Whiskey Ginger

by Shayne Silvers

  “Why, Detective Machado, it sounds as if ye would rather talk about me personal life than what happened at the park.” I sloped forward on my elbows. “Shouldn’t ye be lookin’ for suspects? Someone who might’ve let the wild animal loose? Or d’ye t’ink I had somethin’ to do with it?”

  “That isn’t it at all, Miss MacKenna,” she replied, but her expression said otherwise. Maria Machado didn’t like me. I knew it, and she knew I knew it. Fortunately, that meant they didn’t have anything to charge me with; if they did, I’d be in a cell already.

  “Well, I’ve had a terrible fright, Detective, and I would appreciate it if you’d let me go home and recover in peace.”

  Maria met my eyes for the first time since she’d stepped in the interrogation room, and I fought the urge to scoot away from the table. That wasn’t mere dislike in her eyes, it was hate—her upper lip twitched in contempt. What had I done to deserve that look? I glanced over at Jimmy once more, only to find him studying a worn space in the carpet, toeing it with his shoe; he couldn’t look more disinterested if he tried.

  “You’re free to go, of course, Miss MacKenna,” Maria said, finally. “Although, if you have anything you’d like to add to your previous statement before our forensics team finishes up at the scene, I suggest you tell us. I’d hate to find out you were impeding our investigation by being less than forthright.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” I replied. “Have a good day, Detective.”

  She and I rose at the same time. I towered over her, which seemed to piss her off even more. She began flipping through the folder on the desk, speaking only once I had my hand on the door handle, “Naturally, we’ll have to hold on to your gun, and the briefcase we found at the scene, until the investigation is complete.”

  I swiveled back around, but Jimmy was already boxing me out, his shoulders too wide to see past. He ignored my furious stare. “I think I’ll see Miss MacKenna out,” he said, guiding me towards the door.

  Maria snorted.

  “Jimmy, what the f—” I began.

  Jimmy herded me out, shutting the door behind us before I could finish my sentence. “Not here. Come on,” he said.

  I trailed him, my temple throbbing. Losing my gun for a few days was bad enough, but without that briefcase I had no way to trade for Dez. I cursed inwardly, beyond pissed. Frankly, under the circumstances, taking my gun away was the smartest thing Maria Machado could have ever done.

  Because otherwise she’d already be in the hospital.

  Chapter 22

  Jimmy abruptly shoved me inside a broom closet—or what I assumed was a broom closet; the two of us barely fit and I swore I could feel a broom handle pressed uncomfortably against my ass. I shoved it away and winced as it fell into what must have been a shit ton of buckets. Jimmy shoved his hand over my mouth, listening at the door.

  “I’m goin’ to kill that bitch,” I hissed through his palm, my words garbled and warped.

  “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Jimmy said, releasing me.

  “Hear me, if I see her anywhere near me or mine ever again, I’ll—”

  “You’ll call me,” Jimmy finished. “Because if she does, without cause, you could file a complaint. Which would be the first step. You know, before you threaten her life. The life of a detective. A detective that works for Boston PD.” His tone suggested I was being irrational. I seriously considered eye gouging him.

  “What’s her problem, then?” I asked, still pissed, but willing to calm down if it meant finding a solution to my problem.

  “She found out you called me last night,” Jimmy admitted.

  Did that mean she also found out why I’d called Jimmy? About the case he was working on? “Wait, does she think I had somethin’ to do with the murders?” I asked.

  “Not exactly,” Jimmy replied.

  I sensed he was holding something back, something he knew I wouldn’t like. My eyes narrowed. “Then what?” I asked.

  “She was…displeased with the idea that you have my cellphone number.”

  I frowned, then finally put the pieces together. “Oh, ye can’t be fuckin’ serious…all that animosity in there was because she doesn’t want ye takin’ me calls in the wee hours of the night?”

  Jimmy clearly thought that question was rhetorical.

  “I need that briefcase, Jimmy,” I hissed. “I don’t have time to deal with your fuckin’ jealous partner.” The ridiculousness of the situation was almost too much to handle; Maria’s irrational jealousy was liable to get my aunt killed, at this rate.

  “Do you need it for one of your clients?” Jimmy asked.

  I shook my head, distracted as I plotted Maria’s demise in my head. Poison, maybe? Something that couldn’t be traced back to me. “Not exactly,” I replied, finally.

  Jimmy folded his arms over his chest, the middle button of his dress shirt barely holding beneath the strain. “Explain.”

  I took a deep breath and caught the scent of his cologne, realizing for the first time that I was alone with a very large, attractive man in a very dark, secluded closet. I cleared my throat and began to explain, haltingly, leaving out only a few details—like Ryan’s involvement and Dez’s attempt to fire on her attackers.

  “You should have called me first, Quinn,” he said the instant I was finished. I could tell he was pissed to be left out of the loop, but I didn’t have time to put up with his self-righteous bullshit.

  “And told ye what, Jimmy?” I demanded. “That a man kidnapped me aunt, and now he wants me to bring him a briefcase or she dies?” I shook my head. “I’ve seen how your people handle hostage situations, and I didn’t much care for the outcome,” I spat.

  It was a low blow, and I knew it, but I was tired of having to explain myself to Regulars, especially cops, who refused to accept the fact that they were unequipped to protect people from the monsters—the real monsters. During the Lollipop case Jimmy and I had worked together, a kid had ended up dead—not because of the hostage negotiator’s incompetence—but because the kidnapper always intended to bring the boy back to life as a thrall.

  Necromancers were dicks like that.

  But none of the cops besides Jimmy had given me the time of day, and in the end, that bumbling wizard and I had barely managed to prevent a zombie Apocalypse…which, of course, the mass media had blamed on radiation.

  Radi-fucking-ation.

  Jimmy’s face was hard to read in the half-light that drifted in through the crack in the door, but from his silence I could tell I’d hit a nerve. “Damnit, Jimmy, I’m sorry. It’s just,” I struggled to put it into words, “there are parts of me world, of me job, ye can’t understand. Ye can’t survive unless you’re willin’ to play by our rules.”

  Jimmy took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders before opening the door, checking either side of the hallway to make sure the coast was clear. “Alright, let’s go.”

  “Jimmy, I can’t leave without that briefcase,” I whispered, “and nobody’ll believe—”

  “No, they won’t. But I do, and I’m tired of sticking my head in the sand while people are out there, getting hurt. Only, you should know you aren’t going to like what comes next.” Jimmy didn’t pause to explain. Instead, he left me standing in the closet, taking off down the hallway at a brisk pace.

  “Why won’t I like what comes next?” I called, cursing as I rushed to catch up.

  “Because you’re gonna owe me.”

  Chapter 23

  A half hour later, I sat in Jimmy’s passenger seat, the briefcase—no longer secure in its evidence bag—cradled in my lap. I fiddled with the silver disc that remained chained to the handle, turning it in the light, running my hands over its impossibly smooth surface.

  “You sure you should be messing with that thing?” Jimmy asked, flicking his eyes between it and the road in front of us.

  “Nope,” I admitted. If I was being honest, it was probably a really terrible idea, especially while he was driving.
But it hadn’t hurt me so far, and it was the only lead I could use to learn more about the man who was blackmailing me.

  “Then maybe you should stop,” he suggested.

  “No t’anks.”

  Jimmy sighed. “And why not?”

  “Because it’s shiny?” I offered, flipping the briefcase over.

  Jimmy grunted. “And it has nothing to do with the fact that you don’t know how it works and you can’t help poking at things you don’t understand?”

  I polished the shiny metal case until I could see my bright green eyes reflected in its surface. “None whatsoever. I’m a girl, remember? We like pretty t’ings.”

  Jimmy made to take the case from me, but I held it out of his reach. “Leave it alone, nosy. You’re drivin’. Besides, I’m pretty sure it’s programmed to smite the unworthy.”

  “It what?”

  “It’ll knock ye unconscious, or some such. The skinwalker was a little vague on the details,” I admitted, “But I don’t want ye to get us killed because ye can’t help pokin’ at things ye can’t understand.”

  “Whatever you say,” Jimmy said, clearly skeptical. “Anyway, what’s our next move?”

  “Well, first I need to figure out what’s inside this t’ing and where it came from. I don’t want to hand it over without at least knowin’ that much.”

  “I think you’ve got a few things mixed up,” Jimmy said.

  “I what now?”

  “First of all, I said ‘our’ next move, not yours. And second—”

  “Jimmy,” I interrupted, “Listen, I appreciate ye gettin’ me the briefcase and all, but I don’t think you understand—”

  “No, Quinn. I don’t think you understand. I didn’t pull the briefcase from lockup for you to hand over to some thug. The briefcase is in my custody. Which means where that briefcase goes, I go.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Jimmy—”

  “It’s not up for debate, Quinn. I told you that you’d owe me. This is how you pay me back. You keep saying I’m out of my depth, but I’m not going anywhere, so you might as well get used to it.” The muscles in his jaw tensed, the leather of the steering wheel creaking beneath his hand.

  I glared out the window and willed the traffic to move quicker. Still, maybe this was for the best; if Jimmy got a real good look at my world, and didn’t run screaming, maybe he and I stood a chance.

  “You never did tell me,” Jimmy said, trying to be conversational, “what got you started with all this?”

  “What do ye mean?” I asked.

  “I mean all of it,” Jimmy replied, waving his hand in the air. “Whatever you call it. The Freaks. The deals you make with them. How did it start? Was there an application you had to fill out? What was the job interview process like?”

  “I was recruited,” I replied, trying to be as vague as possible. To be honest, I really didn’t want to talk about it; it was a time in my life I’d worked hard to forget.

  “You were recruited? Seriously? By who? And why?”

  I considered how much to tell Jimmy—weighing how much he needed to know against how much I wanted him to. “It was a long time ago, Jimmy,” I replied, finally.

  “It’s fine,” Jimmy said, picking up on my tone. “I was curious, that’s all. But I get it. There’s some stuff people don’t like to talk about. Can’t talk about.”

  I glanced over and realized Jimmy probably understood—better than anyone—why someone might keep shit to themselves. Jimmy, after all, refused to talk about a lot of things: his overseas tours, his mom leaving during his eighth-grade year after his brother died, what it was like being the only black kid in a Southie Catholic school, or how it felt to lose his full ride with only a few games left in the season.

  We’d met at that Catholic school, spending a whole year and change together before I got suspended my sophomore year for the umpteenth time, gave up on the whole religion thing, and opted for public school. We’d been close, especially for outcasts, both of us too mixed up to bother with undamaged people.

  I also realized that, if I was going to talk about it with anyone, it might as well be Jimmy; I could trust him to relate, at least. “After I graduated,” I began, “I traveled a bit. Lived in New York City for a while. Made some friends. I found out what I was while I was there, but it didn’t really change all that much. I was still a wee girl in a big city who couldn’t pay her bills. And so, when I ran out of money, I went home.”

  Jimmy snorted. “Bet Dez made you crawl back on broken glass.”

  “Aye, she did,” I said, grinning, remembering how she’d insisted from then on that I pay rent, threatening to kick me out if I didn’t keep my room clean or do my dishes. I’d lived in fear of her booting me out for months.

  “So then what?” Jimmy asked, bringing me back to my senses.

  I fidgeted a little with my jacket, drawing it tighter over my shoulders. “Then I met him. The bastard who recruited me. At first, everythin’ seemed great. He put me up in a nice apartment, treated me well, showed me the ropes. Later, I found out he’d heard about me and my abilities from friends in New York. T’ings began changin’ not long after. He got rough. Violent.” I shivered, then straightened, determined not to let it bother me.

  Jimmy clearly wanted to say something, but he didn’t interrupt, which I appreciated.

  “The whole time, though,” I said, finally. “I was learnin’, watchin’ how he ran his business, who he bribed and who he threatened. He didn’t just trade in artifacts, like I do. He ran guns, drugs. Ye name it…” I drifted off. There was more to the story. A lot more. Like the fact that he’d used me and my gifts to steal things from his competitors. Or the fact that he’d trained me to use those guns, even taught me how to cut his coke. In hindsight, it was obvious to see what a toxic relationship we’d had, but I’d been in love with the bastard, too wrapped up in our twisted romance to realize how much danger I’d been in.

  “Anyway,” I said, “one day everythin’ changed. He pissed off the wrong people. The wrong Freaks. And they came for him. For both of us, really.” I fingered the scar on my knee from when I’d had to jump from a burning window to a nearby rooftop. “I survived, he didn’t.”

  Jimmy waited to be sure I was finished before asking, “Did they come after you again?”

  “Aye, once or twice. They know better now.”

  “Because you kept sending their people home in body bags?” Jimmy joked, his smile wry.

  I chuckled and shook my head. “Because now, when they need somethin’, they know who to call.”

  Chapter 24

  The briefcase wouldn’t open.

  “Here, let me try,” Jimmy offered, peeling back the cuffs of his dress shirt. He’d followed me doggedly into my apartment as if I’d planned to ditch him the second I got out of the car, but I wasn’t complaining; I’d even jerked to a halt a few times, just to be obnoxious.

  He hadn’t found it as funny as I had.

  “Seriously?” I asked, rolling my eyes.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Ye t’ink that because you’re a big strappin’ man that ye can open it when I couldn’t? I’ll have ye know I’m perfectly capable of openin’ t’ings meself. Besides,” I added, “it’s dangerous, remember?”

  “Oh, please,” Jimmy scoffed, snatching the briefcase off my kitchen counter, only to fall to his knees immediately, gasping, sweat pouring out of him at such an accelerated rate that his shirt was instantly soaked and clung to him where it met his skin.

  I leapt off my chair and kicked the briefcase out of his hand. Without the support, Jimmy slid to the floor, staring at nothing, gasping. I could practically feel the heat radiating off his body in waves. “Ye just couldn’t leave it alone, could ye?!” I yelled, pissed that he hadn’t listened to me. “Idgit!”

  I took several deep breaths to calm down; screaming at Jimmy made me feel better, but it wouldn’t save him. I quickly took stock of the situation, only to realize that—while I’d gott
en used to braving what some might call hazardous or even life-threatening situations—I knew jack shit when it came to saving people.

  In fact, at this point I’d proven immune to so many things that should have killed me that I didn’t even have a First Aid Kit in my apartment. I cursed, feeling out of my depth for the first time in a long time. I had a grown ass man twitching on my kitchen floor, and my aunt was being held captive God knows where, and I didn’t have my gun.

  I seriously hoped this wasn’t the universe trying to send me a sign, because “Fuck Quinn MacKenna” wasn’t all that catchy.

  My cellphone suddenly rang across the room. I knew I didn’t have time to answer it, but I couldn’t risk letting it go to voicemail when it could be the man who held my aunt hostage on the other end. I rushed to the phone and answered it, breathlessly.

  “Hello,” a woman’s voice purred through my phone’s speakers, her accent eerily similar to Christoff’s, though much more refined.

  Definitely not the Englishman, I decided. Which meant I was wasting time. “Listen,” I said, “I can’t talk right now—”

  “Yes, I’m sure you’re busy. Trying to save someone’s life, am I right?”

  I froze, my finger hovering over the End Call button. “Wait, how d’ye know that?” I asked, finally.

  “Someone,” she replied, “and I suspect it’s not you or you wouldn’t be answering this phone, tried to open the briefcase. Correct?”

  I hesitated.

  “I thought so,” she said. “Who do you work for? Tell me, and I’ll tell you how to save your friend.”

  “I don’t work for anyone,” I growled, too proud to let her insinuate otherwise. I’d worked too hard to get where I was to let anyone else take the credit, even if that meant admitting to a crime.