Hard Bitten cv-4

by Хлоя Нейл

“That would appear to be the case.”

  What was new, I thought, was the fact that she was chagrined about it. Lindsey wasn’t much of a worrywart, and it wasn’t her style to Monday-morning-quarterback her own decisions. Maybe Luc was making progress.

  I tilted my head at her. “So why do you seem weird about it?”

  Hands in her lap, shoulders slumped forward guiltily, Lindsey looked away.

  I thought of the edge I’d heard in Luc’s voice earlier, and figured out the reason for it. “Luc found out?”

  She nodded.

  “Crap, Linds.”

  “Yeah, crap.” When she looked back at me, a tear slid down her cheek. She wiped it away nonchalantly, but there was no mistaking the guilt in her eyes.

  “This thing with Connor—was it a fling? Just because you’d had a really long night?”

  “I don’t know what it is. That’s kind of my problem. I’m just—I don’t know—I’m not ready to be in some big”—she swirled her hands in the air—“committed relationship thing.”

  “Not ready? You’re over a century old.”

  “That is so not the point. Look, Luc and I met a long, long time ago. He had a girlfriend; I had a beau. He’s hot, sure. Obviously he’s hot. But we started off friends, and I’d just rather we stay friends than become some kind of mortal enemies.”

  I gave her a dubious look. “How could you and Luc become mortal enemies? I’m not sure he even has mortal enemies. Well, other than Celina. And Peter.”

  “Definitely Peter,” she agreed, then shrugged.

  “I don’t know. It’s just—immortality is a long time. I could be alive a long time, and I’m having a hard time imagining only one guy being a part of that.”

  My sword in hand, I stood up, moved to the bed, and sat down beside her. “So bottom line is, no big commitment thing right now.”

  “Yeah,” she said sadly.

  I hated that for both of them—her for the guilt, him for the heartache. “So what are you going to do?”

  “What can I do? Break his heart? Tell him I’m not interested in settling down?” She flopped back on the bed. “This is why I avoided it for so long. Because he’s my boss, and if we tried it and it didn’t work—”

  “It was that much more awkward for everyone.”

  “Precisely.”

  We sat there quietly for a moment.

  “So, how about them Cubbies?” she finally asked, fake cheer in her voice.

  “Name one current Cubs player.”

  “Um, that hot one with the broad shoulders and the soul patch?”

  “And that’s what I get for being friends with a damn Yankees fan.”

  “I am useless,” she muttered, then pulled a pillow over her face. A muffled, frustrated scream escaped it.

  “You’re not useless. Hey, if nothing else, you’re one of the top ten hotties in Cadogan House, right? I’d put you at least in the top three.”

  She lifted a corner of the pillow and blew hair from her face. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  She smiled a little. “You’re the best Sentinel ever.”

  Yeah, sometimes I wondered.

  Luc and Ethan met me on the first floor again.

  “You’ve got your phone in case you need us?”

  “I do,” I assured him, patting my jacket pocket. “If the cops didn’t find anything at his house, he probably won’t be territorial enough to start anything. But I will definitely call you if the need arises. Don’t worry—”

  “She rather likes being alive,” Ethan finished for me.

  “I do,” I said with a smile.

  “Keep an eye out for accomplices,” Luc offered. “If he’s truly clean, someone must be doing the dirty work for him. They could be on alert after the CPD sweep.”

  “It’s also possible he changed protocols afterwards,” Ethan said.

  “I’ll get a good look before I go in. He knows he’s on the watch list, so he probably won’t be that surprised to see me. The bigger question is—if I find him, what do I do with him?”

  Ethan arched a suspicious eyebrow.

  “I’m not suggesting homicide,” I explained.

  “But if the CPD couldn’t find anything, it’s not like I could bring him in.”

  “Just get the information you can,” Ethan said, “and stay safe. Don’t worry about engaging him.

  We know where he is and how to find him.”

  “At least until he bolts,” Luc said.

  “And do be back in time for dinner,” Ethan reminded me.

  “I remember. I’ll even be back in time to clean up and dress respectably.” I had to—I was heading into a meeting with three House Masters and the head of the GP. There’s no way I was going in there without being dolled up.

  Ethan smiled back. “That would be much appreciated.”

  At the sound of footsteps on the hardwood floors, we all turned around. Malik stood at the edge of the hallway, his expression wan.

  “Darius is on the phone,” he announced.

  “He’d like to speak to us.”

  Luc and Ethan exchanged a glance that made me nervous, even though it was one of those looks that commanding officers share so they don’t have to speak the words aloud and freak out the soldiers. “My office,” Ethan said, then glanced at me. “Work your magic, Sentinel—and close this thing down.” He followed Malik back down the hallway, and they both disappeared into Ethan’s office.

  I glanced at Luc. “You wanna walk me to my car?”

  “Happy to.”

  I led the way down the sidewalk to the Cadogan gate. As per usual, two fairies stood at attention as we passed, but this time, one of them was a girl. She had the same straight, dark hair as the male mercenaries, and her face was sculpted and gaunt in a European supermodel kind of way. She also wore the same black ensemble as her counterpart and gave me the same look of disinterest as I passed.

  “Have the mercenary fairies gone egalitarian?”

  I asked Luc as we headed down the street, ignoring the screams of the protesters. There were more camped out this evening, probably because of the morning’s news report, and they led with the new classic: “No more vampires. No more vampires.”

  “Apparently we’d previously had male fairies because no women applied for the job. She did.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Not a clue,” Luc said. “I don’t even know the names of the guys who stand there, and we’ve had the mercs on contract for years. They prefer to stay professional.”

  We walked past a boxy sedan parked across the street from the House. Both guys in the front seat munched on sandwiches. Binoculars and paper coffee cups were stashed on the dashboard. I assumed those were our cops.

  “Not exactly subtle, are they?” I murmured to Luc.

  “About as subtle as vampires on V.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Too soon?”

  “Let’s wait until we aren’t under threat of indictment.” And speaking of uncomfortable topics, “About Lindsey . . .”

  “She’s killin’ me, Sentinel.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “I saw her kiss him.”

  “Honestly? I don’t think she has feelings for Connor. I just don’t think she’s ready to settle down.”

  He stopped on the sidewalk and looked at me.

  “Do you think she’ll come around?”

  “I certainly hope so. But you know how stubborn she is.”

  Luc laughed mirthlessly. We’d reached my orange car, and he popped a fist gently on the trunk. “I definitely know that, Sentinel. I suppose I decide to wait her out, or I don’t. Not a whole lot else I can do.”

  I gave him a sympathetic smile. “I guess so.”

  “By the way, do you have any plans to tell me which vamps were using V? They need to be interviewed.”

  I shook my head. “No dice. I turned my back when they handed over the drugs, and I promised not to offer up their identities if th
ey did. I made a promise, and I won’t break it. I won’t reveal my source.”

  I’d expected irritation or a lecture about duty to the House and its vampires, but I didn’t get one. He almost looked proud.

  “Well played, Sentinel.”

  I nodded at him, then adjusted my sword and stepped into the car. “While I’m gone, make sure Ethan doesn’t murder Darius.”

  “I’ll do my best. Good luck,” Luc said, closing the door.

  I hoped I wouldn’t need it.

  I wasn’t fancy enough to have a GPS unit, which would have seemed odd in the Volvo anyway. So I found Paulie Cermak’s house the old-fashioned way—with a street address and directions printed from the Internet, offered up by Kelley before I left the House.

  Jeff had been right—Cermak’s place wasn’t far from the Garfield Park Conservatory. The conservatory was an amazing place, but this area had definitely seen better days. Some chunks of the block were empty of houses, the little remaining grass strewn with trash. Many of the buildings—grand stone apartment houses and World War II–era homes—had seen better days.

  Cermak’s house was nondescript—a narrow, two-story building with gray shingles and a highly pitched roof. The yard was neat, the grass clipped, but with no real landscaping to speak of.

  The remains of a paper fast-food bag were sprinkled across the lawn, probably caught in a mower blade, and no one had cared enough to clean up.

  He was lucky in one respect—unlike the rest of the houses on this side of the block, Cermak’s had a side garage. It wasn’t attached, but it was a garage nonetheless, and it gave him a way to avoid what thousands of other Chicagoans had to face every day—residential on-street parking.

  I parked my car a few houses down the block, then grabbed my sword and a small black flashlight from the glove box. Once outside, I belted on my sword and pushed the flashlight into my pocket. I locked up the car, took a good look around for any errant McKetricks or unmarked police cars, and started walking.

  I’d been standing Sentinel for a few months now. While I wasn’t thrilled about the battles, I was getting used to them. But the part of the work that still made me nervous was the walk-up.

  I’d been nervous walking down Michigan with Jonah, but at least I’d had someone to keep me company and keep my mind off the task ahead.

  Now I was alone in a dark, quiet neighborhood with nothing but my thoughts.

  I hated the anticipation of violence.

  I stopped beside the house’s black plastic mailbox. The red flag was raised, but I resisted the urge to open the box and see what he was mailing out. I had enough problems without adding mail tampering to the list.

  Cermak’s garage was dark, as was the top floor of the house. The first floor glowed with light. The security door was open; the screen door was closed.

  “Start with the garage,” I murmured, tiptoeing through the grass on the far side of the lot. The driveway, such as it was, consisted of two thin lines of concrete, just enough to give a car tire a bit of protection from the mud. I stuck to the grass to muffle the sound of my boots. While I planned to knock on the front door at some point, I wanted to check out the lay of the land first, and that required sneakiness.

  The garage was narrow, an old style with a pull-up door and a row of windows across the top. I pulled out my flashlight, twisted it on, and peeked inside.

  A thrill shot through me.

  A gleaming Mustang was parked inside, the same car we’d seen on the security feed—a coupe with white racing stripes and the telltale Mustang side scoops. The car was gorgeous.

  Whatever Cermak’s problems, I couldn’t fault his taste in vehicles.

  I snapped an image with my camera phone, and considered the “confirm vehicle” box checked. Next stop, the house.

  I crossed the lawn and headed for the small concrete porch. A television show from the eighties—complete with laugh track—blared through the screen door.

  When I reached the porch, I wrapped my left hand around my sword handle, squeezing it for comfort. I could see through the house to the kitchen and the avocado green stove and refrigerator. The house inside was simply decorated with motel-style furniture. Plain and thrifty, but serviceable.

  “Can I help you?”

  I blinked when a man stepped up to the door—the man from the Temple Bar video. He wore a Yankees sweatshirt that had seen better days and a pair of well-worn jeans. He smiled, revealing a mouthful of straight, white teeth. And he might have lived in Chicago, but the accent was all New York.

  I decided to get to the point. “Paulie Cermak?”

  “You got him,” he said, head tilted to the side as he took in my features . . . and then my sword.

  “You’re Merit.”

  He must have seen the surprise in my eyes, as he chuckled. “I know who you are, kid. I watch television. And I expect I know why you’re here.” He flipped the lock on the screen door and pulled it open a little. “You wanna come in?”

  “I’m good where I am.” I might have been curious, but I wasn’t stupid. I’d rather stay out here with the city at my back than willingly go into the home of a suspect.

  He let the door shut again and crossed his arms on the other side of it. “In that case, why don’t we get to it? You were looking for me—now you found me. What do you want with me?”

  “You’ve spent some time at Temple Bar lately.”

  “That a question or a statement?”

  “Since we both know you parked your car outside the bar, let’s say it’s a statement.”

  He shrugged negligently. “I’m a small businessman, just trying to make my way in the world.”

  “What’s your business, Mr. Cermak?”

  He smiled grandly. “Community relations.”

  “Is Wrigleyville the relevant community?”

  Paulie rolled his eyes. “Kid, I got interests all over this city.”

  All these questions, and I was beginning to feel like a cross between a cop and an investigative reporter—with none of the credentials or authority. “Is it any coincidence that you start popping up outside Temple Bar and a new drug hits the streets?”

  “In case you ain’t already aware, the men and women in blue have been through my house from top to bottom. You imply that I’ve been distributing drugs, but don’t you think they would have found something if I had been?”

  I sized him up for a moment. “Mr. Cermak, would you like to know what I think?”

  He smiled slowly, like an eager hyena. “As it turns out, yeah. I would like to hear what you think.”

  “You had the forethought to keep any trace of V out of your house. I think that makes you an incredibly smart and resourceful man. The question, then, is where you’re keeping the drugs

  . . . and who you’re getting them from. How’d you like to fill me in on that?”

  Paulie Cermak stared at me, wide-eyed, for a moment before erupting with laughter, the belly-aching kind that soon had him coughing uncontrollably.

  When he finally stopped guffawing, he wiped tears from the corners of his eyes with fingers that were longer and more delicate than I’d thought they’d be. Like the fingers of a pianist, but attached to a shortish, barrel-chested drug pusher.

  “Oh, Jesus,” he said. “You are gonna give me an embolism, kid. But you are a kick, you know that? And you aren’t exactly shy, are you?”

  “Is that a no?”

  “The business world is a very delicate place.

  You’ve got higherups. Middlemen. And everyday, run-of-the-mill vendors.”

  “Such as yourself?”

  “As you say. Now, if I draw too much attention to those other levels, the entire balance gets thrown off, and that makes management unhappy.”

  “Is McKetrick your management?”

  He went quiet for a moment. “Who’s McKetrick?”

  I couldn’t be certain, but I had a sense his confusion was legitimate, that Cermak really didn’t know who McKetrick was. Besides, h
e’d all but admitted he was selling drugs. Why start lying now?

  A thought occurred to me—and not the kind of thought that was going to help me sleep better at night. I was the granddaughter of a cop, and a vampire with connections to Cadogan House.

  Why wouldn’t he lie to me, unless he thought vampires couldn’t touch him . . . or whomever he worked for? And who was the only woman the GP wouldn’t let us touch?

  I had to inquire, but I didn’t want to make him—or Celina—skittish.

  “Do you work alone?” I asked him.

  “Most of the time,” he carefully said, as if not sure where the question was headed.

  “With vampires?”

  “Honey, I’ve got a carotid. Given the nature of the merch, I prefer to get in and get out with as few fangs as possible.”

  “You were spotted with a vamp named Marie.”

  Paulie stared back at me, refusing to respond.

  Maybe he hadn’t noticed the security camera.

  Brave as he might have been about the V, Cermak apparently wasn’t willing to admit to Celina’s involvement. I wasn’t sure what that signaled, if anything. And I was running out of ideas.

  “I know what you think it stands for,” Paulie said.

  “What?”

  “V,” he said. “The name of the drug. You think it means ‘vampire,’ right?”

  I paused for a moment, surprised he was willing to be that overt about it. “It had occurred to me,” I finally got out.

  He pointed a finger at me. “Then you’d be wrong. Stands for veritas. That’s a Latin word meaning ‘truth.’ Idea is, it’s supposed to remind vamps what being a real vampire feels like. The old-school, flying-bats, Transylvania, horror-film bloodlust. The good kind of bloodlust. And battling. No wussy, pansy human bullshit. Getting out there and mixing it up. It’s a gift, V, to the vampires. Veritas. Truth,” he repeated.

  “Personally, I appreciate that.”

  That was an awfully philosophical explanation.

  “And what makes you so generous toward vamps?”

  “I’m not generous, kid. I’m not saying I’ve seen V, but if I had, it ain’t the kind of thing I’d get involved in out of the goodness of my heart.