Free Peeps by Scott Westerfeld Page B

disease.”
    “The one you’re
tracking
, dude.”
    “Oh. Right. I’m not at liberty to say. Confidentiality. We have ethics too.”
    “Sure you do.” Her eyes narrowed. “And that’s why you didn’t want to talk in front of my friends last night?”
    I nodded. My cover story was sliding into place perfectly.
    She put down her fork. “But it’s one of those sexually transmitted diseases that makes people
paint stuff on the walls in blood
?”
    I swallowed, wondering if perhaps my cover story might have a few loose ends.
    “Well, some STDs can cause dementia,” I said. “Late-stage syphilis, for example, makes you go crazy. It eats your brain. Not that syphilis is what we’re talking about here, necessarily.”
    “Wait a second, Cal. You think all the people on the seventh floor of my building were shagging one another? And going all demented from it?” She made a face at her potato salad. “Do you guys get a lot of that kind of thing?”
    “Um, it happens. Some STDs can cause … promiscuity. Sort of.” I felt my cover story entering the late stages of its life span and suppressed an urge to mention rabies (which was a little too close to the truth, what with the frothing and the biting). “Right now, I can’t be sure what happened up there. But my job is to find out where all those people went, especially if they’re infected.”
    “And why the landlord is covering it up.”
    “Yeah, because this is all about your rent.”
    She raised her hands. “Hey, I didn’t know you were all into saving the world, okay? I just thought you were a stalker ex-boyfriend or a weird psycho cousin or something. But I’m glad you’re the good guys, and I want to help. It’s not just my rent situation, you know. I have to
live
with that thing on the wall.”
    I put down my coffee cup with authoritative force. “Okay. I’m glad you’re helping. I thank you, and your city thanks you.”
    In fact, I was just glad the cover story had made it through the worst of Lace’s suspicions. I’d never really worked undercover before; lies aren’t my thing. She frowned, eating a few more bites of potato salad, and I wondered if Lace’s help was worth involving her. So far, she’d been a little too smart for comfort. But smart wasn’t all bad. It wouldn’t hurt to have a pair of sharp eyes on the seventh floor.
    And frankly, I was enjoying her company, especially the way she didn’t hide her thoughts and opinions. That wasn’t a luxury I could indulge in myself, of course, but it was good to hear Lace voicing every suspicion that went through her head. Saved me from being paranoid about what she was thinking.
    On top of which, I was feeling very in control, hanging out with a desirable woman without having a sexual fantasy every few seconds. Maybe every few
minutes
or so, but still, you have to crawl before you can walk.
    “Dude, why are you scratching your wrist like that?”
    “I am? Oh, crap.”
    “What the hell, Cal? It’s all red.”
    “Um, it’s just…” I ransacked my internal database of skin parasites, then announced,
    “Pigeon mites!” “Pigeon whats?”
    “You know. When pigeons sit on your window and shake their feathers? Sometimes these little mites fall off and nest in your pillows. They bite your skin and cause…” I waved my oft-pinged wrist.
    “Eww. One more reason not to like pigeons.” She glared out the window at a few of them scavenging on the sidewalk. “So what do we do now?”
    “How about this? You take me back to your building and show me which apartment used to be Morgan’s.”
    “And then what?”
    “Leave that to me.”
     
    As we passed the doorman I made sure to catch his eye and smile. If I came in with Lace a few more times, maybe the staff would start to recognize me.
    On the seventh floor, she led me to the far end of the hall, gesturing at a door marked 704. There were just four apartments on this floor, all the one-bedrooms you could squeeze into the sliver-thin