Anita Blake 11 - Cerulean Sins

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  I lowered my gun, took a deep breath, held it, aimed, let the breath out slow and careful as I squeezed the trigger. The gunshot was loud in the stillness, and it took a moment for me to be able to hear the air hissing out of the tire. I aimed my gun back up at the blond's window.

  His eyes flashed wide. He was speaking fast and frantically to his friend.

  "Bobby Lee," I said, "have someone on that side of the car press the barrel of their gun against the passenger side window."

  "You want them to shoot?"

  "Not yet, and if they do have to shoot I don't want to chance hitting the blond with the same bullet." I looked up at him. "Aim accordingly."

  It was Claudia who stepped forward and put her gun against the window, she angled it slightly down so she'd miss the man on the other side. Bullets have a nasty tendency to travel farther than you want them to.

  She asked, without looking at me, never taking her eyes from the man she was aiming at. "Do I get to kill him?"

  "We only need one of them to question," I said.

  She smiled, a flash of white teeth, and it was fierce and frightening framed by all that dark hair, that lovely face. "Great."

  "I won't ask again, put your hands where we can see them, or else," I said.

  He didn't put his hands up. He was either stupid or… "Bobby Lee, does anyone have our backs?"

  "You mean backup?" he asked.

  "Yeah, he's awful stubborn, unless he thinks help is coming."

  He said something quick and harsh, it sounded German, but it wasn't, and his Southern accent vanished when he said it. Some of the wererats turned outward, watching the perimeter. We were in the open, no one was going to sneak up on us. The only real danger would have been if someone had a rifle and scope. There was really nothing we could do about snipers, and because there was nothing we could do about it, we had to let it go, pretend it couldn't happen, and take care of what was happening. But a spot from between my shoulder blades to the top of my head ran with goose bumps, as if I could feel the scope on me. I was pretty sure it was imagination, but my imagination's always been a problem when I got overly excited. I tried to think of something else, like why the man wouldn't put his fucking hands up.

  I aimed one-handed so I could free up my left hand. I held a finger up, one, then another finger, two.

  The blond was speaking frantically. I could hear snatches of his voice, do it, God, do it.

  I actually started to put up that third finger, when the bill-cap man put his hands up, slowly. Empty hands, but I was betting any amount of money that he had some nasty piece of hardware in his lap. Oh, yeah.

  Claudia kept her gun against his window. I think because she hadn't been told to move away. Frankly, I liked her there, close enough to fire if he went for whatever was in his lap.

  I made the universal sign for roll the window down, rolling my hand in the air. They were in an old enough car that they actually had to crank it down. The blond unwound the window, slowly, carefully, and kept his other hand glued to the steering wheel. He was a cautious man. I liked that.

  He rolled the window down, put his hands back on the steering wheel, and said nothing. He didn't try to plead innocence, or confess guilt. He just sat there. Fine.

  I was short enough that with a little stooping I could see into the other man's lap. It was empty, which meant whatever he'd been cradling was on the floorboard. He'd dropped it so we wouldn't see it. What the hell was it?

  I raised my voice a little. "You in the cap, put your hands slowly on the dashboard, flat, and if they move from there, you will be shot. Is that clear?"

  He wouldn't look at me.

  "Is that clear?"

  He began to move his hands towards the dashboard. "It's clear."

  "Why were you following me?" I asked, mostly to the blond, because I was beginning to realize the other man wasn't going to volunteer much.

  "I do not know what you are talking about." He had a faint German accent, and I had too many relatives with the same accent not to recognize it. Of course, they were all over sixty, and hadn't seen the old country for a few decades. I was betting blondie was a more recent import.

  "Where'd the pretty blue Jeep go?" I asked.

  His face went very still.

  "I told you," the bill-cap said.

  "Yeah, we spotted you," I said. "It wasn't all that hard."

  "You would not have seen us if you had not been swerving all over the road," Blondie said.

  "Sorry about that, but we had some technical difficulties."

  "Yeah, like one of you turned furry," the guy in the cap said. He definitely was middle American, middle of nowhere, no accent.

  "So you wondered what was wrong, and got close enough to see," I said.

  Neither of them said anything to that.

  "You are both going to get, very slowly, out of this car. If either of you goes for a weapon, you may both die. I only need one of you for questioning, the other is just gravy. I'll do my best to see that one of you lives, but I won't break a sweat to save you both, because I don't need you both. Is that clear?"

  The blond said, "yes," the other one said, "Crystal fucking clear." Oh, yeah, he was American, only we have that poetic turn of phrase.

  Then I heard the sirens. They were close, very close, like in front of the building close. I'd have liked to think they were just passing through, but when you're holding this many guns out in the open, you can't count on that.

  "Never a cop when you need one," Bobby Lee said, "try to do anything illegal, and they're all over ya."

  The billed-cap man said, "If you put all your guns away before the cops get in sight, we'll just pretend this didn't happen." He was smiling as he leaned across, so I'd be sure and see the smug expression.

  I smiled back, and his smile wilted because I looked too damned pleased. I wasn't smooth at digging my badge out of my pocket yet, not one-handed anyway, but I managed. I flashed the metallic star in its little case. "Federal marshal, asshole. Keep your hands where we can see them until the nice policemen arrive."

  "What are you arresting us for?" the blond asked in his German accent. "We have done nothing."

  "Oh, I don't know. We'll start with carrying concealed weapons without a permit, then suspicion of grand theft auto." I patted the side of the Impala. "This ain't your car, and whatever your friend over there dropped on the floorboard is going to be illegal. Just call it a hunch."

  "Bobby Lee, we don't need this big a crowd."

  He grasped my meaning and barked another order in that odd guttural almost-German.

  The wererats melted away in that too-quick-to-follow-with-the-eye blur of speed I'd seen them use once or twice.

  Claudia stayed at her post, and Bobby Lee refused to leave, but it was just the three of us when the first policeman saw us. Well, five if you count the bad guys.

  Two uniformed officers came up the alley, walking, because the truck that was blocking the road hadn't moved, but the wererat that had been driving it was walking just ahead of them with his hands laced on the top of his head. With his hands up, it flashed that his shoulder holster was empty. They'd taken his gun.

  I made sure my badge was held up as high as I could manage. I was yelling "federal marshall" as they came around the corner.

  The cops used the few cars on that side of the lot for cover, and yelled, "Guns down!"

  I yelled, "Federal Marshal Anita Blake, the rest of these people are federal deputies."

  Bobby Lee whispered, "Deputies?"

  I spoke out of the corner of my mouth, "Just agree with me."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  I stepped back from the car enough to flash my badge better and yell, "Federal Marshall Blake, glad to see you officers."

  The officers stayed behind the engine blocks of the cars, but had stopped yelling at us. They were trying to figure out how much trouble they'd be in if we really were federal and they messed up what we were doing, but they weren't worrying about politics so hard
as to risk getting themselves shot. I approved.

  I lowered my voice and spoke to the men in the car, before I walked towards the policemen. "Carrying concealed without a permit, weapons on you that are illegal no matter what, a stolen car, and I'm betting when your prints hit the system it lights up like a Christmas tree." I was smiling and nodding at the two policemen hiding behind the cars. The badge had calmed them, but they still had their guns out, and I heard other sirens in the distance. They'd called for backup, I couldn't blame them. They had no way of knowing any of us qualified as a cop.

  I glanced at the blond. "Besides, the police around here take a dim view of criminals following federal marshals around."

  "We did not know you were police," the blond said.

  "Your intel sucks," I said.

  He nodded, his hands still on the steering wheel. "Yes."

  I put my gun up and held my badge up very high, put both hands up to show I was currently unarmed, and walked carefully towards the two uniforms, and the others that were creeping, cautiously, guns drawn, out of the alley. There were days when I truly loved having a badge. This was sooo one of those days.

  36

  Three hours later I was sitting in the outer office of the police station, sipping really bitter coffee, and waiting for someone to let me talk to my prisoners. I had a badge, and I had the right to deputize anyone I saw fit in an emergency. The police had taken Bobby Lee, Claudia, and the one driver in for questioning. They'd been sent home an hour ago. Bobby Lee had tried to insist he stay with me, but his lawyer had told him going home after only two hours was a gift and he should take it. He took it after I insisted. It helped that there had been an MP5 Heckler and Koch submachine gun on the floorboard, not to mention about half a dozen more smaller weapons, four knives, one of those collapsible clubs, an ASP. Oh, and that the car they were driving wasn't theirs.

  The dark-haired guy who'd been so sullen turned out to be ex-army, so his prints came up. Strangely, he had no criminal record. I would have bet almost anything that he was a bad guy. But if he was a bad guy, he was good enough at it to have never been caught.

  The blond didn't exist, his prints weren't in our system. Because of the German accent and my insistence, they'd forwarded both sets of prints to Interpol to see if our boys were wanted outside the country, but that would take time.

  So I had been left to cool my heels in a very uncomfortable desk chair beside the desk of a detective that never seemed to be there. The nameplate read, "P. O'Brien," but as far as I'd seen in over three hours, he was a myth. There was no Detective O'Brien, they just sat people by his desk and assured them that he'd be coming to talk to them soon.

  I wasn't under arrest, in fact, I wasn't in trouble at all. I was free to go, but I was not free to speak with the prisoners without someone present. Fine by me, I talked to them with the nice policemen present. None of us learned anything, but that they both knew that they wanted their lawyers. Once they got read their rights that was all either of them would say.

  There was enough to hold them for at least seventy-two hours, but after that we were up shit creek, unless their prints came back with an active criminal warrant.

  I took another sip of the coffee, made a face, and set it carefully on the desk of the invisible detective. I thought I'd never meet coffee I couldn't drink. I was wrong. It tasted like old gym socks and was nearly as solid. I sat up straight and wondered about simply leaving. My badge kept me and the wererats out of jail, and made sure the two bad guys didn't get to go free, but that was about all. The local police weren't happy with anyone with 'federal' as part of their title messing in local crime.

  A woman came to stand in front of me. She was about five eight, wearing a black skirt that was longer than was stylish, but then, her comfortable black shoes weren't exactly cutting edge either. Her blouse was a dark gold that looked like silk but was probably something easier to clean. Her hair had been dark brunette, but was so streaked with gray and silver and white that it looked like she'd streaked it on purpose. Natural punk.

  Deep smile lines showcased a truly nice smile. She held her hand out to me. I stood up to shake hands, and her handshake was firm, strong. I glanced at the black suit jacket on the back of Detective O'Brien's chair and knew who I was talking to even before she introduced herself.

  "Sorry it's taken me so long to get back to you. We've had a busy day." She motioned me to sit back down.

  I sat. "Understandable."

  She smiled, but her eyes didn't match the smile now, as if she didn't believe me. "I'm going to be in charge of this case, so I just want to get a few things clear." She laid the folder she'd been carrying on her desk, opened it, and seemed to be reading some notes.

  "Sure," I said.

  "You don't know why these two men were following you, correct?"

  "No, I don't."

  She gave me a very direct look out of her dark gray eyes. "Yet, you felt the matter was so urgent that you deputized," she checked her notes, "ten civilians to help you capture these two men."

  I shrugged and gave her pleasant, empty eyes. "I don't like being followed by people I don't know."

  "You told the officers on sight that you suspected the men of carrying illegal weapons. That was before anyone had searched them, or the car. How did you know they were carrying illegal weapons," there was the slightest hesitation before she said, "Marshal Blake?"

  "Gut instinct, I guess."

  Those warm gray eyes suddenly went as cold as a winter sky. "Cut the bullshit, and just tell me what you know."

  I widened eyes at that. "I've told your fellow officers everything I know, Detective O'Brien, honest."

  She gave me a look of such withering scorn that I should have wilted in my seat and confessed all. The trouble was, I had nothing to confess. I didn't know shit.

  I tried for honesty. "Detective O'Brien, I swear to you that I just noticed that I had a tail today on the highway. Then I saw that the same two men were outside where I was in a different car. Until I saw them the second time, I was willing to believe I was being paranoid. But once I knew they were following me, I wanted them to stop doing that, and I wanted to know why they were following me in the first place." I shrugged. "That is the absolute truth. I wish I knew something to conceal from you, but I am as much in the dark on this one as you are."

  She closed the file with a snap and hit it sharply on the desk as if to settle the papers inside it, but it looked like an automatic gesture, or an angry one. "Don't try batting those big brown eyes at me, Ms. Blake, I'm not buying."

  Batting my big brown eyes? Me? "Are you accusing me of trying to use feminine wiles on you, Detective?"

  That made her almost smile, but she fought off the urge. "Not exactly, but I've seen women like you before, so cute, so petite, you give that innocent face and the men just fall all over themselves to believe you."

  I looked at her for a second, to see if she was kidding, but she seemed serious. "Whatever axe you're grinding, find someone else's forehead to sink it into. I have come in here and told nothing but the truth. I helped get two men off the streets that were carrying firepower with armor-piercing, cop-killing ammo. You don't seem very damned grateful."

  She gave me very cold eyes. "You're free to leave anytime, Ms. Blake."

  I stood, then smiled down at her, and knew my eyes were as cold and unfriendly as hers. "Thanks so much, Ms. O'Brien." I emphasized the Ms.

  "That's Detective O'Brien," she said, as I'd almost been sure she would.

  "Then it's Marshal Blake to you, Detective O'Brien."

  "I earned the right to be called detective, Blake; I didn't get grandfathered in on some technicality. You may have a badge, but it doesn't make you a cop."

  Jesus, she was jealous. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I would get nowhere rising to the bait and fighting with her. So I didn't. Bully for me.

  "I may not be your kind of cop, but I am a duly appointed federal marshal."

  "You c
an interfere on any case involving the preternatural. Well, this one doesn't involve the preternatural." She gazed up at me, face calm, but still showing signs of anger. "So have a nice day."

  I blinked at her, and counted, slowly, to ten.

  Another detective came striding up. He had short curly blond hair, freckles, and a big grin. If he'd been any newer to plainclothes, he'd have squeaked when he walked. "James said we caught some sort of international super spy, is that true?"

  A look passed over O'Brien's face, a look of near pain. You could almost hear her thinking, shit.

  I grinned at the other detective. "Interpol came back with a hit, huh?"

  He nodded eagerly. "The German guy is wanted all over the place, industrial espionage, suspected terrorism…"

  O'Brien cut him off, "Go away Detective Webster, go the fuck away from me."

  His smile faltered. "Did I say something wrong? I mean the marshal here brought them in, I thought she…"

  "Get away from me, now," O'Brien said, and the growl of warning in her voice would have done a werewolf proud.

  Detective Webster walked away, without saying another word. He looked worried, and he should have. I was betting O'Brien carried grudges to the grave, and made sure everyone paid up.

  She looked at me, and the anger in her eyes wasn't just for me. Maybe it was for the years of being the only woman on a detail, maybe the job had made her bitter, or maybe she'd always been a grumpy-grumpy girl. I didn't know, and I didn't really care.

  "Catching an international terrorist in these days and times could make a person's career," I said, sort of conversationally, not really looking at her.

  The look of hatred in her eyes made me want to flinch. "You know it will."

  I shook my head. "O'Brien, I don't have a career in the police department. I don't even have a career with the Feds. I am a vampire executioner, and I help out on cases where the monsters are involved. Me having a badge is so new and so unprecedented that they're still arguing on whether we'll have rank as federal marshals, or be able to move up in rank at all. I'm not a threat to your promotion. Me taking credit won't help my career a damn bit. So help yourself."