3. 9 to 5
‘Sinclair, Easten, get in here,’ Captain Butch Buchanan calls from his office the moment I walk into the squad room.
Tim is already at his desk, engrossed in whatever info he’s looking at on his i-screen.
I’m not sure how the Captain knows I’m here when he can’t see me.
And so much for grabbing a second coffee.
One of the perks of being a special squad with our own floor is the espresso machine, which I take full advantage of.
Tim only shrugs and stands when I frown at him in question.
The Captain must have been in before him, waiting for us both to arrive at the office.
I’m under no illusion that he isn’t already aware of exactly where I was first thing this morning, and after I left the morgue.
I can only hope no one watched the feed of Jake and me kissing before I turned the holo-cam off.
At eleven am, the room is almost empty. I know most of our small Squad will be out chasing leads from the night shift, or answering any holos and flickers that have already come in this morning. Paperwork for the day shift will be done later in the afternoon, and not by me.
The PPS isn’t large, but we only deal with anything supernatural-related.
Everything else gets handed off to the other departments- homicide, vice, gangs, burglary.
Likewise, if a case has even a hint of Paranormal involvement, it belongs to us.
Hence the call-out last night. Homicide was called to the scene first by dispatch, and immediately notified Tim and me, along with Ruby Blue. Claw marks equal Lyco involvement.
Tim lets me precede him into the Captain’s office, and I shoot him the finger behind my back. Coward. I feel his smile and hide my matching one.
I flop down onto the deep leather couch without being invited.
Tim is slower, adjusting the lapels on the jacket he’s slung on since I last saw him in the hospital parking garage.
If it didn’t send a cringe down my spine to think of it, I’d love to see exactly what Ruby Blue would do with my straight-laced partner.
When she’s not slicing open dead people, you’d never think she was a genius with two PhD’s at twenty-eight.
She can outlast me clubbing, and that’s saying something.
The Cap’s office is utilitarian. Neutral walls, black desk and leather chair, couch against one wall, plus two low chairs for visitors. A bookshelf holds real books and a few holo-frames of the Captain’s family, friends, old sports team.
‘Eve,’ Captain Buchanan says as I open my mouth, holding up his hand and visibly holding back an eye roll.
In his mid-forties, with blonde hair, light blue eyes, and a distinctly Nordic look, he’s tall and well-built.
I’ve never asked whether Butch is his actual name, or a throwback to his glory days as a football superstar.
I don’t want to know, and I also respect him for who he is now.
Part of it is that he attended Harvard, which means he’s no slouch in the brains department.
The other part is that he’s a damn good Captain. And he puts up with me.
‘Before you start in on me, I had no choice. You know what’s happening in this city right now. The last thing I need is to be seen cutting slack to a Lycanthrope.’ His face is carefully neutral, but after all this time, I see the concern ghosting his eyes.
I absorb his words. They’re true, but I still feel the sting of them like a slap.
Many humans hate Paranormals. Or fear them.
Which is fair enough. Before the World Treaty, they had basically done whatever they wanted and were accountable only to themselves.
Packs had rules and codes-of-conduct, but Vamps were more avant-garde in their approach to oversight.
The Captain is caught between trying to appease the powers-that-be, and solving a murder and seeing justice served.
‘He didn’t do it,’ I challenge, cutting straight to the point. ‘And if all you have is that lame ass print- not even a full print- then aren’t you jumping the gun?’
Tim stiffens beside me on the couch. I’m pushing the Captain, and he may not be in the mood for it, with everything else he has on his plate right now.
The two largest Werewolf Packs were subtly challenging each other for dominance in New York, arguably the most accepting city in the Western world for the supernatural.
There’s an undertone of worry that it’s about to erupt.
‘Do you really think a murder charge against the leader of the dominant NYC Pack is going to help with human-Paranormal relations? He needs to be there to lead, to control, to head off Janus and his trouble-making.’ I let him hear all my frustration, wanting to slam my fist through a wall.
‘I know you see it that way,’ Butch gives me a small smile, his leather chair creaking slightly as he leans back.
He’s in a good mood- maybe his team won some sporty thing- and giving me a lot of rope here.
‘But there was more than just a print. There were several Lyco hairs in the wounds. And your boyfriend has no alibi, Eve.’
‘Sorry, Captain,’ I snark at him. ‘If I’d known you were going to charge him with murder, I would’ve made sure I was banging him last night.’
Tim sucks in a breath beside me, and I think maybe I’ve gone too far.
‘I’m sure you more than made up for it in the interrogation room at the jail,’ Butch says deadpan.
Sometimes I think the Captain would make a good Werewolf.
He’s a born diplomat but ruthless enough to be an Alpha.
But then he couldn’t be a Police Captain, let alone oversee the PPS.
There has been talk since the Treaty about letting Lycos and Vamps into the Police, but even if that happened, they wouldn’t be able to be part of my Squad.
Vampires would never want to; they kept to themselves, as if they’re not really part of the city they live in.
And Weres, well, there would be a conflict of interest. Every Werewolf has to be part of a Pack, and the Pack comes first. Always.
‘Can you blame me?’ I smirk, rearranging my legs. ‘If my boyfriend doesn’t make bail, he’s going to be locked up for a while.’
Before anyone can answer, our wrists light up. I quickly pull up the flicker and open the file from Ruby. Lots of medical jargon, which I skip over. Then a note at the end I know is for me and my impatience.
My conclusion is that the victim was killed by deep gashes to his side, compounded by a blow to the back of the head as he fell.
Tox screen was clear of drugs. Blood alcohol over the limit, but not excessive.
Trace amounts of illegal supps, which may have been enough to bring charges.
The wounds that killed him are almost definitely from a Lycanthropic assailant.
The depth suggests male, and the angle suggests at least six feet tall.
‘That doesn’t mean it was Jake, though,’ I say once we’re all done reading. I flick my contacts screen away so I can refocus on the Captain.
‘Then find me another suspect. Preferably with rock-solid evidence to back it up,’ Butch says, his eyes flicking between Tim and me.
The file from Ruby is on his i-screen, hovering in the air over his desk.
Now he swipes the file away, and the i-screen moves smoothly back into his desk so he can see us better.
‘You’re not taking me off it?’ It’s better to ask now, even if I don’t want to.
‘Not unless you give me a damn good reason to. I know you, Sinclair. You’re the best damn detective I have. You and Easten.’
I feel more than see Tim shrug beside me. He doesn’t care about accolades; he knows his worth is in the hard work and determination he consistently puts into his dream job.
‘Sex in intero aside, do what you have to do to close this case ASAP,’ Butch continues, his eyes constantly scrolling through the feeds on his contacts.
How he keeps up with it all, I’ll never know. I almost shudder thinking of the bureaucracy and ass-kissing he has to do in his job. I’d go crazy stuck in an office. Probably wouldn’t get away with having sex with my boyfriend while he was in custody, either.
‘Where are you so far?’ Butch asks us, refocusing on the issue at hand.
Tim explains the victim’s associations and leads we’ll follow in relation to it.
He’s concise and professional. Another reason he’s partnered with me, the sometime loose cannon.
I’m aware the Cap believes my partner balances me out, reigning in my tendencies to go off-book and push the limits of protocol.
‘Good work.’ Captain Buchanan waves his hand in dismissal. ‘Get whoever isn’t working a case to do any research needed, while you two do the hands-on stuff.’ Because he knows there’s no way I’ll be staying at my desk.
‘The Captain doesn’t think Jake did it either,’ Tim reassures me once we’re out the door. ‘It’s why he’s giving us carte blanche with this investigation. '
‘What makes you say that?’ I agree with him, but I’m always interested in hearing my partner’s POV.
‘He wouldn’t let you anywhere near this case if he did,’ Tim states.
‘Maybe he just trusts me to get the truth no matter what,’ I counter, the sound of my boots echoing slightly in the near-empty squad room.
‘And will you?’ Tim asks seriously, stopping at his desk and facing me.
‘Yes,’ I tell him firmly. ‘I know Jake didn’t kill anyone. But someone did. And I want to nail that person by their balls.’ I have complete faith that my partner trusts me, but it’s good for me to spell out where I stand, and for him to hear it.
‘Especially if it’s a frame job by Janus’s Pack?
’ Okay, sometimes I don’t enjoy how straightforward and honest Tim Easten can be.
But it’s better to get all this out now, so we can get down to finding who framed my smoking hot Werewolf boyfriend, and I can go back to having sex in other public places that aren’t associated with my job.
‘I’m not sure it was them,’ I cage. ‘It’s a theory.
But why choose a member of the Rodriguez Cartel?
Wouldn’t that be more trouble than it’s worth?
’ I’m leaning against the desk I use when I’m actually in the squad room, which faces Tim’s.
He’s sitting on the edge of his, one leg crossed over the other, contemplating me seriously.
‘Stirring them up against Jake Pack?’ I can see his wheels turning. ‘Distracting them…,’ he leaves it hanging, but I get the point. If Jake’s Pack is distracted by the Cartel, they would be less prepared for a war against another Pack? It’s a viable theory.
‘Makes sense. But no proof,’ I sigh, staring up at the ceiling as if it can give me answers. ‘Maybe you can talk to vice, narco, organized crime?’
‘Will do. It’s a good start,’ Tim agrees.
‘We need more info on who Jason Rodriguez is, at the very least for damage control if he turns out to be a relative of the family. Also, his role within the organization. I’ll get someone onto that.
What are you going to be doing?’ He says it easily, no accusation, no prying.
‘Having sex in another interrogation room,’ I smirk at him, hand on hip. ‘Maybe we’ll try the cells this time.’
Cue eye roll, waiting. Tim never takes the bait, but he puts up with my sense of humor, so I take it as a win.
I huff out a laugh. ‘First, I’m mainlining caffeine. Then I’m heading to the courthouse to see if he’s been through his bail hearing yet, and if the prosecutor’s being a dick about it.’
‘They may want to make an example of how tough they are on Paranormals,’ Tim hazards a guess, taking off his jacket and placing it neatly over his chair.
‘Fuuuuuck,’ I say, my eyes scrolling through my feed as a message comes in.
‘Bail set at five mil US crypto. Fuck is right.’ Tim rarely swears, and I feel as if I’ve been doing it more in the last twenty-four hours than in the past year. But this is hard for me to swallow. I want my goddamn boyfriend out of jail now.
‘Not a flight risk,’ I read. ‘Well, that wouldn’t fly with any reasonable judge.
They’ve gone with ‘threat to public safety’ and the seriousness of the offense.
There’s no way he can afford this. Not even the ten percent a bond company would keep for fronting him that amount, if any were willing to risk it, which I doubt. ’
Hearing the Captain stand up in his office, his leather chair creaking, I know he’s received the same info as us.
‘Looks like no coffee for me,’ I say to my partner, pushing off from the deck.
Tim only nods as I make for the door as fast as I can in six-inch heels and a skirt. He doesn’t bother to ask me where I’m going or what I’m going to do. Which is a good thing, because I’m so angry I can’t see beyond my boiling blood.
‘I’ll let you know what I get on Rodriguez,’ he calls as the door swings shut behind me just in time to avoid the Captain telling me not to do anything about the bail. Like storm into the courthouse and start yelling.
Once I hit the lift, I sink back against the cool metal wall, forcing myself to breathe in and out. My mind is whirling. I have three options right now.
Option one: Go back to the jail and talk to Jake.
Which would only frustrate us both even more, as there are no viable options for us to talk through.
Neither of us has close to the amount needed to front the bondsman’s fee to secure the rest. And Jake would never use Pack money for himself, even if they did have it.
Option two is for me to storm down to the DA’s office and yell a lot.
Even in my haze of red, I know that’s a terrible idea.
It would look unprofessional, wouldn’t make any difference, and would get me taken off the case for sure.
Whether the prosecutor is a holier-than-thou do-gooder who genuinely believes Jake is guilty, is trying to placate humans by showing Paranormal crime is taken seriously, or they’re looking to make a name for themselves in what is sure to be a career-making case, doesn’t matter.
It’s done now. There’s no changing what the judge decided.
And behind door number three. The door I said I would never, ever, under any circumstances, open again. It’s the only chance I have, the only way I can help the man I love.
The elevator doors swish open to reveal the basement car park.
Before I can change my mind, I slide behind the wheel, thinking of the irony of the origin of my car and the place I’m about to go.
The roar of the engine drowns out my reason as I gain the street and floor it, rage and determination firing through my veins.