“You’re saying you ran into another Blutbad on the street around here?” Hank asked.
Nick glanced around the room. He noticed a woman he hadn’t seen before, coming out of the men’s room. She was an attractive Hispanic woman, black hair flipped smoothly to one side; she wore a black leather designer blazer, a white silk blouse, black leather pants, spike-heeled red boots. There was a glint of pure hostility in her eyes as she returned his look—and then her face went blank when she saw the gold badge clipped to his belt. But before the careful blankness, he glimpsed the disfiguring Hexenbiest decay spread across her face, corrupting her lips and eyes. The flicker of Grimm insight passed and she was once more the pretty but hard-faced Latina.
“You know her?” Hank asked, noticing Nick’s stare as the woman hurried out.
“No. But she’s a Hexenbiest.” Nick looked at Monroe.
Monroe shook his head. “I don’t know her.” Then he leaned way toward them like he wanted to climb over the table. “But I know what I scented on the street out there— the same urine marker I found at the Perkins’ house.”
Hank stared at him. “What? You’re going around a crime scene on your hands and knees and, like, smelling the ground?”
“No! I didn’t have to get down on my hands and knees. I just... hunched down a little. Well, I squatted...”
“You’re lucky you weren’t arrested,” Nick said. “Where was this guy you... sniffed out?”
“Right down Salem Boulevard, dude!” Monroe replied.
The song ended but then a plane taking off from the nearby airport rumbled over, so low the building shook slightly.
Monroe glanced at the ceiling. “Wow. So that’s why they call that it The Flyover. Yeah, the guy had the scent marker on him... I didn’t actually notice the address up there but it’s a storefront, windows papered over. The only building with any lights on in that whole block down there. Where the streetlights are busted out. You totally cannot miss it.”
Hank shook his head. “Wonder how long those streetlights have been out. This happened over in Northwest, those people with money would get their streetlights back on right away.”
Nick pulled his phone out, then decided not to make the call in the bar.
“Come on,” he said.
He led the way outside. A mist of evaporating rainwater rose from the sidewalk, taking on the hot neon colors of the bar sign. He looked for the Hexenbiest in black leather, and didn’t see her.
They walked down the side street to Hank’s car, which chirped in response to his key signal. They got in, Hank behind the wheel, Monroe in back.
Nick speed-dialed Renard, and got the answering machine.
“Dammit! Uh, Captain, it’s Burkhardt, we’ve got a tip out here, a hot tip, that the perp who snatched the Perkins girl is within a few blocks of that abandoned van. It’s not quite probable cause but close enough for a warrant. Be faster if you get it for us... Call me, please.”
He broke the connection, sighed with frustration.
“Might be faster for us to get the warrant,” Hank suggested. “Email Judge Bernstein yourself, he takes night warrant requests. He’ll email us a warrant.”
“They email warrants now?” Monroe asked, sounding surprised.
“They do. We get ’em on our phones.”
Nick thought about it. “It would still be faster if the Renard does it. He works pretty closely with Bernstein. I’ll try texting the Captain...”
Hank grunted and shook his head.
“Wait—I just realized that Bernstein is out sick.”
“Great. This might have to wait till tomorrow...”
Monroe leaned forward from the back seat.
“Come on—Lily is in there, dude, right now! I know she is!”
“You don’t know that, Monroe,” Hank said.
“It’s... I can sense it. I’ve got a kind of paternal connection with that girl. Blutbaden can sense things. She’s in that building.”
“Connection with a girl you never met?” Hank said. “Getting kind of creepy, Monroe.”
Monroe went very still... then snarled at Hank.
“Take that back.”
“Whoa!” Hank laughed nervously. “I didn’t mean it. Chill out. But you’re going to have to wait for us to raid the place. We can set up surveillance on it.”
Monroe made a visible effort to calm down, but his eyes were narrowed and his lips compressed. He was close to going Blutbad.
“Hank, if you put some cops out there watching the place, then they’ll spot them—they got some guys on the roof. They’ll make her a hostage or something.”
“Guys on the roof? You mean Icy Touch gangsters?” Nick asked.
“I’m guessing. I don’t know what kind of Wesen they are but they gave me the heebie jeebies.” Monroe pointed at Hank. “And don’t say I give you the heebie jeebies.”
Hank shrugged. “Okay, I won’t say it.”
“If they’ve got lookouts on the roof,” Nick said, thinking aloud, “all the more reason we need a warrant. We can get a major raid going and really surround the area.”
Hank ran the edge of his thumb along his close-clipped goatee.
“What happens if a lot of cops run in there and these guys are, like, woged?”
Nick shrugged. “They’ll know when someone’s busting in on them. They’ll change to human form. So far The Icy Touch has kept to that part of the code. They show themselves to other Wesen—not to anyone else. Not that they’re necessarily going to come along like good boys.”
Monroe shook his head in disgust.
“Let’s just move in on these guys. Hey—maybe I can provoke them and you can come to my defense? Like, ‘We were driving by and saw them attacking this poor helpless citizen.’”
Hank snorted. “No, Monroe.” He turned to Nick. “You’re not going to play that game, are you? Because I’m already bothered we’re skirting the law three or four ways on all this. We’re holding stuff back from the feds. From the department. We need to do this by the book for once.”
“She’s a fourteen-year-old girl!” Monroe said, desperately. “They could be raping her right now!”
“If she’s even in there,” Nick said. “I know how you feel, Monroe, but...”
“No, Nick, you don’t know.”
“Well, then maybe you could tell me what happened, between you and the Perkins family.”
“I...” Monroe swallowed. “...cannot do that. You’re going to wait till tomorrow, really?”
“We have to. Unless we can get a raid organized tonight. There might be another judge available. I can call around.”
Nick saw Monroe’s Blutbad face come and go, as he struggled with his emotions.
“Okay,” he said at last. “I’m... going back to my truck. Assuming it hasn’t been stolen.”
“I wouldn’t assume that, around here,” Hank said.
Monroe grunted in response. “Call me if you need me.”
He got out of the car, and stalked away down the street toward Salem Boulevard.
“You think we should go after him, drive him to his truck?” Nick asked, looking after his friend. Monroe’s anger and frustration was clearly visible in the way he was walking, his shoulders stiff as he marched along. Not good.
“Naw, let him walk, he’ll cool off. No call back from Renard? Let’s try Bernstein anyway, he might answer...”
* * *
“Hey bro,” Monroe said, as the bushy-bearded Blutbad came out of the papered-up storefront. He glanced around, as if to make sure the cops weren’t around, then flashed his Blutbad face at the guy. The bestial visage was there, and gone again, in a second. “You know where I can get any... work?”
“Why?” the Blutbad asked, stopping to look him up and down.
“Why do I need work?” Monroe replied. “I like to eat! I’m not a big eater but I do need to sometimes...”
“No, dumbass. Why you asking me?”
“Just heard... there might be
some on this street. For us, I mean. Our people. Noticed a fellow Blutbad. Thought I’d ask.” There was a scraping, rattling sound from overhead. Monroe glanced up. “You got birds up there, or something? Damned pigeons, right?”
“Why you care what we got up there?” Bushy-beard stepped closer to Monroe, squaring his shoulders.
“Me? I don’t care. I just thought... you might know where there’s some work. But... if you don’t... Hey... that’s a big whatever.”
Okay, Monroe figured, the guy wasn’t going to spill anything here on the sidewalk and he wasn’t going to invite him inside. Maybe he could sneak around back...
The Blutbad just glared at him.
Monroe cleared his throat.
“All righty then. I’ll get outta your fur, bro. Good hunting.”
Monroe turned away, whistling “Werewolves of London”—then he heard a high-pitched squawk from above, a truly horrid sound like a seagull being crushed in a vice.
“Sure thing,” he heard the Blutbad say—and suddenly Monroe felt himself grabbed by the back of his neck and belt, and shoved into the darkness around the edge of the storefront. The Blutbad heaved him hard face down, and Monroe slid in what felt like old broken beer bottles and gravel and, judging from the smell, dried up dog mess.
Well, that’s just great.
He was woged and snarling as he rolled over on his back. The Blutbad stood over him, the thug’s right side in silhouette against the partial light from the storefront, left side blending almost seamlessly with the darkness.
“I don’t know if you can see this gun in my hand,” the Blutbad said. “It’s a Beretta .44. We decided you’re going to be screened, pal. If you don’t want a bullet in your head. You’re Blutbad—and you’re either snooping way too much, or you’re just a stupid son of a bitch. If it’s the first one, we’ll kill you. If it’s the second one, and if you’re lucky—then you’ve been drafted.”
“Drafted...” Monroe sat up slowly, leaning forward, getting his feet under him. “...into what?”
“The Icy Touch,” the Blutbad said. “Only personally—I think you’re too damn dumb for it. ‘Specially as I didn’t tell you to move. And you just moved.”
“I did? Oh. So I did. But you know—it’s pretty nasty on the ground here. I think there’s dog poop. How about if I just... walk away.” Monroe adjusted his crouching posture minutely, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet. He could see that nickel-plated .44 in the Blutbad’s hand now that he was woged. His eyes were adjusting quickly. The Icy Touch thug held the gun out in front of him, just high up enough...
A rough cawing voice spoke from the roof overhead and the bushy-bearded Blutbad turned his head toward the sound.
“Get him inside,” came the raucous voice.
Monroe had a half-second to act while the Blutbad was looking away.
He used it.
He launched himself forward with all his Blutbad strength and fury, springing hard and fast under the gun. It boomed over his back, the sounds of the shot echoing down the street, as Monroe slammed his right shoulder into the Blutbad’s waist, knocking the snarling beast-man onto the sidewalk.
It was like wrestling a live power cable. The Blutbad writhed loose, rolling on top of Monroe.
But Monroe kept the roll going, throwing his weight to the left, biting the Blutbad hard in the bicep of his gun arm.
The Blutbad howled, wrenched free, and the gun went clattering away.
Monroe was on his feet, then, ready to jump at the Blutbad again, his blood up, his clawed fingers arched for ripping...
Then he heard a whirring sound, smelled that acrid stench again, turned to see a dark shape coming at him from above. A beaked nose ended in a sharp hook; two beady red eyes, small and unnaturally round, glared out of a demonically vulturine face.
Geier. Vulture Wesen, Monroe realized.
The Wesen was backlit, claws outstretched. But the bared feet of the creature came at him first, thrusting and ripping with heel-claws. Monroe felt a piercing agony in his stomach, as the talons ripped into him, and an unstoppable momentum slammed him back onto the sidewalk. The breath came out of him... and with it came blood, bubbling up hot and thick.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“I don’t see him, Nick. He must’ve gotten to his truck already.”
Hank drove along Salem Boulevard, while Nick stared out the side window. The street looked deserted.
“Yeah. Maybe,” Nick replied.
He didn’t feel good about letting Monroe walk off angry. In this neighborhood, anything could happen.
There was that storefront Monroe had mentioned, its two front windows covered with brown paper, glowing sullenly from lights inside. He saw movement...
“Wait, Hank—hold on. Slow down.”
Hank slowed. Nick stared. Two dark shapes stood over a third in the deep shadow to one side of the storefront.
“Pull up,” Nick said. “No, screw that, just stop the car, draw your weapon, and get out.”
Nick grabbed the flashlight clipped to the dashboard with his left hand, his right already opening the car door.
Hank went immediately into backup mode. He stopped the car and got out after Nick, his gun in his hand but held down at his side.
“You! Police officer!” Nick yelled, gun in one hand, flashlight in the other. “Freeze right there!”
Nick clicked on the flashlight, spotlighting two strange figures standing over a man lying on the ground. One of the figures, Nick saw immediately, was a Blutbad; the other had blood-dripping hands, bare feet, a hooked beaklike nose...
Geier, Nick thought. A particularly dangerous Wesen.
The Geier was just picking up a nickel-plated handgun.
At his yell, the two Wesen turned toward Nick—the Blutbad snarled, and the Geier hissed and leaped straight upwards, grabbed the edge of the building, and swung up acrobatically onto the roof.
“Hold it right there!” Hank shouted—and snapped off a shot at the vulturine creature on the roof. The shot went wild and the Geier slipped back into the darkness.
The other Wesen turned toward Nick and hunkered down, ready to charge, in full Blutbad woge.
“Hold your fire, Hank!” Nick yelled. He put away his flashlight and gun and braced for the attack. They needed a live prisoner—someone they could question about The Icy Touch.
The Blutbad leaped at him and Nick jumped neatly to the right, let the Blutbad slam into the car door. Nick spun and aimed a wheeling kick at the creature, catching it in the ribs as the dazed Blutbad straightened up.
The Blutbad staggered under the impact, then got to his feet and launched himself through the air toward Nick.
Nick ducked down, letting the Blutbad pass overhead, then grabbed the creature’s ankles before he’d struck the ground, flipping him over onto his back.
Nick turned and placed his boot on The Icy Touch gangster’s neck.
“Don’t move or I’ll crush your windpipe.”
The Blutbad lay very still and shifted back into human appearance.
“Kind of weirds me out when you move that fast, Nick,” Hank said softly. “I can’t quite see what you’re doing...”
“Are you the Grimm?” the Blutbad asked, voice hoarse.
“Shut up,” Nick said. He drew his gun and pointed it at the Blutbad, lifting his boot off the gangster’s neck. “Turn over on your stomach.”
The thug’s jaw muscles worked, but after a moment he turned over and Nick handcuffed him.
He’d just snapped the cuffs shut and straightened up when he heard the crack of Hank firing his Glock. Something squawked in pain.
Nick turned to see Hank aiming up at the roof.
“Guy up there was pointing his weapon your way, Nick.”
Nick nodded. “Thanks.” He looked up at the roof. “You hit him?”
“Think so.”
“Keep an eye on this one for me?”
“Sure.” Hank came around the car, pointed his gun at the p
risoner.
Nick took out his flashlight, and strode over to the figure lying in the shadows by the storefront.
It was Monroe.
Monroe lay on his back, limp, torn, inert. Blood was pooled around him.
“Hank! Monroe’s down over here!” Nick called, rushing to his friend. “We need an ambulance out here fast! And backup around the building! Cars on the street behind it!”
“You got it!” Hank dragged the Blutbad to his feet and shoved him headfirst into the back seat of the car. Then he pulled the hand-radio from his belt and called in a request for backup and an ambulance.
Someone opened the front door of the storefront a crack and peered out, only a sliver of face visible. Nick opened his mouth to tell them to surrender, but the door slammed shut.
“Seems like probable cause to me,” Hank said. “Guns out front. Man down.”
“Hell yeah.”
Nick knelt by Monroe.
“Hey, dude. You still with us?”
No response.
Monroe’s eyes were closed. He was in his default human appearance. The blood had stopped flowing from his wounds but he seemed completely motionless and limp. Nick had a sickening feeling Monroe was close to death.
He sprinted back to the car, and Hank, anticipating him, opened the trunk. Nick grabbed the white plastic first-aid box, and raced back to Monroe. He was half expecting to be shot at from the roof or the front door, but he heard only arguing voices inside the building and, he thought, the sound of a girl sobbing.
He knelt beside Monroe, his knees in Monroe’s blood, and popped the box open. His hands went expertly through the motions, improvising pressure bandages on visible wounds as fast as he could.
When he’d done what he could to stop the bleeding, Nick felt Monroe’s wrist, and thought he detected a faint pulse.
“Come on, Monroe,” Nick murmured, hoping for a response. “Hang out with us here, man. Rosalee’s waiting for you. Don’t bug out on me, man.”
Still no response.
A patrol cruiser roared up and screeched to a halt, two cops jumped out. One of them was Officer Warren, a young black cop Nick knew pretty well.
Grimm - The Icy Touch Page 14
