Maybe Jimmy was just in the wrong place at the wrong time—and came upon Blondie.
At the morgue, Angel got the body tucked away in the cooler and the pertinent info logged into the computer. There was no valid reason to be suspicious of the blond woman—other than the fact that she wasn’t from ’round these parts and smelled funny. There hadn’t been any long blond hairs conveniently draped around the crime scene, and she hadn’t been spattered with blood. But Angel couldn’t shake the sense there was something unpredictable and dangerous about her.
She was still mulling it over when Derrel walked into the morgue.
“Who was the tall, blond chick out at the scene?” she asked.
Derrel set his notepad on the desk and dropped into a chair. “She and her husband called it in. Her name’s Kitty Norville.” He glanced at Angel as if waiting for her to recognize the name. When she merely looked at him blankly, he went on. “She’s a radio DJ. Has a show called The Midnight Hour.”
“Never heard of it,” Angel said. Hell, it’d been ages since she had a car with a working radio.
“Supposed to be a radio show for supernatural creatures, like vampires and ghosts.” Derrel snorted. “Her schtick is that she’s a werewolf.”
Angel’s pulse stuttered. “A werewolf ? Are you shitting me?”
“I’m not shitting you, but Kitty Norville certainly is.” He shrugged. “Crazy what people will believe. A while back she did this big publicity stunt that was supposed to reveal how werewolves and other supernatural creatures were real. Even got picked up by some of the big networks.”
Angel clamped down on the urge to press him about Kitty Norville’s werewolf-ness. Derrel didn’t believe it was true, but then again he probably didn’t believe in zombies either.
“What’s she doing in bumfuck Louisiana?” Angel asked, doing her best to sound casual.
“Road trip, on her way to a conference in New Orleans with a bunch of other crazy whackadoodles.” His phone beeped with an incoming call, and he excused himself and stepped out. Angel waited for his footsteps to retreat down the hall, then scooted over to Derrel’s notepad and shamelessly snapped pictures of his notes—including Kitty Norville’s info and statement.
Derrel didn’t believe, but Angel did. Maybe Jimmy hadn’t been sliced up.
Maybe he’d been clawed.
Kitty and Ben checked into their hotel at the edge of the French Quarter and a couple of blocks from the convention center where the Southern Paranormal Research Conference—a nice polite gathering of scientists and commentators hoping to share notes and drag some of their work into the light—started the next day. Kitty had wanted to get into town early, walk around, see the sights, and eat her body weight in seafood. But she and Ben ended up sitting on the bed, still pondering what had happened on that back road.
“So this woman,” Ben asked. “From the coroner’s office—what did she smell like?”
“That’s just it, I don’t know, she didn’t smell like anything.” And Kitty had been around vampires, fae, Navajo skinwalkers, djinn, and a few other things besides. “She wasn’t human. Did you get her scent?”
“I must have been upwind. Is she not human enough to have something to do with tearing up that body?”
“And setting the car on fire to cover it up?”
“I did hear the firefighters talking about accelerant. So yeah.”
“The next question: Is there anything we can do about it?”
Probably not. As one of the scheduled guests at the conference she had a couple of presentations she was supposed to be preparing for and an increasingly agitated inner wolf to keep calm. Best thing would be to forget about the whole thing. Let the police do their jobs.
Unless the police didn’t realize they had some kind of supernatural being working for them. A being who maybe had that job because it got her close to crime scenes, maybe even let her cover up crime scenes . . . Stranger things had happened. Much stranger.
Kitty said, “We can maybe do a little digging. Just a tiny bit of digging. Minimal. Right?”
Ben gave her that skeptical look, the one that meant he knew exactly where all this was going but he wasn’t going to say anything about it. He got out his laptop and cell phone. He was a criminal defense lawyer, and even though they were in Louisiana and not Colorado, Kitty bet he’d know exactly who to call and what questions to ask.
She started her own internet search. You could find anything on the internet. The name of the road, the accident, and then further afield: articles from underground magazines, fringe blogs, forums on supernatural dealings in Louisiana, whether New Orleans really was the popular haven for vampires its reputation made it out to be—she had it on good authority that the city had no more and no fewer vampires than any other city of its size. It had its own Mistress, but she kept a low profile and her followers did the same. Kitty was secretly hoping to meet her, confident her reputation as the host of America’s premier talk radio advice show for the supernatural would get her an in—on the other hand, her reputation might just piss off someone like the Mistress of New Orleans. No way to find out until she asked.
The city had a lot of other threads she was hoping to follow after talking to some of the locals at the conference: Marie Laveau and her voodoo legacy, rumors of were-alligators, and any real hauntings at the famous local cemeteries.
She’d been through these online backwaters before, and ninety percent of the time she couldn’t trust a thing they said. But that still left ten percent. That fascinating ten percent.
Ben interrupted her race down the online supernatural rabbit hole.
“They’ve released the victim’s name,” he said. “James Nunez, twenty-three, sporadically employed. Nothing about what he was doing on that road. The car was borrowed, though—didn’t belong to him. I can call in a favor and get info off the plates. Maybe the car’s owner knows something. You find anything?”
“There was a string of murders here last year—a serial killer was going around cutting people’s heads off.” She wrinkled her nose. “There are rumors about some kind of underground organization that’s covering up . . . something. I would say that one’s just the usual conspiracy nonsense. Except for that smell.”
“You can’t find anything about weird-smelling coroner techs?”
“Now wouldn’t that be something? Google search for smell? Like, ‘What does Greeley smell like?’ so when people from out of town hear that when you can smell Greeley you know it’s going to snow, they’ll know what you’re talking about?”
“Imagine the cat memes that would come out of that,” he said, but his tone wasn’t wistful at all. Kitty suppressed a shiver. “The coroner doesn’t list staff on their web site. We could hang out there, try to spot her, maybe try to talk to her—”
“Unless she’s some kind of monster that loses control and tears people apart?”
“What are the odds?”
Kitty shrugged innocently. “We are werewolves.”
“Fair.”
“I could just start walking around, see if I catch that scent anywhere else.”
“That’s random. Police procedure would be to track down the victim, trace his whereabouts before the accident, see if any of his friends or family know what might have happened.”
“Do we know anything about him?”
He tapped a few keys on his laptop, something pinged, and he donned a thin, predatory smile. “Actually . . . turns out the car belongs to a Dwayne Fontaine. Friend, maybe? Ah, look at this.”
He turned the screen around so she could see it. He’d googled their names together and come up with a local community newspaper story from several years ago about some high school event. The picture featured both men—boys, here—their names side by side in the caption, their arms over each other’s shoulders. Smiling in happier days. Nunez had been a burly white kid, with a mop of hair and a friendly smile. His friend, the car’s owner, was lanky and cocky, his grin crooked. Kitty sighed a
little. Those two had no idea what was coming up for them just a few years on. It made her sad.
Ben continued, “If he’s up for it, Fontaine might be able to tell us if Nunez was into anything weird, why he might have been on that road.”
“We really shouldn’t be getting involved in this, should we?”
“So, you’re going to talk to the car’s owner and I’m going to see what I can find out about that serial killer and this weird mafia stuff you dug up?”
“That’s right,” she said, and kissed him. She almost changed her plan, staying behind to spend more quality time with her husband—this was the whole reason they drove and made a vacation out of the conference. But the sooner she got this bug out of her system, the sooner she could focus on him and him alone. She grabbed her phone and the car keys and headed out.
Angel crouched in the middle of the road and peered at the scorched and blackened gravel. The burned car had been hauled off to the crime lab for processing, and the section of road had been photographed, videoed, measured, and sampled to kingdom come before being opened back up to traffic. She’d assisted in the gruesome autopsy of Jimmy Nunez only a couple of hours earlier, which left her with even more questions. The fire hadn’t killed Jimmy, which was one small blessing. The pathologist had counted over a dozen slashes across Jimmy’s arms and torso. Though not terribly deep—a half inch or so at the most—the gashes would’ve needed a helluva lot of stitches had Jimmy lived. And he probably would have, if not for the one that raked across his upper chest . . . and caught his throat right above his collarbone, in the frighteningly perfect spot to open up the vein.
“That shit ain’t right,” Angel murmured. Someone—or something—had gone nuts on Jimmy. But why? Rage? Revenge? Angel scowled at the darkened swath of road. Monsters didn’t need reasons to hurt and kill. That’s what made them monsters.
She’d known Jimmy since junior high. He’d been a year ahead of her—a sweet boy with round cheeks and a smile for everyone. His daddy had run off before he was born, and his mama had worked two jobs to keep a roof over their head and food on the table, but Jimmy never seemed to notice or care that they were dirt poor. More than a little naïve, he’d been a prime target for bullies until Dwayne Fontaine had stepped up to his defense. The two became fast friends and close as brothers—and when Jimmy’s mama passed away a few years later, Dwayne’s folks took Jimmy in so that he could finish up high school.
He was harmless, damn it. And he hadn’t stood a chance against his killer.
The sound of tires on gravel pulled Angel from her musing. She straightened and stepped off the road as a battered yellow car approached. But instead of passing by, the car screeched to an unsteady stop on the opposite shoulder. The door flew open, and a woman with red hair and a billion freckles stumbled out.
Damn. Maylene McKelvey—Dwayne’s fiancée. Angel sprinted across the road as Maylene’s eyes fell to the burned patch, then filled with tears.
“Maylene, no.” Angel grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her around. “Don’t look at it.”
The tears spilled over. “Oh god, it’s true. I didn’t want to believe it, but . . .” She started to turn, then caught herself. Her face was blotchy, as if she’d already done her fair share of crying. “Angel, I don’t understand. Why would anyone want to hurt Jimmy?” Her lower lip quivered. “He was the sweetest guy in the whole world.”
Angel sighed. “I don’t know, Maylene, but I promise I’ll do my part to make sure whoever did this burns in hell.”
Maylene’s legs folded, and she plopped onto her butt in the grass. “I saw the smoke earlier and didn’t think nothing of it. I figured it was Mr. Estes burning trash again even though he done been told time and time again that he’s not supposed to. But then Dwayne came by to tell me. Guess it’s a good thing I missed him with the flowerpot.”
“Er, missed who?”
“Dwayne.” Maylene sniffled. “He pulled up on that dumb noisy four-wheeler, and I ran out and threw a flowerpot at him.”
Angel gingerly sat in front of Maylene—after checking for fire ants. “Y’all had another fight?” The woman had a temper to match her hair, and she and Dwayne had broken up and gotten back together at least a dozen times in the five or so years they’d been dating.
“Well, yeah. Why else would I chuck a flowerpot at him?”
Angel spread her hands. “Y’got me there.”
Maylene stole a look over her shoulder at the scorched ground and shuddered. “I figured Dwayne was coming by to do the whole I’m-so-sorry-I-love-you crap, and I just wasn’t in the mood for it. Not after last night and him telling me that he wanted to elope to Vegas right then and there. Elope!” Her cheeks flushed. “Can you believe it? After all the time I done spent shopping for dresses and flowers? And just last week we put a deposit down at the Motel Deux Banquet Hall.” Her face crumbled. “But then he told me about Jimmy, and I about died right then and there on my front step.” With that she dissolved into sobs.
“I’m so sorry, Maylene,” Angel said, awkwardly patting the other woman’s shoulders. After a moment Maylene lifted her head and wiped her eyes, smudging her mascara.
“Thanks, Angel. I never lost anyone close to me, so I guess it hit me extra hard.” She took a shaky breath. “Jimmy didn’t have no family. D’you know if it’d be okay if I arranged his funeral? I was thinking of taking up a collection. After all, everybody liked Jimmy.”
Well, somebody didn’t, Angel thought. “If there’s no next of kin, I don’t see why that would be a problem,” she reassured Maylene. “Maybe Dwayne could help with—”
“I don’t need Dwayne’s help,” she snapped, the fire returning to her eyes. She pushed to her feet. “We are over. Do you know, I was sitting there on my front step crying on his shoulder, and he starts trying to kiss me and feel me up? I got mad and told him to cut it out and how the hell could he think of sex at a time like this, and he’s telling me how we should celebrate life. Ugh!”
“People grieve in different ways,” Angel said as she stood. “But as far as the funeral arrangements go, you probably need to call the coroner’s office and find out what you need to do to get permission. Ask for Derrel. He’s cool.” She staggered as Maylene threw her arms around her in a hug.
“Thank you so much. Jimmy’ll have the best send-off a guy could ever want!” She released Angel and dove into her car, then sped off, leaving a cloud of dust in her wake.
Angel watched Maylene’s car retreat into the distance, unsurprised that she’d offered to handle Jimmy’s funeral arrangements. Maylene had started dating Dwayne when they were seniors in high school, and Jimmy had—of course—always been around. As far as anyone could tell, Maylene simply thought of Jimmy as part of Dwayne’s family. If Maylene had ever resented Jimmy being a constant third wheel, she hid it well.
Then again, maybe that was part of why she and Dwayne broke up so many times?
Considering, Angel shifted her gaze up the road—the direction Maylene had come from. Another two miles and Mule Ear Road forked off to the right. A half mile up the road was Maylene’s place and not much else. Jimmy had borrowed Dwayne’s car—as usual, since he didn’t have his own—and was headed to see Maylene, Angel was positive. To plead Dwayne’s case and get the two back together? Jimmy was a natural-born peacemaker who just wanted people to be happy. Dwayne was always miserable and angry during the breakups, and Jimmy loved him like a brother. It made sense that he’d try to mend fences.
What if Maylene got sick of Jimmy butting in? Angel shuddered at the ugly thought. Maylene had a temper, but it was hard to believe she’d slice Jimmy up and burn him. “Yeah, much easier to believe Jimmy got himself ambushed by a werewolf,” Angel said with a roll of her eyes. Besides, if Maylene murdered Jimmy, the cops would find out soon enough. They really did know what the hell they were doing—at least when it came to normal, mundane crimes. Yup, the St. Edwards Parish Sheriff’s Office knew how to close a case. Yessirree.
&nb
sp; Angel climbed into her car, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel as she headed home. Of course, if it was something more than an ordinary murder, there’d be no way for the cops to find the real killer. In fact, if there was even the slightest chance Jimmy was killed by something not completely human, then Angel had a civic duty to get involved. Right? Maybe she would take a couple of hours and head into the city, drop in on the Southern Paranormal Research Conference and check out this Kitty Norville up close.
Her eyes dropped to her gas gauge. Crap. And her bank account was damn near as empty. So much for a drive to New Orleans. Talk to Dwayne instead? His house was about a quarter mile up the highway on the right. What if Jimmy had called in to Kitty Norville’s radio show and somehow made himself a target? Dwayne might know if Jimmy was into that sort of thing. It would only take a few minutes to drop by and chat him up.
Angel grimaced. Of course, dropping in on him might be a little too pushy considering Jimmy wasn’t even dead twelve hours yet. As messed up as Maylene was over Jimmy’s murder, Dwayne was surely a hundred times worse. Maybe it’d be best to wait until—
What the hell? Angel slammed on the brakes, then yanked the wheel to make the turn onto the long gravel driveway. She narrowed her eyes at the car parked in front of Dwayne’s house, pulled in behind it, then checked the pictures on her phone. It was the same car that a certain werewolf had gotten into at the crime scene.
Why on earth was she here?
Dwayne Fontaine—and wasn’t that a good Southern name, straight out of The Dukes of Hazzard?—lived in a run-down house in a neighborhood full of run-down houses, fiftyyear-old cottages with porches that might have been cute once when the area was full of middle-class suburbanites. But the place hadn’t been kept up, and now paint was peeling and the lawns were mostly scrappy weeds. This told Kitty something about Dwayne, and it made her sad all over again.
Urban Allies: Ten Brand-New Collaborative Stories Page 14
