Free Harmony Black by Craig Schaefer Page B

tight with the Detroit Partnership, mobbed up to the eyeballs.”
    “Got a number for this doctor?” Jessie asked.
    “Been a long time since I cared what a doctor thinks,” Douglas said. “What’s he gonna tell me? Quit drinking? Yeah, sure, maybe I’ll take up jogging and healthy eating, too. You got a name, you got a phone, he ain’t hard to find.”
    I nodded. “I think we’re done, then. Thank you for your help.”
    “You just keep my name out of it,” he said as we slid out of the booth. “And you watch your asses around the Gresham boys. Demon-blooded and high on crank is one hell of a bad combo.”
    We were almost to the door when he called after me.
    “You just remember, Agent. There’s always more monsters. There’s always more monsters.”

    Jessie dropped into the passenger seat and slammed the door.
    “ Fuck that guy. He wants to die so badly, I should have capped his miserable ass myself.”
    I shrugged and fired up the engine. I was numb, shaken, tired. The sky was crystal blue, but I still felt like I was sitting under a storm cloud.
    “He gave us a good lead,” was all I could manage to say.
    “Sure. But the rest of it sounded like weapons-grade bullshit.”
    I paused with my hand on the shift. “One thing, though. I think he was trying to tell us something. Something else. Get Kevin on the phone?”
    “Why not?” Jessie said. “Gotta tell ’em we’re headed back to Detroit anyway.”
    She held out her phone and put it on speaker so we could both talk.
    “Got an update for home base,” she said. “Looks like our cambion buddies are headed to a mob doctor in Detroit to get patched up. We’re on the trail.”
    Kevin’s voice crackled over the speaker. “Cool. April’s studying that wicker-ball thing you guys found at the crime scene, seeing if she can tie it to any recorded symbolism. I’m looking through the old newspaper archives looking for anything else like it. So far, no hits.”
    “One other thing,” I said. “Can you or your hacker buddies dig up anything on old black-budget programs?”
    “Depends on how deep they’re buried. Whatcha looking for?”
    “It’s called Operation Cold Spectrum,” I said. “I don’t know anything else about it.”
    “Needle in a haystack, but I’ll throw out a line and see if anything bites. Drive safe.”
    Jessie hung up and gave me a look.
    “What?” I said. “That Cold Spectrum thing rolled really easily off Bredford’s tongue. Like it meant something to him, but he didn’t want to talk about it.”
    “Much like the alcohol rolled off his tongue, and down his throat, in vast quantities.”
    “Indulge me, okay?” I shrugged and backed out of the parking space, loose gravel rumbling under the tires. My shoulders sagged. “I just . . . I don’t know how much of what he said was true.”
    We rode in silence for a moment. Jessie looked over, studying me.
    “Can’t believe he made us the second we walked in the door. That’s just embarrassing. I blame you.”
    I arched an eyebrow. “Me?”
    “Well,” she said, gesturing at me, “you do have this stereotypical lesbian FBI agent look going on.”
    My foot slipped off the accelerator. “What? Jessie, I—I am not gay.”
    “Really? Are you sure? Because you totally present as queer.”
    “Yes,” I said, glaring at her. “I am sure I’m attracted to men, thank you.”
    “Hey, I’m just saying, don’t worry about me hitting on you or anything. I don’t date coworkers, even if you are really cute.”
    “Not gay, Jessie.”
    “But,” she said, “you experimented in college.”
    “Where are you getting this stuff?”
    She tapped the side of her head. “Finely tuned gaydar. And that wasn’t a denial, was it? Okay, so what’s with the men’s ties?”
    I glanced down. “They’re . . . colorful. I like them.”
    “They’re colorful.” She eyed me, dubious.
    “They’re organized color. Black suit, ivory blouse, one splash of color always in the same