Stepping back out into the hallway, I toss the borrowed workout clothes to the floor next to the washing machine as Brady watches me, a fearful look in his eyes.
“Let’s go.”
“I’m not going to convince you to think this over, am I?”
“No.”
“All right,” he sighs, giving in, “I’ll drive.”
“Damn right you will.”
No heads turn as Brady and I walk through the wide metal doors into Dispatch. I’ve been suspended, brought back, and attacked in the past week, but no one seems to care. Dispatchers yak on their headsets, Agents rush for jobs, a squad of heavies stands around chatting in the far corner. The dull, bustling drone of business as usual. The scrape of boots on the dusty floor.
At a moment when I’ve felt like a bright red target for days straight, it’s nice that even Myra doesn’t see me coming. I hold myself back as I stalk up, fuming silently, Brady in tow. “Hello, Myra.”
She looks up, her smile at seeing me quickly dissipating with worry as she reads my expression. “Taryn, why are you here? I thought you had to stay out of—”
“Tell me something, Myra,” I cut her off, “What do you know about Frank Soto?”
“Who?”
Brady stands a few feet away as I stare at Myra, gauging her, trying to decide whether or not her confusion is real. “Frank Soto, SCAPE pilot. Never heard of him?”
“Don’t think so.”
I pull the data drive Greenman gave me out of my pants pocket and place it discreetly on the desk. “There are some phone records on there,” I tell her, “Take a look.”
Her brow furrowed, she loads the file, navigating around on her monitor. “What am I looking for?”
“You’ll see it at the bottom.”
She scrolls down, then freezes, her face expressionless. After a few seconds of silence, she says, “My name is on here.”
“That refresh your memory at all?”
“Where did you get this?” she demands. “I’ve never spoken to anyone named Frank Soto.”
“SCAPE. You saying they fabricated them? Because if that’s the case you can just get copies from your phone carrier, and these calls won’t be on them.”
“I guess I’ll have to, Taryn,” she replies, defensive. “Because I never talked to anyone—” She stops herself. “Wait,” she says staring intently at the document in front of her. “Wait, no, I think I do remember these now. They were wrong numbers.”
Brady steps forward, finally getting involved. “Wrong numbers.”
“Someone called looking for someone. I can’t remember the name. They chatted longer than you’d normally expect, which I thought was a little bit strange at the time. That’s why some of these calls are almost a minute.”
I cross my arms, not sure I buy it. “Things are making less and less sense here, Myra.”
She glares at Brady, cornered and angry. “Can I speak with you alone for a second, Taryn?” she asks.
I glance to Brady, who’s not hiding his accusatory mood. I nod slightly, indicating to him that I want to grant Myra’s request, and he hesitates for a second, but then steps away, wandering through the bustle to the other side of the room, the ambient scrapes and voices of Dispatch washing away the sound of his footsteps on the dusty floor.
Myra leans across her desk, keeping her voice quiet. “I’m worried, Taryn.”
“So am I.”
“That’s not what I mean. I think you’re being led down a road by that auditor. A bad road.”
“Like the one that leads me to being attacked and blown up?”
Understanding my allusion to the information she gave me that almost led to my death, she pouts a bit. “What are you saying?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what to think right now.”
“I could have killed you yesterday.”
“You both have had opportunities to kill me, or at least take a decent crack at it. Something must have changed.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. There’s a lot I don’t know. Yet.”
“So, what? You going to report me to the Captain?” she challenges. “If you don’t, I think I’ll have to go to him myself about this.”
I haven’t thought that far ahead. Truth is, I don’t fully trust the Captain, either. His efforts to keep me away from the case might be altruistic, or they might be something else. He might be the source of the leak. “I’m going to give it a couple of days,” I tell Myra, “give you a chance to get there first if you want to.”
She nods, sitting back into her chair as that sinks in. “By the way,” she says, still hurt and indignant, “I ran that list of names you gave me.”
“And?”
“And none of the clients Chan added after he paid Troy Sales have any contact info.” She speaks slowly, emphasizing. “No rap sheets. Nothing.”
I pause briefly as I process what this could mean. “What are you saying?”
“Look.”
Myra turns the monitor so that I can see it, and sure enough, the official records for each of the last twenty or so names show up blank. Names, ID numbers, and dates of birth only, no addresses, no phone numbers, no employment chains, no arrest histories. These look doctored or faked, but that would be difficult to do.
“Thanks, Myra. No hard feelings, yeah?”
“Yeah.” She attempts a smile, but I can tell that she’s still upset or at least shaken up.
I walk away from her desk to Brady, who waits quietly, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed. “What’s your judgment?” he asks.
What is my judgment? “Myra ran the names of Dr. Chan’s patients,” I tell him.
“And?”
“And they’re suspiciously blank.”
“Hmm.” He frowns, thinking. “What does that mean?”
“Can’t say yet.” Those names could be dummy clients Chan used to launder the money he was making on black market calcium, or they could have been put there for some other less obvious reason.
“So what now?”
“I want everything you can get me on them. You’re a Commerce Board auditor, make yourself useful.”
He looks past me, across the floor at Myra, who’s gone back to work and is taking a call. “You think she’s misleading us?”
“She said the exact same thing about you.”
“Of course she did.” An awkward silence passes for a minute as Brady avoids eye contact, unsure what to do.
“Go get that info, Brady. I’m going to get my ride and—”
“Taryn!” A female voice pierces through the background noise.
Suddenly alert, I turn to see Myra standing at her desk, waving.
“Taryn!” she calls again.
Dodging the dispersing team of heavies, I trot over to her. “What? What is it?”
“I thought you’d want to know,” she says, “Jessi Rodgers was just reported missing.”
Rage and paranoia well up in my torso, pushing the breath out of me. My anger spins like a broken compass, lacking a sure target to fix upon. “Why didn’t you tell me that sooner?” I demand.
“It just showed up,” Myra answers. “Just came up on the ticker.”
Is this a trap? Is she trying to get me to dash out to the warehouse district so that someone can off me? “Get me a contact number.”
“I would need a—”
“Just do it.”
She gives up on arguing and clicks around on her monitor. I pull out my phone and extend the screen, and sure enough, a contact pops up. I dial it and put it to my ear, trying to calm myself down so that I don’t immediately start screaming at whoever answers.