Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
I dragged myself out of bed when the light from the window was bright enough to nearly blind me, which meant the sun had already crested the building next door, a rent-by-the-hour hotel that was half-full at any given hour of the day. Squinting at my phone, I made a face at the time.
The coffeemaker gurgled and spat out dark, caffeinated manna when I slouched into the kitchen.
Coffee in one hand, dry bowl of cereal in the other, I ate at my desk as I sifted through the paperwork that had gotten backed up when I was staking out Dieter, the guy who now wanted to kill me.
A few people had finally paid their bills, but when I counted up the checks it was barely one thousand, not enough to cover the money I’d need by Friday.
Still, money was money. I set them aside to cash later and jerked at someone pounding on my door.
Coffee spilled over a copy of a police report on a car accident, and I mumbled, “Coming, coming,” as I mopped it up with the hem of my shirt.
When things were mostly dry, I walked over to the door, peeking out the peep hole to see an empty hallway.
At the corner of the lens, I could see a shadow.
Normally, I would assume it was just a nervous client, maybe someone close to bolting. But given I was a wanted man, I called out, “Who is it?”
“SAPD, Ferro, open up.”
The shadow in the corner moved closer, holding up a badge and ID to the door. I blinked. I was about to be faced with a man who’d occupied more than his fair share of my thoughts recently.
Flipping the deadbolt, but leaving the chain on, I opened the door a crack and sure enough, there was Detective Nicholas King standing in my doorway. He raised an eyebrow, and I closed the door enough to slide the chain free. I pushed open the door and leaned against the jamb.
“Detective King.”
He looked like a cop from a CBS procedural.
Not the veteran silver-fox head of the unit, but the young, hot new guy who shows up in episode one as the audience surrogate.
One sad backstory later and he’s the fan favorite and when he dies in season six rescuing a bus full of orphans, everyone points to that as the moment where the show jumped the shark.
Which was a long way of saying he was tall and hot, with warm amber skin and hair buzzed regulation short.
He had a build showing careful attention to leg day and arm day.
Since I’d had my coffee, I could admire that for all he must only make a cop’s salary, his suit had been tailored to fit perfectly.
“Ferro,” he greeted, his lips pursed.
“Should I ask to see your warrant?” I asked. “Or is this a friendly chat?”
“This is about police business.” He gestured to the hallway where a couple of doors shut as he glanced around.
“Did you bring your handcuffs again? You know I like it kinky.” Since last time the cuffs had included a trip down to the station and being booked (although not charged) with trespassing, I actually wasn’t in any hurry to repeat it.
The lines around his mouth deepened, and he shook his head, muttering about a mistake. I bit the inside of my cheek hard and then gestured like I was presenting a prize. “Come in. I don’t have anything to hide from the SAPD.”
He stepped in, nearly brushing me, and he had to go and smell good, too. Some sharp aftershave leaving me with the impression of clear mountain lakes and redwoods.
The first time we’d met, I’d thought it would lead to a drink and maybe a quickie afterwards. The second time had ended up with me spending the night in lockup until Laurel had come and bailed me out. Needless to say, it had spoiled my hopes for Detective King.
Surveying the apartment, he made a face similar to the one Chelsea had, except hers was more: This is the guy I hired?
And King’s was more: This is how you live?
His eyes caught on the same plate that had tripped Chelsea up last night, and my face heated at the reminder I’d still forgotten to put it in the sink.
“Nice place,” he said, crossing his arms and hello biceps. “Looks exactly how I imagined your apartment would look.”
I bristled at his words and pointed to the chair.
“Take a seat,” I ordered.
He drew his shoulders back at my tone and shook his head. “This isn’t going to work.”
Swallowing down the urge to scream, I said, “You came to me.”
“Yeah.” He exhaled and pushed back his jacket to put both hands on his hips. His lips were pursed, nearly white. Finally, he huffed a sigh and sat on the chair.
At the surrender, my own irritation deflated. “Let me get you a coffee.”
In the kitchen, I took out one of the good mugs and filled it with what was left in the carafe. Placing the mug in front of him, I sat down in my office chair. He examined the blue mug, the words This Is My Happy Place on it in cheerful teal letters.
Neither one of us spoke and when he took a sip of the coffee, he winced, but didn’t say anything. I finished my own coffee and tapped my spoon on the edge of my cereal bowl.
“What’re you doing here, King?”
“There’s a case,” he said. “I thought you might be able to tell me if it’s fae.”
“Why do you think it’s fae?” I dropped my spoon back into the bowl with a clatter.
“Because it’s not alchemy or witchcraft as far as I can tell,” he said. “So I need to rule out everything else.”
“And I’m next on your checklist?” Of course King would have one. He was meticulous and ordered. He probably ironed his underwear every morning.
I’d blame it on the fact that he was a practicing alchemist, but most alchemists I knew were only conscientious about their casting.
Their lives were as messy as the rest of ours.
Granted, most of the alchemists I knew were through my work, and most people were in one of the messier places in their lives when they contacted a PI.
“Yes.” His eyes narrowed. “Unless you think I should contact the other fae expert in San Amaro?”
I snorted at his snark. “Okay, point.”
He wouldn’t have come to me if he’d had any other choice.
As far as the SAPD knew, I was the only person who’d survived a visit with the fae without ending up a vegetable or institutionalized for life.
Of course, they didn’t know the reason my visit to the Far Realm hadn’t ended in the San Amaro asylum was because my blood was half fae, even if my parentage was a mystery.
“What’s the case?” I asked.
“A couple of werewolves have been murdered,” he said. “And drained of their magic.”
“What?” I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my desk. “You mean they were used in spellcraft and their magic was low.”
“I mean they didn’t have a drop of magic left in their body,” he said. “None.”
“They’re werewolves. That’s impossible. Their nature is magical.”
His lips tightened. “Yeah.”
“Can I see them?” I asked. He narrowed his eyes, and I held up my hands. “I believe you, but it would be easier for me to recognize if it was a fae spell if I could see it.”
“Just tell me if you’ve seen them use anything similar,” he said.
I started to answer, but paused. “Am I a consultant on this?”
“Officially?” he said. “No. You’re just an expert I’m speaking with.”
“But it could be a consult I billed for, right?” I said, aware it sounded more like a whine than anything else.
“How much?” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, his ankle resting on his opposite knee. How did he always look like he was posing for a GQ photo shoot?
“Eighteen hundred,” I said, immediately. “That’d be... thirty-two hours?”
“This is a twenty-minute conversation. How are you going to stretch it to thirty-two hours?” He raised an eyebrow.
He’d shaved down to a heavy stubble and on me it would have looked like I couldn’t afford a razor, but on him it looked like it was on purpose.
Like every day, he spent twenty minutes getting the right length on his hair and beard.
“What if I followed you around?” I asked. “The SAPD has deep pockets, I could follow you around and act as a guide.”
“You want to do a ride along and pretend it’s something you should bill for?” He licked a lip and tilted his head, a hint of a smile in the corner of his lips, and I had to admit it was ridiculous. “What do you even need the money for?”
“Nothing.” I rubbed a hand over my face, my palm catching on my own non-designer stubble. “Never mind.”
His lips twisted, and he sighed. “I can’t let you bill for the hours since this isn’t an official consult. But, if you found information leading to an arrest … my bosses are offering a reward.”
“How much?”
“Ten thousand.” He waited, and I tapped the spoon on the bowl again, the clink loud in the room. “If it leads to an arrest.”
“You said this is a werewolf case.” My eyes narrowed as I thought. “Is this about Nate Charles getting killed?”
He straightened, his foot dropping off his knee. “How do you know about that?”
“I try to keep up,” I said, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal.
“Do you know who killed him?”
“I heard you think it was another pack,” I said. “Why’s there a reward if it was just pack politics?”
King nodded, as though acknowledging I’d scored a point. “We did, yeah, but the CGPD sent it to the Paranormal Division when they found out about the magic being drained out of the vics.”
Holding up a hand, I guessed at the acronym. “Criminal Guys... Problem Department?”
King actually laughed, and maybe I’d guessed a little wide of the mark to see if he’d crack. “One out of four. Criminal Gang and Pack Division.”
“The Gang Squad,” I said. My familiarity with the police was, thankfully, tangential.
Despite my ignorance of police politics, I knew the CGPD by their street name, the one that had most wolves spitting. They said once the Gang Squad had you in their crosshairs, you couldn’t drop a gum wrapper on the sidewalk without being arrested for littering.
With a shrug, King nodded. “The Gang Squad.”
“They passed something on to you? Doesn’t it usually go the other way with them taking Paranormal cases?”
“We’re getting off topic,” King said, lips twisted at the mention of collar stealing. “Do you have information or not?”
“I’ve never seen a fae drain magic before,” I said. “But I can ask around and find out for certain.”
Huffing, King checked his watch. “Twenty minutes. And that’s definitely not enough to earn ten thousand dollars.”
“Don’t count me out yet.” I held up a finger. “I’m a PI, with my own sources. Ones who don’t like to talk to cops.”
“Oh, yeah? You cultivate a lot of informants on the cheating husbands and child-support-evaders beat?” He looked so smug, with his lip quirked and his eyebrows relaxed.
“I do other cases,” I said. “Like background checks and fraud.”
“Sounds like you know a lot of people who’d be able to tell you about werewolf murders.”
I wanted to snark back, but the more I antagonized him, the less chance he would tell me enough about the murders that I could give him his culprit gift-wrapped. On the other hand, he was just so cocky I couldn’t resist one last dig.
“Yeah, Mister Paranormal Detective? Seems like none of your leads panned out either, if you’re coming to me. In fact, I’d say I have a leg up, since I haven’t even started yet and your informant pool is already dried up.”
Smirking at him, I raised my eyebrow, expecting him to snap back. Instead, his face flushed and he ducked his head a little, examining some papers on my desk with interest.
“That’s because you’re the first one I’ve come to,” he muttered.
I was so surprised that I gaped for a minute. King? Came to me first?
“Tell me about the killings,” I said, finally. “Maybe it’ll shake something loose.”
He rolled his eyes up, like he knew I was just pumping him for information, but he started talking.
“The first werewolf was found up off Calgary, in the old meat-packing plant. CGPD was tagged in because it was in Five Dragons territory, and when the SoPa alpha showed up dead in the same way, they were ready to call it retribution and were going to close the case.”
His tone dripped acid, and I could tell there wasn’t any love lost between him and CGPD. His mouth pursed, and I waited a few long beats. My stomach rumbled.
Digging the spoon into the bowl of cereal I took a bite. There was a huff of air and I looked up to see King staring at my bowl. “Is that dry Choco Wolf Crunch?”
“We can’t all eat plain oatmeal every day at six a.m. after our morning workout.”
“I put raisins in,” King said. “At least I’m not eating raw sugar.”
Taking a heaping spoonful of the dark flakes, I shoved them in my mouth and chomped, the sound like a garbage disposal full of rocks in my ears.
“That is disgusting,” he said.
“So, CGPD was going to bury it?” I prompted. “Why’d they decide to pass it on?”
“Because the SoPas were making so much noise, the coroner had the department alchemist come in to do a scan. She was the one who discovered the magic drain, and the coroner remembered the other wolf had been low on magic when he ran the basic bloodwork.”
“And two dead werewolves both without magic makes it a serial.”
“It makes it suspicious,” King corrected. “But I won’t be calling it a serial killer just yet. And you won’t be, either.”
I made a finger gun and winked in a way I was pretty sure would drive him insane. “Not a serial killer making his way through San Amaro’s werewolves, got it. I’ll ask around, and see if I can bring you your arrest. Have you looked into other paras?”
“What do you mean?” King asked. His gaze went slightly distant, eyes squinted. I could see the thoughts already going behind his hazel gaze.
“I mean, wolves aren’t the only ones with magic in their blood. It might be worth it to check on vampires and fae creatures,” I said. “The selkies probably won’t talk, but incubi? Brownies?”
King leaned back, eyes narrowed and mouth twisted. I made a show of looking at my wrist, where there wasn’t any watch.
“Huh, would you look at that? Thirty minutes and counting.”
Rolling his eyes, he stood. “Thanks for the tip, Ferro.”
“Hey, if we’re working together, you should call me Parker,” I said. “And I’ll call you... Nico?”
I took a guess at the nickname and watched as his mouth pulled down, a deep groove forming between his eyebrows. He practically growled, “Detective King.”
“Nick?” I guessed again.
“Call me if you find out anything,” he said, standing. He buttoned up his suit jacket and opened the door, sweeping out.
I grinned. Nick, for certain.