Blood of the Pride

by Sheryl Nantus

  The redhead nodded in silence, watching me chew. A single bead of sweat rested on his forehead. I had hit a nerve. Dang. And on my first try.

  “Now, you know the cops aren’t going to be happy about someone trashing the crime scene before they got there.” I cleaned my mouth out with another swig of beer. “So, tell me who started this and I’ll turn him over to my contacts, they’ll put the fear of God into him and we’ll all go home happy.” I didn’t make mention of the fact there was still a killer out there.

  “Problem is, sweetheart,” one eyebrow waggled at me in a seagull’s wave, “I don’t know. Envelope was slipped under my door while I was at work. When I saw the picture, well…” He shrugged. “Can’t blame a man for doing his job.”

  “Sure I can.” I leaned forward and plucked his bottle away. “You don’t know who it was?”

  “I get lots of anonymous submissions.” The way his lips curled around the glass sent a hot rush through my veins. “Some people like to shine flashlights into the shadows, see what jumps out.” He tilted his head to one side and smiled. “Some of us like to play in the dark and take our chances on what we’ll find.”

  Damn. Smart, sarcastic and sexy as hell. In another time, another place I’d be buying him drinks and making sure I had enough cab fare to get home early the next morning.

  Instead I kept to business. The personal angle would have to wait for later. “And he didn’t leave his contact information, want any money for it.”

  A smile curled around the bottle edges. “Believe it or not, there’s plenty of people who believe in freedom of speech and all that.”

  I swallowed, feeling the first bit of a beer burp threatening to break free. “It was taken before the cops arrived and secured the scene.”

  “That it was, sweetie.” Bran leaned forward. “But I’m not sure why you want the photographer.”

  “Because if he was there at the right time he could have seen the killer. Or maybe he is the killer. The photo could be a souvenir of his hunt.” I ground the fork tines across the plate, creating a high-pitched squeal.

  “Whoa.” Bran looked at me. “Don’t take it out on the fine china.”

  “Sorry,” I grumbled.

  He waved Eddie over and gestured at the plate. “I’ll have what she’s having. And another round of beers.”

  Her eyebrows rose as she looked at me, trying to figure out if I was in trouble or just playing with fire. “Sure. No prob at all. Back in a flash.”

  Bran reached over and touched me, a light brush across the back of my hand. “Didn’t know it’s more than a professional job. Sorry.” He leaned back from the table. “But that’s how I got the pic.”

  My skin tingled, as if I’d been rolling in fresh-cut grass. I tried to shake it off as just a reaction to his aftershave.

  I’d gotten used to lying to myself a lot over the years.

  “So, what’s so special about this?” Bran shifted into reporter mode. I could almost see the pencil poised to scribble across the empty page in his inner eye. “I mean, it’s horrible and all, but what’s the real story here?”

  “Her family is upset about a photograph being smeared across the cheapest rag in the city, including toilet paper.” An order of dumplings appeared in front of him, Eddie supplying another set of napkins. “I’d have thought that much was obvious.”

  “To a degree.” He picked up one dumpling with a fork and dabbed the end into the wasabi, smearing the hot green paste all over the tasty bundle. “But there’s more to this than just finding who took the photograph. You’re going after the killer while the cops do their own investigation. And don’t even try to tell me you’re not. I can’t see you quitting after grabbing the photobug.” He popped the dumpling into his mouth without flinching, chewing it slowly. “That puts a whole different spin on things, now.”

  I watched as beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, trickling down the sides of his face while he continued to eat the doughy bites without a single sip of beer. “Now, I’m pretty sure the police are going to write this one off. Not fair, not nice but that’s the way it is. They’re overworked and underpaid and all that. So, this is how it goes.” He waved the empty fork at me. “You allow me to follow the Cat woman Killer story with you and I cut you in for part of the credit when you catch the killer and I write the sequel.”

  I almost reached across the table to strangle him right there, damn the good feelings I’d had a few seconds before. As it was, I flexed my fingers, wishing I had kept my nails as long as some of the women back on the farm did. A good scratching was almost acceptable in polite society, if I recalled correctly.

  “Look, I don’t think you understand me.” I pulled in a deep breath and tried to center myself, find a Zen place and stay there. “If I were going after the killer, and I’m not confirming that I am, I’m hunting a man who killed an innocent woman. I’m not looking for street cred or some version of a Pulitzer Prize for crappy rags. This isn’t some reality show where you get to dash around and play the hero and drag me along for the ride.”

  “I get that.” His face went sad and solemn, the silence falling over us blocking out the rising noise from the bar. “I’ve been there, done that. I know what you want. All I’m asking is to come along for the ride.” He snatched up the bottle and drained the foam out of the bottom. “Besides, you need me to get started.” His previous joviality returned. I wanted to smack him.

  “Okay.” An overpowering rush of perfume hit my nose, sending a shock through my system. Some woman was just aching to have me dunk her in the nearest body of water, even if it happened to be a toilet bowl. “This is how it’s going to work. First, you’re going to take me back to your place.”

  Bran’s eyebrows shot up as he grinned. “Really?”

  “Yes, you are. Do you still have that envelope the photo arrived in? Or the actual photo?”

  “Of course not.” He finished off the remaining dumplings in a rush. “I handed it off to the editor and trashed the envelope.”

  “You never wondered who took the picture or why it ended up on your table?” My fingernails dug under the paper label on the beer bottle, pulling it off in small strips.

  “Honey, where do you think the majority of my stories come from?” He exhaled a mouthful of wasabi, causing my nose to curl up. “People drop off this, that and the other thing at my desk at the Inquisitor all the time. You should see the crap hitting my email box with pics changed around to justify Bigfoot or the 9/11 conspiracy silliness or whatever’s the hot thing online right now.” His fork impaled the last dumpling. “I was surprised as all hell to see an actual paper document showing up under my door. Took me back to the old days, it did.”

  My blood pressure started rising. “And you gave the original over to your editor?”

  “Like I wasn’t going to?” Bran put the fork down with a loud clink. “I had no reason to keep it at my place.”

  “So you sold the picture and wrote the story to go with it.”

  “Right.” He rapped the table with his knuckles. “I did exactly what I get paid for and what the public wants.” Bran smiled. “And now you’ve got me just curious enough to keep following this story much further than I would have taken it if you hadn’t shown up. The fact that her family’s pissed enough to call you in makes it much more interesting. So let’s scratch each other’s back and work out a deal.” He pressed an index finger against his right nostril with a wide grin. “That’s what reporters go on, honey.”

  “Right.” I pulled my wallet out and tossed a few bills onto the table. “We’re out of here.”

  Bran’s eyebrows rose again as he looked at me for a minute before sliding off the chair. “I must admit, you’re pretty easy.”

  “Don’t bet on it.”

  Chapter 5

  We flagged down a cab right outside the bar. It was well into rush hour by this point and I had chosen wisely to not try to bring my car into this mess.

  As the taxi began to maneuver i
n and out of the traffic on Queen Street, Bran turned to me, a curious look on his face. “So what got you into this business? Seems to me like a girl like you deserves better.”

  I couldn’t hold back the laughter. Chuckling, I glanced out the window to make sure I knew where we were going. The smell of old cigarette ash was almost overpowering. The cab was obviously one of the last to switch over to non-smoking as the decal on the window attested.

  “Gee, haven’t heard that pickup line before.” I rubbed the tip of my nose and saw a bit of the playfulness disappear from his face. “Let’s just say that I fell into working security and then just expanded into the private arena.” The traffic slowed to a crawl around us. “So how does a reporter like you end up working for a rag like the Inquisitor?”

  “The fickle follies of life.” He lifted his hands in a melodramatic display. “Either way, we’re here now and that’s what’s going on.”

  “Thanks for the update.” The vehicle pulled up at the entrance to a small apartment complex down near Yonge and King— one of the hot-up and coming spots for the youthful businessman in the downtown core. These condominiums cost more than a million dollars. Not what I expected from a cheap hack.

  The doorman nodded to both of us as we walked through the lobby, his eyes scanning me as a security professional would. I had no doubts if a cop came by later he’d be able to give a pretty darned good description of me with the exact moment my foot crossed that threshold. This was a pricy place that didn’t hire kids looking to find a place to sleep or study on the night shift.

  We stepped into the elevator, a gaudy trip of mirrored walls and gold-plated buttons screaming upper class.

  Bran was silent on the trip up, bouncing back and forth on the toes of his black running shoes as if he was preparing for a marathon, quiet until we hit the seventeenth floor and walked out into the hallway.

  “So, what do you think?” He fumbled in his slacks for the keys, finally hitting the lock on the third try.

  “Aren’t you supposed to ask that after I see the interior of your apartment?” I joked, trying to figure out who this guy was.

  “I guess asking if it was good for you too should wait, then.” He grinned and stepped inside, flicking a set of light switches to his right.

  The condo was larger than if you had dragged my house’s second story down onto the first floor. A variety of shelves stood here and there, scattered across the open space and splitting it into rooms. Off to one side I spotted the largest large-screen television I had ever seen outside of stadiums and rock concerts.

  “Want a drink?” He took off his leather coat and hung it on a series of wooden knobs set into the wall, not offering to take mine. Good thing, because I hate awkward goodbyes. Bran walked into the spacious kitchen, gesturing at a number of appliances laid out on the marble counters. “Cappuccino? Espresso? Whiskey? SoCo?”

  “How about just coffee?” I moved toward the kitchen, my feet light on the hardwood floors. They had been polished to a bright sheen and just screamed for a sock dance. “I think we’ve both had enough to drink tonight.”

  He shrugged and pulled out a machine that had more buttons than a space shuttle. “Whatever.” After punching in codes to probably set off nuclear missiles toward Cuba, he set two matching mugs into the small recesses. “Milk? Cream? Half and half?”

  I turned back from where I had been unabashedly staring at the oversized computer monitor and the top-of-the-line machine artfully hidden in a dark redwood desk. “Half and half, if you have it.” My stomach began to hum in anticipation of the creamy delight.

  “Make yourself at home.” I didn’t need to be told twice. While he mucked about in the kitchen I inspected the rest of the apartment including the double bed discreetly tucked at the far end behind a set of tall black oak shelves. He was neat and tidy, and obviously had a bigger pocketbook than I’d expected.

  “Pretty good for a hack, eh?” Bran appeared, a mug in each hand. Gesturing to the black leather couch, he sat down opposite me, placing the cups on two of the small round stone coasters spread across the glass table.

  “The Inquisitor’s paying more than I thought.” The cups were black ceramic, immaculate and beautiful. He had good taste. “So, about that envelope.”

  “I told you I trashed it.” He took a sip. “Special Columbian blend. Can’t get it at Starbucks. Delivered by private courier once a month.” One edge of his mouth curled up in a teasing smile. “I only go for the best.”

  I tried not to smirk. The verbal jousting was perfectly timed like our foreplay in the bar. He was hitting all the right buttons and playing it out like he should. Reporter trying to protect his source and investigator trying to get information. It was a finely-timed dance we’d both done before.

  “Then I need to see your garbage.” I put on my best smile. “’Cause I’m going to drag it all across this sweet hardwood floor and make sure you didn’t keep it by mistake.”

  The right side of his mouth curved upward, just a fraction. Bingo.

  The mug went back on the coaster. “I think you used that nice fancy scanner over there to scan in the shot and send it to your editor that way so the computer geeks could add more fur and blur her face. So that envelope is here, along with the original picture.” I glanced around the apartment again. “One man doesn’t make a lot of mess, so…” I stood up and walked to the kitchen, opening random bottom cabinets. “Why, lookie here. A garbage pail.”

  Bran stood up, his hands in his pockets again and a sheepish grin on his face. “Damn, you’re good.”

  I beamed back at him with an even wider grin. “You’ll never know.” I pulled the white garbage bag out of the plastic bucket and turned it over, dumping the contents onto the floor. Old coffee grounds were mixed with limp shredded carrots and a dash of sirloin steak tips just beginning to get ripe. My nose wrinkled at the different scents trying to overwhelm each other. There, at the bottom, lay a single manila envelope.

  I plucked it free and brushed off a handful of coffee grounds, waving it in the air. “Why, look what I found.”

  He chuckled, looking at the floor. “Guess I didn’t empty my garbage as often as I thought I did.”

  “So there’s the envelope.” I tossed it onto the table. “You’ve got three minutes to produce the original before I move this garbage bag across your entire clean apartment to search for it.”

  “What makes you think I kept the photo?” Bran shuffled over toward me, an angelic expression on his face.

  “Because I can smell it.” I tapped the tip of my nose. “You don’t get rid of anything you can recycle. That photo’s something you’re saving for the ‘best of’ volume in your scrapbook.”

  He let out a low whistle, crossing to the computer desk. He opened a drawer and pulled out a thin file folder. “You ever play poker?” He walked over and placed it on the marble island between us, opening it to face me. “I think you’d be deadly.”

  I shook my head. “Not good at bluffing.” Nudging the cold-water faucet with my elbow to get the water flowing took a second. I washed my hands quickly and wiped them on the pristine dishtowel hanging from the bar set on the refrigerator side.

  The shot was the same as in the tabloid but this one was untouched. Janey’s blank eyes stared up at me, the slightest tufts of orange hair breaking free across her face.

  Attached to the photo was a printed note, the blocky letters on generic lined paper. “What is she?” in fat capital letters.

  I couldn’t hold back a gasp at seeing the unmarked photograph. I’d seen dead bodies before but this was personal, this was family. It was almost a voyeuristic shot, catching her in mid-Change.

  “You knew her.” It wasn’t as much a question as a statement, his words low and soft. I started, suddenly aware of him standing way too much inside my personal space. The thin hairs on the back of my neck began to tingle. I had never been a big fan of letting anyone get close to me, physically or mentally.

  “We didn’t
know each other directly. Family friend.” At this distance I could smell the beer mixed with sweat and his personal musk. Dang, it was seductive. It’d been a long time since I had gotten involved with anyone. When you’ve had your entire life ripped away you learn not to trust anyone, not let anyone in too quickly. Some scars you just can’t hide.

  I reached out and touched the dead woman’s face, stroking the glossy fur.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, still too close for comfort. I shook my head and spun around, breaking the contact while I washed my hands again.

  “Yeah, well. Everyone dies. For most of us the timing sucks.” We were back on professional ground and I was glad of it. I wiped my hands and then flipped my ponytail back over one shoulder. “Not a chance of getting prints.” I leaned in toward the photograph, inhaling deeply. Scent tracking might not be standard procedure for most investigators and wasn’t admissible in court, but it worked for me.

  “I’d think not.” Bran scratched the back of his head. “Mine are definitely on there and I doubt he’d have been stupid enough to leave his own.”

  I nodded, closing my eyes. Damn it. It was faint, so faint I could barely catch it, but it was there. Felis scent. I turned my attention to the envelope. The inside might have a stronger smell. But I couldn’t start sniffing it like a bloodhound with Bran watching. Instead I went for the safer, more common types of detection.

  The envelope was blank on all sides, the flap torn open where the owner had taped it shut. “No chance of getting saliva from here.” I shook my head. “He’s a smart one.”

  “It’d take you weeks to get a DNA match anyway.” Bran leaned forward again. “That sort of fast response only happens on television. And with you not being a cop, well…” He chuckled. “I don’t think you’re willing to wait that long.”

  “I still don’t understand why you didn’t turn this in to the authorities.” I traced the black-and-white image with one finger.