by Jackie May
“It’s not your case anymore,” Hillerman informs him. “It’s been reassigned.”
“Be my guest.”
I jump in. “But we’re looking for another detective—Homicide, like you. Assigned to the dead hooker from Corktown?”
“Another dead end.” He doesn’t bother to excuse the pun. “That’s probably Ferro you want. Hit up the office. Morning shift should be coming in soon.”
On our way out, I make a conscious effort not to pause by the kitchen, where Dario’s body is covered by a plastic tarp.
Homicide Division is on the fourth floor of the Central Detroit police station. After a flash of Hillerman’s badge (I have to get me one of those) at the front desk, we enter the elevator. As soon as the doors close, Hillerman, who’d been silent the entire drive over, suddenly asks, “You’ve heard of Arael Moaz?”
“Everybody has. Like you said, demon warmonger. How do you know about him?”
“You just said everybody’s heard of him.”
“Everybody from Detroit. And even then we don’t have all his signs memorized. You’re a demon expert or something?”
“I know enough not to sleep with them.”
Okay, claws coming out. “That’s the problem with you guys. You see a part of something and think you have the big picture. Not all demons are bad, and even if they were, not all underworlders are demons. Are you also an expert on shifters, fey, vampires, and sorcerers?”
“I don’t have to be. You all joined the federal committee. You have the Agency. We don’t have to babysit you.”
“Right, right, we just have to send reports to you guys about every little thing we do, but that’s not babysitting.”
“Demons refuse to join. There’s no communication, no cooperation. There’s no accountability.”
“I wouldn’t call what the rest of us do cooperating. More like barely tolerating. Go ahead and tighten that leash, see what happens.”
“And I get that. I do.” She challenges me with intense, unblinking eyes behind her thick glasses. “But demons are different.”
With a chime, the elevator opens. Across a hallway is a spacious office crowded with rows of desks in the center and cubicles along the far wall. Half the work stations are occupied by men and women in polo shirts and khaki pants, just like the investigator at the crime scene.
I follow Hillerman across the hall. “Okay, so you heard all that stuff I said in the car?”
“About this detective being strange in every way possible, including strangely not bad-looking?”
“Okay, you weren’t responding. I felt like I had to fill the silence.” She regards me in silence. Probably testing me to see if I can stay quiet longer than—“I meant that he’s good-looking in a strange way, not that it’s strange for a detective to be good-looking.”
“And I wasn’t responding to you because I was texting my boss,” she explains.
“This early in the morning?”
“We’ll need the leverage. Local police don’t appreciate being told what to do.”
“But you have your magic badge.”
“And you have your baseball jacket, I know, crazy.”
“Special Agent Hillerman?” A squat black woman with a shaved head marches up to us, hand extended. “Detective Ferro. I’m on the Corktown case.” Hillerman shakes her hand but looks at me expectantly.
“Yeah, no,” I say, “It was a guy I talked to. A male detective, said he—”
“Oh, right,” Ferro says, then barks, “Gorman!”
An enormous, lumbering white guy appears, sipping at a tiny coffee cup through a red beard.
I shake my head. “Definitely a man, so we’re getting closer, but—”
“What’s this about?” Ferro asks impatiently. “We’re the only two assigned to the Corktown girl, so unless there’s another Corktown girl—”
“Another hooker with her throat ripped out and no blood left in her body?”
Ferro and Bigfoot exchange looks.
“See? I’ve obviously been talking to somebody in the know, and he said he was Detroit PD, Homicide, and—oh!—but he wasn’t dressed like you guys. He wore a tie, a white shirt, very nice fit—”
In the next instant, several things happen at once. Ferro’s face drops as she says, “Oh.” Bigfoot turns and lumbers away. And there is a sudden loud rush of tiny wheels spinning furiously across the laminate floor, starting from the far side of the room, getting closer and closer. The sound of an office chair rolling toward us. With a forced grimace smile, Ferro waits, unmoving except for the gradual sagging of her shoulders. The momentum of the rolling wheels wanes, then gives a death rattle, then halts just as the back of an office chair appears from behind the computer monitor on the nearest desk, just enough for me to see a wedge of golden hair and two curious green eyes. They bounce between me and Hillerman.
The entire office has come to a halt. After a long pause, the silence is broken by the staccato squeak of shoes against the floor as the detective scoots the chair into full view. And there’s my guy. Fresh new shirt, pulled tight across his chest. Different tie from last night. He seems to have slept well—the haunted, haggard quality is gone from his eyes. He shaved.
I don’t know why, exactly, but the sight of him makes me smile. I point at him. “Bingo.”
He smiles back. “I win something?”
“Only the award for best-dressed detective in this room.”
Ferro’s eyes roll up to the ceiling.
The detective’s face lights up. He stands and points at a coworker across the room. “You hear that? Burn on you.” He points to another. “Burn on you.” He points to Ferro. “Double burn you, and…where’s Bigfoot?” When I point to Ferro’s enormous, bearded partner, the sharp-dressed man is amazed. “How’d you know he’s Bigfoot?”
“Oh, it’s written on his coffee cup.”
Utterly confused, he peers at Bigfoot, and Bigfoot peers at his coffee cup, which, of course, is blank. So…not exactly the best and brightest up in here. Ohhhhhh, fun, fun, fun. Cute, fashionable, and dumb? The giddy schoolgirl in me is giggling and making rapid fingertip claps in front of my gleaming eyes. Hillerman is so getting the backseat now.
But still, as much as I’m loving this exchange, there are red flags popping up in my mind. Something’s off about the guy. The spaz is gone. He seems so…normal. I can tell by Hillerman’s look that she’s also confused by his behavior—it’s not strange the way I described him. Granted, he’s not being chased by monsters right now, and for all I know he was on drugs last night. This could be the normal him.
Ferro spreads her feet apart and places hands on her hips. “Brenner, get over here.” The detective, who I can now finally tell you is called Brenner, immediately obeys. “You ain’t on the Corktown girl, Brenner.”
“I know.”
“So how’s she know all about it from you?”
Agent Hillerman steps forward. “He doesn’t have to answer that. This is a federal case now. He’s with us.”
A door slams. “The hell he is!” shouts a tall man with a military bearing and several police insignias on his shirt front. The way all the others stiffen at his presence, I’m guessing he’s their boss. “Look, I don’t know who the hell you think you are—”
Dear reader. It should be no surprise to you by now that I’m not the best at confrontation. It makes me…bratty. So excuse me, but I can’t help but interrupt with, “Duh, who do you think? Obviously she’s FBI, and I’m a Tigers fan.”
Out comes Hillerman’s badge. “Special Agent Hillerman. I apologize.”
“We’re commandeering,” I explain. “It’s a thing.”
“It is a thing,” the man agrees, face reddening. “And there’s a protocol to it. This isn’t the 7-Eleven. You don’t just come in here and take what you need. Somebody in Washington needs to pick up a damn phone. Now how about you come back after—”
The door that had slammed opens again. A young officer comes out and puts a f
inger up. “Lieutenant, you’ve a call from Washington. The Bureau Director.”
“The Bureau Director!” he barks, as though he doesn’t find the joke at all funny. After a long pause, he continues in a more tentative manner, “…of the Bureau?”
“Yes.”
“Of the Federal Bureau.”
“Yes.”
“Of Investigation.”
“The guy who’s on TV sometimes with the President, yes. Line two. He sounds tired.”
Still, the lieutenant hesitates, teeth grinding.
Staring woodenly at him, Agent Hillerman makes a noncommittal gesture with her hands. “I can talk to him, if you want.” Her voice sounds bored. “He’s not really a morning person.”
To his credit, the lieutenant seems to calm himself, then retreats in silence to his office, closing the door gently.
Hillerman wastes no more time. “Detective Brenner, is it?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m Hillerman. She’s Davies.”
“Shayne,” I correct.
“Detective Brenner, can you tell us everything you know about the Corktown girl?”
Ferro interjects, “Absolutely zero. It’s not his case.” With one look from Hillerman, she shuts her mouth.
Brenner shrugs. “She’s right. Just the initial brief we all got. Working girl, found in her home, throat opened up but very little blood in her body, and no blood at the scene.”
“Suggesting what?” Hillerman prods.
“She was killed somewhere else, then dumped where we found her.”
“Or?”
“Or what?”
Hillerman looks to me, and I have no idea what she wants, so I just say, “Or…vampires, duh.” By the look on Hillerman’s face, I’m guessing that wasn’t the help she had in mind. Ferro’s mouth hangs open. Brenner, thankfully, only laughs.
“Don’t tell my sister,” he says. “She loves vampires. Reads all those paranormal books.”
“The point being,” I recover, “is that we don’t discount any theory. And it’s that kind of outside thinking that has led us to believe there may be a connection between the Corktown girl and the apartment that just got shot up on Roosevelt.”
“Okay.” Brenner’s face is a complete blank. He has no idea what I’m talking about. No memory that he was there.
“What do you think about that?”
More blank. “Cool.”
Wow. Okay. “See, that’s what we’re looking for. Somebody with an open mind.” I shoot Hillerman a significant look. “To come at this with zero preconceived notions.”
She reflects a defeated look of her own. “Total blank slate.”
Two thoughts come to me. One is a plan of action that I really, really don’t like. The other is a way to let Hillerman know what I’m thinking—like speaking in code. To Ferro, I ask, “The murder victim, what’s her name?”
“Rosalind Rose.”
“And you know she’s a hooker, how?”
“You mean besides her name being Rosalind Rose?”
“Obviously.” As I cross that off my list of baby names.
“Because she was a cocktail waitress at the casino. Everybody knows that really means…” She turns her palms out.
“Right, yeah.” As I cross that job off my résumé. “Which casino?” I already know the answer.
“Monolith,” she confirms.
So here comes the code. To Hillerman, I say, “Huh. Monolith. Owned and operated by Henry Stadther.” There’s a spark in Hillerman’s eye, so I continue. “We could start there. With Detective Brenner.”
Ferro shakes her head. “Believe me, we went through all that. Got nothin’.”
“You talked with Stadther?”
“Hell no. For crying out loud, this girl was a cocktail waitress, not the CEO.”
“Did you take Detective Brenner with you?” Hillerman asks.
“Why would I? Like I said already, Brenner’s got nothin’ to do with this.”
“Which might be why you’ve gotten absolutely nowhere,” I suggest. It has the same effect on Ferro as if I’d punched her in the stomach.
Brenner, on the other hand, looks uneasy. Maybe stumped. I think he can’t decide if this is real or just some elaborate prank.
“How about it, Brenner?” Hillerman asks. “Monolith Casino?”
He settles on a curious grin. “Shakedown? Busting heads? What?”
“Just talk.”
His smile catches. “Oh. Right. I’m down, whatever you say.”
“He’s down,” I repeat to Ferro.
She nods with flat eyes. “Uh-huh, and good luck with that.”
I urge Hillerman with a pointed reminder: “Stadther keeps night hours. We’d have to go now if we want to catch him before the sun comes up.”
She commits. “Brenner, get your things.”
“I’m cleared to work with you guys?” he asks.
The lieutenant opens his door and calls out, “Brenner!”
“You are now,” I say.
The moment Brenner hurries off, Ferro steps in close. “Look, no offense to y’all from up on the Hill, but what in the frozen hell’s a’matter with you? Do he look like the talking kind?”
“He’s wearing a tie,” I counter lamely.
“Oh, he fun to look at, no doubt. But then his mouth start flappin’.” She waggles fingers at her forehead. “Ain’t nothing going on up in there. He’s made for the street, which is fine for fugitive squad or narco, when we need a door busted or some lowlife dragged into the box for questioning. But you don’t sit Brenner across the table, everybody knows that. He’s weird. He’s…” She makes her whole body shake violently. “Jittery.”
Hillerman frowns. “I don’t see it.”
Ferro rolls her eyes. “I know, right? Of all the days! He musta started new meds last night, because he almost seem normal today. But just wait till you put some pressure on, you’ll see. Look, I know he’s still new, but you ask me, he don’t got what it takes for Homicide. He’s like a Robin who wants to be Batman, but ain’t no amount of wishing gonna make that happen.” With a dusting of her hands, she marches away.
Immediately, the floodgates open between me and Agent Hillerman. We speak quickly and low.
Hillerman: “Is she right?”
Me: “It’s true, yes, Robin will never be Batman.”
Hillerman: “Brenner’s not the same today?”
Me: “No, but last night he was being hunted by vamps. That would put anybody out of their mind.”
Hillerman: “So this wasn’t his case. He was working it on his own.”
Me: “Because only he recognized a vampire attack.”
Hillerman: “So he goes to the Monolith, where the girl worked.”
Me: “They realize that he knows what they are.”
Hillerman: “Stadther compels him to forget the underworld.”
Me: “Now all we have to do is get Stadther to uncompel him.”
Hillerman pauses with a sinking look.
“I know,” I mutter. “And you thought police don’t like to be told what to do. Got any more of that leverage lying around?”
When she doesn’t respond, I realize her mind is on a different track. She looks disturbed. Almost frightened. “What if we shouldn’t?”
“Why not?”
Her eyes flash irritation. “Because maybe he’d rather not remember.”
“Brenner?”
“There’s only one way for humans to find out about the underworld, and that’s through terror and tragedy and death.”
“Give me a break, you don’t know that.” The words are out of my mouth before my screaming brain can pull on the reins. Before I can remind myself that I’m speaking to a human who not only knows about the underworld but obviously has reason to hate us.
Hillerman’s eyes kindle with a scorching, withering glare. She squares her shoulders. Feeling a flare in her vague dominance, I lower my eyes, flustered and humiliated. She walks out.
So getting the backseat.
Hillerman rides shotgun with her foot up on the dash, so once again I find myself speaking to Brenner through the rearview mirror. “Sorry about all the clothes back there.”
His easy eyes smile at me. “Laundry day?”
“Exactly. Unlike you, Mr. Dry Cleaning. How come you dress like that? All the other detectives look like they’re ready to change the oil in my car.”
An exasperated groan escapes through his teeth, at odds with a playful grin. “Because, didn’t you know? A man’s clothes make a man’s destiny.”
“Who says that?”
“My sister.”
“The vampire lover?” I shoot a glance at Hillerman, but she only stares out the window, lost in moody thoughts.
“She’s a finance major at DePaul, full scholarship, highest honors, all that.”
“Basically the opposite of you.”
“Oh, like, how are we even from the same parents? But, so Haley’s always trying to get me to clean up my act, get it together, be an adult, yadda, yadda, little-sister-trying-to-be-my-mom crap.”
I smirk. “Which you really hate. I can tell from your smile.”
He avoids my gaze, but the sparkle in his eyes can’t lie. “And every birthday for the past…whatever, since forever ago, she buys me nice clothes that she knows I’d never buy for myself, let alone wear, and she gives me her favorite speech about the power of clothes on our brains, or some shit, I don’t even know.”
“Because you totally don’t listen to your baby sister.”
He suppresses a smile. “No way.”
“You just wear those shirts to cover up the tattoos on your neck.”
Another exasperated groan. “Did Haley put you up to this? Is that how you know me?”
Agent Hillerman interrupts. “How long have you lived in Detroit?”
“Not long. A year.”
Hold up. “You’re not from here?” How did Hillerman guess that?
“He’s from Chicago,” she states.
