. It’s miserable.”
I shrugged. “It’s scenic.” It was also deserted, at least ten feet from anybody’s thoughts in Mindspace. Stressed-out cops, suspects freaking out about interrogations, hostile criminals…Let’s just say the mental surroundings reeked. Even the heat was a break.
“I heard about the confession. Do too many of those and they won’t ever let you out of the interview room again.” She looked at me critically. “If you’re feeling twitchy again, I can wait while you call Swartz.”