Part 5 (1/2)

”Gee, David, between them threatening to kill me and falling off a fire escape, it sort of slipped my mind.” I fired again, and a cl.u.s.ter of papery black flowers appeared on the target's head ma.s.s. I ejected the Glock's clip, cleared the chamber, and called the target back.

Bryson whistled appreciatively when the half-shredded human outline came close. ”Nice work. Almost as good as my stuff. You know I had the highest score in my cla.s.s when I went to the academy?”

”David, you shot yourself in the foot last year. With a flare gun.”

He turned red. ”There was a lot going on in my life back then. My concentration slipped.”

”Whatever.” I holstered the Glock and waved good-bye to Batista and Eckstrom before pulling David out of the alleys and into the antechamber. ”Did you have some reason to come down here other than to interrupt my work with stupid bragging?”

”Actually”-he flourished a file at me-”I did. But the bragging was definitely a fringe benefit.”

I pushed my protective gear over the counter to a uniform and signed myself out. ”Get on with it, then. Since you slithered back onto my radar I've been having a really s.h.i.+tty time, and this isn't helping.”

”Boyfriend got one of those personal problems? They make pills for that.”

”Too bad they don't make pills to cure rampant stupidity,” I said. ”Focus, David. What do you want?”

He opened the file and showed me a picture of a pretty girl, brunette, a short bob framing a round moon face and a turned-up nose. ”Bertrand Lautrec had a girlfriend.”

I took the photo and examined the sheet cursorily. Laurel Hicks. She was a nurse, her prints on file with the DEA. She lived in the unfas.h.i.+onable section of downtown and she was twenty-four years old. ”She's not Loup. Not even the born ones look this good. Another pack?”

Bryson grinned salaciously. ”Human.”

That stopped me. Weres from different packs isn't unheard of-it's how alliances are made and broken. Alliances between pack weres and Insoli weres aren't accepted, but it's not impossible. Dmitri and I were proof of that. Sort of. I pushed away thoughts of the silence and towering black cloud of anger waiting for me at home.

Weres and plain humans, though? It doesn't happen. No human would be crazy enough to risk exposing herself to that without comparative were strength and quick healing. Plus, there's the off chance your beloved might tear you to shreds if you walk in during a phase. Some plain humans get off on magick, and witches intermingle freely, but I've yet to meet a plain human who would willingly go with a were.

”Okay, you got my attention,” I told Bryson.

He grinned. ”Thought that might do it. I'm going over to interview her. Wanna come along?”

I did. I did so badly that my stomach did a little flip at the thought of working through a case again. But if things with Dmitri were bad now . . .

”Sure,” I said. ”Let me get my stuff.”

Laurel Hicks's apartment building would make a clown want to kill himself. One of those boxy gray numbers from the 1960s, exactly like every other boxy gray tenement in the surrounding street. Dust and oppressive summer heat pressed down over the street like water and made me sweat just by virtue of exiting Bryson's car.

A homeless man dozed in the building's doorway, mumbling about smoke and shadows. The lobby smelled like bleach and the arthritic elevator smelled like vomit.

”Cheerful G.o.dd.a.m.n place,” Bryson muttered, punching the b.u.t.ton for the third floor.

”I'll let you do the talking,” I said as we rode. ”Until you start f.u.c.king up, of course, at which point I'll step in.”

”You're too kind,” Bryson said, favoring me with a toothy grin. We knocked on Laurel's door and heard a cat meowing within. Bryson fidgeted.

”Don't like cats?” I asked.

”I'm allergic,” he said shortly. I hid a grin by pretending to cough.

”Who is it?” A voice as colorless as the cardboard-colored walls and carpet around us barely penetrated the scuffed apartment door.

”It's the police, Miss Hicks,” said Bryson. ”Could you open up, please?”

”I'm afraid this is a bad time,” said Laurel Hicks, suddenly sounding alert and panicky. ”Could you please come back?”

”Can't do that, ma'am,” said Bryson. ”This is an urgent police matter.”

”No . . . no, I really think it would be better if you came back later,” she said. ”I . . . I just can't . . .”

”Laurel,” I said, stepping close to the door. ”We want to talk to you about Bertrand. Just talk. I promise that the Loup will never know we were here.”

A long silence reigned. Bryson glared at me. ”Nice work.”

”Just wait,” I muttered. Laurel snuffled on the other side of the door.

”I don't know what you're talking about.”

”Yes, you do,” I said. ”And I don't blame you. Now please open the door.”

Another small eternity later, the deadbolt clicked back and Laurel's pale face appeared in the crack of the door. ”You can't stay long. I have to get to my s.h.i.+ft at the hospital.”

She was still in her pajamas, eyes puffy and hair ratty, but I smiled politely and pretended to believe her lie. ”After you,” I told David.

He showed Laurel his s.h.i.+eld, and she gestured us inside with a tired, boneless motion. As we pa.s.sed the threshold magick p.r.i.c.kled over my skin, and I looked up to see a twisted black root nailed over the door frame with a steel roofing nail.

A little bit gothic for someone who seemed strictly pastel.

”I can't tell you anything about Bertrand,” Laurel said immediately. Her apartment was a tiny affair, low popcorn ceilings and a vinyl floor made to look like wood. A sad chintz sofa and ratty hooked rug hunched in the corner.

I scented another body in the place and a calico cat leapt to the back of the sofa, puffed up to twice its size, hissed at me, and took off into the bedroom.

”I'm sorry,” said Laurel. ”I don't know what's wrong with her.”

”Don't worry about it,” I said. Bryson cleared his throat at me and frowned so hard his eyebrows merged.

”Well, speak up then, boy,” I said, stepping back and letting him close in on Laurel.

”Thanks,” he hissed at me. ”Miss Hicks, I just need to clear a few things up.”

”You might as well sit down,” she said in the same tone you'd use to talk about knee surgery. She flopped back on the sofa and dabbed at her eyes with a well-used tissue.

Bryson awkwardly took a seat in the threadbare velvet armchair across the way and I stood at his shoulder, trying to look laid-back. Also, standing behind Bryson gave me a dandy vantage into the rest of the apartment, which consisted of a pocket-size kitchen and bedroom, with a bathroom done in Pepto pink off it. All cops are inveterate snoops. Never leave them alone while you pop into the washroom.

”Miss Hicks, why didn't you contact the police when Bertrand . . . pa.s.sed away?” Poor Bryson had slept through sensitivity training, that much was obvious.