"Exactly the point," Lily says. "It's all a facade. For all we know, he could have been a Fang. Using the sweet shop to launder money, using children as his messengers. If you use cats, why shouldn't he use children?"
I shake my head. "I can't imagine Winston Kindler being a Fang. Not from what I've heard about him so far."
Lily shrugs. "Let's keep an open mind. Anything else you've found?"
"I think that's everything. Besides the hand that's now in our newly repaired cooling room."
I kind of expect applause, but nobody reacts. "Newly repaired," I repeat. "Great news!"
"Uh uh," Beth mutters. "I never use that room anyway. I'd be more excited if you'd bought me some new toys for the lab."
"Don't forget the powder," Lily reminds me. "I've checked it for the standard poisons, but no matches so far."
Beth perks up. "Powder?"
I nod. "In the market place flat, they seem to have been making some kind of white powder. Could be a poison, a drug, even some kind of medicine, who knows. I gave Lily a sample."
Beth frowns in annoyance. "Why not me?"
"Because I thought you'd be busy relaxing on the sofa for the next twenty-four hours at the very least," I say with a dramatic sigh. "Was I wrong?"
Beth grins. "Let's see who of us will identify it sooner. Lily may have had a head start, but I'm better."
The two women glare at each other, but both are smiling. I don't mind a bit of friendly competition, it probably gets the job done quicker.
"Good, you two explore the powder, and Benjamin can take a look at the corpse. Me, I'm going to examine the hand. Tomorrow, I'll seek out Caitlin and talk to the cats, maybe some of them have found something interesting."
"Wow, we're so organised," Benjamin says with a grin. "That's never happened before."
I shrug. "Maybe that's what Meow was always supposed to be. Private investigators rather than assassins."
Beth yawns. "No, don't say that. I'd die of boredom without the killing."
Chapter Nine
Lily was right. The hand was cut off when the victim was already dead. That means we're not looking after a handless woman but a handless body. Hopefully, the cats will find the rest of her. Unless she's been cut into several pieces. I hope not. That would take forever.
I test the few traces of blood still within the hand for poison. Nothing. That means she was probably killed by other means - or died of natural causes. Judging from the perfect condition of her skin and bones though, she seems to have been in good health. She must have been in her thirties, maybe early forties; not exactly an age where people tend to drop like flies.
I do some more tests, then put the hand in the cooling room which has been left slightly dirty but very nice and cold by the workers. Maybe I can persuade one of the others to wipe the floor in here. Perks of being their employer, right?
I lock up behind me and check on Lily and Beth, who're both in the lab, playing with the white powder I gave them.
"Identified it yet?" I ask in passing.
"Nope," Beth grinds out while holding a pipette between her teeth. Not sure that's safe but she must know what she's doing.
"Go have fun with the cats," Lily says with a grin, knowing exactly what I'm itching to do. "I'll write you a note if we find something."
"Meow," Beth snickers and I'm tempted to throw something at her.
Instead, I leave them alone and check the backyard. No cats there this time. None on the steps in front of the house either. I whistle a couple of times, but they're either hiding or simply not here. I smile. It's time for a game of hide and seek.
I prowl the roofs, following the scent of one of the cats. It's a female one, but I've not been introduced to her yet. I thought it would be more fun to search for her rather than one I've already met. If I want to work with these cats on a regular basis, I'll have to get to know them. I snicker, a growl escaping my furry chest. I now have not only three human employees (although I still think Lily has a bit of incubus blood in her), but also an army of cats. Let's see who will be the bigger help in finding Winston Kindler's killer. I've got my money on the cats, just saying. I may be prejudiced though.
The wind is cool against my black fur and I breathe in deep, enjoying the fresh air. Everything is so much sharper, so much more alive. It's hard to believe that humans will never know how much of the world they're missing. All these sounds, the smells, the way a roof feels beneath paws. The feeling of falling from height only for the body to know exactly how to right itself, then land on all four paws. My cat body is a true miracle, and I can't help but appreciate it, despite all the trouble I've had because I was born a shifter. It's worth it for moments like these. Complete freedom, nothing to stop me from doing what I want.
I almost forget that I've got a task to do tonight. Still, I better see the cats now and then spend some more time running around. If there's time, I might leave the town and run in the forest on the other side of the river. It's much nicer to have forest floor beneath my paws rather than dirty roofs and pavements.
The scent slowly becomes stronger the further I get. The trail is leading away from the centre of town, into the poorer outskirts. I don't come here very often. The people I'm paid to dispose of usually live in the more affluent parts. There's a reason they need to be killed: money, inheritances, revenge. Besides, people in this area wouldn't be able to afford my services.
I hear the cats before I can smell or see them. Two of them, both female. Moaning. Not in pain. In love. Seriously? Did I stumble across a cat date? Just my luck. I jump from one low roof to another and then use some bins as a stepping stone to get down to the ground. I'm in a paved backyard full of rubbish bags and rat droppings. There are more romantic places for a date, that much is for sure.
I clear my throat - which sounds like thunder breaking over arid land - and wait for them to emerge from the shadows. A growl answers me, and a second later, I'm faced by two cats. The one on the left is the one whose scent I've been following. She's a chubby tabby; a cat nobody would look twice at in the street. Not particularly beautiful but with fierce eyes that challenge me to explain why I'm interrupting her. The other cat is more elegant with silky black fur and a golden stripe on her forehead as if painted on with a brush.
"What do you want?" the black cat snaps, her voice surprisingly deep. "Can't you see we're busy?"
I smile at her, exposing my very large, very sharp teeth.
"That's Kat," the tabby says before I can reply. "She's the one I told you about. I was going to take you there for breakfast tomorrow morning, Shara, so don't be rude."
"Breakfast." Shara licks her mouth. "Are you taking me on another date?"
For a moment, I'm imagining the two lounging on a picnic blanket in my garden, candles and rosebuds all around them. Maybe I should organise that, just for fun.
"Perhaps." The tabby cat turns to me. "How can we help?"
"What's your name?" I ask, remembering to keep my voice low. I don't want any of the humans to think that they have a panther in their backyard. It would be true, obviously, but... well, let's not.
"Milena, but you may call me Mila," she says haughtily.
I decide to skip the pleasantries and go straight to business. Cats aren't into small talk. They prefer to scratch before they tell you why.
"Have you found anything? Any dead bodies? Any suspicious humans around the market place?"
To my surprise, it's Shara who replies. "Yes, Storm mentioned she'd found a few dead humans." She starts licking her paws to make it clear how boring she's finding it all.
"Why didn't anyone tell me?" I ask, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice. Not easy when your body loves to growl.
"Ryker was going to come to your house tomorrow," Mila says. "It's not like the bodies are getting any deader."
She's got a point, but they don't understand that decomposition makes it a lot harder to examine a corpse. If I want to have a good chance of determining how and whe
n they died, it's vital that I see them now. "Bodies? How many?"
The cats look at each other. "A pawful? But Storm is polydactyl so it could be up to six."
Six bodies! So much fun to be had in the morgue. The others are going to be ecstatic. Now I'm really glad that I got the cooling room fixed. We're going to need it.
"Where do I find Storm?" I ask, almost bouncing with excitement.
"In our home." Mila sighs. "Which you're not allowed to see. We'll tell her to meet you at the market square."
"Good. Go and tell her now, please."
"Will there be salmon for breakfast?" Shara asks in return.
I can only shake my head. Cats.
I don't have to wait long for Storm to find me. She's absolutely stunning. Silky black fur hides her in the shadows, but her striking azure eyes give her away, reflecting the moonlight. I take a quick peek at the sky. Almost full moon, maybe two more days. That's the day I don't shift and don't go outside. It's the only night of the month that some of the most powerful Pack members take off their collars and run free. I never had that privilege, but I've heard of what happens from others in the Pack. Sex, drugs and death. Minus the drugs, I think. Being without a collar is drug enough, especially if you're not used to it.
I rub my neck. It's been half a year now, and it feels both longer and shorter at the same time. I don't miss the Pack; it never felt anything else than a prison to me. Others had friends there, but not me. I was different from the start: not a wolf or a dog, but a cat. I smelled different. People were aggressive towards me without even knowing why themselves. It's the scents. Cats and dogs will always be at odds.
Without a meow, Storm beckons me to follow her. I'm back to human; here in this busy part of town, it's much harder to evade curious eyes. If I need to talk to Storm, I'll search out a quiet corner or backyard and shift there.
She leads me away from the square and into a dark alleyway. During the day, this place is full of people heading to the market, but right now, we're the only ones walking through the darkness. A single street lamp throws a small circle of light onto the cobblestones, but both Storm and I have no problem seeing at night.
She stops in front of an old house. It's nothing special, maybe a bit shabbier than its neighbours, but it wouldn't stand out if I walked past it in daylight. On the left side of the house, steps lead down into what I assume is the basement, or perhaps a flat beneath the main house. Storm stops on the top step and nods towards the metal door at the bottom. Is this where the corpses are hidden? It would certainly be a good location.
The door is locked. I look back at Storm, but she's just sitting there, still as a statue, not giving me any indication of how the cats would have got in to find the bodies. I concentrate on my panther senses and sniff the air. There's a tiny trace of something sweet. Decay. Seems I'm in the right place.
I take out my lock picks and get to work. For a door to a basement, it's a surprisingly complicated lock. It takes me almost a minute to pick, which really says a lot. I'm good with locks. Excellent, actually.
* * *
As soon as I open the door, a lamp inside switches on automatically. I shield my eyes from the bright light, but luckily, I already know that there's nobody in the room. I would have smelled them when I did my panther sniff. I grin at my choice of words. That should become an expression. Kat's panther sniff.
Luckily, I work alone. There's nobody here to tell me off for thinking inappropriate thoughts while staring at four corpses. Two female, two male. All of them lie on metal tables as if they're waiting to be cut open. Or butchered. Depends on the criminal, I guess.
There's not much in the room beside the four large tables. A couple of metal shelves line the wall furthest from the door, and there's a desk to my right. Without a chair. Probably used to put things on rather than to write. A few papers and notes are scattered all across it, but I decide to do the fun part first: looking at the bodies.
The one closest to me is a woman with a missing hand. Bingo. She's intact otherwise, although there are thick purple bruises around her neck. Strangled. I walk closer and run a finger over her cold skin. The first signs of decomposition have already appeared, but she can't have been dead for more than two days or so. It's cold in this basement, which makes calculating it more difficult than if she'd stayed outside. Although maybe she died down here. I'm not an expert in analysing corpses. I know the basics, but usually, I don't really care what happens to the bodies after I relieve them of life.
Her hand has been cleanly sawed off. I almost admire the way the edges of her skin are smooth and that the bones aren't splintered. Whoever did this used some proper tools and didn't do it in a hurry. This was a professional at work. Maybe I'll get to meet them, compare notes. Excitement bubbles up in me until I remember that I'm here to find the killer, not fraternise with them.
There is nothing on the naked woman's body that could give me any clue to who killed her. I mean, I didn't really expect that - assassins rarely leave their name tattooed on the victim's skin - but it's still disappointing. Who is she? How is she connected to Mr Kindler? And why her hand? It must have been intended as a message for the sweet shop owner, but did he ever receive it? Did he get to the flat in the market square to see the hand before he was killed? So many questions and I'm still no closer to any answers.
With a sigh, I turn away from her and look at the male corpse to my left. He's much bigger than the woman, and his hips almost reach the edges of the table. I wouldn't be surprised if the table suddenly started groaning under his weight. He's naked as well, but there are no wounds or marks. He's still got both of his hands. No strangulation marks, either. Boring.
The next man isn't boring, however. Not at all. I look at his face, blink, look again, then swallow hard.
I've seen his photo often enough to recognise him.
It's Winston Kindler.
Chapter Ten
"You're supposed to be in the police's morgue," I tell the corpse, wiggling my finger at him. I walk around his table, checking him from all sides, but he completely matches the Winston Kindler I've read about. Same deep-set eyes, same bushy brows, same stubbly beard the same pepper grey colour as his short hair. Not pretty but also not ugly. Just a normal man who you wouldn't look at twice if you met him in the street.
Lily's words echo in my mind. Him looking so ordinary, that may have been precisely the point. If he was a Fang, it would have been the best weapon against being discovered. Nobody would ever suspect a friendly sweet shop owner from being involved in anything criminal.
"What did you do, Winston?" I whisper, looking at his face. Some people think the dead look peaceful, but that's rarely the case, unless funeral directors use makeup, baby powder and wires in the corpse's jaws. Mr Kindler doesn't look peaceful in the slightest.
I stare at his chest, at the gaping wounds inflicted on him. His brother had said that his death had been a violent one, but now that I'm confronted with the evidence, I see that it's an understatement. Winston was slaughtered. There are at least twenty cuts to his chest and belly, many of them deep gashes. White rib bones are shining through one of the largest wounds. No wonder he was found in a puddle of blood. He must have bled out fast.
I step even closer and analyse the cuts. Some of them are random, but hidden beneath the arbitrary crisscross pattern are three very precise cuts. They are the ones that killed him. Quickly, too. He was probably dead by the time the other wounds were inflicted on him. Almost as if someone wanted to make it look more violent than it was.
There are a few areas of the body that every assassin knows. The points of no return, my teachers used to call them. When you stab there, the mark dies. Simple. Not all of them are always easily accessible. My favourite one, the spot beneath the armpit where you can slash the axillary artery, is often protected by clothing, especially in winter (although nobody ever protects their armpits in a fight, so it's handy for those dirty moves that make you stand out from the crowd). There are
even more effective stabbing targets than the armpit though. On a hunch, I lift Winston's head, examining his neck.
Bingo. A small, almost unnoticeable incision at the back of his neck. The knife must have gone straight through the spinal cord. Instantly incapacitated, followed by a quick death. The attacker must have come from behind, stabbed Mr Kindler before he even knew what was happening, and then, to hide the fact that this was a professional hit, added the other stab wounds all over the chest. To get some blood for special effects. Two of the deep cuts on his upper body would have hit arteries, giving the assassin all the blood he needed to make it look dramatic and violent.
I'm almost jealous of the way this was done. It's neat and clever. Unless you know what you're looking for, this could easily be mistaken for an emotional killing, not the clean assassination that it was.
"Why?" I ask Winston. "Why did you have to die?"
Suddenly, a feeling of urgency runs through me, making my goose flesh rise, and it takes me a second to realise that it's coming from Storm. Shit. I've closed the door behind me, and I don't know if it's safe to open it. Is there someone on the other side that Storm tries to warn me about? Or do I still have time to slip out before they get close enough to see me?
I focus on the emotions I'm getting from Storm. It's not a clear message, not actual words or images, just an intention. What I'm feeling from her gives me the creeps.
Hide.
I look around, already knowing that there's no good place to hide. Everything is open and easily seen. No blind spots, no wardrobes or closets. Leaves the textbook hiding place, the one everyone always forgets about. Behind the door. Most people never look back when they enter a room. Even when they turn to exit, they rarely look at the spot behind the door.
With two large steps, I'm there, pressing myself against the wall. I steady my breathing, glad of my training that taught me how to control my entire body, including the way I breathe.
Meow Page 7
