The Thought Readers (Mind Dimensions #1)(8)

He, like most at the fund, knows that I know things I shouldn’t. He just doesn’t know how I know them. He accepts it as a given, though. In a way, Bert is a little bit like me. He knows things he shouldn’t, too. Only in his case, everyone knows the ‘how.’ The method behind Bert’s omniscience is his ability to get into any computer system he wants.

That is precisely what I need from him now, so as soon I finish describing the mystery girl, I tell him, “I need your help.”

His eyebrows rise, and I explain, “I need to learn more about her. Whatever you can find out would be helpful.”

“What?” His excitement noticeably wanes. “No, Darren, I can’t.”

“You owe me,” I remind him.

“Yeah, but this is cyber-crime.” He looks stubborn, and I mentally sigh. If I had a dollar for every time Bert used that line . . . We both know he commits cyber-crime on a daily basis.

I decide to offer him a bribe. “I’ll watch a card trick,” I say, making a Herculean effort to inject some enthusiasm into my voice. Bert’s attempts at card tricks are abysmal, but that doesn’t deter him one bit.

“Oh,” Bert responds casually. His poker face is shit, though. I know he’s about to try to get more out of me, but it’s not going to happen, and I tell him so.

“Fine, fine, text me those aliases you mentioned, the ones that ‘fell into your lap,’ and the address you ‘got by chance,’” he says, giving in. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Great, thanks.” I grin at him again. “Now I have to go—I’ve got a meeting with Bill.”

I can see him cringing when I call William that. I guess that’s why I do it—to get a rise out of Bert.

“Hold on,” he says, frowning.

I know what’s coming, and I try not to look too impatient.

Bert is into magic. Only he isn’t very good. He carries a deck of cards with him wherever he goes, and at any opportunity—real or imaginary—he whips the cards out and tries to do a card trick.

In my case, it’s even worse. Because I showed off to him once, he thinks I’m into magic too, and that I only pretend I’m not. My tendency to win when playing cards only solidifies his conviction that I’m a closet magician.

As I promised him, I watch as he does his trick. I won’t describe it. Suffice it to say, there are piles of cards on the conference room table, and I have to make choices and count and spell something while turning cards over.

“Great, good one, Bert,” I lie as soon as my card is found. “Now I really have to go.”

“Oh, come on,” he cajoles. “Let me see your trick one more time.”

I know it’ll be faster for me to go along with him than to argue my way out of it. “Okay,” I say, “you know the drill.”

As Bert cuts the deck, I look away and phase into the Quiet.

As soon as the world freezes, I realize how much ambient noise the meeting room actually has. The lack of sound is refreshing. I feel it more keenly after being sleep-deprived. Partly because most of the ‘feeling like crap’ sensation dissipates when I’m in the Quiet, and partly because outside the Quiet, the sounds must’ve been exacerbating a minor headache that I only now realize is there.

Walking over to motionless Bert, I take the pile of cards in his hand and look at the card he cut to. Then I phase back out of the Quiet.

“Seven of hearts,” I say without turning around. The sounds are back, and with them, the headache.

“Fuck,” Bert says predictably. “We should go together. Get ourselves banned from Vegas next time.”

“For that, I’ll need a bigger favor.” I wink at him and go back to my cubicle.

When I get to my desk, I see that it’s time for my meeting. I quickly text Bert the information he needs to search for Mira and then head off to see Bill.



*



Bill’s office looks as awesome as usual. It’s the size of my Tribeca apartment. I’ve heard it said that he only has this huge office because that’s what our clients expect to see when they visit. That he allegedly is egalitarian and would gladly sit in a cube with low walls, like the rest of us.

I’m not sure I buy that. The decorations are a little too meticulous to support that theory. Plus, he strikes me as a guy who likes his privacy.

One day I’ll have an office too, unless I decide to retire first.

Bill looks like a natural-born leader. I can’t put my finger on what attributes give this impression. Maybe it’s his strong jaw, the wise warmth in his gaze, or the way he carries himself. Or maybe it’s something else entirely. All I know is he looks like someone people would follow—and they do.

Bill earned major respect from me when he played a part in legalizing gay marriage in New York. My moms have dreamed of getting married for as long as I can remember, and anyone who helps make my moms happier is a good person in my book.

“Darren, please sit,” he says, pulling his gaze from his monitor as I walk in.

“Hi William, how was your weekend?” I say. He’s probably the only person in the office I bother doing the small-talk thing with. Even here, I ask mainly because I know Bill’s answer will be blissfully brief. I don’t care what my coworkers do in general, let alone on their weekends.