Smoke Show (Tess Skye Book 2)

by D. N. Erikson

“It’s not like he needs whatever’s inside,” Silas says. “He’s dying.”

  Ella yips, and my spine stiffens like someone poked me with a cattle prod. “What?”

  “Oh, Toby didn’t tell the little golden girl next door?” Silas’s mouth twists into a cruel snarl, enjoying the moment. “Guess some things are best kept in the actual family.”

  I grab him by the scruff of his tattered polo. He smells like cheap booze and even cheaper cigarettes. “I swear, if you did something to him…”

  “Do something?” Silas laughs, like the notion is absurd. “He’s my little brother.”

  “And yet here you are, looting his apartment.”

  “Can’t take it with you, right?” Silas’s fleshy jowls waggle as he shakes his head. “And he’s got a couple weeks at most.”

  Ella whines and then barks. I hold up my hand for her to be quiet. “And you know this how?”

  “Toby wanted to bury the hatchet. Called me and I went out for a visit to the hospital. Told me he forgives me.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Out at Ragnarok General. By the warehouses.”

  “If you’re lying—”

  “Go check it out for yourself,” Silas says. “Can I go now?”

  I release his shirt and he crashes backward against the couch with a groan. “Get out of my sight, you piece of shit.”

  Silas lurches off the couch, promptly falling to his knees. He crawls halfway to the sagging door before managing to stagger to his feet. Despite that uninspiring performance, he still has enough energy for an under-the-breath “fuck you, Tess” as he limps out of the apartment.

  Ella growls and gets off her bed, ready to follow.

  “It’s okay, girl.” She trots over and I pet her as Silas’s footsteps fade down the stairs. The front door of the building slams shut, leaving us alone.

  That is not true about Toby, right Tessie?

  “I don’t know.” But I do know. Unlike Silas, I’m pretty damn good at telling when someone’s bluffing.

  And that was no lie about Toby. All the same, best to confirm the story before heading on a wild goose chase out to the hospital. I thumb out a text to Catalina le Roux, one of my best friends who works as a surgeon at Ragnarok General, asking if Toby checked in as a patient recently.

  Ella headbutts me.

  Can we visit the hospital and go see?

  “Later.” I rub her flank. “I have a couple errands to run.”

  Can I come?

  “You have to stay here.”

  Please?

  I look at her hopeful face and say gently, “It’s too hot in the truck.”

  She hangs her head. I head into the hallway, and she gets tangled up beneath my feet, almost sending me tumbling to the ground.

  “Come on, El, I’d bring you if I could.”

  She leaps on me, her gray head coming up to my shoulders. I have to pee, though.

  “All right, a quick walk.”

  She trots downstairs, but there’s no joy in her gait.

  None in mine, either.

  A bad evening is leading to a bad day.

  And I have a feeling that things are going to get worse before they get better.

  Thirteen

  There’s a box waiting for me in the foyer of my apartment building—the files the Wolfhearts promised to send over last night. After a brief walk around the block, I return Ella and the files to the air-conditioned comfort of my apartment and then head out to the county jail. It’s outside the Ragnarok town limits, so I settle into my seat for a little drive.

  I park the truck in the jail’s lot, which is scorching thanks to the lack of shade and seemingly infinite expanse of jet-black asphalt. California summers. Gotta love them. Especially when it hasn’t rained in a while.

  From the scattered assortment of cars, the inmates don’t have many visitors today.

  But it’s Captain Stella Reynolds’ lucky day. Because she gets to see me.

  I wait in the visitor’s area for about ten minutes before she’s led out and seated across from me by a burly guard. Her wrinkled face twists into an ugly glare as the guard uncuffs her and says, “Fifteen minutes.”

  Then he leaves us to get reacquainted.

  Time is a funny thing. Just two weeks ago, Reynolds had me behind bars. Things were looking pretty bleak—at best, I was going down for murder. At worst, I was going to end up six feet under somewhere on Dom Rillo’s gated estate.

  But now, sizing her up from across the pitted table, the script has clearly flipped. Sure, she still has the same five-dollar haircut, but absent the power suit and expensive accoutrements, the chop-shop hairdo gives her a slightly feral vibe.

  I set Delia Wolfheart’s case file on the edge of the table and tent my fingers together.

  I kick things off with, “Food good in this place?”

  Reynolds growls, “Should have killed you when I had the chance.” It seems her appearance isn’t the only thing that’s taken an unhinged turn. The once cold, calculating woman has transformed into something of a nutcase.

  Not that I blame her. Thirty years of maneuvering and selling your soul, only to have your hopes of massive power and prestige dashed moments before the finish line…it must be crushing. After all, even evil and toxic dreams are still dreams. And now they’re dead and buried as she awaits trial for her role in Dominic Rillo’s various plots.

  Corruption. Conspiracy to commit murder. These, along with an assortment of other charges, have seen her locked up in the county jail pending trial—with no bail granted. Even if she manages to get acquitted on half of them, she’ll still spend the rest of her life locked up.

  So I can’t exactly blame her for not rolling out the red carpet.

  “That’s no way to greet an old friend, Captain.” I drum my fingertips on the table’s rusted surface.

  Reynolds’s eyes burn with all-consuming hatred. “I only agreed to your visit for one reason.”

  “That is?”

  “To tell you that I’ll be the one who kills you.”

  “But orange is such a good color on you,” I say. “Very in-season.”

  “It won’t be quick, either.” Her eyes light up with some twisted cousin of glee. “He promised me that.”

  I can see that fantasies of my slow and painful death have kept Reynolds going over the past two weeks. Given that we only have fifteen minutes, however, I really don’t want to waste any more time on threats.

  I am intrigued about this he business, though.

  So I ask, “Who’s that?”

  I’m expecting the question to be met with something along the lines of fuck off.

  Instead, Stella Reynolds can barely contain herself. “Ryan Jameson. I told him what you are.”

  Okay. So that clears up one mystery without much suspense. Not that my heart needs it after last night’s shenanigans.

  “So what, Ryan promised to get you out of here in exchange for information about me?”

  She snorts as if I’m a complete moron. “I’m never seeing daylight again. But he…well, he’s going to make you suffer. That was the deal.”

  I raise my eyebrow. “Not really you doing the killing, then, though.”

  Reynolds juts her jaw out defiantly. “I set it all in motion.”

  “How’d Ryan happen to come poking around here, anyway?”

  “I heard through the grapevine that he was looking for a Soulwalker.” She shrugs. “I still have contacts who can get a message where I need it. The rest, as they say, is history.”

  “Kind of like your career.”

  Her fists tighten, blood draining from her knuckles. “Fuck you, Skye.”

  “That’s the spirit.” I slide Delia Wolfheart’s file across the table. “I have a question about a case.”

  Her laugh is bitter and caustic. “And why would I help you?”

  “Figured there might be a shred of decency lurking in there somewhere.” I flip the folder open and turn the papers toward her. “Yo
u remember the Wolfheart case?”

  She smirks and sets her hands on the file. “After that fifty million, are we?”

  “News travels fast,” I say. “But no, I’m not.”

  “No, you were never about the money.”

  “Guilty as charged.” I tap the top sheet. “So what about some help?”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “Maybe I get Javy to put in a good word with the District Attorney.”

  Reynolds sweeps her fingers through her torrid mess of hair and says, “You’d cut off your own hand before doing that.”

  “You can never be sure, though.” I turn the page. “Pretty short active investigation.”

  “We’re understaffed,” Reynolds says, still using the present tense, like she’s still the captain. “We have to prioritize.”

  “See, for you, I’d think this case was a priority. Lots of bright lights. Media attention. Opportunity.”

  Reynolds shifts on the metal bench, eyes flitting about the visiting area. Other than the two of us and a guard, the place is empty. “We use resources where they’re best deployed.”

  “Used,” I say.

  “What?”

  “You don’t use shit anymore, because you’re not the captain.”

  She smolders, about to ignite. “I think this conversation has overstayed its welcome.”

  “We can still make that deal.”

  “You have nothing to offer me.”

  “You tell me why the case stalled out. And maybe I poke the wrong beehive. Could cross paths with Ryan quicker. Or maybe someone else who doesn’t like where I’m digging and puts a bullet in me.”

  “A bullet would be too quick.”

  “Fine. A death of a thousand cuts.”

  Reynolds’s lips purse together, as if the possibility of thrusting me into the heart of danger hadn’t occurred to her previously. A smug smile begins to spread as she says, “That does sound enticing.”

  “The case, then. What happened?”

  “Orders from above,” Reynolds says. “Not my call.”

  “Who?”

  “Straight from the chief.”

  My brow furrows. “Chief Baker?”

  “His predecessor.” Reynolds’s smile remains. “Chief Bobby Summers.”

  I rack my brain. “Didn’t he just vanish?”

  “Into thin air.” Reynolds snaps her fingers and then says with wide eyes, “Poof.” She leans back on the bench and adds, “And that’s all I’ll say.”

  “I need more.”

  She slams both of her fists on the table causing a loud bang. “No.”

  The guard standing next to the exit clears his throat and steps forward. I wave him off, and he raises an eyebrow and touches his baton as if to say that’s her last warning.

  “Did Ryan Jameson mention anything about Emmy or—”

  “No.” Her voice rises, turning shrill.

  The guard stares at both of us, muscles tensed. His hand has upgraded from baton-resting to sitting firmly on his taser.

  This is escalating quickly.

  “All right, all right.” I raise my hands in surrender. “Did you tell anyone else about me?”

  “Maybe I told everyone.” Her breaths are rapid and short, like an enraged bull preparing a charge. “So they can all watch me gouge your eyes out and eat them.”

  She dives across the table and unleashes an ear-splitting shriek that reverberates off the dull concrete walls like a screeching pinball.

  There’s no waving the guard off this time.

  Not that I’d want to. Her hands are already on my collar as she tries to pull me in closer to her.

  I barely dodge a slashing blow aimed for my eyes. My shirt rips as I lean back.

  I wind up to counter with a right hook when the guard tears her off.

  “You won’t see him coming before it’s too late!” Stella Reynolds kicks and hisses as she’s hauled away. Eventually, another guard rushes in to assist the first one. Together, they lift her off her feet and carry her out of the room.

  I look around at the empty benches.

  Then, seconds later, I’m briskly escorted out of the visiting area by a third guard, back into the parking lot’s hot sun.

  Fourteen

  The drive takes me about thirty minutes to get back downtown from the county jail. Despite Stella Reynolds’s unwillingness to share much, the trip was hardly a bust.

  Someone wanted to see the investigation into Delia’s murder die a quiet bureaucratic death. Whether that was the now missing Chief Bobby Summers—or he was just another puppet in the chain—remains to be seen. And I got at least one clear answer: Reynolds told Marius that I’m a Soulwalker.

  And might have told more people.

  Which is great.

  But I can’t worry about that what ifs right now. I need to meet Finn at the Silver Stallion.

  Modern alternative rock plays from the speakers as I step into the bar five minutes after eleven. It’s not quite a dive, but it’s not going to win awards for its ambiance, either. One of those touchscreen jukeboxes, sticky floors, and the smell of stale beer are its three most noteworthy features. Rows of rickety bar stools line the liquid-warped bar, with vinyl booths along the parallel wall.

  It wouldn’t make for a noteworthy Ragnarok landmark, other than it’s the local supernatural hangout. So it’s good for gathering intel when someone’s had a few too many.

  Finn’s in the back booth, right next to the bathrooms. I give him a wave. With no one behind the bar, it looks like I’ll need to serve myself. Maybe Keiko—Finn’s crush—isn’t working today.

  No big deal. I’ve known Keiko since I moved to Ragnarok. Her, Catalina, and I all grew up together. We’re best friends, but not in that inseparable kind of way where we’re always hanging every free minute.

  In the way that actually matters. Where I know they both have my back—even if I haven’t seen them in ten years, and I have a body to bury. Which isn’t too far off from when Catalina showed up a couple weeks ago to stitch me up after that whole “Dom Rillo just tried to murder the entire town” mess. Besides not seeing her for ten years. Pretty sure I saw Catalina a couple days before that incident hooking up with the new bartender Keiko hired.

  Having my back also applies to free drinks. So I head behind the bar and pour myself a beer. I cut away the excess foam with my finger and take a sip.

  Before I can join Finn in the booth, however, none other than my arch-nemesis Sherlock Anderson emerges from the bathroom, holding a glass.

  His eyes light up when he spots me. “Tess!”

  “Sherlock.” He’s got perfectly coifed hair, a smile that cost five-figures, and has a salmon shirt that’s starched so stiff I can smell the dry cleaning. His jaw is open in a friendly, shark-like approximation of a smile.

  He sits down on a bar stool and extends a hand.

  I look at his manicured fingernails like they’re radioactive before finally giving him a limp handshake.

  His palms are softer than a puppy’s ears.

  “Got a little side hustle going here?” He gestures toward the still-dripping tap.

  “Not quite,” I say through gritted teeth. “Working a case.”

  “Good, good.” Sherlock takes a large gulp of his drink. A lime bobs amid the sea of ice. “We just hooked a big fish.”

  “That so?”

  “Huge.” He drops his voice, like he’s telling me something that he’s not about to be shouting from the town rooftops in about thirty minutes. “You saw the press conference earlier?”

  “The Emmy Davis one?”

  “The Fifty-Million-Dollar Woman, they’re calling her.” He studies my expression. “Catchy, right?”

  Sherlock is fishing, trying to find out if I know anything useful. I just say, “Haven’t given it much thought.”

  “What’d you say your case was?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Come on. Just some shop talk between professionals.”
>
  “You didn’t tell me who your big fish was, either,” I say, although it’s easy to guess. He’s after that fifty-mil.

  Problem is, he thinks he’s venturing into crystal blue waters. About to play the hero, sailing in to crack the case where all the cops and investigators before him have failed. When he’s actually a rube diving into a boiling hot sea of shit guarded by angry piranhas.

  “Touché.” Sherlock crunches down on a piece of ice as he finishes his drink. “Let’s just say you’ll probably be seeing us on TV soon.”

  “You have a lead on Emmy?”

  “See.” He raises his finger and wags it at me. “I knew we were working the same case.”

  “I’m not after the reward,” I say. Little does this jackass know the reward is all a front, anyway. Hex Davis, when he was still himself, was dead broke.

  And now, being possessed by Marius, that financial situation has hardly changed for the better. But the outside world doesn’t know that. To them, he’s still Hex—and he’s still as rich as ever.

  “I actually believe you,” he says.

  Call Sherlock what you want—a dedicated capitalist, an opportunist, a leech—but dumb isn’t one of them. If I had my choice of poker opponents, I wouldn’t be sitting across the table from him, trying to bluff away his chips.

  But we don’t always get to choose who sits across the table from us in this life. Marius, Sherlock—sure, it’d be nice if everyone was a complete moron like Silas. The irony of life is that assholes are the crucible for greatness. Without them constantly trying our patience, the rest of us would get lazy and we’d all still be painting on cave walls by firelight.

  “A free word of advice, Sherlock.” I step out from behind the bar, beer in hand. “There’s no reward.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  I wink and say, “I’ve got my sources. But I’d steer clear. Otherwise you might chip one of those expensive veneers.”

  “Is that a threat, Tess?” His smile broadens, sensing competition, greed overriding his natural savviness and warning bells.

  “Take it however you’d like.” I shrug, then head over to Finn.

  As I slide into the booth, Finn sweeps his cowlick aside and rolls his eyes. “What did that swamp parasite want?”