Wolf's Deal: A Nick Lupo Novella (The Nick Lupo Series)

by W. D. Gagliani

  He breathed rapidly, flashing through the images again. A tremor ran through his trigger finger, as if he were taking a second shot.

  He hadn’t needed a second shot. He was an expert.

  But now he sensed the need rising again, the need to replay the action. The feeling.

  He should have gone to a bar, where he could watch the local news. There were plenty of sports bars nearby where one of the screens would show his achievement. Unless he went home, he was stuck with his imagination and the memory of how it had played out.

  He flashed on an image of her sprawled on her back, driven into the ground, almost as if she'd been staked. Hell, he bet she'd been nailed to the asphalt. He let the feeling of that assumption wash over him, enjoying the visual his mind offered up.

  Then he started the van and pulled out of the supermarket lot where he’d stopped to calm his adrenaline high. He drove carefully from there, a roundabout route, the crossbow now down on the floor in front of the passenger seat, under his bunched-up windbreaker.

  He wanted to cradle the crossbow. Caress it.

  Maybe load it again.

  Definitely load it again.

  LUPO

  He tried to manage the TV media types who showed up first at the scene, but the crime lab people had neglected to bring with them the aluminum-frame screens that would defy the cameras. Lupo spotted an attractive Channel 13 reporter with whom he had a good relationship from previous cases and called her over.

  “Ashley, how’s it going?”

  She lit up in a smile, softening her pretty but cynical news-face. “Lupo, what’s up? Word’s out this was some kind of an unusual shooting. Everybody's clammed up about it. Those guys…” she nodded at the casino cops… "are especially being dicks."

  He had learned from experience that it was better to give the media something relatively minor than to stonewall them, so he told her about the crossbow. His case, his decision.

  “What?” her attractive eyes widened, eyebrows rising. “That’s weird, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe a little,” he admitted, “but this is Wisconsin. There’s thousands of hunters with bows and crossbows in their garages. It’s a little strange because usually your perp’d use a gun or knife to kill, but when you figure on the availability of this kind of weapon… well, it’s a surprise we don’t see it more often.”

  Bullshit, he called on himself. But maybe they’d go light on the sensationalism if he downplayed it. Fat chance. But it was worth a try.

  “Anything you can tell us about the victim?”

  “You know I can’t, Ashley. Not until next of kin.”

  “Anything at all you can tell us?” She stamped her foot in either irritation or cold, or both.

  He smiled. “I already gave you something. You’ll be the first to report the murder weapon was a crossbow. That’s a good detail. We’re keeping some other details back in case we get a rash of confessions.” There were no other details that he knew of yet, but she didn’t know that.

  She thought about it, then nodded. “Okay, thanks, Lupo.”

  “My pleasure,” he said. And it had been.

  She started digging in her coat pocket. Notebook, he thought, but it was a pack of cigarettes. She held it out to him, but he shook his head.

  “Fuckin’ things,” she muttered apologetically, lighting up with a grimace.

  Yeah, he understood how some things could turn around and control you. He could have told her stories. She winked at him, nervously blew some smoke, then went off, back to the news van to get her report ready, patting her dark hair into place. He wandered back to the knot of guys who were stamping their feet to keep out the creeping cold.

  JESSIE

  She drove at a steady 59 miles an hour to avoid Friday speed crack-downs and the occasional car headed in the opposite direction. It was dusk and their harsh lights raked across her windshield, making her squint.

  For the last two hours, she’d been scanning the side of the road nervously. Thinking she saw shadows pacing her from the cover of the tree line. She shook her head, trying to dismiss the fear. The only way to conquer it was to give it no weight.

  Those Wolfpaw bastards are dead. She made it into a mantra.

  The shadows, if they were there at all, receded.

  For a while, she drove without fear.

  On her iPod, her “up North” music played in reverse. If she did it right, she’d reach Milwaukee at about the beginning of the Gaudi album. Right now, she was enjoying Woolfson’s lyrical paradoxes in the title track of Ammonia Avenue.

  She could relate to the concept of asking for truth and then questioning the answers.

  How much had she questioned the truth?

  Nick had been devastated not only by the death of Sam Waters, who had become his friend, but also by the revelation that there were more of his kind, people – humans – who could turn into wolves. In fact, his whole world had seemed to shift slightly to the side, turning everything into an out-of-phase copy of itself. Almost like they had crossed into a parallel universe.

  His kind…

  Of course the existence of his kind had turned her world upside down, too, but by the time she’d had to face it, the situation had called for quick faith and little questioning. His “kind” were an incredible, impossible addition to her already complicated life. And they weren't bound by the full moon like in the movies, either. No, they were fully capable of changing at will. Was it any wonder she found herself drifting sometimes?

  Even Nick hadn't known the extent of what he could do. All those years spent denying his abilities had made him shun them. He was catching up now, however… he’d been given no choice.

  A screaming horn jolted her back to earth and she corrected the very real drift that had almost taken her over the center line.

  Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea, driving down so late in the day.

  Especially without calling, a voice whispered in her head.

  Shut up, she told the voice.

  She wondered why she’d done this. Maybe to catch Nick in something?

  She dismissed the charge.

  Need a drink and a bathroom, she thought and promised herself a stop at the next wayside. There was one near New London. Ten minutes away… Five…

  Impatience…

  There it was, nearly hidden between two rows of trees. She flicked the turn signal.

  Not long later, a quick stop under her belt and slapped a bit awake by the chill in the air, she was back on the road and letting the playlist take her into Milwaukee County, where the traffic was nearly overwhelmed by a plethora of eighteen-wheelers barreling down the freeway in clumps.

  She kept herself awake and alert by wailing along to the music. Standing on higher ground, the song repeated.

  But… was she?

  THE ARCHER

  He had watched the big shaggy-haired cop talking – flirting? – with the news-chick. He knew he was taking a chance, hanging around the scene of the crime, and didn't they turn that into a cliché, like, fifty years ago? So, wasn't hanging around the crime scene actually better than being obvious in some other way? Wasn't it the least likely behavior for a guilty party to exhibit?

  Trying to think it through almost made his head spin, so he just sidled up to the crowd behind the barricade the cops had thrown up across the street, and he blended in. Which wasn't hard to do, because he was one of them, one of the masses, one of the poor saps who surrendered their puny dollars to the great machine that was the Indian casinos.

  Fuck, he'd been on the inside, and then they fucked him in the ass and dumped him. And from then on all he could do was lose his shirt like the rubes, while the fat cats got richer and fatter. Indians or whites, it didn't matter.

  He'd been good enough at his job up in Green Bay, but he was limited – he'd wanted to be a pit boss, but there was an unwritten rule that you had to be a member of the tribe for that perk.

  So he had petitioned to be recognized as a member,
but something had happened with his status and the records of the state foster system, and he'd found himself more closely related to Aunt Rose than he wanted to be. His tribal records, if they ever existed, were lost.

  He clenched his fists at the thought of it now.

  He had begged and pleaded, petitioned, hired an attorney he couldn't afford, lost him, then hired another, and another, always losing and sinking lower into his already bottom-of-the-barrel demographic, until the casino had just fired him. There was a clause, he had learned that non-tribal employees did not have tribal protection, and of course they were not unionized, so he was out of a job and his petition dropped.

  At about that time, his anger stoked, he had taken up drinking and caught some trouble with the local law.

  Then the Eagle River casino project had finally gotten over that mess with the serial killer and it had been built in record time once the bulldozers finally came. Yes, the Archer had watched that huge building go up in its new location like a circus tent and he had applied for a dealer's job.

  And he had been turned down.

  Again, because of his non-tribal status.

  Fuck them, he'd said, but taken a less responsible, non-dealing job. A service job. Maintenance, a glorified janitor. Hell, not even glorified, he was a janitor and swabbing the bathrooms was part of his daily routine. But in his head, he kept hearing the voice: Fuck them, Fuck them, Fuck…

  There was a spot of trouble, nothing too serious, but still…

  And then the move to Milwaukee, where yet another tribal casino had given him the brush-off. Barely interviewed him, the fuckers. Looked at him with smirks on their faces, glanced at computer screens turned away from him.

  He was in the system, red-flagged.

  Fuck them.

  Now he watched the news-chick jawing with the cop, and he should have been pissed off at the cop who was trying his best to catch him, but instead the chick herself became the focus of his ire. All he could think about was that chick, getting her job because of her looks.

  And that damned roulette croupier, getting his job because he was black. He wasn't the only one, but he represented the problem. He sure as hell wasn’t an Indian, but they were hypocrites and made up rules to suit them.

  And Tanya, his favorite blackjack dealer, because… My God, she was something to look at! He’d stared at her in awe. But she had brushed off his advances, looked down her long Russian nose at him, laughed in his face and dealt him cards that robbed him of his dignity at least as well as her accented words of disgust.

  He kept going to her table to strike up conversation, but she kept shooting him down with insults. She'd finally pointed him out to her pit boss and he'd been forced to retreat before they marked him. He felt the eye-in-the-sky cameras follow him his every move on the casino floor. Or did he?

  He had applied here, too. Here in this fucked-up city at this piece of shit casino they hadn't cared about his lack of tribal credentials. Here they'd cared that he was an unattractive male, and not a minority. He couldn't prove it, but they'd as much as admitted it to his face, smirking at him as if he'd been subhuman.

  Now his eyes bored into the news-chick's face, but she was not a sensitive and didn't feel him pushing his disdain at her. Didn't feel him propelling his missile-like hatred.

  The big cop looked around as if he sensed something, his eyes passing over the crowd in which The Archer had enveloped himself, his eyes roving from face to face.

  The Archer shivered when the cop's gaze passed his, went on, then came back for a second look. Then moved on, almost reluctantly.

  He shivered again and wondered if the cop had shivered, too.

  Then his pulse quickened. For a second it looked as if the cop was going to come over. The Archer felt his muscles stiffen, his legs preparing to break into a run.

  But then the cop's phone trilled some chunk of music and his eyes, which had been momentarily fixed on the Archer, unfocused as he stuck the phone to his ear and turned away, nodding at the news-chick.

  Multi-tasking.

  She nodded back at the cop and walked away to where her camera guy or producer or whatever had parked the van.

  The Archer thought his muscles were going to pop.

  He stood alone in the crowd, his tendons stretched like rubber bands, sweat dribbling like acid into his eyes.

  CHARLIE BLACK BEAR

  He watched Lupo and his partner walk away and waited until they reached their car. The Milwaukee County crime scene techs and ME’s staff were about ready to roll with the body of Tanya Rosskov. But his mind was split.

  What had happened to Tanya was unspeakable. As a representative of the casino management and the tribe, he was completely committed to bringing the murdering bastard – whoever he was – to justice.

  But he was suddenly torn and his attention was split. Now he had a face to attach to the name he’d heard for the last few years, but most importantly that he’d heard on the phone just after the news of this murder had hit. The call had come strangely out of the blue, as if he was on someone’s speed dial and unaware of it. The cold, steely voice. The instructions, as if he was on that same someone’s payroll. He glanced at Lupo’s taillights and waited for them to disappear behind the other traffic on Canal. From what he could tell, these weren't people to mess with. Better to cover my ass.

  It would be harmless, wouldn’t it?

  He punched a key on his phone and waited for it to ring and go to voice mail. He stepped away and turned from the crowd.

  “Charlie Bear here. I just met the guy you asked me about. His name's come up on occasion, up north. So he and his partner caught this murder down here. You requested a call-back. That’s what this is.” He tucked the phone into his large hand, wondering where all this would lead. Feeling uncomfortable.

  Shaking his head as if he could clear it of the bad taste and smell of what he had done, he went back to work, circling the crime scene, putting himself in the point of view of the guy with the crossbow, trying to feel what he’d felt. Sometimes this worked for him. Most often it didn't.

  His phone bleated and he flicked it on.

  “Yeah,” he said curtly, glancing at the display.

  The voice was nondescript. “You mean Detective Lupo?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a long pause. “Are you ready to share your thoughts about him?”

  “Thoughts?” He wasn’t sure what the guy meant.

  “Your opinion. An assessment of the type of officer he might be.”

  “I’m not quite—”

  “Your professional opinion?” Was the tone of the voice mocking him?

  Charlie thought for a second. As distasteful as it was, this kind of general information seemed innocuous enough. Hell, it wasn’t any different than doing watercooler talk with a coworker – although this was someone he did not know, and likely never would.

  Well, they had offered to pay well for his opinions, and he had kids to feed and colleges to pay for. It was time to ante up. Give his opinions, cash the checks, move on.

  He said, “He seems careful. He’s intuitive. He’s got a natural talent for crime reconstruction. He’s reticent about himself, but he’s got a feel for the perpetrator.” He cleared his throat, feeling a bit silly for making such assessments. “Like he’s the perfect cop.”

  “And...?” the voice said. “What about the rest of it? Regarding what was mentioned to you, about the rumors among your people?”

  Charlie rolled his eyes. “I think it could be… uh, those rumors have been around for years.” He breathed out in a rush. “I think there may be… something there, but I don’t know what.” Was he telling them what they wanted to hear? “It’s pretty farfetched, isn’t it?”

  “We need more from you than that.” A flat statement.

  “Hm, really?” Charlie almost cursed at the speaker but caught himself. It had started with an innocuous request not long ago, just talk in a bar. The guy had been friendly, chatty. He�
�d implied someone would contact him someday and pay him for a few minutes of his time. Now the guy, if it was the same guy, sounded… dangerous. Bear felt trapped.

  “We would like you to try several… let’s call them tests, when you’re with Detective Lupo. We’ll let you know what and when, and you’ll do the rest.”

  Charlie didn’t like the sound of that. Besides being farfetched, what they were asking was just strange. Didn’t matter how much they would pay him.

  “I’m not sure I can—”

  “Sure you can. We’ve paid you. We are paying you. Your job is to find out a few things about Lupo.”

  He sighed silently. “All right, I’ll see what I can do. He has to liaise with me on this homicide, so I can try to stick close.”

  “See that you do. We’ll be in touch.” They clicked off.

  The sudden silence was accusatory.

  His discomfort increased to a fever pitch, suddenly. He didn't like being a pawn in anyone's game. He didn't like selling himself, but it was too late.

  He wondered what was brewing. What did they want to know? What had he set in motion?

  Charlie looked up into the night sky as if answers might be written there. According to various tales in his heritage, some might be. But he didn’t think he would like the way they turned out.

  LUPO

  Charlie Bear had given them Rosskov’s address from her file, so they left a couple uniforms to take more statements from casino staff. Lupo was convinced it wasn’t likely anything would come from it, as most people said they barely knew their coworker. Meanwhile Lupo scooped up DiSanto and they headed back to the Third Ward, where they’d started the night. Turned out Rosskov lived there – a loft in a converted warehouse that housed an art store and a day spa and various curio shops on the first floor. They walked up the three flights, hoping the roommate they’d been told about was home.