by Andrea Speed
But this added another layer to things. Either she was paranoid, or she thought that someone might want her laptop, that there was something on it that someone didn’t want anyone else to see. She knew she might be in trouble, so she’d hidden it... but didn’t have enough paranoia to be afraid of those who grabbed her? Something wasn’t adding up here, but at least he was on his way to figuring some of this out.
He slipped back out the bathroom window, the laptop wedged under his arm. He felt a little queasy about having to dig through this poor girl’s life, but that was just the deal when you were a private detective. If you couldn’t stand being a voyeur every now and again, this was the wrong job for you.
Back in the car, he found his cell phone going off and answered it once he got settled and had stashed the laptop underneath the passenger seat. No surprise, it was Gordo.
“Where the hell have you been?” he carped. “I’ve been calling all fucking day.”
“I’ve been busy. I assume the farm cats have transformed?”
He grunted, still pissed off at Roan. “Yeah, and some have already transformed back into cats again.”
“But not all.”
“No. A woman named Carmen Serrano is out of her transformation cycle, apparently. But she’s pretty ill. I bet you knew that.”
“I guessed. No record?”
“None. And she wants to talk to you—only to you, in fact.”
Which probably just added to Gordo’s animosity level. “She at the station still?”
“For now. If you don’t hurry up, we’re just going to ship her to County General.”
“I’m on my way,” he assured Gordo, then tossed the phone aside, peeling off his gloves and throwing them in the passenger seat before starting the car.
He really was getting neglectful of his job, but he didn’t know why. He’d gone almost twenty whole minutes without thinking of Paris—if this kept up, it would be a record.
Belatedly, he wished he had taken some of Thora’s Valium. He could have used it to get to sleep tonight.
9
Multitude of Casualties
THEY were not happy to see him at the precinct again, but at least he didn’t run into Kevin, who was probably in talking with the chief. (Parker had surely been arrested, since he was the only suspect in a murder case. Kevin probably wasn’t going to bargain for Parker, as that would tip his hand about his close relationship with him, but he’d probably argue that Parker said he was hired by another man to pick up Eric. He’d work the “plausible deniability” or “other suspect” angle.) Roan went on ahead to where Gordo and Seb had their desks, and found both detectives waiting for him, Seb finishing up some paperwork, and Gordo angrily chewing gum, like he thought perhaps it was Roan’s head instead of a stick of Doublemint.
They had Carmen Serrano in one of the “boxes,” the interrogation rooms, because oddly enough, it was the most temperature-controlled—and therefore comfortable—place in the precinct. Also, you could smoke in there, and it was pretty much the only place in the building where you could, thanks to the new health and safety regulations. He knocked on the door of the interrogation room before going in, even though the only reason the door was shut was to keep the smoke in.
The room was about ten degrees warmer than the station house; Roan instantly felt sweat break out on his forehead and under his arms. Smoke seemed to swirl and wreathe around the harsh florescent fixtures that made the room look stark and charmless. She looked up at him and waved away the fog in front of her face as she exhaled smoke out her nose. “You must be Roan McKichan,” she said, her voice weary. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Really?”
“No, not really. I’m just making conversation.” She tried on a faint smile, but it quickly disappeared. Her face was long, almost oval in shape, her jaw strong and her forehead wide, which she mostly hid with her long dark-brown hair. And while her face seemed drawn, almost gaunt, her eyes were wide, expressive, and haunted; it made her striking, if not exactly beautiful. Her skin was pale, and Roan imagined she had an attractive olive complexion when she was healthy, but she was sick and it was obvious. She was wearing sweats that someone must have loaned her, the dark blue sweatshirt hanging on her like a burlap sack, and as she held her cigarette he noticed her hands were bony, the veins standing out like cables. “It does seem that the SWAT people are pissed at you, though.”
“They been grumping around here, huh?” he agreed. She pushed her crumpled pack of cigarettes toward him, a tacit offer, and he shook his head. Cigarette smoke (or something in it, at least) was a migraine trigger for him, actually, but he figured since he was on Vicodin he might get through this okay.
She nodded and seemed to study him a moment as she tapped some ash into a round ceramic ashtray that looked like it might have been stolen from someone’s rumpus room in the ’70s. “Are you gay?”
Oh, what were the SWAT guys calling him? Faggot? Butt pirate? Ass bandit? Fudge packer? Dick smoker? Cocksucking pansy ass? There were so many possibilities, and quite frankly, he had to know which one was their favorite. Also, it was always expedient to form a bond with a person you were questioning—if they thought of you as an equal, a peer, human as opposed to a uniform, they talked a lot easier. “Yes. Why?”
“Because I’ve never met a straight man in real life with a nice-looking chest,” she said, surprising him. He looked down, wondering if this shirt was tight enough to show off his muscle definition. It certainly didn’t feel tight, but looking at it now, he could make out his pecs fairly well. The shirt must have shrunk in the wash. “I mean, I’m not trying to stereotype, but that’s been my personal experience.”
“Don’t say that too loud, there’re some straight gym addicts around here who will object.”
She waved her hand dismissively, making a sour face. “They always get it wrong. My ex-husband, when he was going through his early midlife crisis, started working out all the time. He was trying to impress some woman far too young for him. He had to stick with his prostitutes. He used to like this massage place near the airport. The... oh fuck, what was it called? Lotus Bloom?”
“The Lotus Room,” he corrected her. “It’s caused many a divorce. I should give them a kickback for all the cheating husbands I’ve photographed there.”
That made her smirk. “Must be a fun job.”
“Not really. It’s mostly dull. I kind of wish this state would hurry up and legalize gay marriage so I could photograph cheating gay guys. That might be a bit more fun.”
She chuckled. “You could probably sell the pictures on the Internet too.”
“Yeah, recoup some of my expenses.”
She tapped out more ash and nervously scratched her thumb. “What did you do to the SWAT guys, anyway? Some of them were hanging around outside the door for a bit. They didn’t know I was in here.”
“Trash-talking me?”
“Yeah.”
He was kind of hoping he’d get more than that, but she was probably trying to be polite and spare his feelings. “I ordered them off. They take that personally from a civilian. Especially a limp-wristed faggot civilian.”
She grimaced, trying not to laugh, but he could tell from the guilty look that flashed across her face the SWAT guys must have used at least one of those terms, if not all of them. “They seem to think you’re arrogant.”
“I am. It’s a problem with us butt pirates.”
She finally did chuckle, taking a long drag. “I bet that’s what they don’t like.”
“Butt piracy?”
She laughed again and lightly smacked his arm, which was resting on the flimsy table of the interrogation room. “Stop that! No, although I’m sure that has something to do with it too. I meant you don’t seem to be a shy, retiring type.”
“Oh God, no. I’m a battle queen.”
She smiled, and it seemed genuine, but her face was so thin and rawboned it looked painful. “From the way they were talking about you, I expected
a girly guy with a high voice and a skirt.”
“And I think they’d rather I was that way, as I’d make them question their own sexuality less. With all the macho bullshit around here, it’d be easier for them if I was a femme.”
“And you’re infected too.”
“I am. Lion strain.” He turned his arm over, showed her the Leo tattoo on his wrist.
She looked at it, her thin eyebrows raising in surprise. “Wow. You’re not shy about that either, are you?”
“I got over shy a really long time ago. I’m queer, I’m feline, get used to it.”
She grinned, stabbing out her cigarette in the ashtray. Her gums were so pale they were barely pink, while the enamel of her teeth was so worn away in some spots that the tips of her canine teeth were nearly translucent. The smoke had been almost strong enough to cover the faint but unmistakable sweet-rot smell of cancer coming through her pores. “You’re fun. I like you. I’m sorry we couldn’t have met under better circumstances.”
He was wondering when she was going to get to that. He had no intention of rushing her, though, as one thing you learned quickly as an investigator was that most of your job could be done for you if you just sat down and listened. An astonishing number of people just wanted to talk; it didn’t matter if it was potentially damning or something they’d never told to anyone before. Sometimes they just needed an excuse to spill their guts. “They aren’t optimum, no.”
She picked up the cigarette pack and fiddled with it, so nervous she wanted to do something with her hands. “They said you were able to get us under control in cat form. I was wondering how you did that.”
“To be honest, I’m not sure how I do it. Cats seem to recognize me as some kind of alpha male, maybe because I smell really weird and they don’t know what to make of me. I smell half cat and half human to them. It’s turned out pretty handy, though.”
“I bet.”
There was a long enough pause that Roan knew she wasn’t going to keep talking, so now it was time to push. “I was wondering how you banded together to commit suicide by cop in cat form. I assume you worked this out in human form first.”
She stared at him for a long moment, the conflict visible behind her eyes. Finally, she looked down at the cigarette pack and asked, “How did you figure that out?”
He gave her credit for not even trying to lie. “You were all sick, all small, and there was no way in hell you could have done too much damage even banded together, because you were all so ill and weak. The only reason you could have been together was to scare people with your numbers, which would bring the cops and their guns. Tell me if I’m wrong.”
She shook her head, still looking down at the barren surface of the table. “You’re not. We’ve been living together at Katie’s late father’s house, and since we’ve all been getting sick, we’re not even attacking each other in cat form anymore. What’s the point?”
The story came out in fits and starts, but Roan already knew all seven of the cats were female, and all were sick. A couple of the women, including Carmen, had cancer, while most of the rest had immune system dysfunctions and the mysterious wasting disorder that seemed to be plaguing Paris. Most of their insurance had run out, if they’d even had insurance in the first place, and most of them were, quite frankly, tired of living. Since they were all ill and knew their time was running out, they hatched what was essentially a suicide pact. They picked an isolated area—the barn—where they’d be unlikely to do much damage before the cops were called and where they could camp out before the change occurred so they’d all be on the right spot.
“I appreciate that you planned this all meticulously, but still someone could have been seriously hurt or killed. I sympathize with your predicament, but this was irresponsible. You understand that, yes?”
She nodded, still not looking at him, her bony shoulders slumped in defeat. “It was stupid, but we really feel like we don’t have anything to lose at this point. We’re corpses in all but name.”
He winced, because that was so harsh, because that was probably true, because Paris was almost there as well. He searched his pockets for a business card, found one, and found a pen as well. “You’ve heard of the New Horizons Center, yeah?”
She scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Who hasn’t? But it’s nearly all touchy-feely crap there. I’m not sure we want their kind of help. I don’t want to spend my last few weeks of life wasting away in a hospice run by well-meaning but irritating strangers.”
“Call this number,” he said as he scribbled the information on the back of the card. “I know someone there, and they may be able to help you and your friends in a manner more to your liking.”
He slid the card across to her, and, with obvious reluctance, she read it. He had written on it This isn’t New Horizons. These are people who will help you no matter what path you choose followed by a phone number that had nothing to do with New Horizons. Thanks to Dee, he knew of some medical professionals who were willing to help people who were infected get certain meds that would help them end their lives, if they so chose. It was all under the table, clandestine, and illegal as hell, but what was the point of watching people suffer and waste away in agony, waiting for a big aneurysm or massive organ failure to take them permanently out of the game? Yes, it was euthanasia, but Roan was a huge believer in choice. If you were an adult of sound mind and suffering a terminal illness, suicide should be a viable option on the table. Everybody had a limit, and he trusted most people to know what theirs was.
After reading it, Carmen seemed to understand what he meant. She did her best to hide the surprise in her eyes and quickly pocketed the card. “Okay, I’ll try it. When I can. Am I being charged?”
“With what, being uncontained? No. Considering your illness, I think the chief’s willing to look the other way for you and the others, although they won’t be released until the expressed portion of the viral cycle is done.”
She nodded, seemingly relieved that they weren’t being arrested. “It was idiotic. We won’t do that again.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Is there someone you can call to pick you up?”
Carmen glanced up at him and grimaced slightly, turning it into a brief, pained smile. “No. All my friends are in the cat holding area, and my family’s in Florida.”
“Wow—the other side of the country.”
“Yeah. I’m sure it suited them that I got my diseased ass as far from them as possible.”
Oh, that kind of family. Lovely. “Well, if you’ll give me a couple of minutes, meet me out front, and I’ll give you a lift home,” he told her, standing up.
That surprised her too, but this time she didn’t hide it. “Really?”
He shrugged. “Why not? I’m heading home anyway. I just need to talk with Gordo before he shoves my head through the wall.”
She gave him a faint, tight smile that made her face look nearly skeletal. “Can he do that? I thought you were a battle queen.”
He grinned at her and winked conspiratorially. “Oh, I gotta let him have a good shot now and again. You know how men’s egos are.”
He left the room, leaving the door slightly ajar, and as he walked down the narrow corridor to the area that homicide shared with kitty crimes, an unadorned door close to the interrogation room opened, and the statuesque form of Chief Matthews came out, following him quietly down the hall. So she was observing his chat with Carmen Serrano? He didn’t think it warranted the big guns.
He detoured into the small break room, and she followed. A cop he didn’t know was in there getting a cup of coffee, and he opened his mouth to say something, but as soon as he saw the chief come in behind Roan, he grabbed his cup and scooted out of there.
“I forgot how good you are with suspects,” the chief said, opening the conversation.
“Certain suspects,” he countered, deciding to help himself to some diesel-grade coffee. He could use the caffeine jolt. “The guys used to call it the freak parade. Do they still ca
ll it that?”
“Not around me,” she replied. She leaned against the nearest counter, crossing her arms over her chest.
“They used to say I was the majorette at the head of the freak parade, which is why I got on with them all so well. Coffee?”
“No thanks, I think I have a sufficient caffeine to blood ratio.” She barely paused before adding, “How would you feel about an honorary badge?”
He was dumping packet after packet of sugar into his coffee to make it palatable, and he glanced at her suspiciously. He had to look up just to do that; damn if she wasn’t one of the tallest women he had ever met. “I’m technically a ‘cat expert’, right? At least to the satisfaction of the lawyers down at City Hall. Why would I want an honorary badge?”
“Because if I made you an honorary member of the cat squad, maybe Garcia and the rest of his SWAT boys wouldn’t give you as much shit. You’d technically not be a civilian.”
Ah, she was trying to be nice to him. That was kind of her, he supposed. “Actually, I beg to differ. I’d be a civilian with a useless badge. But they’d probably see me as the chief’s pet, and wouldn’t give me shit around people who could make things hard for them.” He sipped the coffee in its paper cup. It tasted like very sweet oil, but he forced himself to take a gulp anyway; caffeine was always good, as long as you could suppress your own gag reflex.
She arched a well-shaped eyebrow at him, looking torn between being pissed at his candor and admiring it. “You know what notes McClarty made on you in his file? ‘Mouthy’ and ‘a pair of brass balls the size of Buicks’. It’s nice to see some things never change.”
“Look, I’m not trying to offend you. Honestly, I appreciate the gesture, and I should probably take you up on it, but it’s been a shitty night, and I’m barely functioning. Is there any chance we can have this conversation at a later date?”
