Wolf's Edge (The Nick Lupo Series Book 4)

by W. D. Gagliani

  He dialed again and hunched over the phone.

  Lupo

  “The privilege of rank,” said DiSanto as they slid into a dark booth at the Ale House, still in the Third Ward.

  “You can’t delegate the whole investigation,” Lupo said.

  They’d started some uniforms on various tasks, started some automated searches, and called it quits for some sleep. But DiSanto complained he needed food. Lupo wasn’t very comfortable making the stop when he thought he should go home and check on Jessie. On the other hand, a quick sandwich and something non-alcoholic would help settle his stomach.

  DiSanto ordered a designer cheeseburger and a Bloody Mary when the waitress stopped by. She eyed them suspiciously. DiSanto wore a suit, but not so stylish as to suggest attorney or accountant. Cop! She was the type who seemed to be normally bubbly but tonight she’d forgotten how to be. She looked at them strangely.

  Lupo asked for a steak sandwich, rare, skip the fries, and a tall iced tea.

  “Man, not even a beer?” DiSanto shook his head sadly.

  Sitting across from him in the booth, Ghost Sam disagreed. “You need to stay sharp, Nick. Something’s in the wind. I can feel it.”

  Crap, did he have to have his own clairvoyant shaman?

  Some people had angels, some devils. Some might have been hounded by their consciences. In Ghost Sam, Nick thought he had all three.

  “Don’t forget comedian,” the Indian said. “Thank you, I’ll be here all week.”

  Jesus.

  Being haunted could be very inconvenient.

  The food came and he chewed the meat unhappily. As usual, they hadn’t believed he wanted the steak actually rare, so they’d given it a thorough grilling anyway. It pleased the Creature not at all.

  “What do you drink when you’re not enjoying a brew? You’re kind of a connoisseur, right?” DiSanto asked.

  DiSanto was in need of a life, a girlfriend, or something to do.

  “I like beer, the less mass-produced the better. Harder stuff, I usually order rum and tonic or a Manhattan. At home, I make my own version I call the Midtown Manhattan.”

  “Oh yeah, you invented it? What’s in it?” DiSanto clearly wanted to avoid discussing the butchery they’d just seen.

  “Manhattans are usually made with whiskey, but since this is Wisconsin, I use brandy. Equal parts, brandy and sweet vermouth, plus a half shot of Triple Sec or Cointreau. Tall glass, lots of rocks. A tiny splash of bitters, olive or cherry optional.”

  “Sounds sweet.”

  “Well, you could use the whiskey, less vermouth, and stick to olives or onions.”

  “I meant sweet as in just fine,” said DiSanto, who liked clichés.

  “Ah.”

  They chewed in silence. Sometimes DiSanto was just a bit too enthusiastic for Lupo. He missed his old partner, Ben Sabatini, for his cynical silences.

  “If you’d confide in him, he’d be able to help you more.” Ghost Sam was back, eyeing the food he couldn’t eat.

  Lupo shook his head.

  No, Ghost Sam was a manifestation of his needs, not the dead person, no matter how much he’d come to like that dead person. He closed his eyes and when he reopened them Ghost Sam was gone.

  “—been kinda quiet about this one, Nick. What’s up? You’re not worried about this so-called pressure from the mayor, are you?”

  “I’m worried about where it came from. Got to be Killian. He has it in for me, and this is a good way to get under my skin.”

  “Sure, I get you guys don’t like each other, but why would he try to torpedo your case? Doesn’t make sense, does it? We’re all on the same team.”

  “Are we?”

  “Well, I thought so. Fucking politics.”

  Lupo wasn’t about to go into details, but it was more than just politics—it was a feud that was going to get worse before it got better.

  That’s what happens when the basis of anything is murder.

  They paid the waitress, who was still avoiding their eyes.

  Only when they walked out into the lighted lobby did DiSanto notice the dried bloodstains on the back of Lupo’s leather jacket.

  “Good thing I wear my badge on my belt,” joked DiSanto. “Otherwise she’d have called the cops on us.”

  Lupo nodded.

  He hadn’t taken the jacket off except when he’d wolfed and checked out the staircase and the other loft. So how’d he get blood on it?

  Mordred

  He had them in the crosshairs when they were standing in the lobby. Looked like they’d spotted the blood he had left as a gift.

  Lupo would get it. The other guy was not even on the board.

  If he’d gotten the word right then, he could have taken them both out in about ten seconds. The temptation was great. But Sigfried had him on a tight leash. Mordred did not know what the plan was, or what he would be required to do for the endgame, but he knew he was only to trace, record, and interpret. What Sigfried planned to do with the information was not for him to question, although the beast within him wanted a piece of this Lupo character. Whatever Lupo had done to Sigfried, it was enough to split his time between the big hearings and whatever Mordred told him.

  He’d been recording video, too, directly from the van with a long-range rig. But he was especially proud of his walk into the crowded bar and slouching past the booth the two cops occupied. He had planted a tiny cam below the ledge that ran around the large saloon-style room at waist level. And now what he heard about this Killian guy sounded intriguing.

  Mordred itched to terminate something.

  The cop.

  The mission.

  He wasn’t used to being outside the loop. Sigfried had given him more responsibility than this. Why was he playing his cards close to the chest?

  Jesus!

  His finger tightened on the trigger and he mimed squeezing it, ever so slowly.

  Boom.

  Boom.

  Lupo

  He found her more or less where he thought he would.

  He’d split from DiSanto at the Ale House. DiSanto was heading back to the shop to check on leads and searches. They’d both had to eat, so it wasn’t like they were taking time off the job.

  But Lupo had pulled rank on him, too. He had to check on Jessie.

  He hated to admit it to himself, but he was worried about her fragile state. Ever since the casino shoot-out, she’d been slipping into a dark zone—with the uncontrollable gambling, for instance.

  And he also hated to admit that his dalliance—did they use that word anymore?—with Heather Wilson had shaken her faith in him more than he had imagined. They hadn’t committed to each other in any official capacity, that was true, but there was an implied commitment.

  Dammit, he was uncomfortable with commitment.

  Not because he had anything against it, but because everyone he’d ever committed to wound up hurt, or worse. His track record with commitment was lousy, and now that he had someone worth cherishing, he was afraid it would end badly. And it would be his fault.

  Then again, maybe it’s just my guilt trying to disguise itself.

  He had plenty of guilt.

  The darkness had almost claimed him for good. He hadn’t confessed to Jessie that he had stepped off the ledge and fallen deeply into a spiral that led to a self-destructive moment.

  He was still vague on how it had happened, but even worse, on how it had ended. And he was still around.

  He had used the dagger…

  The damned dagger that had saved him, and others, but then it had killed Tom Arnow.

  Fuck that.

  I killed Tom Arnow.

  And Lupo had decided he shouldn’t live, either. He’d unsheathed the dagger from its—magical—protective scabbard, which exposed the deadly silver blade. With the heat already starting to scorch his skin, he had sought the final release.

  And somebody had stopped him.

  Lupo had been close to death, unconscious, the blade doing i
ts work inside his body, liquefying his insides and killing both him and the Creature inside him…

  But when he awoke, Lupo wasn’t in some afterlife or in some netherworld. He was at home, and the dagger had been withdrawn from the wound. The damage it had done was healing, repairing itself, and the dagger—safely sheathed—had been left on his dresser.

  Through the pain of the knitting wounds, which had been nearly fatal, he had rethought his position on living.

  Sometimes all you need is a friend.

  Even if you don’t know who it is.

  So now he hoped to return the favor, even if he didn’t know whom to thank. Perhaps it was Jessie. He’d considered asking her, but if he was wrong then he would have been confessing that he’d sought a way out. And if it had been her, he knew her well enough to know she couldn’t treat it like a secret…

  He owed Jessie, far more than just for having been willing to put up with him and his condition. He owed her for tangible, gun-in-hand help and back-up like he’d gotten from almost no one else.

  So now, as he walked the length of the barn-like Indian casino, he knew he’d find her at one of her favorite rows of slots.

  The human brain was a mystery.

  Shit, add the heart to that list…

  Some people took adversity and used it to become religious. Some did good works and volunteered. Some became aid workers. Some didn’t make lemonade, after all—they withdrew and sought a way out, like he had.

  Jessie had taken her adversity and turned it into an addiction the likes of which he could never have predicted.

  So he was here, surveying the long rows of stools, searching for her lustrous hair among the shorter, elderly people who made up the majority of the clientele.

  There she was…

  He stopped and stepped aside, out of the flow, watching her from afar.

  Even here, at her worst, pushing the bet button with robotic movements so unlike her…even here she was magnificent.

  A thoroughbred among elderly plow horses.

  Was that a bad way to describe her?

  Fuck it, no one has to know.

  He smiled, a little sadly, and watched her for a few minutes from afar.

  Her profile was superb. Her breasts strained the front of her blouse, which was rather conservative. Her leather coat gave her a sort of Indiana Jones look, but no one who looked into those smoldering dark eyes or saw the curl of those perfect smiling lips would have mistaken her for Harrison Ford.

  He admired her for a while, letting the day’s events slide off. Let DiSanto worry about it until tomorrow.

  He approached her from behind and put a hand lightly on her back. Sadly, he felt her stiffen under his touch.

  Chapter Five

  Jessie

  When Nick found her at the slot machines, she felt fury.

  Fury at having been caught indulging her weakness. Though she told herself she was furious he had invaded her privacy.

  Actually she wasn’t pleased to have been so predictable, either.

  “Jess, please, we have to talk about this.”

  His color-shifting eyes were still enticing and romantic, reminiscent of what had attracted her in the first place and had kept them together this long, but now they reflected his hurt.

  She turned his hurt into his fault.

  He’s just a good actor, that’s all.

  She turned away from his stricken look and pressed the machine’s Maximum Bet button with a quick little jab of her finger. The reels spun crazily, the lights and electronic carnival music trivializing the moment between them.

  The three pictures that landed across the screen didn’t match, and thirty credits disappeared from her card.

  Thirty dollars.

  When did I switch to the ten-dollar machine?

  His hand was on her arm, gentle pressure keeping her from jettisoning more virtual cash.

  “Jess!” he said, loud enough that a couple heads turned from nearby slot machines. “Please. Let’s at least get some food and talk, okay?”

  Her muscles locked up as he steadily prodded her off the vinyl stool.

  No!

  He was stronger, though, and one by one her defenses broke down, and he had her off the stool, stepping away.

  She was crying now, big, fat tears rolling down her face. She reached back and ejected her gaming card, and then Nick was pulling her down the long aisle. Someone slipped into her spot on the stool, and Jessie resented that person, who would reap the benefit of her play. She’d warmed up that machine! Now it would hit a winner.

  Nick’s hand on her arm steering her through two tight turns, then heading down another aisle, finally broke her connection to the game that wasn’t a game.

  God, she knew deep down that pressing a button to flush your money down an electronic toilet was no game.

  Of course she knew that.

  Then why did she continue doing it? Why, even now, did she want to reach out and stop at a blinking slot machine and start again?

  They reached the food court, and Nick guided her to a corner table. The place was only lightly busy, for it was too late for dinner. Gamblers ate only when hungry and not by the clock, so there was always some traffic to and from the dozen food kiosks offering a faux version of every kind of cuisine you could name. Much of it would be over-salted, fried, and carb-heavy, just what the doctor ordered to keep people thirsty and on their feet at the games and tables. It was all a cycle.

  Nick sat her down, made a Wait gesture, then stalked off. He returned a minute later with two cups of free coffee from the self-help station nearby.

  “Jess, you need to eat something,” he said.

  She shrugged. “I had a sandwich.”

  “When?”

  “Sometime today.”

  “Jess, it’s almost midnight.” He shucked his coat. “Wait here.”

  Her muscles seemed to melt into the plastic chair. Suddenly she couldn’t have moved if she wanted to.

  He returned with a tray bearing two slices of New York-style pizza, a pile of vaguely Chinese chicken tidbits, a cinnamon roll and two forks.

  “Best I could do here,” he said in apology. “We should have gone to the buffet or the sports bar.”

  “It’s okay, I’m not hungry.”

  He spread out the food and split the bun.

  “Hey, the pizza’s not bad,” he said, chewing. “Not enough meat for me, but…”

  Then she was crying. “What’s wrong with me, Nick?” She laid her head in her hands. “What’s happened to us?”

  He set down the pizza and took her hands in his, forcing her to look at him. She tried to avoid his eyes, but found she couldn’t. His gaze had always been entrancing, and now it was especially so.

  As if he were gazing into her soul.

  Her eyes leaked bitter tears, and she didn’t try to stop them. Nick said nothing. He waited her out. The food congealed between them.

  In a few minutes, her breath hitched as she tried to inhale through her blocked nostrils. She blew her nose with one of the napkins he had brought, which he held out for her. She half smiled and then picked up her sagging pizza slice.

  “You’re right, doesn’t look bad,” she said, taking a bite. He followed suit, obviously giving her space to speak her mind.

  Jessie appreciated that he was thoughtful, in his own way. For a few minutes, they picked at the food. She realized she was hungry after all, but her stomach was upset. And her breathing was labored—all that smoke… When would casinos go smokeless, like the rest of the world? Probably never. Why turn off potential customers? And even though the state had banned indoor smoking, the Indian casinos were exempt by virtue of being on sovereign land. Did her clothes reek of smoke when she finally made it home? Home. It sounded comforting. Did she deserve comfort?

  She finished her slice, forcing down the last bit of crust. Then she looked at him over a forkful of fried rice she didn’t really want, either.

  “Why are you eating so la
te?” And hunting me down.

  He followed her lead and ignored the issues between them for the moment. “I caught another bad one today. Third Ward. It’s messy as hell, and it has wolf written all over it.”

  The food caught in her throat. “What? Oh no,” she blurted out. Maybe he wasn’t ignoring the issues after all, but doubling down. “Another one? Is it…them?”

  He sighed. “I don’t know. But probably.”

  “My God…”

  “Yeah, I thought we were rid of them. They’re in the spotlight daily. I mean, I thought they’d be more careful. But there’s no link to us that I can see. The vic was another of those low-level porn guys all the Internet technology’s created the last ten years. Did low-budget horror and stuff like that, too. Otherwise, it almost seems random. But it was messy enough—and sloppy—that it just might be a message. To me. The vic’s name was Leonard A. Wolf.”

  Her eyes widened as she sounded it out.

  “Jesus, Nick.” She rounded up another forkful of cold rice, but put it down. “Not again.”

  She felt an itch crawling down her arms to her hands, her fingers. As if they yearned to head for the slots, or maybe the roulette wheel. As if they longed for the safe risk. Gambling was safer to face than monstrous hunters bent on tearing you apart and eating your flesh.

  “And how awful, murdering someone just because of his name,” she added.

  Nick tore the cinnamon bun in half and took a bite before setting it aside. “There’s no point speculating yet. Right now it looks that way to me, and for some reason we’re taking heat on it already. DiSanto’s holding down the fort, but I don’t have very long. Let’s go home, Jess. Please.”

  “Is it home, Nick?” The words tumbled out before she could stop them. Perhaps it was the knowledge that he had, after all, cheated on her with that disgusting reporter woman.

  His eyes registered the blow. “It’s home as long as you’re there,” he said softly.

  She nodded. It was the right thing to say.

  But how much did it mean, coming from him?

  She let herself be led away from the table. He slid their cold food into the trash can slot and stacked the tray with the others. Even though she felt the pull of the games behind her, the siren call of the perpetual C-Major chord created by the clusters of machines waiting to be fed hard-earned cash.