Chang pulled into the driveway, parked next to a black Dodge Magnum station wagon. It had gotten dark quickly, but there was enough light for me to see a black-and-white German shorthaired pointer run down the house’s marble steps and put its paws on the Buick’s back door — the dog’s nose was separated from Ghost’s only by the window glass. Both tails wagged furiously.
“Goddammit, Emma, get off my car,” Chang said in the voice of one who knows the dog isn’t going to listen.
“She lives here, Pooks,” said a man walking down the same steps. “She can do what she wants.”
“She doesn’t live in my car, all right?”
The man had pale skin, but everything else was black — hair, work boots, jeans, a black sweatshirt that barely hid the telltale bulge of a handgun. Everything black, save for a three-day growth of red beard. The man had a vibe: the kind of guy who could handle himself in any situation. He instantly reminded me of my DMS squad mates.
“Agent Ledger?” he said.
I nodded. “And you are?”
“Jebediah Erickson.”
Mid-thirties, max, unless I’d somehow stumbled into another Nazi genetics experiment.
“I assume you mean Jebediah Erickson Junior? Or perhaps the third?”
He shook his head.
Make that DEFCON 1.
“You’re in good shape for a seventy-three-year-old man,” I said, shaking the offered hand.
“Benefits of clean living,” Erickson said. “Come in. Bring your dog with if you like.”
Two things dominated my thoughts: one, this was not the real Jebediah Erickson, and two, this guy — like me — was once a cop. When you wear the badge as long as I did, it’s something you just know.
Right off the bat, there was something about him I liked. I had to remind myself he might be involved with the Orc Brothers and the death of DEA agents. Still, there was a calmness about Erickson, the kind you sense only in people who’ve performed well in intense combat.
I leashed Ghost and let him out. Emma immediately went in for the butt sniff, so fast and sudden that Ghost actually scooted away before turning to sniff her. I swear, it’s the first time I’ve ever seen my dog look worried.
“Emma’s overly friendly,” Erickson said. “Come on inside.”
Dogs have a powerful sense of smell, but in a way I do, too — I can smell my own. This “Erickson” was a killer. I just hoped he was one of the good guys.
The house’s interior was just as spectacular as the exterior. Everything looked antique, as if the furniture had been made from a mixture of old money and social status poured into a mold built by long-dead lumber barons. But there were strange things, too: muddy dog prints on couches that cost more than my car; a huge flat-screen TV that looked completely out of place among the decor; textbooks and Seventeen magazines scattered all over. The place smelled faintly of gun oil.
He was clearly rich as hell, and also clearly didn’t give a crap about the stuff in this house.
“Got kids, Mr. Erickson?”
“It’s Jeb,” he said, gesturing to a chair that should have been in a museum. “And no, I don’t. A woman and her two teenage daughters live here. They’ve been through some hard times.”
At this, Chang laughed, a huff of agreement that screamed You can say that again. Another part of this strange story?
I sat. Ghost sat at my feet. Emma rushed in for another butt sniff. I started to warn Ghost to behave, assuming he’d growl, but he just wagged his tail.
“Ghost and Emma sitting in a tree,” Chang said. “Your dog fixed, Joe?”
Honestly, at that time, I didn’t know.
“Emma, come,” Erickson said.
The pointer wasn’t as stoic as Ghost, but when Erickson called her she ran to him and sat, mouth open, tongue lolling, looking up at the man as if he were the greatest thing that had ever lived.
“Agent Ledger, I’m friends with the mayor,” Erickson said. “He called and told me to help you out if I could, but I’m a busy guy. Can we get to the point?”
I gave him the rundown that Church gave me. When I got to the part about the Z chromosome, Chang and Erickson exchanged a glance — they not only knew about it, they thought they were the only ones who did.
I showed Erickson the sketch Church had texted me. An Orc Brother: cammo raincoat over shoulders that could have belonged to an NFL lineman or a gorilla; hunched back; flat, wide nose; beady eyes beneath a heavy brow. Whatever hair it might have had was hidden beneath the raincoat hood. And, yeah, two actual fangs, jutting up from the lower jaw.
“That’s not good,” Erickson said.
Not Oh, give me a break, or Stop wasting my time, just That’s not good. My BS alarm continued to scream — this guy had no problem accepting this as real. Outside of the DMS and the people we’d fought against, I didn’t know anyone who wouldn’t instantly question that sketch.
“So, uh,” Erickson said, “my mom is their mom?”
I nodded. “That’s what I’m told. Of course, I now have my doubts that you were even born by the time the real Jebediah Erickson was institutionalized. Where is he?”
Not-Erickson thought for a moment, then plowed forward, not bothering to lie.
“He’s dead. And no, I didn’t kill him. Agent Ledger, if you—”
“Call me Joe,” I said. “Because that’s my actual name. What’s yours?”
The world narrowed to our locked stare: half battle of wills, half evaluation of the soul. My instincts told me he was good people, but then again, I’d thought the same thing of the man pretending to be an FBI agent who turned out to be the very assassin who’d killed Grace, almost killed Ghost, almost killed me.
Maybe my instincts were on vacation, too.
“Bryan,” the man said.
Chang stood up, instantly agitated. “Bry — Bry… I mean, Jeb, aren’t we going a little fast here?”
Erickson’s—Bryan’s—eyes never left mine.
“Joe, the mayor said your DMS was a big deal. I understand you have a job to do, but there’s more going on in this city than you could know. This is San Francisco — things are different here.”
I couldn’t stop myself from laughing.
“Bryan, you have no idea of what we do at the DMS.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Whatever it is, trust me, we’ve seen shit that would make your head spin.”
Like this identity thief had ever seen hybrid gorilla soldiers, wasp-dogs, fucking zombies, and a dragon? I’d faced actual, honest-to-God monsters.
My cell phone rang. More good news from Church. I answered it.
“Ledger here.”
“The Orc Brothers are in San Francisco. MindReader analyzed the combat footage from Kraken Team and nailed an algorithm for the way they walk. The Brothers were spotted in the Presidio — based on your GPS, you’re maybe fifteen blocks from where they are. I’m sending Kraken Team, but their earliest ETA is four hours from now.”
MindReader could identify people from the way they walked now? That machine got spookier every day.
“Send me the GPS location.” With the phone still to my ear, I held out my hand to Chang. “Give me your car keys.”
“Don’t fucking think so,” Chang said.
“Church, say hello to Inspector Chang and tell him it’s in his best interest to give me his car, right now.”
I offered the phone to Chang. He hesitated, then took it.
“This is Inspector Chang.”