“I’m not really comfortable with the idea of spying on someone, sir.”

“Well, then,” he said, reaching into one of his drawers and pulling out a pad withFraternal Order of Goodness written across the top in Gothic-looking script. “What better way to get acquainted with surveillance work than with diving in both feet first! That’s a good lad.”

He wrote on it briefly, tore off the sheet, and held it out to me.

“Here,” he said. “Give this to whoever’s on duty in the supply room. I’ve made a list of surveillance equipment you’re going to need. Get some rest tonight, though. You look horrible. I want you out there skulking and stalking like the best of them tomorrow night, understand?”

I stood there, staring at the paper in his hand, but I didn’t reach for it.

The Inspectre sighed and stroked his mustache with his free hand. “I appreciate your concern over being a Peeping Tom, Simon, my boy. I truly do. But blast it, man, buck up! That’s an order.”

I took the paper from him and turned toward the door.

“That’s my boy!” he said, sounding like a dad at a father-son picnic. “Now go be lascivious!”

As high-tech as the spy gear in the black aluminum case was, the weight of it was almost more than I could contend with. Combined with the rest of the workload I brought home with me, it made an inconspicuous entrance into my apartment impossible.

Not that it would have mattered. When I opened the door, Irene was waiting expectantly on the couch and rose to greet me.

“Any luck?” she asked and the hope in her eyes just about killed me.

“The wheels of government-sponsored paranormal investigation turn slow,” I said, paraphrasing something I had heard Dave Davidson say.

Her face fell. “Well, how was your day anyway? Did you do anything exciting?”

I was reluctant to bring up my dinner “date” with the enemy so I simply shook my head. “Nothing special.”

“Well, I do hope you and Mr. Christos have better luck in the future,” she said. She sat back on the couch, but she was still visibly upset.

“I’m sorry, Irene,” I said, sitting on the couch next to her and throwing the aluminum case on the floor, “but on the plus side, I have this.”

The weight of the case had shaken the floorboards when it hit.

“What in God’s name is in that?” she said, eyeing it suspiciously.

“Technically, it’s part of your case,” I said. I flicked it open. The contents were a collection of gismos and gadgets that James Bond would have been in awe of. “I’ve got a little reconnaissance that needs doing.”

“Oh my,” she said. “I hope it’s nothing too dangerous.”

I slipped on my gloves. I picked up a pair of electronic eyes, fished out the instructions, and started reading up on how to calibrate them.

“Let’s hope not,” I said. “I signed on with the Department of Extraordinary Affairs, not the Department of Life-Threatening Affairs.”

She smiled.

“Does it have to do with anyone I know?” she asked. “Or anyone I would know if I could remember anyone I know?”

She was trying to make light of the situation, but her body flickered in and out for a second, showing her frustration.

“No one I can discuss yet,” I said, avoiding any talk of Jane for reasons both personal and professional.

“Well, whatcan you talk about then?” she snapped, and I looked up at her, taken aback. “Sorry.”

I thought for a moment of something safer to talk about while I fiddled with the light sensitivity on the eyes. How the hell was anyone supposed to figure these things out even with the instructions?

“Do you know anything about a wooden fish?” I asked. It seemed harmless enough to bring up something that I knew had been her property.

“A woodenfish?” she said, laughing. “No, I think I’d remember that.”

“Does the name ‘the Westmore’ mean anything to you?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Sounds like a hotel or an apartment complex. Did I die there?”

“I can’t really tell you,” I said, “but off the record? No. Not there.”

Nothing I mentioned was triggering any memories of her past.

“Speaking of apartment complexes,” she said, “I do believe you had a call from your building manager. He was going on about you falling behind on your maintenance…”

“Crap,” I said. I selected a parabolic mike from the case and futzed about, trying to open the satellite-dish-shaped cone around it.

“I take it that’s a bad thing?”

“Yes, it’s bad,” I said. “Unfortunately, working for the forces of Good isn’t quite as profitable as…um…my old profession.”

“Is there anything you can do?” she asked.

The concern in her voice was touching. I looked down at all the equipment spread out before me.

“Yeah,” I said with resolution, “I can probably take care of it tomorrow during the day. I’ll have to call in sick, though.”

“Are you not feeling well?” Irene asked.

“Outside of being ashamed for falling behind on my maintenance fees?” I said. “No, I feel fine.”

“Then what is it?”

“I need to play a psychometric round ofThe Price Is Right,” I said and threw the equipment back into the case. By tomorrow night, I was sure I would have figured out how to use it…

16

I turned in early for the long day I suddenly had before me. Irene was still sleeping in my guest room when I quietly left the apartment. I felt bad blowing off work, but not bad enough to actually get off the train with my file box and head back south to the city. I was desperate for the cash, and besides, spying on Jane would require darkness so I had to wait until nightfall anyway.

In the meantime, I hoped to reunite one of the promising purchases cluttering up my apartment with its original owner. Kevin Matthews had been the name I had gotten off the Intellivision game system reading at the night market, and a Google search had led me to believe that he had most likely grown up to be a Kevin Matthews who managed a bookstore at the mall in White Plains-so that was my first stop. The four other items I had brought with me were good finds that I could sell off to a local antiques dealer I knew up there. If I didn’t supplement my income unloading these goods, I doubted my building’s management company would accept antiques as payment.

Twenty minutes into my trip, Connor called, and without thinking, I answered.

I debated putting on some form of sick voice, but decided against it.

“How ya feeling, pal?” Connor said. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, opting to sound not necessarily sick but not necessarily well either. “I’m okay. I’ve been better.”

“Well, make sure you get lots of fluids.” Why does everyone say that? You could be hit by a car or dive naked into a vat full of razorblades, but people were always suggesting that you get lots of fluids.

“Yeah, I’ll make sure to do that,” I said. The train slowed for its next stop, and before I even thought of covering the mouthpiece, the doorsbonged open and a voice came over the loudspeaker.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the conductor said with all the enthusiasm of Droopy Dog. “The station stop is Crestwood. Crestwood station. Scarsdale will be next. Scarsdale will be next. Step in and stand clear of the closing doors, please.”

I slammed my hand over the phone’s mouthpiece.

“Ohhh,” Connor said, “I see…you’rethat kind of ‘sick’ today.”

Shit. Busted.

“Don’t tell the Inspectre, okay?” I pleaded.

“I don’t know, kid.” Connor sounded dead serious. “You’ve already got a mountain of paperwork sitting here in your in-box. Then there are the open investigations you’ve yet to do any follow-up on. I really don’t think it’s fair to the rest of us in Other Division.”

“How about if I promise to…” I couldn’t come up with anything that might appease him. Connor outranked me. I couldn’t bribe him by offering to do most of his tasks or reports that he needed to file. I also doubted he would take me being his coffee boy as payment for his silence.