Pretty Little Fliers

by Erin Johnson

Martin’s weak chin quivered, and he burst into tears. He pulled his dirty shirt up to his face and sniffled into it. “Yes, it w-was me. I left th-those footprints,” he warbled.

  I flashed my eyes at Peter. Geez, buddy, pull yourself together.

  Flint took over. “So you admit it— you killed Bim Pavani.”

  “N-no!” Martin sniffled and let his shirt drop back down over his slim frame. “The sign turned on and in-indeed, I pl-planned to go over there and tell th-them to t-turn it off!” He scowled. “I was s-so angry for m-my poor plants.”

  He blinked his small eyes at Peter. “But then, like a miracle, it t-turned off!” He threw up his hands. “B-but as s-soon as I’d settled into p-pruning, it turned on ag-gain!”

  I bit my lip. That seemed to jive with what the parakeet had told me. Zo had turned the light off when she left. Which made it likely that Bim had flipped it back on when she arrived soon after.

  “Th-there was some commotion in the st-street, and I was in no m-mood to get caught up in s-some street fight, so I went to the b-back door and f-found it unlocked.”

  Peter and I exchanged looks. That commotion in the street, if he was telling the truth, would have been the crowd gathered around Bim’s body.

  “I went in and—” He covered his mouth with a weathered, trembling hand. Half moons of dark dirt caked under his nails. “I didn’t n-notice until I’d gone to the sw-switch by the window to turn the neon sign off.” He shuddered. “I s-saw that poor woman down in the st-street, and I panicked and r-ran.” He sniffled, eyes downcast, thin shoulders hunched.

  Peter looked down at Daisy, who tilted her head and let out a high whine.

  He’s telling the truth.

  I scoffed. “Seriously?” I shook my head at the cop. “I think your dog’s sniffer is broken.”

  Daisy growled at me.

  Peter’s throat bobbed as he looked from his dog to me. “He looks guilty, I agree, but Daisy’s always right.”

  The dog’s ears pricked, and I tried to ignore her smug expression.

  Peter turned back to Martin. “Mr. Shaw, I’d like to bring you up to the station for questioning.”

  The man clasped his hands together and lunged forward. “Pl-please! I didn’t do it! You have to believe me!”

  Peter held up his palms. “I’m not arresting you, I just want to ask you some more questions—as a witness.”

  Martin wrung his hands and looked around. “But my babies. Wh-when will I be back?”

  Peter pressed his lips tight together. “We’ll probably release you by sunrise.”

  The botanist sniffled. “That sh-should be alright. I n-need to be back in t-time to water the mane lumens.”

  “I appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Shaw.” Peter swept an arm toward the front door, and Martin led the way out.

  I trailed behind.

  Peter glanced up to Martin, who’d outdistanced us a bit through his maze of a house, then lowered his voice. “Well done back there, by the way.” He winked. “You’ve got some mean interrogation skills.”

  I grinned—then immediately grew annoyed with myself and the warm blush creeping up my throat. “I, uh—I don’t mind coming up to the station to help if you want me to—”

  “Oh, no.” Peter gave me a kind smile. The glowing aquariums lit up his square jaw and strong nose. “You’ve already done more than enough.”

  A pang of disappointment tightened in my chest. “You sure? I really don’t mind.”

  As we passed through the kitchen, he gave me a gentle nudge with his shoulder. “Naw. You should get back to your shop. I know you gotta make a living, too. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow, and we’ll continue the investigation, then.”

  I nodded and fought to plaster on a grin. “Yeah, sounds good. I want to catch up on my sleep, anyway.”

  Daisy, who walked in front of Peter, sniffed the air, her nose twitching, then turned to look at me and growled. I don’t know what you said, but it was a lie. Stop lying to my human!

  I rolled my eyes at her. Geez, it wasn’t really even a lie. I was just doing this for the money.

  And I did want to go back to my shabby apartment and try to sleep while my neighbors clomped around upstairs and not be part of the exciting police work that made me feel a tiny bit like myself again.

  I sighed. Who was I kidding? Certainly not Daisy. And now, not even myself.

  16

  Brew

  “Oh, thank the sea goddess.” I groaned as Peter handed me a paper cup of brew.

  He chuckled, a deep, pleasant sound, as I leaned against the graffitied wall and cupped both hands around the coffee. I took a deep inhale and savored the rich, earthy aroma—while trying to ignore the more pungent glue stench wafting up from the sewer grate.

  I took a few sips and swore I could already feel the caffeine circulating through my veins. I squinted up at Peter. “Is it always this bright?” I shielded my face with one hand.

  “The daytime?” He smirked. “Typically.” He stood tall, broad shoulders relaxed, but his and Daisy’s eyes scanned the street.

  “Oh, relax.” I waved a hand. “All the scoundrels and troublemakers are in bed by now… where I should be,” I grumbled. It’d been a long time since I’d been up this early. Working nights and being naturally a literal night owl, I usually slept till long past noon.

  Peter tipped his head back and downed the last of his coffee, then magicked the cup into thin air. I bit my lip. Man, I missed my powers. Sometimes they were just so handy.

  “Ready?” He lifted his brows, and Daisy’s ears pricked.

  I rolled my eyes. “As I’ll ever be… so, no.”

  Peter grinned and led the way. It was odd to see my street in the gray light of a misty morning. Gulls circled overhead and fog drifted across the dirty cobblestones.

  Without the flashing neon lights and bustling crowds, the place looked even shabbier and more tired than normal. Food wrappers and broken bottles littered the ground, and a few ravens the size of chickens fought over a choice spot on the edge of a metal trash can.

  Ah, the Darkmoon District. Home, sweet home.

  I slogged along beside Peter through the narrow, winding streets of the night market, my head aching with sleep deprivation. After I’d downed about half my coffee, I finally felt witch enough to speak in sentences.

  “So how’d it go interrogating Martin Shaw?” I raised the cup to my lips and took another swig of the black, steamy liquid energy.

  Daisy, unleashed as usual, led the way a few steps in front of us, her bushy tail swishing.

  Peter shoved his hands in the pockets of his navy blue trousers and shrugged. “He’s still our number-one suspect. He doesn’t have an alibi and confessed to being at the crime scene near the time of the murder.”

  I shot him a side-eyed glance as we stepped around some broken crates and headed down a dark alley. Lines of laundry crisscrossed overhead and the bacon-y smells of breakfast wafting out through the open kitchen windows made my stomach growl.

  “Case closed then, right?” I lifted my free palm. “I mean, the victim, Bim, turned on the light, Martin Shaw wanted it off, and in a fit of rage he spelled her out the window. Crime of passion.” I took another sip, the liquid warming my throat in the cool summer air.

  Peter shook his head, eyes far away. “We’ve released him for now.”

  I scoffed and spun to face him. “What?!”

  Daisy glanced back and glared at me.

  “It just doesn’t seem right—in my gut. The guy is odd, but he doesn’t seem violent.” Peter looked at me and I shook my head.

  “Softie.”

  Peter gave me a half smile. “I know, I know. But Daisy didn’t sense a lie in him, and what’s the motive? You think he’d really kill someone over a neon light?”

  “I don’t know.” I hiked up my shoulders. “It was threatening his livelihood. And in my experience, people will surprise you at the lengths and cruelty they’ll go to, to get what they want. Especiall
y if their career or money is involved.” I gritted my teeth. Like, expose you as a shifter and curse you while they’re at it, just to get your job.

  Peter cleared his throat and startled me out of my walk down horrible memory lane. I’d wandered into the bad part of my brain town.

  “You okay?” His wide eyes took in my face.

  I clicked my tongue at him and shook it off. Urg. I could not take him looking at me like that—like I was some poor lost puppy. “So.” My words came out pointed. “Where are we going?”

  Peter’s gaze lingered on me a moment more, then he straightened and lifted his chin toward the tall brick building ahead of us. “Bim’s apartment. We got the photos on her camera developed and they were just a bunch of random shots of the interior of the office. I’m hoping her home will offer some clues.”

  I groaned. “Did you really need to get me up so early for this?”

  He gave me a tight-lipped smile. “Maybe she has a pet you can talk to?”

  I sighed. “I’d rather be sleeping.”

  He chuckled and nudged me with his shoulder. “Wouldn’t we all? Come on, pet psychic. I hired you to work the whole case, remember?”

  I followed Peter across the street and up the broken concrete steps of the run-down building. “Yeah, yeah.” As much as I complained, this was the first time in a long time that I’d woken up with a sense of purpose. Even if it was about eight hours earlier than I was used to.

  17

  Leftovers

  We located the landlord’s flat in the basement, and Peter secured us keys to Bim’s apartment. Then we trudged four stories up a reeking, dark stairwell, and padded down the depressing hallway to the victim’s place.

  I crinkled my nose and edged closer to Peter. I’d grown up in the Darkmoon District and wasn’t easily spooked by rats and other critters, shouting from behind walls, or even brawls in the street. They just came with the territory, and as long as you minded your own business, you could stay out of trouble. But this place was just plain shady.

  “It’s even worse than my flat,” I muttered as Peter fixed the brass key in the lock and turned it.

  Faded wallpaper peeled off the walls, the enchanted sconces flickered, and the whole place stank of cigarettes and mold.

  A loud thud as something slammed into the wall in the apartment next door made me jump. Peter straightened and drew his wand. We held still for several moments, listening, but no further sounds of violence came.

  Peter’s throat bobbed, and he turned back to Bim’s door. “I wonder why she was living in a place like this?”

  We stepped inside, and as Daisy and I moved into the cramped space, Peter locked the door behind us. Bim had made it as nice as possible on the inside. As nice as you could make a run-down shoe box of an apartment.

  Thick white curtains hung over the two windows in the wall across from me. I took a few steps through the combination kitchen/living room/bedroom and pulled the fabric back. I found myself staring into the apartment of the next building, which was only about two feet away.

  A man in nothing but boxers and an apron danced around, sweeping, eyes closed and singing at the top of his lungs. Either he was a massive morning person to have that much energy, or the illegal potions hadn’t worn off yet from last night.

  I let go, and the curtain swung back into place. I could understand why Bim had hung them. Not a great view.

  Daisy sniffed the neatly made bed below the windows, and I moved into the kitchen, which took up about six square feet. A scratched, rusted sink, chipped tile countertop, and a couple of cupboards made up the whole thing. I located the cold cabinet and pulled it open.

  Since the victim’s refrigeration spell died with her, it was only a matter of time before all the contents inside spoiled. Cool air chilled my face. But they seemed like they were still good for now.

  I bent forward and poked around. Some cucumbers and lettuce, half a stick of butter on a dish, a couple of spotted eggs in a bowl. Aha! I grabbed a box of takeout, pulled open the lid, and sniffed the noodles and stir fry.

  “Hm. Still good.”

  I grabbed a pair of chopsticks that’d been drying on the towel next to the sink and shoveled a huge bite into my mouth. I kicked the cupboard shut, spun around, and leaned my back against the counter, savoring the first real food I’d had in days. “Mmm.” I closed my eyes, in heaven.

  When I peeled them open, I found Daisy and Peter staring at me, mouths open.

  “Whag?” I asked around my mouthful of food. I plucked up some broccoli and popped it in. Yum. Salty goodness.

  Daisy barked at me. You’re eating a dead woman’s food! What are you? A vulture?

  I let out a high-pitched whine that I hoped Peter would think was some malfunctioning light. An owl, actually.

  “Uh, Jolene?” Peter cleared his throat. “That’s, uh—did you find that here?”

  I nodded. “It’s still good.”

  He continued to stare at me, wide-eyed.

  I frowned down at the noodles. What was the big deal? “Oh!” I held the take-out box toward him. “Do you want some?”

  He waved a palm. “No.”

  “Oh.” I frowned. “What’s up?”

  “It’s just….” He shook his head. “Why?”

  I shrugged. “I’m hungry, and it’s not like the victim’s going to eat it.” I grinned as I shoveled more noodles into my mouth. “Jug doing mah part for da planet.” I munched happily. Maybe this would satisfy the growling beast that was my empty stomach.

  Daisy barked again, her teeth bared. You’re eating evidence!

  I rolled my eyes. “It’s not evidence—it’s leftovers. No one’s going to miss it.”

  Though clearly still conflicted about my meal choice, Peter, after a few more puzzled glances at me, moved to the tiny drop-leaf table with two chairs. He lifted a pile of parchment and envelopes and flipped through. He stopped when he got to a receipt and frowned as he read it.

  “What’s it say?” I dug around the noodles with my chopsticks, looking for more chicken chunks.

  “It’s a receipt for developer, a bin, and an enchanted hourglass.” He looked up at me. “Mean anything to you?”

  I nodded and pointed my chopsticks at him. “They’re for developing photos.” A little information I’d picked up when defending a photographer client years ago.

  “Huh.” Peter planted his hands on his hips and looked around the tiny space. “So where are all the photos?”

  I finished the leftovers and set the empty container on the counter. “Good point. Maybe she’s got a closet she uses as a darkroom? Like Martin Shaw and his plants?”

  Daisy sniffed the perimeter, and Peter and I felt along every wall, looking for hidden doors or a closet we might have missed. As I shuffled between the bed and the miniature kitchen table, my foot caught on the leg of the bed and I tripped sideways.

  “Ah!”

  Two strong arms caught me around my waist and pulled me upright. I blinked up at Peter, my hands wrapped around his forearms. My breath caught.

  Daisy growled, and I jumped back. Not because I was intimidated by that mutt, but—what had that been all about? He’d looked at me with those blue eyes of his like—like I was a woman who wasn’t wearing the same smelly sweatpants and raggedy band shirt she’d slept in.

  For just a moment there I’d felt a spark like I hadn’t felt since…. My shoulders slumped. Like I hadn’t felt since I’d met my ex-fiancé—the one who’d promised to love me forever, then dumped me as soon as he learned the truth about me being a shifter.

  Peter is a cop, Jolene, I reminded myself. And cops weren’t exactly famed for their open-mindedness or tolerance of D-class citizens.

  I gulped. If he found out the truth about me, I had a strong hunch my situation would be even worse than before I’d met him. And that was saying something.

  I pulled back and skirted away until the table stood between the slightly dazed-looking Peter and me. I shrugged. “Well—loo
ks like this place was a bust.” I tipped my head from side to side. “Except for the excellent stir fry.” I patted my full stomach.

  “Right.” Peter cleared his throat. “Did Bim develop her pictures at work?” His eyes grew faraway as he thought it over, scratching the back of his neck. “We need more information about her. Let’s go talk to her boss again.”

  18

  Snooping

  We wandered the quiet, hazy morning streets of the Darkmoon District back toward my haunt of the ’hood. Peter stopped and consulted the address his quill had written down in the flip notebook he kept in the breast pocket of his uniform. He looked up at the house number bolted in a garish, glowing gold on the outside of the wrought iron fence that surrounded the property.

  “This is the place.”

  Daisy sniffed the air.

  I leaned out into the street and pointed a few buildings down. “That’s my place—and their business.” The lights were off on the neon sign that read Darkmoon Outlet, Inc.

  Peter grinned. “Nice commute.” Then he frowned. “It would only have taken either of them moments to get down there, kill the victim, and get back.”

  True dat.

  Peter tugged at the gold chain hanging from the bell on the fence. Magical chime music rang out in a dizzying array of notes and escalating volume.

  I raised a brow at Peter, my voice sardonic. “Fancy.”

  He chuckled, and Daisy’s ears flattened. Oh for shell’s sake. That dog needed to lighten up.

  This place was ridiculous. Millie and Turk clearly labored under the impression that as business owners (and I had no doubt they were fencing illegal goods) they had a raised status in the Darkmoon community and just as clearly wished to flaunt it.

  Their entire home appeared to be a cheap and miniature replica of one of the mansions people with real money lived in on the top tiers of Bijou Mer. From the gilded fence and bars over the windows to the twin ceramic dragons perched on either side of the gate, these people liked it flashy.