Annemarie’s ghost stayed where it was, just breathing a cold sigh onto the back of my neck as the door swung shut. If I believed in ghosts. These days, I tried as hard as I could not to.
Pete and I rode the elevator to the ID division, which handled fingerprinting and dental identifications as well as ID fraud. A guy with a bushy Moses beard hiding a young face jumped up and pumped Pete’s hand. “How the hell are you, Anderson?”
“Fine, fine,” Pete said. “CSU keeps me busy.”
The tech grinned approvingly. “You look slick, Anderson. What brings you back here to slum with the lab rats?”
Pete jerked his thumb at me. “She does. This is Lieutenant Wilder.”
The tech eyed me. “We’ve met.”
I checked his nametag, since he didn’t sound happy. His badge read D. Dellarocco. Oh, shit. I remembered the guy, and I’d been rude to him the single time we’d met. Maybe I could blame it on bad shellfish …
“Hi,” I said with a large smile. Dellarocco crossed his arms.
“What can I help you with, ma’am? Or do you just want to yell and threaten me again?”
People were looking now, techs turning away from their light tables and their AFIS computers to watch. I felt my cheeks turning pink. “Listen,” I said to Dellarocco, low, “you don’t be a dick and make a big deal out of this and I will apologize by buying you and Pete a very, very good meal at some future date. Deal?”
Dellarocco pursed his lips and considered for a whole two seconds. When it comes to lab geeks and free food, food wins every time. “Fine, deal. What’ve you got for me?”
I handed over Lily’s ID. “Fake license for a fourteen-year-old murder victim. I need to know who made it.”
Dellarocco took it and whistled. “Nice work. Usually the fakes have frayed edges and a grainy scan of the state seal under some shitty Photoshopping. This was professionally laminated.”
He rolled a stool over to a tubular light and flicked it on. “You see the hologram? It’s old. They changed it to the state seal surrounded by the state motto a few years ago, and this license is brand new. So they not only have a laminating machine, they got their hands on surplus equipment from the Department of Licensing, which is theoretically destroyed when it becomes obsolete. The felonies are racking up.” Dellarocco sounded pleased.
“Okay, so any idea who made this with their fancy machines?” I said.
“Hmm,” said Dellarocco. “Something this state-of-the-art is usually organized crime. The Chinese are big into fake IDs for the workers the snakeheads bring over, and the various other mobs—Vietnamese, Russian, the Colombians … it’s a profitable sideline for them.”
“If I’m a poor little rich girl,” I said, “where am I gonna go to get a decent ID?”
Dellarocco spread his hands. “Guys who sell IDs usually hang out at clubs, troll on college campuses. The pro outfits use stringers to insulate themselves from the cops.”
“Like drug dealers,” Pete said.
“Don’t kid yourself,” said Dellarocco. “A fake ID that will pass muster can be worth two or three grand to the right customer. Five times that for a fake passport, especially after 9/11.”
“Can you put together a list of names and email it to my desk?” I asked. “Your usual suspects?”
Dellarocco cocked his eyebrow. “You buy us food and a round of beers.”
Demanding little nerd. “Done. Soon as you can.”
Dellarocco threw me a salute and rolled over to his computer, pulling up the department database.
“Now what?” Pete said.
I sighed. “Now I go home, put on a skimpy outfit and drag my boyfriend out to a titty bar.”
“Damn, LT.” Pete whistled. “Your home life is sure different from mine. I’m lucky if we get to cuddle on the couch while the lady watches her CSI. ”
“She makes you watch CSI?”
“Yeah.” Pete grimaced. “I got in trouble for yelling at the TV.”
I patted him on the shoulder. “Good luck, Pete. Don’t wake your neighbors.”
“Sometimes I wish I were still a geek with no social life,” he muttered before we parted.
Sometimes I wished I were still an overworked homicide detective, hiding the fact that I was a were from everyone except my old lieutenant. Things seemed easier back then, even though my personal life was in the toilet and I lived in constant fear of exposure.
We don’t always get what we want. I’d lost my anonymity but I’d gotten Will, and I’d done something to actually help my city by heading up the SCS.
At least, that was what I told myself as I drove home.
My apartment was in an old building at the edge of Waterfront, the neighborhood bad enough to be cheap and good enough that me being a cop kept the worst of the street kids and home-grown pot dealers out of my immediate eyeline. I used to have a cottage—secluded, run-down and homey, but the Thelemites had burned it down in an attempt to burn me right along with it.
The apartment wasn’t ideal for when the phase came—if I broke out of my self-imposed cage, which was currently taking up most of the closet space in my handkerchief-sized bedroom, it would be a straight shot through the flimsy wall into my next-door neighbor’s apartment.
Running through my workout with the heavy bag in the corner of my living room, I tried to clear my mind of the day’s unpleasantness. I needed to find out what pack the Duboises ran and what their pull in the city was like. I’d reacted on instinct when the thug had grabbed me in the street, and I had to find out how bad of a hole I’d dug.
But first, I had a date with Johnny Boy.
I called Will and got him on his cell. “Hey, beautiful. You feel like Chinese?”
“Actually,” I said, sifting through my closet, “how do you feel about line dancing?”
“It’s freakish and unnatural and should be banned from the civilized world?”
“What if a bunch of drunk college girls in cowboy hats are doing it on a bar?” I used to have a collection of vintage clothes worth more than my yearly salary, but they had burned up along with my cottage. I was replacing it, but slowly. I pulled a stretchy black alligator-skin tank out of the closet and decided it would do.
“I’m listening,” Will said. “You’re getting my attention.”
“I need to stake out a witness and I’m looking for astrong, silent Eastwood type to do it with,” I said, pairing the tank with the trashiest skirt I own, a flippy red plaid schoolgirl number.
“Ah, I see how it is,” Will said. “You only want me for my body.”
“Pretty much.” I threw in thigh-highs and my motorcycle boots and called the undercover outfit complete. Sure, I was closer to thirty-one than twenty-one, but if the lights were dim and Johnny Boy was a few beers in, I could pass.
“I can’t say I’ve ever turned down an offer like that,” Will said. “Meet you when and where? And should I bring my .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world?”
“The OK Corral, off of Devere, around nine. And no, I think we’re going to get more out of Johnny Boy with breasts than bullets.”
“Your breasts, I hope. I have a hard time filling out my training bra.”
“I’m hanging up,” I said, and did so, but not without a smile. Will could usually make me smile. Another unique quality that he possessed, unlike all of my former boyfriends.
I dressed myself in my trampy outfit and shoved my .38 holdout pistol into the waistband of my skirt, puffing the tank over it. I wasn’t planning for things to get messy, but you never know when you’re dealing with men, their egos and booze.
Driving from my respectable, if seedy, neighborhood into the dangerous territory behind the university caused a shiver down my spine from the cool, misty air. The were in me thrived on danger, ate adrenaline, but the human in me was getting more and more cautious. I had a good life, for the first time—I had Will, I had the job. I had stability.
For the first time, I found myself unwilling to rock th
e boat. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
The OK Corral was hopping when I pulled up, far from the lackluster crowd of the morning. Smokers crowded the sidewalk, and a few prostitutes wound sinuously through the civilians like brassy sharks on the prowl in a school of bright tropical fish. I caught the smell of a few weres in the crowd, a few blood witches that stood out among the humans like bright copper pennies.
I parked in the side lot, under good light, and locked the car. Not that anyone would be keen to steal a pea-green ’71 Nova, but you never know what sort of freaks are out there.
Will was waiting for me in front of the club, twirling the keys to his vintage Mustang around his finger.
“You trusted the valet?” I said by way of greeting. “In this neighborhood?”
“I live dangerously, doll,” he said, sliding his arm around my waist. “Damn, look at you. I could get used to this.”
“You’ll get used to nothing,” I said with a grin, pulling his hand up from my rear end. “We’re here to work.”
“Nuts,” Will said, giving me a quick kiss. “Come on, then. Let’s find this numbskull and get down to the real business of the night.”
“That would be?” I said, as we pushed through the swinging doors to the honking of Garth Brooks. Nine P.M. and they were already playing Friends in Low Places. That should have been a warning right there.
“That’s for me to know, and you to find out, doll.” Will grinned at me lasciviously.
No one carded us, ironically. Will could look practically any age he chose with a change of wardrobe and hair—the perks of being immortal—and I was hanging off him like a sorority sister three shots to the wind.
A different bartender was working, a muscular girl with spiked black hair and a riot of tattoos, full sleeves up either arm. Will steered me toward her and I fell against the bar with a giggle. “Hey, Joanie. You seen Johnny Boy tonight?”
The bartender cocked her eyebrow. “Joanie?”
“Joanie as in Jett? ’Cuz of the hair? And then…”
Will cut me off. “Is Johnny Boy here?”
“Yeah,” said the bartender. “Over there fixated on the tits, like he always is.”
I reached over the bar and patted her arm. “You’re cute. Hang loose, Joanie.”
Will guided me away before the poor bartender could slug me. “You’re unbelievable,” he murmured in my ear.
“Truly.”
“Hey, you gotta sell it,” I muttered. “I’m just doing my part.”
Johnny Boy wasn’t hard to spot once we left the bar and plunged into the cluster of horny frat boys and drunken cowboys surrounding the dancers’ platforms. He was the only one sitting back, calmly smoking a thin cigar and swirling a glass of vodka while a brunette in a black bustier and little else gyrated on his lap.
I waded through the crowd and tapped her on the shoulder. “Mind if I cut in?”
She turned around and bared her teeth at me. “Get lost, skank.”
Oh, irony. I grabbed her by the laces of her bustier and jerked her off Johnny Boy’s lap, taking her place, my thighs straddling his, rubbing against the cheap polyester of his suit.
He glared up at me through the haze of cigar smoke. “I know you?”
“Not yet,” I cooed, running a finger down his cheek. “I heard a girl could get a good fake ID off of Johnny Boy. I’ve got cash. I’ll pay.”
Johnny Boy snorted, looking me over. “Lady, you need a fake license about as much as my grandmother’s Pomeranian does.”
Will shook his head. “Of all the things you could have said, my man … that one wasn’t the right choice.”
JB cut Will a look that would have taken his nose off, Chinatown style. “She want to get carded? Make her feel young again?” He started to stand up. “I don’t have time for your Desperate Housewives bullshit.”
I shoved him back, rocking his chair against the table, spilling his drink. “Sit your ass down, tough guy.”
He took a second look at me, his expression shifting from boredom to rage inside of a bass beat of the tinny Carrie Underwood number that had replaced Garth. “What is this?” JB demanded.
“This is a dead teenage girl,” I said. I had the photo tucked into my top, and I shoved it in JB’s face with no small amount of relish.
He didn’t react, except to twitch his lips in disgust. “I’ve never seen her. I’m very busy.” Up again, and I shoved him back again. He gave me a smile that was the same smile a tiger gives a side of beef right before it pounces.
“I take it you’re a cop. If so, you obviously don’t know me.” He reached out one hand and ran it down the bare thigh between my skirt and my stocking. “I’d change that if you’re up for it, miss cop. What are you? Vice? Those are my favorite. They know how to moan and squeal—part of the job, when they’re chasing johns.”
Will stepped in. “That’s far enough, John Boy.”
JB slid his hand from my thigh to my ass and squeezed, hard. “This your piece? You should keep her on a leash.”
I needed to get control back, and the fastest way to do that is usually with violence. I balled up my fist and punched JB in the eye, pulling the jab so I didn’t break his orbital bone. I’m a lot stronger than a human, and you have to be careful about those things.
JB let out a yelp and I switched out my fist for my .38, pressing it between his eyes. If anyone in the crowd noticed or cared, they hinted not one whit. Beer and country music will do that to a person.
“I hate repeating myself, Johnny,” I said. “Did you sell Lily Dubois her fake license?”
He drew his lips back in a snarl that rivaled my own. “Fuck you, bitch. I don’t answer to the police.”
“Okay,” I said, putting the hammer up on the .38. “Then let’s find out who you do answer to.” I felt inside his suit jacket, the silk lining tickling my fingers. The ID business was good. JB’s wallet was a soft leather that felt alive under my fingers. I tossed it to Will and stepped back. “I’ll be in touch, John. You may want to find a new watering hole, too.” I jerked my thumb at a college student wearing a Nocturne University Theta Theta shirt, doubled over and vomiting Jagermeister-colored bile into the sawdust. “This one is about to be violated for about ten different health codes. That, and the music sucks.”
I waggled a hand at JB as Will and I walked away. “Don’t get too comfortable. I’ll be seeing you again.”
“You can count on it!” JB stood up, his face red. “I’m not finished with you, bitch! You don’t get to mess with me like this, in my place of business!”
I looked at Will, who rolled his eyes. “Well, at least he admits it,” I said.
“What do you think all of those threats were about?” Will asked. “There’s a lot of brave sons of bitches running around the city lately. Meyer, this jackass…”
I stopped at my car, leaning against the hood and rifling through the wallet. “Let’s see what he thinks he has over somebody who’s authorized to carry a gun and shoot mouthy people with it.”
The wallet was devoid of everything except a balance-carrying credit card, one of the types that were just glorified gift cards and could be refilled with cash. Speaking of cash, there was a fat pack of it, five hundreddollar bills fresh from the ATM.
“And here we have a bona-fide California state driver’s license,” I said, pulling it out of plastic. “John Black.” I looked at the squinty-eyed photo of Johnny Boy.
“The only way that gets faker is if you replace ‘Black’ with ‘Smith,’” said Will.
“He’d have to give an address,” I said. “Two-seven-two-seven Winchester, apartment eighteen.”
“I’m game for driving over there if you are,” Will said. “I can even wake a judge up if you want to make it legal.”
“Do it,” I said. I pulled out my cell and dialed Dellarocco. “Hey, it’s Lieutenant Wilder. If I drop something by, can I get an AFIS report by morning?”
Dellarocco masterfully hid a yawn before he spoke
. “Sure. What’s a few hours of REM sleep?”
“I touched it,” I said, slipping the wallet into a evidence baggie from my glove compartment. “My exclusionary prints are on file from the Holly Street shooting about five years back. The prints you want are from a guy calling himself John Black.”
“Good enough,” said Dellarocco. “Although would it kill you pavement-pounders to wear gloves?”
“Sorry,” I said. “Carrie Underwood makes me very distracted.”
“What?”
“Trust me, Dellarocco, you’re better off not knowing.”
Will shut his own phone. “Judge Hannity is calling in a warrant to the SCS. We’re good to go.”
“You and your federal connections,” I said, hopping in the car. “Very sexy.”
Will stroked the same spot on my thigh that JB had touched, no perverse intent behind it, but as if he was reassuring himself I was still there. “I try my best, doll.”
I reached over and patted his knee as we drove toward the ID lab. “So far, so good.”
CHAPTER 6
The apartment building on Winchester Drive was a brick turn-of-the-century firetrap, common to the old part of the city. There was no doorman, no elevator, and no one to care what went on in the dank, half-lit halls.
I climbed up two flights to 18, trying the door. It was locked, with a shiny new deadbolt that was top of the line. I snarled under my breath. “I can’t pick this.”
“We can wake the super up,” Will said. “Assuming this place has one…”
I braced myself against the jamb and gave the door a kick. The deadbolt ripped clean out of the frame and the door rocketed back into the apartment, hinges and all.
“…Or we could do that,” Will finished. I shrugged.
“Didn’t mean to kick it quite so hard.” I’d have to watch that—even with fifteen years of being a were, sometimes I miscalculated.
Will slipped on a pair of gloves and hit the lights, while I cleared the front room, the small kitchen and the bedroom. No one home. JB was probably still frothing at the mouth back at the club.
“Neat in here,” Will said. “For a single guy.”
Daemon’s Mark Page 5
