After squatting beside the mysterious box for a few minutes, Stan took a deep breath and flipped the lid off with a stiff index finger. His shoulders tightened, and his back straightened. He growled.
My mountain lion pushed forward, wanting to shift and protect. I shushed her, but she refused to settle, instead, she paced back and forth, put on edge by Stan’s aggressive posture and angry scent.
He dipped his hand in the box and pulled out a wad of white shredded paper.
“Are you kidding me?” I lunged forward and looked in the box. Sure enough. Stuffed full of machine-shredded office paper. The smell of bulk toner lingered in the box.
“She always liked puzzles,” Stan grumbled.
We exchanged a glance and then went back to staring at the tangle of paper.
“A bit extreme for a hobby,” I said. “It will take days to piece this crap together.”
Stan nodded and shoved the lid back on. “I’ll give it to the forensics department. There’s a few puzzle geeks on the team who’ll get a hard-on trying to put this back together.” He straightened and turned to me. “What does it smell like?”
I shrugged. “Nothing of note. Smells like an office. Paper, pens, and whatnot. A few people, other than Loretta, but no one I know, and no emotional imprint. Either the shredders are sociopaths, or they had no idea what was being disposed.”
“Or they wore gloves.”
My mouth clamped shut, and I nodded. If they’d been really emotional, their scents would still linger on the paper, but no point in debating the finer aspects of blood hound-ery to Stan.
“What about my wife?” Stan asked.
“Loretta’s scent is the freshest, and she was scared when she collected it.”
“Afraid of getting caught.” Stan’s voice remained factual, but his jaw clenched, and his hands balled into fists again.
“Where’d she work again? In an office, right? Tancher Pharmaceuticals?”
Stan froze and turned to me.
“The more we learn, the more I think Loretta’s death had nothing to do with you as a cop and everything to do with what she hid from you.”
Stan’s gaze cut away. “The thought crossed my mind as well.”
“But?”
“But, it doesn’t shake this…feeling. Her… What happened to her is on me. She should’ve told me. She should’ve confided in me,”
“Maybe she wanted to protect you.”
“I SHOULD’VE PROTECTED HER!” Stan bellowed. “Me!” He thumbed his chest and then his voice cut off in a strangled cry. “Me…”
His shoulders shook as he turned around and stomped out of the storage room. I let him go. He needed some time. I ached to take his pain away, but a hug from me, no matter how well intended, wouldn’t go down well right now. What the heck was the point of being the big bad Carus if I couldn’t help my friends?
I squared my shoulders, took a deep breath and turned to the filing cabinet. One yank and the drawer flung open, nearly knocking me on my ass.
Empty.
Fucking hell.
After shutting the cabinet gently, I opened the bottom drawer.
Also empty.
“Fuck!” I jumped to my feet and threw my foot forward, booting the cabinet across the small space and into the wall.
Sharp pain radiated from my toe, and I bit my lip to prevent howling. The cabinet dented the drywall, and the front end fell heavy against the floor.
Then something metal slid inside the cabinet.
My eyes narrowed.
With supe strength, I hauled the cabinet to me and wrenched open the drawers, while holding it on an angle. Still empty.
I tilted the cabinet.
Swish…
Again, metal sliding on metal.
I tiled the cabinet forward.
Swish…
My heartbeat thudded in my ears. Could this be it? The key to solving everything? Hoisting the cabinet to head level, I planted my ear against the cool metal and repeated the process.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Stan demanded.
I yelped and almost dropped the cabinet. Taking a deep breath, I ignored him and repeated the tilting process.
Bottom drawer.
I set the cabinet down and ripped out the bottom drawer. When I flipped the drawer over, the fluorescent light above revealed no second compartment. No room for any false bottoms. My heart hammered in my chest. I wanted to find something. For Stan.
Loretta’s scent clung heavily to the drawer. After I flung it to the side, I turned to sniff out the rest of the cabinet and froze.
A black object reflected light from a cut out groove on the bottom of the compartment, the one used to house the bottom drawer.
A phone.
An ultrathin one. I reached in, picked it up, and rocked back on my heels. The plastic of my gloves stuck to the sleek surface like super-grip dish gloves. The phone smelled of Loretta and no one else. I powered it on and after the brand logo, a password screen appeared.
I glanced over at Stan, expecting him to be leaning over my shoulder, mouth-breathing on my neck, but he squatted a few feet away, rummaging through the shredded paper box.
“Look at this,” he said, before I had a chance to announce my find.
How could he miss it? I’d been dancing the salsa with his deceased wife’s filing cabinet. I held my breath, clutched the phone and closed the distance to hover beside my friend.
He’d pieced together a few strands of paper to make out a header, or some sort of logo.
It looked familiar.
An oval with two feather-like drawings separated by two crude parallel lines and a company name. It resembled an Egyptian hieroglyph.
My stomach sank.
A hieroglyph much like the one tattooed on the inside of Aahil’s wrist.
“Interesting…” I said. Good thing Stan couldn’t detect the waves of unease leaking out my pores. Maybe there was a connection between Loretta’s death and the KK dealers after all…But what? Had Loretta’s death been caused by Stan’s involvement with the KK investigation, or because of something Loretta had been up to?
“It’s the logo for Tancher Pharmaceuticals.”
Huh. My mind reeled to connect the dots with the new information. The logo was from the company Loretta worked for, not the KK dealer. Many hieroglyphs had a similar appearance, and Tancher Pharmaceuticals was a company in the Lower Mainland. Maybe that’s why the logo looked familiar.
My brain convulsed as the niggling feeling from earlier returned.
Did Aahil have some sort of connection with the pharmaceutical company?
I pursed my lips and racked my brain for a mental image of the dealer’s tattoo. But the harder I tried to focus on the memory, the blurrier it became until the image slipped away.
Stupid brain.
I’d kill for an upgrade to an identic memory right now.
Stan looked up at me, the tattered shred of paper delicately held in his two upturned palms. With wide eyes and upturned brows, Stan’s expression morphed into one of almost hope. The best thing I’d seen on his face since Loretta’s death.
Maybe I’d keep my mouth shut and pay Mr. Aahil the dealer a visit to confirm or dismiss my suspicions. Stan teetered so close to the edge right now, I didn’t want to push him over with a shoddy memory, not when it might incite a cop versus gang shoot out.
“Why would she keep shredded documents from her work in a personal storage locker?” I asked.
Stan’s shoulders drooped. “I don’t know. Do you have anything better?”
I held Loretta’s secret phone up and waved it a little. “You bet I do.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“I needed to run away with Tristan to a tropical beach with whiskey.”
~Andy McNeilly
The rush of adrenalin and motivation quickly seeped from my veins with each attempt and failure of Stan’s to unlock Loretta’s phone. He tried birthdays and anniversaries, but nothing worked, and his
momentary reprieve from depression crashed back, physically weighing down his shoulders. I watched his body language slump and finally ripped the phone from his hands.
“There’s nothing special about this phone,” I said. “Let your tech group handle this. It won’t take long for them to crack it.”
Stan nodded, took the phone back, and bagged it. After we moved out of the storage room, he taped up the door with official crime scene tape he grabbed from his car. We walked in silence to the entrance of the storage compound. Stan said a gruff goodbye before flopping into his cruiser and driving away.
With no reason to hang around, I popped my head in the office to thank Mrs. Smith. “We’re leaving now,” I said. “Thank you for letting us in.”
Her owly face popped up from behind the counter. “You’re welcome, dear. Any idea when the VPD will release the storage locker?”
“No idea, but I wouldn’t count on it happening any time soon.”
She bobbed her head and turned to shuffle some papers on her desk.
I let myself out, hopped in the car, and drove home. The stale smell of my empty apartment greeted me. Only one way to make it better. I put on a pot of coffee and got out my laptop. Time to investigate Loretta’s employer—Tancher Pharmaceuticals.
I checked the VPD database with my remote access. Nothing.
I checked the SRD database with my remote access, and thanked the inefficiency of my former employer. They hadn’t denied my access yet. Someone in IT missed the memo, but the access did me little good. Still nothing.
I checked the Tancher website. Founded by a rich American by the name of Tancher Isis, the pharmaceutical company was one of North America’s most prominent and successful companies for research and prescription drug production. They had a bunch of fancy badges on their website and declarations of their integrity from customers and industry experts.
I didn’t buy it.
A drug dealer with the same or similar tattoo to a drug company? The same drug company Loretta worked for, the same dealer of the drug found with Loretta’s body? Too coincidental for me to ignore. But I was missing the pieces for the whole centre of a puzzle.
First, I needed to confirm Aahil’s tattoo was the same as the logo.
I needed to hit the streets to do that.
****
When I walked into the sixth tattoo parlour of the day, the smells of green soap, A&D ointment, and cleaning supplies rushed my nose like an angry mob. On a flattened chair, a muscular man in his late twenties lay on his side with his arm draped over his face. He successfully hid his expression, but wafts of hot metal and canned ham gave away his pain. A female artist hunched over his ribs, dreadlocks held back with a bandanna and what looked like macramé rope.
On another chair, a young woman sat back with her earbuds in, humming along to a song, while another artist with shaggy hair and a dense brown beard worked on her full sleeve. Mesmerized by the colours, I stepped closer. The piece depicted an ocean scene with swirls of blues ranging from shallow water to deep angry ocean. Seagulls glided in bands of wind while the Sleeping Beauty mountain range from up north sat behind mist to watch it all.
Beautiful.
Before I discovered my inherent Shifter skills, I’d dreamed with my high school girlfriends of potential tattoos, coming up with different ideas of what we wanted to get once we came of age.
After discovering I was a Shifter, my tattoo dreams faded. Ink didn’t stick around when shifting from one form to another. After any transformation, all that remained was clear, clean, unblemished skin and a distant memory of how awesome the tattoo looked. Even my bullet scars would fade over time until they disappeared.
If I’d been tattooed prior to bonding with my feras, I might’ve kept the permanent ink.
Now standing in a tattoo parlour and gazing on the beautifully intricate design, I wished again I’d acted on those dreams and rebelled against my parents all those years ago.
Then again, maybe not. One of my not-so-great ideas had been to get a stamp tattoo on my ass that read, “Canadian Grade-A Beef.”
Hah! Dodged a bullet there. Still, I loved tattoos.
I got one once to go undercover, and if I wasn’t a Shifter, I’d probably be covered in them. But the voices of my feras calling me into the woods when I turned fourteen changed a lot of things for me, not just my dreams of inked skin.
“Can I help you?” the receptionist asked.
I turned to the young woman I’d noted when I entered the shop. She had thick, jet black hair, cut into a blunt bob with straight bangs, and styled like a pin-up girl. Her dark, penciled-in eyebrows rose almost theatrically in an arch over her black-brown eyes. Powdered white skin made her brightly-painted red lips stand out. She looked like the slutty version of Snow White. Maybe the troubled younger sibling.
“Yeah, you can help me,” I said. “Can I talk to one of the artists?”
Her dark lined eyes narrowed and a hand went to her well-rounded hip. “You looking to get some ink?”
Her voice conveyed skepticism.
What the hell?
Maybe I should’ve worn something different, but all sorts of people got tattoos nowadays. Sure, I wasn’t trying to go deep undercover, but what made me so unbelievable?
“Yes,” I said.
She snorted. “You look like a cop.”
Well, fuck me sideways. I’d lost my game. I’d never been pegged faster in my entire career with the SRD. Then again, Tristan read me like a naughty tabloid magazine. My friend Mel sometimes knew my thoughts before I did, and even Stan and Ben picked up on some of my facial cues now. Were readable expressions some kind of nasty side effect of regaining my humanity? Of becoming more open to relationships? Well, crap. Opening up to my friends and Tristan was one thing, but strangers? Heck no. Not happening.
Now aware of my deteriorating condition, I’d have to readjust.
With a blank expression, I replied to the receptionist. “No, actually, not a cop.” Not yet anyway. “But I am helping them with an investigation.” Truth. The paperwork still hadn’t gone through, and although I wasn’t working pro-bono, payment as a consultant was significantly lower than working as an officer. Go figure.
Her full lips twitched, twisting her expression into something so smug I wanted to punch it off her face.
The beast rumbled her approval, but I shook away the idea of punching her. She read me once, she wouldn’t read me again. Without moving, I loosened control on my animal magnetism. Even with it tightly coiled, it leached out and attracted norms, but sometimes I purposely let go to get my way. It made things go a lot faster.
The receptionist’s eyes softened and her body lost its stiff posture. “Ken and Barbie are both busy right now. They don’t like to be interrupted.” She lifted her chin toward the two artists I’d already noticed.
Ken and Barbie? Really? How’d she say that line without cracking up?
“But…” She licked her lips. “Butch is taking his lunch right now. Had a no show. Let me go ask him.”
I nodded and waited as she sashayed down the hallway at the back of the main room. She turned the corner, and I followed the conversation from the short distance with my heightened Shifter hearing.
Butch. The receptionist’s voice turned from hard and sarcastic to sweet honey. My back straightened at the abrupt change, and I took a few steps forward to hear better, errantly flipping through some workbooks.
Back for more? Butch asked. His voice came off deep and growly. Kind of like a masculine version of Baloo, my bear fera. I would’ve thought after I bent you over my drawing table earlier, you’d had enough.
The receptionist made the same “mmmm” sound I did when I saw specialty cupcakes. If only my hearing had an “off” button, or volume control. Not sure I wanted to hear how this conversation slipped into the gutter, but they might reveal something—
No, but I’m getting hot just thinking about it. She continued describing just how hot she got.
&nb
sp; Err…Gross. Off! Ears, turn off!
Then what do you want? Butch asked.
Besides your thick…
I quickly turned away and walked to the small sitting area to look outside. Eavesdropping sometimes went in unexpected directions. It didn’t mean I’d tune out, it just meant my ears would burn.
…some woman wants to talk to you.
To me? His tone turned skeptical.
Well, she purred, she wants to talk to a tattoo artist. Says she’s with the police.
Fuck that.
She has a nice rack. Maybe we could, you know…invite her join us. You said I could pick the next one.
Butch growled and what followed was wet and sloppy.
Join them? Not likely. Not ever. Images of my Sid-induced dream spiraled into my memory, and I squeezed my eyes shut. I needed to run away with Tristan to a tropical beach with whiskey.
The receptionist sauntered back ten minutes later with a satisfied grin on her face. Her lipstick bright, shiny, and re-applied. “Butch agreed to answer your questions. Please follow me.”
I nodded and followed her into the back room where a large, over-muscled man waited. The receptionist’s perfume coated his skin along with other, less pleasant, smells. He perched with his butt on the edge of his drawing table, arms crossed. A black T-shirt hugged his body-builder frame, accentuating his lack of a neck, and biceps that could probably twist off beer caps. His bald head shone under the fluorescent lights and every inch of exposed skin had ink, with the exception of his face and head.
His eyebrows bunched together, and his lips turned down when he first took me in. Confusion flittered across his face.
Probably wondering what the receptionist saw in me.
The instant my animal magnetism hit him, his eyes widened and his mouth twisted into a smile.
“How can I help you?” he asked, his tone pleasant with a side of flirty.
“I wanted to ask you about a tattoo.”
He nodded and pushed off the table to close the distance between us. “Okay.”
“Your website said this tattoo shop specializes in hieroglyphics, among other things. Do all the artists here do them, or is there one in particular I should speak to?”
Shift Work (Carus #4) Page 14
