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 building.
"That's where she lived, according to the two guys upstairs. Loud and freaky in bed, they tell me."
I coughed into a fist, again damning my fugitive memories. "You know who lives here now?"
"Guy called Max. He works days."
I knocked hard. No answer.
Lace sighed. "I told you he wouldn't be home."
"Glad to hear it." I pulled out another of the items requisitioned that morning and knelt by the door: The lock was a standard piece-of-crap deadbolt, five tumblers. Into its keyhole I sprayed some graphite, which is the same gray stuff that gets on your fingers if you fiddle with the end of a pencil, and does the same thing to locks that Bahamalama-Dingdongs do to repressed memories - lubricates them. Two of the tumblers rolled over as my pick slid in. Easy-peasy.
"Dude," Lace whispered, "shouldn't you get a warrant or something?"
I was ready for this one. "Doesn't matter. You only need a warrant if you want the evidence to stand up in court. But I'm not taking anyone to court." Another tumbler rolled over. "This isn't a criminal investigation."
"But you can't just break into people's apartments!"
"I'm not breaking. Just looking."
"Still!"
"Look, Lace, maybe this isn't strictly legal. But if people in my job didn't cut a few corners every now and then, everyone in this city would be infected, okay?"
She paused for a moment, but the ring of truth had filled my words. I've seen simulations of what would happen if the parasite were to spread unchecked, and believe me, it's not pretty. Zombie Apocalypse, we call it.
Finally, she scowled. "You better not steal anything."
"I won't." The last two tumblers went, and I opened the door. "You can stay out here if you want. Knock hard if Max comes out of that elevator."
"Forget it," she said. "I'm going to make sure you don't do anything weird. Besides, he's had my blender for four months."
She pushed in past me, heading for the kitchen. I sighed, putting my lock-pick away and closing the door behind us.
The apartment was a carbon copy of Lace's, but with better furniture. The shape of the living room refired my recognition pistons. Finally, I had found the place where the parasite had entered me, making me a carrier and changing my life forever.
It was much tidier than Lace's apartment, which might be a problem. After seven months of living there, an obsessive cleaner would have swept away a lot of evidence.
I crossed to the sliding glass doors and shut the curtains to make it darker, trying to ignore the clatter of pots and pans from the kitchen.
"You know," I called, "you're the one who's going to have to explain to Max how you got your blender back."
"I'll tell him I astral-projected. Butt-head."