Midnight Shadows

by Emerson Knight

  Miriam wasn’t supernatural, but she understood our world, having married a were-animal and raised another, my father. Was her concern about a curse figurative, or literal? Based on my observations of her over the years, I found the latter hard to believe, but her fear had been genuine. I shook my head as I cut my steak, watching the blood ooze from the tender meat into a pool on my plate. I resolved to visit her again, tomorrow. If she was lucid, I’d ask her about the curse.

  While I ate, the shapely brunette waitress returned to my table more often than necessary, giving me long, meaningful looks. She had green eyes, mahogany hair, and an intriguing intensity. She was exactly the kind of distraction I needed—at least, I thought she was. Her shift conveniently ended when I paid my tab. We met at the bar for drinks, and a few hours later I took her home.

  That morning, I dreamed of Dennis sitting in his blue Cutlass, completely oblivious to the danger as he watched Michaela, the Mistress of the vampires’ Northern Seethe, saunter toward him. He even admired her physical beauty, anticipating his conversation with her. From behind a glass barrier, I yelled and screamed for him to run, but he couldn’t hear me. All I could do was watch the horror of recognition that came over him the moment before she reached through the open window, gripped his head by the hair to expose his neck, and ripped out his throat with her teeth. She laughed at me, bathing in his blood as it washed over her in scarlet waves.

  I woke up with a start, my body drenched in sweat. I sat for a few minutes catching my breath before I realized my guest had already left. Probably for the best. I took a long hot shower. As I dressed, I noticed the woman’s necklace on my dresser—a silver necklace. I retrieved a tissue from the bathroom, scooped up the necklace, and dropped it into the waste bin.

  After a quick breakfast, I settled onto my couch with a laptop and did some quick Internet searches for Lucas Reed. His bio on his company’s website was bland and useless and probably a lie. Other than some promotional images of him on his motorcycles, there was nothing useful to me. He had no other online presence, but that wasn’t surprising. Most supernaturals steered clear of social media, where it was too easy to draw the wrong kind of attention.

  I had more to worry about than Lucas Reed. I closed my searches and started over, looking for anything on Dennis’s daughter, Caroline McDuffy. Her Instagram was mostly a collection of artistic wallpaper and glass chandeliers, which told me nothing useful. Her Facebook page was entirely private, but she ran a large, public group that focused on criminal justice podcasts and cases of wrongful conviction. I scowled. She liked a good cause, and she knew how to organize.

  I ran my hands over my face, trying to wipe away the stress that stubbornly clung there. Closing the laptop, I stripped and stepped out my back door into the brisk morning. At my bidding, my wolf rose to the surface. A cool comfort spread through my body as it elongated, my bones cracking as they adjusted to my wolf form. Gray fur burst through my skin. Once transformed, I sniffed at the air, taking in a dozen subtle scents; something small and earthy, like a mole, had been close recently—a cat, as well, possibly in pursuit. From the next block over, the pungent smell of freshly cut juniper carried on the breeze. Eager to stretch my legs, I trotted into the woods behind my house and ran for a couple of hours.

  Reluctantly, I returned home and changed back to my human form. As much as I wanted to give the day to my wolf, there was too much to be done.

  I drove my BMW to the city and parked a couple of blocks away from Dennis’s former office on North Ashland Avenue. Walking the rest of the way, I found several MISSING posters bearing his image stapled to telephone poles. When I finally arrived at the nondescript, tan brick commercial building, I found a young woman with windblown raven hair, wearing black jeans and a matching jacket, was handing out copies of the poster to anyone and everyone passing by. I recognized Caroline from Tim’s description. Judging by the number of posters in her hand, she was nearly finished.

  “Have you seen my father?” she repeated over and over. Most simply took the poster without breaking stride. A few crammed their hands in their pockets and shook their heads as they passed by.

  I sighed, questioning my plan. As an attorney, I advised myself against it, but my need for information outweighed the risks. I took a deep breath, steeling myself, then walked toward her as if I, too, just happened to be walking by. I didn’t even make eye contact with her, because I knew she would open the door for me.

  “Have you seen my father?” she asked, extending her last poster into my path.

  I took it and took two steps past her, gazing at the poster, before I stopped and turned to face her. “Is he lost?” I asked, wearing a concerned look.

  Her eyes brightened as she walked to me, eager to engage. I noticed a silver pendant resting over the collar of her t-shirt, a Celtic knot wrapped around a black crystal. “You’ve seen him?” she asked.

  I glanced at the poster once more, then shook my head. “He looks familiar, but I’m not sure. I frequent this area. There are a lot of people around here during the workday. Perhaps if I knew more about him,” I suggested.

  She brushed back her hair as it blew into her face. “He’s a private detective.” She held my gaze, intently watching for some sign of recognition. “He worked … works”—she corrected herself—“in that office building over there. A couple months ago, he just stopped responding to my calls or e-mails. I live in Boise,” she explained. “At first, I thought he was just blowing me off.…” She glanced away, embarrassed. “That’s a long story, I guess. When I came looking for him, I found out he hadn’t been seen since I’d lost contact with him.”

  I glanced about the area. “No witnesses? No clues as to where he went?”

  She hesitated just for a moment before answering. “Not a one. Everyone just looks at their shoes around here. No offense.”

  “The police?” I asked.

  She frowned. I saw the bitterness in her russet eyes as she said bluntly, “They don’t actually care.”

  The breeze picked up, and I saw her shiver. “It’s chilly out. You’ve probably been out here for hours.”

  She shrugged the observation aside. “I’m picking up more posters in half an hour and I’ll be back at it.” She looked me dead in the eye as she said confidently, “Someone around here knows something. Sooner or later they’re going to walk through this intersection. I just need to put a poster into their hand.”

  I nodded to a café across the street. “Why don’t you join me and warm up while you’re waiting for your posters? I’ll buy you lunch and you can tell me more about your father. I talk to a lot of people in this area. I can ask around.” I smiled. “I might even get a tip for you.”

  “What is it that you do?”

  “Insurance broker,” I said quickly.

  She grinned as she looked me up and down. “You look like an insurance broker.” She glanced to the café, then back to me, seemingly weighing the decision, but I sensed she’d already made up her mind. “Sure. Why not? Thank you.”

  I requested a table at the front window, giving her a view of the street to put her at ease. While she studied the menu, my gaze was drawn once more to her necklace. The black crystal radiated a low but surprising level of magic.

  “That’s an interesting necklace you have there,” I said, watching her reaction closely.

  Her heart rate accelerated slightly, but only for a moment as she lifted the pendant with her finger and looked down at it with a wan smile. “It’s ugly. I know. It was my mother’s. She claimed it had some special power. She was really into that New Age stuff. She said it would come in handy someday.” She rolled her eyes as she let the pendant fall back against her chest.

  While I wasn’t sure what power the medallion possessed, it was more than was typically found in a New Age magic shop. On occasion, magical items of actual value ended up there, usually unwittingly sold by family members of a deceased witch who had no idea what they were selling. Did Caroline know more th
an she was admitting to?

  Staring at the crystal, I felt a slight dizziness come over me, just for a moment.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  Before I could answer, the waiter arrived with coffee.

  “Thank you,” Caroline said, reaching for the sugar packets.

  After the waiter took our order and left, I asked her, “Your father was a private investigator?” She nodded. “Is it possible he’s out of town on a job that requires some secrecy?”

  Her smile thinned as she slowly stirred her coffee. “I doubt he would’ve stopped paying rent.”

  “Were you close? Did he talk about his work?”

  Her gaze lowered to the spoon as she continued stirring. “I wasn’t particularly involved in his life until recently.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I didn’t know he was my father until six months ago. To say the news was a surprise to him would be an understatement.” She chuckled. “We’ve mostly been getting to know each other by phone and e-mail. I don’t think he liked his work. I thought it must be glamorous, but he said he mostly got paid to track down cheating spouses and people who didn’t want to be found. He made it sound so bland. He never talked about his personal life, either. Truth is”—she nodded toward his office across the street—“the only reason I know that’s his office is because that’s where I first showed up at his door. As far as I know, he lived there, because he’s never given me another address.” She frowned. “That’s sad, isn’t it?”

  The waiter arrived with our sandwiches. What little appetite I’d brought with me was gone. Keeping the secret of Caroline’s father’s death gnawed at me. I had the answers she needed, but I couldn’t give them to her. The best I could do for both of us was to bring the investigation to an end as soon as possible. She would never get the closure she deserved, but she might at least move on with her life once the hope of closure ended.

  “Have you been to his office?” I asked, deliberately calming my voice to disguise the importance of my question. Without Dennis’s body or his car, which the vampires also disposed of, the only possible evidence linking me to him would be in his office.

  “I tried,” she said, setting her sandwich down on her plate. A hard look came over her as she said, “The detectives, in their professional opinion, didn’t consider it a crime scene, so the landlord cleared it out. He’s quite happy to hand over my father’s belongings as soon as I pay the three thousand dollars in back rent.” A mischievous look came over her. “He’s in for a surprise, though. He doesn’t have to give me access, but I’m this close”—she held out two fingers, making a show of them almost touching each other—“to getting the detectives to at least take a look. He has to let them look at whatever they want. If one of my father’s clients had anything to do with my father’s disappearance,” she said darkly, “I’ll find out, one way or another. Assuming someone hasn’t gone through his stuff and removed any evidence first.”

  She glanced at the time on her phone. Her eyes widened. “Time to pick up my posters. I’m sorry,” she said, suddenly blushing. “I’m rude. I never even asked you your name. I’m Caroline.”

  “David,” I said, shaking her extended hand. She had a strong, confident grip.

  “David the insurance broker,” she chuckled, rising. “Listen, I really appreciate your help. Do you have a card? In case you get me that tip.”

  I made a show of patting my pockets. “All out, it seems.”

  The check arrived on a tray. She picked up the pen, selected a clean napkin, wrote down her number, and handed it to me. She shook my hand once more, then left in a hurry.

  I brought out my phone and texted the address of Dennis’s office building to my legal assistant and researcher, Stacy. “I need the landlord’s name and number.”

  From what Tim had told me, the detectives could contact the landlord at any moment to get a look at the contents of the office. I needed to get there first, and I needed those contents to disappear.

  By the time I walked back to my BMW, Stacy had replied with the landlord’s contact information. His name was Leon Walker. I fished an untraceable burner phone from the glove box, then called him.

  A raspy male voice—probably mid- to late fifties—answered on the first ring. “Yeah?”

  Judging by the skepticism in his voice, he’d been in business long enough to get jaded—exactly what I’d hoped for. Most likely he’d accumulated rental properties for decades. He could tell at a glance who he wanted to rent to and who he didn’t want to rent to, and he didn’t like being told by the city how to run his business. There were strict rules about how landlords could deal with the belongings of a tenant. Fortunately, he was exactly the kind of landlord who didn’t give a crap about rules.

  “Mr. Walker,” I said, “my name is Webster Fields. I represent a group of buyers who purchase the contents of abandoned properties or storage units.”

  He grunted.

  “I’m sure you run a tight ship,” I continued, “but we both know the kinds of tenants the city forces you to accept, and how unreliable they can be.”

  “Damn section eight waivers,” he grumbled. “They’re doing drugs and who knows what else.”

  “Exactly. If at some point in the future you find yourself stuck with abandoned property, I’d be happy to bid on it as a lot. That way you can at least recoup some of your losses and unload unwanted property at the same time.”

  “Just so happens I have a deadbeat right now. It’s mostly just junk. What’s in it for you?”

  “There’s always something of value to someone. I sift through it, sell what I can at auction, then donate or throw out the rest.”

  He sniffed. “He just walked off and left his entire business behind. I’d hoped the family would pay to get it back, but they don’t seem to think it’s worth much. I guess you might think differently. How much are we talking?”

  “I’d need to see the lot before I could make an offer.”

  I waited a moment while he thought it through. “Yeah, why not? Sooner I get that off my hands, the better.” He gave me the address, which wasn’t far away. “I can meet you there in a half hour. It’s then or not at all.”

  I smiled. He probably knew Caroline was stirring up trouble. If detectives informed him they were investigating a missing person case, Dennis’s belongings would be evidence, which Mr. Walker would be obligated to store until the case was closed, which might never happen.

  “I’m on my way,” I said.

  “See you then,” he answered, then disconnected the call.

  Turning the phone over, I exposed the blank, white label stuck to the back. All of my burner phones had such labels. Fishing a pen from the glove box, I wrote the name Webster Fields on the label and pocketed the phone. From that point, the phone was exclusively dedicated to the persona of Mr. Fields. I’d use the phone and the name for nothing else until I’d obtained what I’d wanted, and then I’d destroy the phone and dispose of it.

  The address belonged to a rundown brick apartment building with three floors. I parked across the street. As I walked up the porch, he opened the door from inside.

  “Mr. Fields?” he asked.

  I smiled, sincere but strictly professional. Some people responded well to enthusiasm, but others found it suspicious. He belonged to the latter category. “Yes, Mr. Walker. It’s a pleasure.”

  He accepted my offer to shake hands, establishing our relationship with a strong grip. I suppressed a laugh. With a simple squeeze, I could’ve broken every bone in his hand.

  “This way,” he said, gesturing as he led me to an elevator in the center of the hall. “You’re in an interesting business,” he mused, still skeptical while we waited for the elevator to arrive.

  I figured he was a man who valued family business. “I took over for my father a few years back,” I said.

  He nodded appreciatively. The elevator dinged, then opened. A moment later we were standing in a dingy room that reeked
of rat poison and stale air, at least to my senses. He led me down a narrow path between two rows of storage units defined by walls of chicken wire.

  “Good thing I had the extra storage,” he said, gesturing to the two units at the end, on either side of the path. “But I’m going to need those units soon.”

  The unit to my left contained the furniture from Dennis’s office: a desk, a chair, a filing cabinet, and a couple of empty bookshelves. The other was stacked with sealed boxes. I made a pensive show of evaluating both storage units, then made a disappointed clucking sound with my tongue.

  “Not a lot of value there.”

  “That’s what I told you,” Mr. Walker snapped.

  I gestured to the boxes. “I assume that’s all the paperwork from the filing cabinet, the desk.”

  He nodded as if the answer were obvious. “And books. Lots of books. That should be worth something.”

  I gestured to a neighboring storage unit that contained some outdoor gear and an old computer monitor, among more mundane items. “That’s closer to what I’m looking for.”

  He scowled at me for wasting his time. “That’s not for sale.”

  To say Mr. Walker was disappointed was an understatement. He didn’t have much to say as he escorted me out of the basement and out the front door. I doubted I’d hear from him again. As I walked toward my BMW, I noticed Caroline walking past it, cradling a bundle of posters. I ducked into the next doorway, peering around the entryway as she stapled a poster to a telephone pole, then walked around the corner.

  Remaining in the doorway, I called Josh. He answered quickly.

  “I’m going to need your help tonight,” I said. “I need the contents of a couple storage units to disappear.” There wasn’t any point in leaving the furniture behind—Dennis was exactly the kind of nervous man who would squirrel away something important under the upholstery. Josh would only need a few minutes to get rid of it all. Now that I could describe the location and layout of the storage room, he could transport himself inside and send the contents to the same place he sent dead bodies, bloodstains, and any other inconvenient evidence that threatened to expose the pack to outside scrutiny.