Yours, Mine, and Ours (4 page)

His eyes. I noticed those first. But several other impressions crowded my brain: the physician had the lean, muscular build of a champion swimmer. He was wearing a pale blue, baggy T-shirt and scrub pants so faded with multiple washings that they looked velvety soft yet fragile, as if they might shred if he moved too quickly.

His hair was deep black and long—past his ears, but not to his shoulders; it was trying to curl but not quite getting there. His eyes were also black—it was difficult to tell where his irises left off and his pupils began. He blinked slowly, almost like an owl. That, coupled with the dense darkness of his eyes, gave him an almost sharklike air.

Predatory but … what? Something else, something I could not quite identify. Because if you set his physical features aside, you were only left with his expression, which was oddly expectant, as if he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Or the other brick. Right on and through the top of his head. How did the song go?
Eyes glazed over in the thousand-yard stare.

His hospital picture ID read
MAX GALLO, M.D.
He was scowling in the photo.

In all, a startling-looking male in his midtwenties who had (at least in my perception) abruptly appeared, like a round out of a handgun.

And … what had he said? “Beg pardon?”

“The cookies.” His voice was deep; his tone, amused. His eyes smiled; his mouth did not. A trick I would have liked to learn, in all honesty. “I can’t believe I just sat here and watched you suck down eight of them. We appreciate your donations, but maybe you shouldn’t skip meals on platelet days?”

Oh dear God. My stomach goinged noisily and I could taste and feel the wretched oats coating my throat.
Adrienne, you demented wretch, I will make you pay and pay.

With that vow still clanging like a furious bell in my mind, I leaned over the side of the bed and threw up on Dr. Gallo’s sneakers.

chapter twelve

This … this was
not my day. Not any of our days. After Shiro finished barfing (I couldn’t remember the last time
that
happened, poor thing) I sat up. I opened my mouth to apologize, only to hear the doc start to laugh.

I could tell he was really trying not to; he was visibly trying to get hold of himself, so I suppose I wasn’t as embarrassed as I could have been. It’s tough to stay super-upset on someone’s behalf if they are not super-upset themselves. So I let him chuckle while I slid off the bed and searched for something to clean up the mess. Not to whine overmuch, but it was another mess Adrienne started that Shiro made worse that I got stuck with cleaning.

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it,” he said, taking the bundle of towels I’d snatched and thrust at him. “Don’t worry; I used to be an ER resident. If this is the worst I get on my shoes today, it’s gonna be a pretty great day.”

“I don’t know about that,” I admitted, “but I’m sure sorry about your shoes.”

“It’s the perfect end to a disastrous morning.” He was smiling at me, but it looked a little startling. His expression was tight-lipped but natural, like he wasn’t used to showing his teeth in grins.

He was … kind of odd looking. I didn’t mean unattractive or off-putting. He was anything but off-putting. He was very on-putting. Really very yummy and on-putting. But the lean body gave him a sharper look, almost pinched, like he’d been hungry a lot and was used to it. And his eyes! Like something you could fall into. And drown in, or be saved … on
his
terms.

“And if you didn’t want that many oatmeal cookies,” the good-looking healer was saying, “why’d you eat them all?”

“I…”
Think, idiot! It’s a reasonable question!
“… lost a bet?”

“With who?”

“Uh … God?” Would he buy it? Would he think it was funny, or clumsy? Or that I was devout? Or deluded? It was a bibbidi-bobbidi-boo shame that the one man whose notice I’d hoped to avoid was the one Shiro barfed on. For Dr. Gallo was the new doc running the blood bank.

Then I remembered why he was here, why he’d moved here, why I’d fled and left Adrienne in the hot spot. I remembered the only reason he and I were having any conversation, ever, and
I
nearly threw up. “I can’t … I just can’t apologize enough.”

“It’s fine; put your anxiety in park. I wanted to meet you anyway, and this was quicker.” He dabbed at the last of the vomit. I was kind of impressed he hadn’t stuck a nurse with it. “If messier. Says here…” He glanced at what I assumed was my chart—well, Adrienne’s chart. “You’re one of our consistent platelet donors. The bank almost wouldn’t be here if not for your efforts.”

I could feel my face get warm, which was embarrassing, which made me blush more, which was embarrassing … oh, great, now I was trapped in some kind of remorseful circle in Hell. What he said just wasn’t true, but it was super-duper-cooper sweet to say, and on next-to-no acquaintance it was surprising, too. He just didn’t strike me as the type to waste time saying stuff he didn’t mean. “I just … it’s not even that big—really, it’s not.”

He looked up from my chart, and his dark-dark eyes took on an amused gleam. “And typical of a lot of our reliably generous donors, you’re gonna downplay all over the place.”

“I’m not sure how telling the truth translates to downplay, and I don’t think I was doing anything all over the place, but thanks anyway.” I looked at the clock and tried to looked anxious. It wasn’t hard, since I
was
anxious. “Jeepers monkey tracks! I didn’t know it was so late. I’ve got to go.”

“And with that, Cinderella vanished.” Was Adrienne using yet another alias?

“Pardon me?”

“Probably just as well,” Dr. Gallo said, standing. He took a courteous step back, and a good thing, too, because if he hadn’t I would have knocked him sprawling into one of the centrifuge machines as I struggled to my feet and galloped past him. “Since you might have the flu. Or a latent oatmeal allergy,” he finished, by now actually hollering as I put space between us.

“I’m so sorry!” I managed, then gave him a lame little wave (lame! so, so lame!) and sprinted out the doors.

Nice, Cadence. Niiiiice. You blended so perfectly, Dr. Gallo will likely never give you another thought. He certainly won’t be curious about all sorts of things he wasn’t curious about an hour ago.

Worst of all: I hadn’t actually gotten around to donating.

So I’d—we’d—have to go back.

Calgon, never mind taking me away. Calgon, please beat me to death. Thanks. You’re a pal.

chapter thirteen

Here’s the truth,
and it’s a cold truth: I work for the government, and we
are
out to get you. We put in overtime to get you. We are paid to get you. We are rewarded with health benefits to get you. We are given a 401k to get you.

Which is why George and I were at the FBI building in downtown Minneapolis instead of headed our blessedly separate ways.

I’d been able to find him quickly enough, and was too rattled to talk about who I’d met (and who Shiro barfed on with my mouth), so I just sort of scuttled back to the car. George—who’d finally been able to convince the ER attending who he was—had been right behind me.

He was so furious with me (which wasn’t fair … I didn’t do a gosh-darn fargin’ thing to him) he didn’t even try to torture me by deliberately parking in a handicap space. George’s theory was, he was a nut job and had the diagnosis, paperwork, therapists, and neck ties to prove it. “Who needs a crip space more than me?” he’d asked reasonably (for him).

“Anyone else,” had been my response. “Gross. Be ashamed.” A huge mistake in retrospect. The number one rule for being George’s partner was to never let on which behavior of his bugged you. And also, never put Splenda in his coffee. He swells up like a balloon. And it isn’t funny. It isn’t. It’s not even one little bit funny when his cheeks bulge and his lips swell and his rants are muffled (“Fffgggnnn huckin’ nitch! Huckin’ hill hoo nitch! Ook ah mah ace!”) and he walks into doorways because his eyes are almost swelled shut, and they have to give him a shot and it takes hours and hours for the swelling to go down and the shots make him throw up.

It’s terrible for him. And it isn’t funny. Right? Right.

chapter fourteen

Wrong. Wrong across
the board. But I would never expect Cadence to see it. She hardly sees herself, even in a mirror.

Once, when Adrienne had dosed him with
two
Splenda packets, George almost fell down a fire escape when we were six stories up. We’d been chasing an arsonist through one of the old buildings in the warehouse district. George’s muffled, rage-induced hysterics could be heard two blocks away.

The arsonist, caught hauling kerosene, was so rattled by the surreal experience of a puffy, engorged George (“Are you … are you the Great Pumpkin?”) he not only forgot to fight, but forgot to run.

Where was I during these shenanigans? In the alley, at the bottom of the fire escape. I was waiting to see if George would lose his grip, and deciding whether or not I would help him if he did.

In the end George saved himself, which was convenient for me as I had enough paperwork. Murder and paperwork: they never, ever end.

chapter fifteen

Now where was
I? Right. Don’t let George get to you; keep all artificial sweeteners away from him.

It was kind of nice, him not speaking to me … though the stomping and muttering and glaring were kind of unpleasant. It gave me some peace and quiet in which to mull over Dr. Gallo, recently come to town to help his grieving family. I made a mental note to figure out which victim had been his nephew. Having a family member close by for a formal investigation was wonderful and terrible.

The FBI’s BOFFO (Bureau of False Flag Ops) division looks like any office building, complete with cubicles, printers, administrative staff, restrooms, Berber carpeting, and lowest-bid government-supplied furniture.

The only difference was, BOFFO kept a ton of mental heath professionals on staff, and also haldol, Thorazine, clozapine, and other neuroleptics. Oh, and we had to run everything we did by the federal government.

Today, a Saturday, was typical in that you couldn’t
tell
it was a Saturday. We staffed all three shifts, business was (sorry to say) good, and for some of us the cubicles were the closest thing we had to a home. And our co-workers the closest thing to a family.

That’s not to say I was happy to be here. Nuh-uh. I had to see my boss, Agent Michaela Taro, and it wasn’t going to be pleasant. BOFFO policy: If our mentally disturbed shenanigans got us arrested, we had to be debriefed as soon as possible.

She was waiting for us by our desks, not a good sign. Michaela was not one to loiter, but she had someone with her, a woman I’d never seen before. And as we got closer, I realized it was the new girl. Uh, woman. Agent. The new BOFFO agent. She had a pleasant-looking face with a wide forehead, a surgically trimmed nose, and deep brown skin with reddish highlights. Her hair was clipped Jarhead short, but in a weird way it made her even prettier. Emphasized her bone structure or something.

“Agent Jones. Agent Pinkman.”

“Boss, you would not believe—” George began, his voice climbing into a whine.

“Yes, yes, I’m sure it was horrid.”

“It was!”

“And I’m certain you’ve never done any one thing in your life to deserve a trip to the ER via the police.”

“But—” George’s whine was spiraling up and up; soon only dogs would hear him.

“Quiet, Pinkman, I don’t have time. Neither do you. This is Agent Emma Jan Thyme; she starts today … the Washington office has kindly lent her to us. You two bring her up to speed—”

“Did you really say that? ‘Bring her up to speed’?” George wondered aloud. “Nobody says that in real life. Next you’ll be talking about birds in bushes and feeling the burn and collaring the perp.”

Michaela jabbed a finger in George’s direction. It was a dangerous finger, yet beautifully manicured with lavender polish. Our boss was striking. Not she-looks-good-for-her-age striking.
Really
striking, with chin-length silver hair, green eyes, a neat, trim figure, and a squarish face. She was almost always in a tailored suit (she had family money; the government sure wasn’t paying for them) and spotless white tennis shoes. Today she was wearing a green Ann Taylor suit a couple shades lighter than her eyes, and a sidearm full of tranks.

I think her brusque manner hid deep affection for us.

I think.

She was still pointing at George. “Quiet, Pinkman, or I’ll accidentally arrange to have you shot. So: get Agent Thyme caught up with the murders. Then solve them. Then stop getting arrested and making me talk to the feds about
not
having you put down like rabid dogs.”