She’d been taking notes in a stenographer’s notebook but stopped, set down her pencil, and frowned. “O’Donnell was present at all the murder scenes and you verified that by smelling him?”
I raised my eyebrows. “A coyote has a keen sense of smell, Ms. Ryan. I have a very good memory for scents. I caught O’Donnell’s when he stopped us as we went in—and his scent was in every one of the murder victims’ houses I visited.”
She stared at me—but she was no werewolf who might rip my throat out for challenging her—so I met her stare with one of my own.
She dropped her eyes first, ostensibly looking at her notes. People, human people, can be pretty deaf to body language. Maybe she didn’t even notice that she’d lost the dominance contest, though her subconscious would.
“I understand O’Donnell was employed by the BFA as security,” she said, turning back a few pages. “Couldn’t he have been there investigating the deaths?”
“The BFA had no idea there were any murders,” I told her. “The fae do their own internal policing. If they had gone to the Feds for help, I’m pretty sure it would be the FBI who would have been called in, not the BFA anyway. And O’Donnell was a guard, not an investigator. I was told that there was no reason O’Donnell should have been in every house that there was a murder in, and I have no reason to doubt that.”
She’d started writing again, in shorthand. I’d never actually seen anyone use shorthand before.
“So you told Mr. Adelbertsmiter that O’Donnell was the murderer?”
“I told him that he was the only person whose scent I found in all the scenes.”
“How many scenes?”
“Four.” I decided not to tell her that there had been others; I didn’t want to tell her why I hadn’t gone to all the murder scenes. If Zee hadn’t wanted to talk about my trip Underhill with me, I thought it would not be something he wanted me discussing with a lawyer.
She paused again. “There were four people murdered in the reservation and they did not ask for help?”
I gave her a thin smile. “The fae are not fond of attracting outside attention. It can be dangerous for everyone. They are also quite aware of the way most humans, including the Feds, feel about them. ‘The only good fae is a dead fae’ mentality is quite prevalent among the conservatives who make up most of the rank and file in the government whether they be Homeland Security, FBI, BFA, or any of the other alphabet soup agencies.”
“You have trouble with the federal government?” she asked.
“As far as I know, none of them are prejudiced against half-Indian mechanics,” I told her, matching her blandness with my own, “so why would I have a problem with them? However, I can certainly see why the fae would be reluctant to turn over a series of murders to a government whose record for dealing with the fae is not exactly spotless.” I shrugged. “Maybe if they’d realized sooner that their killer wasn’t another fae, they might have done so. I don’t know.”
She looked down at her notes. “So you told Zee that O’Donnell was the killer?”
I nodded. “Then I took Zee’s truck and drove home. It was early in the morning, maybe four o’clock, when we parted company. It was my understanding that he was going to go over to O’Donnell’s and talk to him.”
“Just talk?”
I shrugged, glanced at Kyle, and tried to decide how far I trusted his judgement. All the truth, hmm? I sighed. “That’s what he said, but I was pretty sure that if O’Donnell didn’t have a good story, he wouldn’t wake up this morning.”
Her pencil hit the table with a snap.
“You are telling me that Zee went to O’Donnell’s house to murder him?”
I took a deep breath. “You aren’t going to understand this. You don’t know the fae, not really. Imprisoning a fae is…impractical. First of all, it’s damned difficult. Holding a person is hard enough. Holding a fae for any time at all, if he doesn’t want to be held, is near impossible. Even without that, a life sentence is highly impractical when fae can live for hundreds of years.” Or a lot more, but the public didn’t know that. “And when you let them go, they aren’t likely to shrug it off as justice served. The fae are a vengeance-hungry race. If you imprison a fae, for whatever reason, you’d better be dead when he gets out or you’ll wish you were. Human justice just isn’t equipped to deal with the fae, so they take care of it. A fae who commits a serious crime—like murder—is simply executed on the spot.” The werewolves did the same.
She pinched the bridge of her nose as if I were giving her a headache.
“O’Donnell wasn’t fae. He was human.”
I thought about trying to explain why a people who were used to dealing out their own justice would care less that the perpetrator was human, but decided it was pointless. “The fact remains that Zee did not kill O’Donnell. Someone got there first.”
Her bland face didn’t indicate belief, so I asked, “Do you know the story of Thomas the Rhymer?”
“True Thomas? It’s a fairy tale,” she said. “A prototype of Irving’s ‘Rip Van Winkle.’”
“Uhm,” I said. “Actually, I’m under the impression that it was mostly a true story, Thomas’s I mean. Thomas was, at any rate, a real historical person, a noted political entity of the thirteenth century. He claimed that he’d been caught for seven years by the queen of the fairies, then allowed to return. He either asked the fairy queen for a sign that he could show his kin so they would believe him when he told them where he’d been, or he stole a kiss from the fairy queen. Whatever the reason, he was given a gift, and like most fairy gifts, it was more curse than blessing—the fairy queen rendered him incapable of lying. For a diplomat or a lover or a businessman, that was a cruel thing to do, but the fae are often cruel.”
“Your point?”
She didn’t sound happy. I guess she didn’t like thinking any of the fairy tales were true. It was a common attitude.
People could believe in the fae, but fairy tales were fairy tales. Only children would really believe in them.
It was an attitude that the fae themselves promoted. In most folktales, the fae are not exactly friendly. Take Hansel and Gretel, for instance. Zee once told me that there are a lot of fae in the rez, if left to their preferred diets, would happily eat people…especially children.
“He was cursed to become like the fae themselves,” I told her. “Most fae, including Zee, cannot tell a lie. They are very, very good at making you think they are saying one thing, when they mean another, but they cannot lie.”
“Everyone can lie.”
I smiled at her tightly. “The fae cannot. I don’t know why. They can do the damnedest things with the truth, but they cannot lie. So.” I sighed unhappily. I had tried to figure out a way to leave Uncle Mike out, but unfortunately there was no other way to tell this part. Zee and I hadn’t talked since his arrest; that was a matter of public record. I had to convince her that Zee was innocent. “I haven’t spoken to Zee yet, so I don’t know what his story—”
“No one has,” she said. “My contact at the police department assured me that he hasn’t spoken to anyone since he was arrested—a wise move that allowed me to talk to you before I speak to him.”
“There was another fae who went with Zee—he’s the one who told me Zee didn’t kill O’Donnell. He and Zee walked in and found the dead body about the same time the police showed up. The other fae was able to hide himself from the police, but Zee did not.”
“Could he have hidden, too?”
I shrugged. “All the fae have glamour which allows them to change their appearance. Some of them can hide themselves entirely. You’ll have to ask him—though he probably won’t tell you. I think Zee did it so that the police wouldn’t look too hard and find his friend.”
“Self-sacrifice?” Maybe someone who hadn’t been raised with werewolves wouldn’t have seen the scorn she felt for my theory. Fae, she apparently thought, weren’t capable of self-sacrifice.
“Zee is one of the rare fa
e who can tolerate metal—his friend is not. Jail would be very painful for most fae.”
She tapped the end of her notebook on the table. “So the point of all of this is that you say that a fae who cannot lie told you Zee didn’t kill O’Donnell. That won’t convince a jury.”
“I was hoping to convince you.”
She raised her eyebrows. “It doesn’t matter what I think, Ms. Thompson.”
I don’t know what expression was on my face, but she laughed. “A lawyer has to defend the innocent or the guilty, Ms. Thompson. That’s how our justice system works.”
“He isn’t guilty.”
She shrugged. “Or so you say. Even if Zee’s friend can’t lie—you aren’t fae, are you? At any rate, no one is guilty until convicted in a court of law. If that’s all you have to tell me, I’ll go talk to Mr. Adelbertsmiter.”
“Can you get me into O’Donnell’s house?” I asked. “Maybe I can find out something about the real murderer.” I tapped my nose.
She considered it, then shook her head. “You’ve hired me to be Mr. Adelbertsmiter’s attorney, but I feel some obligation to you as well. It would not be in your best interest—nor in Mr. Adelbertsmiter’s best interest—to prove yourself something…other than human at the moment. You are paying for my services, so the police will look at you. I trust they won’t find anything.”
“Nothing of interest.”
“No one knows that you can…change?”
“No one who would tell the police.”
She picked up her notebook and set it down again. “If you have been reading the papers or following the national news, you’ll know that there are some legal issues being brought up about the werewolves.”
Legal issues. I suppose that was one way to put it. The fae, by accepting the reservation system, had opened up the path for a bill to be introduced in Congress to deny the werewolves full citizenship and all the constitutional rights that came with it. Ironically, it was being proposed as an amendment to the Endangered Species Act.
Ms. Ryan nodded sharply. “If it comes out that you can become a coyote, the court might find your testimony inadmissible, which might have further legal consequences for you.” Because they might decide I was an animal and not human, I thought. “Anything you find would be flimsy evidence even if it was admitted. The court is not going to have the same view on your reliability as Zee apparently did. Especially as you will have to declare yourself a separate species—which might be a very dangerous thing for you to do at this time.” The werewolf bill wouldn’t pass—Bran had too much influence in Congress—but I was neither werewolf nor fae, and the same protection might not cover me.
She frowned and moved her notebook restlessly. “You should know that I belong to the John Lauren Society.”
I looked at Kyle. The John Lauren Society was the largest of the anti-fae groups. Though they maintained a front of respectability, there had been allegations last year that they had funded a small group of college-age kids who had tried to blow up a well-known fae bar in Los Angeles. Luckily their competence hadn’t matched their conviction and they’d only managed to do a little minor damage and send a couple of tourists to the hospital for smoke inhalation. The authorities had caught them rather quickly and found an apartment full of expensive explosives. The kids had been convicted, but the authorities hadn’t managed to build a case against the larger, wealthier organization.
I had access to information not available to the authorities and I knew that the John Lauren Society was a good deal dirtier than even the FBI suspected.
Kyle had found me a lawyer who not only disliked fae—she’d like to see them eliminated.
Kyle patted my hand. “Jean won’t allow her personal beliefs to interfere with her job.” Then he smiled at me. “And it will make a point, having someone so active in the anti-fae community defending your friend.”
“I’m not doing it because I believe he is innocent,” she said.
Kyle turned his smile to her and it became sharklike. He seldom showed anyone that side of him. “And you can tell the newspapers and the jury and the judge that—and it still won’t stop them from believing that he must be innocent or you wouldn’t have taken the case.”
She looked appalled, but she didn’t disagree.
I tried to imagine working a job where your convictions were an inconvenience that you learned to ignore—and decided I’d rather turn a wrench no matter how much better her paycheck was than mine.
“I’ll stay away from the crime scene, then,” I lied. I wasn’t a fae. What the police and Ms. Ryan didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. The coyote is a sly beastie and no stranger to stealth—and I wasn’t about to let Zee’s fate depend wholly on this woman.
I’d find out who killed O’Donnell and figure out a way to prove him guilty that didn’t involve me telling twelve of my peers that I smelled him.
I picked up a couple of buck burgers and fries from a fast-food place and drove home. The trailer was looking as spiffy as a seventies single-wide could. New siding had made the porch look tacky, so I’d repainted it gray. Samuel had suggested flower boxes to dress it up, but I don’t like living things to suffer unnecessarily—and I have a black thumb.
Samuel’s Mercedes was gone from its usual spot so he must still be at Tumbleweed. He’d offered to come with me to meet with the lawyer—so had Adam. Which is how I ended up with just Kyle, whom neither of the werewolves looked upon as a rival.
I opened the front door and the smell of crock pot stew made my stomach rumble its approval.
There was a note next to the crock pot on the kitchen counter. Samuel had learned to write before typewriters and computers rendered penmanship an art practiced by elementary school children. His notes always looked like formal wedding invitations. Hard to believe a doctor actually wrote like that.
Mercy, his note said with lovely flourishes that made the alphabet look like artwork. Sorry, I am not here. I promised to volunteer at the festival until after tonight’s concert. Eat something.
I followed his advice and got out a bowl. I was hungry, Samuel was a good cook—and it was still a few hours until dark.
O’Donnell’s address was in the phone book. He lived in Kennewick just off Olympia in a modest-sized house with a neat yard in the front and an eight-foot white fence that enclosed the backyard. It was one of the cinder block houses that were fairly common in the area. Recently someone had been of the mistaken impression that painting it blue and putting shutters on the windows would make it look less industrial.
I drove past it, taking in the yellow police-line tape that covered the doors—and the darkened houses to either side of it.
It took me a while to find a good parking spot. In a neighborhood like this, people would notice a strange car parked in front of their house. Finally I parked in a lot by a church that was not too far away.
I put on the collar with the tags that gave Adam’s phone number and address as my home. One trip to the dog pound had left me grateful for this little precaution. I didn’t look anything at all like a dog, but at least in town there wouldn’t be angry farmers ready to shoot me before they saw my collar.
Finding a place to change was a little more challenging. The dog pound I could deal with, but I didn’t want to get a ticket for indecent exposure. Finally I found an empty house with a realtor’s sign out front and an unlocked gardening shed.
From there, I only had to trot a couple of blocks to O’Donnell’s house. Happily, O’Donnell’s backyard fence ensured his backyard was private, because I had to change back and get out the picks I’d taped to the inside of the collar.
It was still close enough to summer that the night air was pleasant—a good thing since I had to pick the damned lock stark naked and it took me too long. Samuel had taught me to pick locks when I was fourteen. I hadn’t done it a lot since then—just a couple of times when I’d locked my keys in my car.
As soon as I had the door open, I replaced the picks inside my co
llar. Bless duct tape, it was still sticky enough to hold them.
A washer and dryer were just inside, with a dirty towel laid across the dryer. I picked it up and wiped the door, doorknob, lock, and anything else that might have picked up my fingerprints. I didn’t know if they had something to check for bare footprints, but I wiped the floor where I had taken a step inside to reach the towel, then tossed it back on the dryer.
I left the door mostly shut but unlatched, then shifted back into coyote, hunching under the gaze of eyes that weren’t there. I knew, knew that no one had seen me go inside. The gentle, gusty wind would have brought the scent of anyone skulking about. Even so, I could feel someone watching me, almost as if the house was aware of me. Creepy.
With my tail tucked uncomfortably close I turned my attention to the task at hand, the sooner to leave—but unlike the fae houses, this one had seen a lot of people in and out recently. Police, I thought, forensic team, but even before they had come there had been a lot of people in the back hallway.
I hadn’t expected an obnoxious boor like O’Donnell to have a lot of friends.
I ducked through the first doorway and into the kitchen, and the heavy traffic of people mostly faded away. Three or four light scents, O’Donnell, and someone who wore a particularly bad male cologne had been in here.
The cupboard doors gaped and the drawers hung open and a little askew. Dish towels were scattered in hasty piles on the counter.
Maybe Cologne Man was a police officer who searched the kitchen—unless O’Donnell was the sort who randomly shoved all of his dishes to one side of a cupboard and stored his cleaning supplies in a pile on the floor instead of tucked neatly in the space under the sink behind the doors that hung open, revealing the empty dark space beneath.
The faint light of the half moon revealed a fine black powder all over the cupboard doors and counter tops that I recognized as the substance the police use to reveal fingerprints—the TV is a good educational tool and Samuel is addicted to those forensic, soap opera–mystery shows.
Mercedes Thompson 03: Iron Kissed Page 7
