by RJ Blain
“You have got to be shitting me.”
I grimaced and tugged at the collar of my shirt to show Michelle the bandage and the faint gunshot scars. “It can be easily confirmed with the Lincoln police. What’s so important you’d stake out my apartment?”
“Looks like it’s healing pretty damned fast to me. What’s the bandage for?”
“Someone bit me during an FBI raid I unintentionally attended. I’ve been assured I don’t have rabies.”
Michelle laughed. “I’ve missed your weirdo sense of humor at the station. Get on in, Gibson. I doubt the captain will need you for long, and we’ll drive you back when you’re done.”
At the rate I was going, I’d never make it to my apartment. I rubbed my forehead in a futile effort to ward off the start of a headache. My medical leave, which had given me four extra paid weeks over the state’s minimum, had come with the stipulation I would go to the station whenever called. “All right.”
“Good sport. Stripes, get your ass back on your side of the car and stop whimpering like a baby. Shane ain’t gonna bite you. And even if he did, he’s clear.” Michelle waved my license in her partner’s face. “Lay off the dumbass act already.”
“Maybe I should bite someone. That way, I’d deserve my reputation. We could hang a sign at the station counting the number of days since the last Shane attack.”
“Just get your ass in the car before I throw your ass in the car, Shane.”
I obeyed before I got used as an example, and since I’d already gotten in my jab at Stripes, I kept to the other side of the vehicle. “Will the captain need me to verify my whereabouts?”
“Yep.”
“Joy. I’m so excited. I suppose it could be worse. I’m not being arrested.”
“Yet,” Michelle muttered.
Of course. I should have known. I wondered what bullshit crime I was going to be accused of to make sure the door hit my ass on my way off the force in case minimum wage and failing a dual-eye visual acuity test didn’t work. Since anything I said or did would be used against me in a court of my peers, I kept my mouth shut and waited.
Logically, I knew my desk would be cleared the next time I returned to the station, but seeing some bright-eyed new recruit in my spot annoyed me so much I refused to acknowledge anyone beyond a curt nod.
“Who pissed in your cereal this morning?” Michelle asked, nudging me in the ribs.
I didn’t say a word, shrugging. Her brow furrowed, and she shot a frown my way. Taking the most direct path to the captain’s office put me in the line of fire of every officer in the station, and by the time I finished the walk, I was so tense I quivered. I rapped my knuckles on the door.
“Enter,” Captain Martins barked.
I let myself in and closed the door, effectively barring my pair of escorts from joining the conversation. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
The Chicago police force mostly consisted of humans, but only individuals with a higher magic rating could rise through the ranks. With a limited pool of qualified people, the higher positions were sometimes occupied by non-humans. Lion centaurs made for intimidating officers, especially when they roared. “Where the fuck have you been? You were supposed to present yourself for duty if called.”
“When, sir?”
“Two days ago.”
“I was probably convincing my surgeon I could be released following the surgical reconstruction of my shoulder, sir.”
Unlike many centaurs, Captain Martins had feline ears, and his turned back while his tail lashed from side to side, thumping against the wall. “And why was your shoulder being surgically reconstructed?”
“Because a man named Mark O’Conners thought it’d be a good idea to shoot me outside my parents’ home. Furthermore, I’d notified the station I might not be available due to traveling, sir. Anyway, I took two rounds to the shoulder.”
“That’s impossible. If you’d been shot in the shoulder, you’d still be in the hospital.”
The last thing I needed was the captain accusing me of being a liar. I sighed, pulled out Dr. Yasolovic’s card, and held it out to him. “This is Dr. Yasolovic, who was handling my evaluation at the CDC. You can contact Dr. Harting in Des Moines for verification of the operation. She was the surgeon in charge of the procedure. You can get statements from the Lincoln, Nebraska police if you require additional proof I was shot.”
“It’s impossible to recover that quickly from being shot.”
“I was given a rather large transfusion of blood from a lycanthrope, sir. It hastens regeneration.”
“Infected?”
The malicious glee in the man’s voice made me want to reach across his desk and strangle him. “No, sir. I’m immune to the lycanthropy virus and have been given a new designation.” Since I expected Captain Martins would confiscate my new driver’s license if I showed it to him, I kept it in my pocket. “Dr. Yasolovic can verify the details with you.”
The centaur snatched his phone off the hook and stabbed the numbers so hard I was impressed the device didn’t break. “Captain Martins, CPD. I need to speak to Dr. Yasolovic, please.”
At least he hadn’t forgotten his manners. I wondered if the CDC would make my situation worse. Being arrested would cap off my week with a whole new level of misery—and ruin my chances of returning to the police force in any city.
I wanted to know what they thought I’d done. The clause requiring my presence at the station wasn’t an arresting offense, especially since I’d notified the appropriate personnel I would be vacationing.
“Hello, Dr. Yasolovic. I have questions about a retiring office, one Shane—”
The lion’s fur stood on end, and his eyes blazed gold. A low, soft growl built to a rumble, the precursor to an infuriated roar. I clasped my hands behind my back so I wouldn’t succumb to the urge to cover my ears. The trick to dealing with most predators was standing one’s ground, and while the lion centaur could rip me to pieces if he wanted, Dad in a fury scared me a hell of a lot more.
All I had to do was stay still and remain calm.
“I see. And is this assessment something that can be verified through a more reliable channel?”
I really wanted to know what the CDC doctor was saying, because the captain grimaced. “I see. And—”
It took a lot of balls to interrupt Captain Martins not once but twice. I struggled to keep my expression neutral. Until I found out what was going on, I wouldn’t say a word or betray my amusement at the captain’s discomfort. If he lost his temper, something would be broken, and it was a coin toss whether it was me or a piece of furniture.
“And you can verify this?” Whatever Dr. Yasolovic told the captain didn’t go over well; the lion centaur blanched, and his gold eyes focused on me. “And you can verify he was in your custody for the past twenty-four hours? Okay. Thank you.”
Captain Martins hung up. “Considering it’s impossible for you to be in two places at the same time, you can’t be our suspect.”
“May I ask what I was being accused of, sir?”
“Murder.”
“Of?”
“Ironically, a gentleman named Mark O’Conners.”
My mouth dropped open, and I gawked at the lion centaur for so long he grunted, snapped his fingers, and pointed at the chair across his desk. I made it before my legs gave out and I thumped onto the cushion. “Mark O’Conners is dead?”
“His body was found two and a half days ago.”
“And I’m being accused why?”
“Someone called in and said a man fitting your description, right down to your artificial eye, had shot someone. You had a full shoulder cast, consistent with someone with a badly injured shoulder blade.”
I reached up, yanked on my collar, and pulled my shirt aside for the captain to see the pale scars. “The operation is why I was evaluated by the CDC. I scanned clean of the lycanthropy virus a full twenty-four hours ahead of schedule. They wanted to find out why.”
“Your
doctor confirmed you’re immune to the lycanthropy virus, and that you’re probably an unidentified shifter rather than a lycanthrope.”
Later, I’d appreciate the captain’s sour expression. “I’ve been asked to go in for additional talent testing as well. I have a question, sir.”
“Ask.”
“Were you not notified? I was informed the Lincoln police and the NYPD had spoken to someone here about me.”
“The NYPD? What the hell have you been doing to involve the NYPD, too?”
“I witnessed a body fall from a skyscraper, land on a car, and kill the vehicle’s occupants, sir. I’ve been notified it was a murder connected to my shooting in Lincoln—to get rid of me, an eyewitness.”
Captain Martins snatched his phone and pounded the buttons. “Find out why I wasn’t notified Gibson had been shot. And while you’re at it, someone better have a good explanation for why I wasn’t told the NYPD had inquired about him.”
If he didn’t start roaring soon, I’d be shocked. “If you think that’s bad, it gets worse, sir.”
“How could this possibly get worse?”
“The FBI is involved in the case, as there’s evidence it deals with a multi-state sex trafficking operation.”
“I stand corrected.”
“I’ve already been questioned about what I know by the FBI and the Lincoln police department. How much information do you need?”
Captain Martins grabbed a pad of paper and a pencil. “Take it from the top and leave nothing out.”
While tempted to request a lawyer to rain on his parade and give the centaur a taste of his own medicine, I reined in the urge and filled in him on everything that had happened from the instant I’d witnessed a corpse smashing through a car’s windshield to my trip to Des Moines, omitting two important facts.
He didn’t need to know my alpaca’s real name was Marian, nor did he need to know the details of the show featuring an incubus and a succubus. Three modifications. He didn’t need to know Marian had bit me, either.
If he needed to know, the FBI would tell him. Or Marian. Or anyone other than me.
True to her word, Michelle drove me home, and she even walked me to my door, leaving her partner to sulk in their cruiser. “Stripes is sorry he’s an asshole, Shane.”
Great. Michelle had slipped into guilty mode. Maybe a bit of honesty would cure her, and if she flattened me, I hoped she scored a one hit knock out. I didn’t even care if I made my concussion worse if it meant I could get some rest. “Stripes can kiss my ass.”
“Since when did you grow a pair?”
“Since I got confirmation I’m being bullshitted out of my job.” While I could have taken the elevator to the seventh floor of my apartment building, I took the stairs. If the hike didn’t cure my agitation, nothing would.
Michelle kept stride with me the entire way. “Ah.”
I wasn’t surprised she was aware of the situation. Most people on the force liked Michelle. I did, too, although I suspected she pretended to like me because she had a reputation for being nice to everyone unless she was smacking them to the asphalt for pissing her off.
Considering how often she flattened people, I wondered how she had managed to trick us into believing she was nice. I needed to reevaluate my fascination with violent women capable of smacking me around. At least I knew who to blame for liking it.
Dad needed to stop influencing me.
“It’s not so bad not being a cop anymore, you know.”
“Then quit, if it’s not so bad.”
“What?”
“Put your money where your mouth is. If it’s not so bad, you quit and see how you like it.”
“But—”
“Get your head out of your ass, Michelle. You’d hate being forced out. You know it, I know it. You live and breathe being a cop. Maybe I did, too. Mom’s a cop. Dad’s a cop. Both of my grandfathers are cops. One of my grandmothers is a cop. My other grandmother’s a firefighter. Their parents were cops.”
“Okay, that’s impressive. I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah, well, Dad’s a lycanthrope. Mom’s infected. Do the math.”
“Point taken.”
I snorted and kept on marching. “Always knew you were smart.”
“I’m not disagreeing with your assessment, but why do you think you’re being bullshitted out of your job?”
“I’ve spent more than a day being treated like a guinea pig by the CDC. When one of the doctors overseeing the evaluation calls bullshit, he’s probably right. He examined my artificial eye and was very vocal about how its inferior craftsmanship, probably a deliberate attempt between the station and the insurance company to remove me from active duty. He’s pursuing violations of the Species Anti-Discrimination Act. I got lucky; a new artificial eye can be made. He knows someone who lost their leg because of bullshit like that.”
The first of Michelle’s curses startled me. She ramped up to a shit storm of profanities so intense I gave her space to work out the worst of her fury so I didn’t end up taking a trip down the stairwell. “You’re fucking serious.”
“When have I ever lied to you?”
“You haven’t.”
“Lying about something easily verified with a few phone calls is pretty stupid. So, why bother? That’s the nice thing about honesty. They can check my facts themselves to learn I’ve spoken the truth.”
“And the one time you do lie, we’ll all believe it because you always tell the truth.”
“There is that,” I conceded. “But I have no reason to lie over something like my fake eye.”
“You’re right. You don’t.”
“What pisses me off the most is that I came to Chicago for a chance to work a different beat than my parents or their parents—to get out of a small city in the middle of nowhere. I decided I’d be a cop when I was eight. You know what I wanted to do?”
“I have no idea.”
“I wanted to handle K9s or work in narcotics. You know what Chicago offers someone with my rating?”
Michelle had the decency to grimace. “Traffic patrols.”
“Traffic patrols,” I agreed.
“But you saved that family’s life. That means a lot. You didn’t even hesitate. While your partner froze, you went in, and you did what he couldn’t.”
“I like to think it comes from having a grandmother who’s a firefighter. She drilled it into me young to get victims out before they burned. I didn’t think. I don’t regret it, and if I had the choice to do it over, I wouldn’t change anything. I’d still choose to lose my eye and get them out of that car, but that doesn’t mean I have to like this bullshit.”
“No, you’re right. I’d be mad, too. Fuck mad, I’d be infuriated. I’d start busting heads together. And you’re right. I wouldn’t be able to quit. I’m a cop, and I’ll always be one.”
“Yeah. So the real question is, what do I do now?”
We finished the climb to the seventh floor in silence. A pile of mail and several boxes littered the hallway in front of my door. I frowned. Usually, the mail was left in the lobby, although deliveries were sometimes brought straight to the units.
“I’m seriously impressed it’s still here. You’ve been gone at least a week.”
“Well, it doesn’t hurt the neighbors know I was a cop.” I dug my keys out and unlocked my front door to discover someone, probably the building’s supervisor, had left at least ten more boxes inside. “What the fuck?”
Michelle crouched by my door, pulled a pair of latex gloves from her back pocket, and slipped them on before sifting through the letters and boxes on my doorstep. “Several letters from Northwest Memorial, utility bill, some handwritten cards. Boxes are from the same sender, an M. Peterson? They’re stamped yesterday.”
Why would Marian send me packages? “I know an M. Peterson.”
“Okay, I’ll bring them in, then. Mind if I come in and look at the others?”
“Be my guest. Spares me from having to find som
e gloves.”
“J. Gibson on this one.”
“Dad.” Why the hell was Dad sending me a box? “When was it dated?”
“Week and a half ago.”
I sighed and shook my head. “He’s a freak. It’s probably fine.”
“The rest look like they’re from various online stores, addressed to you with gift receipts.”
“So basically we just went into investigative mode for no reason whatsoever?”
“Yeah.” Michelle removed her gloves and returned them to her back pocket. “A little harmless excitement never hurt anyone. Look on the bright side, you have packages to open. Call it an early birthday. I’m going to head on out before Stripes thinks we’re getting real cozy up here.”
“Now that would start quite the rumor around the station.”
Michelle’s smile made me nervous. “I like a man with scars.”
Without another word, she swept out of my apartment and headed down the hall, leaving me to gawk at her back. Even I didn’t need told Michelle had just flirted with me.
“What the hell?”
The boxes offered no explanations.
Chapter Fifteen
I dealt with the utility bill first, making the payment using my phone before turning my attention to the dreaded letters from the hospital. One was probably to schedule a follow-up regarding my eye socket.
The other three would be disputes on the costs of the operation, more things the insurer didn’t want to cover, and likely a charge for breathing air during my stay. I sat on my couch and tore into the envelopes.
My guesses weren’t far off the mark, and the new bills totaled five thousand dollars in bullshit claims involving pre-existing conditions, which I had proof I didn’t have. With my cheek twitching, I gave Dr. Yasolovic a call.
“Dr. Yasolovic,” he answered.
“Shane Gibson. I don’t suppose you can verify I don’t have certain pre-existing conditions, can you?”
The doctor sighed. “More insurance issues?”
“Yes.”
“Photograph and text me the documents. I’ll call you back in five minutes.”
