Chapter Six
Dead Ends, Dramatic Interventions and Damning Discoveries
Nick
I pace my office. The list of suppliers is too long, and the new guy has been steadily contacting them to gather information about the hospitals, clinics, and medical stores they supply with Valmeron and Myocardiner.
But the process has been painfully slow.
No help from the Bureau to pick up the slack.
And then there’s this happy loophole that the killer could just be getting the drugs off the streets and not from a registered supplier. In short, we’re fucked.
I look at my murder board again. The lifeless faces of werewolves who almost got away because we probably wouldn’t have pursued their case at all. But someone made sure they didn’t.
A big part of me wants to close up the case and let the person continue making the world better one murder at a time. They’re clearly doing a better job than we are. But then there’s this other part. The part I sometimes hate, but is unfortunately more me than the other one. More rational too.
That part completely agrees with Meena. Without rules, hierarchy, and consequences, we’re no better than the animals we’re so desperately trying not to be.
We’ve left that past far behind when werewolves lived in packs, power was arbitrary, and those who had it used it to exploit others, when we feared humans and solved every disagreement with violence.
Now, we live with humans, mostly follow their laws, and keep our internal animals in check. Over generations, the werewolf has become a part of us rather than being a separate entity holding all the control. It can’t overpower us anymore.
Sure, when a person lets the animal take control in such a destructive way, they should be punished. I’m completely in agreement that Harold Nolan needed to be taken off the streets, but not in the way he eventually did. We have systems for a reason.
But the killer was obviously passionate about justice. And is getting information on deaths that show clear signs of werewolf involvement, but are marked as natural by the human police. Who can have access to information like that?
Maybe someone who works in a hospital? I check the files of humans our werewolf victims allegedly killed, excitement thrumming through me.
After fifteen minutes, I slump back in my chair. All of them were declared dead in different hospitals. One on the field. The paramedics were from different stations, too. Two were transported in private ambulances.
I open the list we have until now. Three hundred twenty-five places where the killer could have gotten the drugs from.
And this is less than half. Multiple people could have had access to the drugs from each of these places.
The suspect list is basically the entire city, minus maybe five people right now.
I sigh, rubbing my temples. I haven’t even changed out of work clothes after driving back from the precinct.
Comfortable clothes will make me fall asleep within minutes.
Mickey was long asleep, worn out from the run that did jackshit to clear my head.
At least I don’t have the cutest dog in the world vying for my attention right now.
Then there’s the human murder. We still have nothing.
The guy was either the most likable celebrity on the planet, which is an oxymoron, or everyone is lying.
Not surprising in a murder investigation.
People typically avoided speaking ill of the dead, but when there’s a possibility that wrong words can land you in the suspect pool, you tend to become literal Gandhi, who sees no evil.
At least that suspect list isn’t the size of my triple ply toilet paper roll.
We have the director of The Pack, who’s a little too passionate about the show.
Which is plain psychotic, considering it’s a teen werewolf drama.
He isn’t even a werewolf, so he doesn’t know why it’s being made in the first place. And frankly, the guy is a dick.
Then we have the main lead of the show, who was conveniently at home around the time of the murder.
She was supposed to report to the location with Tyler.
She reached there alone and on time. But that doesn’t mean she couldn’t have committed the murder.
She’s smaller in stature, but I’ve seen how much some of these actresses can bench.
I play her last interview again. Serena’s voice fills my otherwise silent room. I lean back and close my eyes.
“You didn’t tell us you were supposed to drive to the location with Tyler. Would you like to elaborate on why?”
Elena’s breath hitches. She wasn’t expecting us to figure that out.
It would be insulting if I weren’t used to it.
“He didn’t text me back the entire week.
And didn’t pick up my call the day before we were supposed to drive together.
I’d ultimately gone alone, so I didn’t think it was important,” she murmurs.
Serena snorts. “Let’s make this easier for both of us. How about from now on, you let us decide what’s important and what’s…”
The doorbell rings loudly, and I jolt up. I take a second to realize the recording is still playing. I switch it off and strain my ears to hear who’s uncivilized enough to drop by at— I check my phone. Nine pm? Fuck, I’m getting old.
Loud arguments coming from the door tell me I was right to be annoyed even before I open the door to five werewolves. Grown-up ones, but with their favorite hobby of imitating ten-year-olds, it’s hard to remember sometimes.
“Oh, good, you’re awake,” Bree says and pushes her way inside, followed by her wife, Cami.
Sloan stops for a second to hug me before joining them. Marcus pats my arm, and Matt avoids my gaze. His face had a distinct expression of guilt. “What did you do?” I ask.
His eyes snap at mine. “What? Me? Nothing. It was Cami’s idea,” he says, then makes a beeline for the living room.
I close the door after making sure there aren’t any stragglers while they continue to argue.
“We can be nice about it—,” Cami insists.
“—He clearly needs some tough love,” Marcus says over her.
“He just needs some rest,” Matt chimes in.
As much as I’d love to stand here and listen to what I need, I also want to get it over with. I have three open cases, one serial killer on the loose, and a man to get information out of. I really don’t have the time for whatever this is.
When I walk into my living room, they all abruptly go silent.
“You know I could hear you guys, right?” I ask calmly.
They ignore me and look at Matt.
“Why do I have to go first?” he grumbles.
Cami sighs. “Fine, I’ll go. Nick, this is an intervention,” she says firmly.
Everyone nods, gazes focused on me.
“The fuck?”
“When was the last time you shifted?” Marcus asks.
“You have bags under your eyes, Nick. When was the last time you slept?” Matt asks.
“You were slightly rude to Meena the other day, which is, you know, basically unheard of,” Cami adds.
I close my eyes. “I’m fine. You’re clearly overreacting,” I say. “I have a lot of work, so if this is it, I’d like to go back to it now,” I add firmly.
“Nope, not that easy, man,” Sloan says. Because why would anything be easy?
“Okay? I’ll sleep more,” I assure Matt, but it comes out a little more mocking than I intended.
His expression goes blank, and I feel like the worst person in the world.
“And I wasn’t really rude to Meena,” I hedge.
Not that she can’t take it because she’s not, you know, overdramatic like this bunch of aspirational theatre kids. No, wait, Bree was actually one.
“You were. You argued with her, which you never do,” Cami says.
I sigh, resigned to whatever their plans were for me. Were they right? No, they’re just being dramatic.
Bree throws her hands up in defeat. “Alright. You don’t want to talk about it? Don’t talk about it. We’re going for a run,” she announces.
“I took Mickey for a run this evening,” I say, just to be contrary, which, now that I think of it, is extremely unlike me.
“Don’t be unnecessarily airheaded,” Bree calls me out. “We’re doing a group run. It’s been so long.”
The idea of letting my body free, feeling the breeze against my fur-covered skin, surrounded by the smell of wet soil, fresh leaves, and wildlife, calms something in me.
I breathe out slowly, all the fight flowing out with it.
It wasn’t really a fair fight, anyway. First, these were some of the strongest, sharpest werewolves in the world.
And they've always been on my side and want what's best for me.
I nod, and everyone sags in relief. It would be funny if I were capable of feeling much other than overwhelmed with work right now.
Mickey finally trots out now that the danger is over, the perfect guard dog that he is, and keeps the guests entertained while I change into comfy clothes.
With the amount of cooing and baby voices I hear in the next ten minutes, I decide they’re all getting dog-sitting duties.
They deserve it after today’s performance.
The fact that I didn’t hear a single argument when I informed them tells me it might not have been a threat to begin with.
***
We park deep in the forest. No one needs idling humans to accidentally stumble into six full-grown wolves running in a forest where they clearly don’t belong.
Typically, werewolves need to shift once a month to keep their body and brain healthy, less if they live less stressful lives, if that’s even possible in the current political climate.
Most people do it at their homes, to the relief of the Bureau. But sometimes, a long run through the deep forest fixes something that a quick shift just can’t.
We step out of our cars naked and lock them behind us. I collect key fobs and place them in the hole we’d dug years ago, and cover it nicely with a fake patch of grass. This isn’t our first rodeo. Matt shifts first.