I said, “I need to—”
“The Los Angeles Police Department has no comment at this time, ma’am.” I might as well have addressed a tape recording. Each word had been repeated so many times that they had almost etched grooves into the man’s voice.
“I don’t think you understand.” I took out the press credential for Jade Conroy and displayed it for the officer.
His fellow officer came over and said, “We can’t comment on an ongoing investigation, ma’am. Please step back.”
A few of the other reporters snickered and mumbled beneath their breath. As if they hadn’t all tried the same thing and been stonewalled.
But, unlike them, I had a trump card.
“I have a message for Detective Gordie Jones,” I said with bold confidence.
Both officers stiffened, their expressions immediately twisting into anger. The first one said, “What the hell did you just say?”
“Now you want to talk?” I asked, staring back defiantly. Beyond the officers and the tape, I could see the mobile tactical response unit and SWAT setting up, lights painting the street red and blue.
“Look, lady, we don’t have time for your bullshit.” The wisps danced between the two men, turning an aggressive blood red. “Move along.”
This was not the reaction I’d expected. Maybe a wink, a nudge, and old Gordie would let me duck under the tape or through a back door. Still, it was the only chip I had, and it was getting a reaction.
Consequences be damned, I said, “I have a message for him.”
The first cop adjusted his cap, displaying a fine layer of receding black hair. His hand quivered as he rested it on his service firearm.
“You need to step back.”
“Not until I deliver my message.”
“Maybe you already delivered it,” the cop said, sliding the gun out slowly. “And you’re here to make sure it was received.”
“Pretty sure I didn’t.” I craned my neck, watching as a man in a tailored suit—the Lieutenant, maybe even the Police Commissioner—strode out of the mobile tac-unit. His cell phone—one of those ubiquitous thin ones—was glued to his ear like a permanent accessory.
I glanced back between the two officers forming a human wall and made the decision.
“Hey,” I called, yelling across the chaotic scene, “I got a message for Gordie Jones. You’re gonna wanna hear it. These two—”
The first cop drew, his partner grabbing my wrist tight before I could finish. The man in the suit froze and stared, his posture stiff.
It seemed Gordie Jones’s name was a sore subject.
Which made sense when the cuffs clicked on and the first cop said, “We’ll see what message you had for him. Because Gordie’s dead.”
This day was just getting better and better.
4
Wonderful.
No, really.
Wonderful.
The sharp steel cut into my wrists as I strained against them in the back of the SWAT van. It was futile, but jail wasn’t my thing, remember? The dim light flickered, threatening to give out at any time. Budget cuts. A single officer sat in the driver’s seat, reading a magazine.
“Hey, asshole, I asked you a question.” I kicked the steel cage separating us. “I’m talking to you.”
“Captain is busy.”
Captain. So that was the guy in the suit. Made sense.
Didn’t help my situation.
Worst came to worst, I still had the cloaked shotgun on my back. They’d thrown me back here without so much as a frisk. As a negative, the stock was digging into my spine. As another negative, law enforcement rarely took kindly to people who shot at them.
That was like kicking a hornet’s nest, then lighting it on fire for good measure. A long and prosperous life did not generally ensue.
“I didn’t know Gordie was dead,” I said. “Honest.”
“Not my problem,” the guy said, not looking up from the magazine. I leaned forward, expecting to see breasts, but instead saw collections of fishing reels covering the page—like porn for outdoorsmen. Today was just full of surprises.
I leaned back, slamming against the side of the van with an irritated groan. Crossing streams with law enforcement was part of the job. As were the inevitable disagreements. A supernatural bounty hunter didn’t have jurisdiction anywhere.
Cops did.
Such semantics tended to cause pissing matches.
My babysitter’s phone buzzed, and he flipped it open. “Yeah. You got it, sir. No, she’s behaving. For the most part.”
The device snapped shut, and the man turned to look at me. His dull eyes checked the back, to make sure I had in fact behaved. Satisfied, he said, “It’s your lucky day, Miss Conroy.”
“Not feeling that way.” I jingled the cuffs in his direction to emphasize the point.
“You got the Captain’s attention. He’s coming in for a chat.” He reached for the door.
“When?”
“You’ll have to ask his secretary.” The officer exited the SWAT van and slammed the door. The interior settled into that almost-audible kind of silence, where you swore every sound was a harbinger of impending doom. I wondered if this was the part where I disappeared for a couple hours, so they could beat the answers out of me.
What I knew about Gordie’s murder. How I was involved. The usual questions.
Not that I’d give them anything. Spite would have fueled me under conventional circumstances, but in this case, ignorance sufficed. Because I didn’t know shit—except that Murphy wanted Harcourt dead, and had given me a dead cop’s name to help that happen. Either Harcourt was dropping Murphy’s allies like flies, or Murphy was sending me to an early retirement for failing to prevent collateral damage.
The back door rattled open, light streaming through the crack. I squinted at the lanky man. He waved off any help, climbed up without much effort, and closed the door.
Brushing off his expensive suit before he even glanced at me, he said, “Well, Jade Conroy, it would seem you have my attention.” Finally, he sat down across from me on the opposite steel bench. His shiny shoes glinted in the shadowy light. “That is what you wanted, correct?”
I flared my nostrils at the neatly composed man but didn’t answer. His aura—that magical signature every creature had—read as human, but something was slightly off. I kept that to myself.
He offered me an easy smile and leaned back. “I must tell you, I don’t have long. Busy day, you know.”
“Glad you could fit me into your schedule.”
“She speaks.” The captain didn’t move. “Jack Kennett.”
“Pleasure’s all mine,” I said, with dry enthusiasm. “Not every day you get to meet a police captain.”
“Probably not.” Kennett’s foot waggled back and forth like a pendulum, maintaining perfectly controlled time. “Regarding Detective Jones.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“And yet you claimed to have a message for him.”
“Journalistic privilege,” I said, throwing a glare his way before refocusing on the pitted floor.
“So Gordie was a source?”
“Maybe.”
“Funny,” Kennett said, his expression not changing, “Gordie hated reporters.”
“Well, you know what they say, Jack.”
“What’s that?”
“A tiger changes its spots twice a day, and three times on Sundays.”
This didn’t get a grin. “False aphorisms are not amusing, given the circumstances.”
“I’d like my lawyer, now,” I said. “Phone call and all that, you know.”
“And who might that be?”
“Abe Murphy,” I said. “Give him a ring.”
The wisps danced in confusion around the captain’s head. Murphy’s name meant something to him. Whether it was a cop’s disdain for a defense attorney—or something else entirely—was as yet undetermined.
Kennett swallowed audibly before saying, “A
re you certain, Miss Conroy?”
“Did I stutter?”
“Not even a little.” Kennett brushed an invisible speck of lint from his imported suit pants. “But, you see, the timing of your arrival is odd. And not in your favor.”
“Enlighten me,” I said, glancing at his face. He still hadn’t moved, other than that waggling shoe. His cool was annoying, especially since he had intimated that the circumstances were pressing. Yet, here he was, shooting the shit with—as far as he knew, at least—a small-time reporter on a fishing expedition.
“You won’t release this information to your editor, I trust.”
“Of course not.”
“Probably because you’re not a journalist.”
“Blogger,” I said.
“You’re not that, either.”
“What makes you think so?” I asked, contorting my face in mock offense. “I studied at USC.”
“Because there would be a record of your publications, Miss Conroy.” Kennett reached into his jacket pocket and extracted a silver flip phone. The same one that had been glued to his ear when I’d first caught sight of him. “Technology is incredible these days.”
“I doubt that thing even has internet.”
He flipped the device open and leaned forward to show me the tiny display. A blurry search result indicated that my alias had generated zero matches.
“I only have one question before I go, Miss Conroy,” he said, returning the phone to his jacket with a smooth motion. “Did the Fae lawyer send you to retrieve Harcourt?”
“What’s a Fae?” I asked, smiling too wide for it to be remotely genuine. “That’s not like a hobbit, is it?”
Meanwhile, my brain was going fuck, fuck, fuck, staring at the neat man before me, wondering who he really was. What he really was.
As if to answer my question, Kennett said, “Telepath, Miss Callaway.”
“Excuse me?” My heart turned over at the mention of my real name. It was all the proof of concept needed to understand that Kennett was telling the truth. That explained the strange aura. Didn’t help me, though. If anything, it just made the situation worse—and stickier.
“You see, we have a little problem.”
“Just a little one?” I said, still trying to process matters. A telepathic LAPD captain. With his thumb on the heartbeat of the supernatural world.
I didn’t know his angle, but it disturbed me that he knew all mine. He didn’t even have to ask.
I tried repeating the same word over and over in my mind as a mental block.
Kennett flashed a knowing smile. “The first thing Harcourt did when we arrived on scene was kill Gordie. Stabbed him as soon as Gordie approached the restaurant.”
“And you didn’t kill him?”
“A man who’s not afraid to die is the hardest to kill,” Kennett said. “Harcourt escaped back inside, unwounded.”
“Solid police work,” I said.
“These situations are delicate.”
I opened my mouth, but Kennett waved me off.
“I work with Murphy, too.” The words had an acidic aftertaste, like Kennett resented the connection but could do nothing to change it. At least I had another inside man. “I can get you inside.”
He explained that the back entrance was lightly guarded and would be the best infiltration point. Gordie was supposed to be my point of contact—easier, since Kennett was kind of preoccupied with running the show. But, well, that hadn’t worked out. Subsequently, Captain Jack was going to be my little on-site helper.
“You could’ve started with that,” I said.
“I had to get to know you, Miss Callaway,” Kennett said, his eyes taking on a silvery sheen. I wasn’t sure if it was the light or something to do with his powers. Still, the effect made me shiver, like a sudden breeze had passed through the humid van. “But now I understand that you’re the only one for the job.”
“Me?” I refrained from batting my eyelashes like a confused doe.
“False humility isn’t your strong suit.”
“And what job would that be?”
“Ending this hostage situation. Without loss of life.”
“No collateral damage?” I asked, wondering if he had the same motivations as Murphy.
“This is about keeping people safe.” The wisps indicated he was telling the truth. Kennett stood, his shoulders crouched so that he wouldn’t hit the ceiling. “Do we have ourselves a deal?”
I stared back, not answering.
He gave me a nod and exited the van.
That was one good thing about telepaths. You didn’t have to waste any words.
But I wondered, as the door shut, what else Kennett had gleaned from the inside of my mind.
And whether it would come back to haunt me before the day was through.
5
Contrary to what every Cold War conspiracy theorist might believe, telepathy was a hyper-rare trait. So unusual, in fact, that—much like Realmfarers—telepaths were whispered legends rather than well-documented creatures. Plenty of creatures would argue they were merely myths.
But Kennett was either the world’s best con-man or he was the real deal.
All signs pointed to the latter.
I rubbed the circulation back into my wrists as one of the original officers led me out of the SWAT van. He guided me toward the police tape from where I’d come, even lifting it up for me.
“Sorry, Miss Conroy.”
“Simple misunderstanding.” I ducked beneath the billowing tape. “I’m sorry about your friend.”
“Gordie was an asshole,” he said, and then wandered off to deal with anyone else who might try to get on the wrong side of the line. I glanced at the rest of the reporters, most of whom shot me funny looks.
One guy, a young, ambitious type with the hair gel and designer shades to match, caught me as I pushed away from the crowd.
“Hey, you were on the other side.”
“With talent like that, you should be a reporter,” I said, looking right through him. My mind was elsewhere, focused on getting inside Le Petit Bleu without anyone following me. Sure, Captain Kennett had told me that the back door was lightly covered. But I was still weighing my options.
A quick assessment indicated that Kennett was telling the truth. The front door was out of the question—during my brief incarceration, a tactical unit had set up a thick perimeter. Snipers were positioned on the roof of the Juice Hut across the street.
Unless drilling up from the sewers became suddenly viable, the back entrance was my next stop.
I tried to step around the guy with the slicked-back hair, but he was quicker than he looked.
Too quick to be human.
“What’d you see?” He pushed a glistening strand of hair away from his nose.
“Sorry,” I said, pointing at my eyes. “Near-sighted and far-sighted.”
“Hilarious,” the young guy said. “Come on, just a little heads up.”
“I got nothing for you, kid.”
“Who you callin’ kid looking like that, baby girl?” He followed me like a puppy would a master, away from the reporter throng. Finally, after we were beyond earshot of the commotion, I turned around, fists tightened.
The wisps swirled around him in a cool red, suggesting he was wild—and dangerous.
I glared at my reflection in his shades.
“This how you want to do this?”
“Do what, babe? We’re just talking.”
I bit my tongue and resisted the urge to shatter his kneecap. Something told me that starting a fight with this lithe man would be a mistake. He had a sanguine felineness, like a jungle cat licking its chops from the top branch.
“I’m done talking,” I said.
“You’re gonna tell me what you were discussing with the cops, Callaway.”
“Excuse me?” My expression didn’t change in the shades, but my voice rose about a half-octave.
“Have a good one, Miss Conroy.” The ambitious man gave m
e a nod of his slick hair, then slithered back to the reporters. His footsteps were light, too graceful for a human. My suspicions confirmed, I wondered just how he knew my name.
And what his game was. The chessboard was beginning to feel overcrowded.
I was left peering into the distance, wondering what other surprises the day would hold.
I’d sure as hell find out, because I was heading right into the center of the war zone.
Lucky me.
6
There was one officer covering the back alley, which I thought was a little bit on the lax side. But then I considered it, and figured that Kennett must have called the other units away to some bullshit disturbance elsewhere.
Which gave me the chance to slink inside.
After waiting on the adjacent roof of a health supplement store, I found my opening. One distracting rock in the middle of the alley later, and I was behind the poor bastard and cracking him on the head with my shotgun.
I wiped a thin trail of blood off the stock. He’d live.
Have one hell of a headache, though.
“Join the club,” I said. Triple the retainer for this mess wasn’t worth it. It’d been a simple gig: kill Harcourt, get paid. Believe it or not, most jobs went according to plan. This one, though, had gone off the rails quick.
That’s what happens when your mark is intent on spreading chaos.
Thus far, Harcourt had killed James Benedict—Murphy’s partner at the law firm. Then taken a whole restaurant full of people hostage. Managed to kill my clients’ inside man in Gordie Jones. And there was still a potent backstory lurking in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to explode like a powder keg.
Best of all, I was right in the center of the blast zone. I couldn’t wait to find out what else would crawl out from the shadows and try to nip at my ankle boots.
“I’m such a lucky girl,” I said, double-checking to make sure the officer was out. Satisfied, I racked the slide, trying to muffle the sound against the fabric of my black tank top. The cloaking wards dissipated, and the ancient gun reappeared. Icy summer sweat trickled down my spine. Above the narrow, garbage-strewn alley, the sun fought its way down, gracing the asphalt with a few broken slivers of light.
Ruby Callaway: The Complete Collection Page 73
