A Girl’s Best Friend (Moonlight Detective Agency Book 3)

by Isobella Crowley

  The troll grunted and fidgeted in place, but at least she seemed to hold his attention.

  “And second,” she went on, “during an infidelity case, this kind of clear and definite proof is usually the point at which our services are no longer required. An unscrupulous agency that simply wanted to bill you would therefore try to disguise clear proof so they could collect further fees for continuing the investigation.”

  Remy snapped his fingers and transformed the motion into pointing at her. “Right, exactly. That’s precisely what I was about to say.”

  Shauckburn growled, squeezed his eyes shut, and brought his clenched fists up toward his chest as he struggled to bring his emotions under control.

  “I still can’t fucking believe it!” he grunted. “We’ve been married for sixteen years. Who is this guy? He’s even uglier than my brother.”

  He swiped a hand toward the photo, where his spouse was locked in a highly intimate embrace with a young man with puffy cheeks, bristly hair, and an upturned nose.

  “He’s a wereboar, apparently.” Remy shrugged. “I didn’t even know there were wereboars. Werecats are bad enough. Yeah, he’s fairly hideous, but he also looks younger than you, so maybe that has something to do with it. Women sometimes get to that point where they want to pretend they’re back in college or whatever.”

  The troll’s eyes bulged as he stared at the investigator, and he began to literally tremble with barely suppressed wrath. “I’m not old!” he roared.

  Remy would have shrunk back a step or two, but he was still seated in his chair behind the desk. Crap. It looks like I still don’t have the whole ‘tact’ thing down as well as I ought to.

  He cleared his throat and tried to ignore the sweat forming on his palms. A quick glance at Taylor for help suggested that he was on his own. She’d leaned back against the wall, her arms folded over her chest, and now regarded him with an aloof expression of mild annoyance.

  That definitely meant he was on his own.

  “Uh,” he stammered, “pardon. I forgot that you guys age slower than humans, right? In mortal years, you’d be old, but you’re definitely not in troll years. Aging like a fine wine, as they say.”

  Shauckburn made a low barking noise. “I’ll…smash you like a…wine!” He sounded like he was choking on his own anger at this point.

  And here I am, Remy lamented, at least trying to be nice to this guy.

  Something beeped and the voice of Bobby, the receptionist, sounded in the office, barely audible over the snarls of their client.

  “Ms Steele, Mr Remington,” she said, “the New York City Chief of Police is here. He…uh, demands to speak to you right away. Should I let him through?”

  Remy kept his eyes on Shauckburn and raised both palms in a gesture of placation. He wracked his brain for some other way to calm the troll while Taylor answered the message.

  “Bobby,” she snapped, “do not let him back here no matter what. Understood? We’ll be out directly along with Mr Shauckburn.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The receptionist’s voice fell silent, although Remy thought he could hear her talking to someone out in the lobby. As he recalled, she wore a lacy, low-cut blouse, so he had faith in her ability to keep the chief distracted for a while.

  He focused on the troll. “Sir, if you would kindly please calm down and put your disguise on, I will offer you a ten percent discount on our services, paid out of my own pocket. How does that sound?”

  “Ten?” Shauckburn all but bellowed. “It should be more like—”

  Taylor clamped a hand on his shoulder and offered him the thin, enchanted mask and gloves he wore to give himself the appearance of normal human skin tone. For some reason, undisguised trolls were easier for normal people to see than most other preternaturals.

  “Your disguise,” she said briskly. “Please put it back on, Mr Shauckburn.”

  For another two or three minutes, they argued with the inconsolable troll. Finally, Taylor grasped him around the upper arms and shoulders—he knocked over a side table, which made a fair amount of racket—and refused to release him until he cooperated.

  Remy then had the honor of trying to put the mask on his face. Fortunately, Shauckburn mostly growled and stared, rather than attempting to bite his hand off.

  “There,” the investigator said, “your mask is mostly on. You might as well complete the ensemble with the gloves, now that you’ve come this far.”

  The troll finally agreed. Remy noticed, though, that the mask didn’t stick to his face properly. Either Shauckburn would need to fix it himself or they’d simply have to hope that the Police Chief outside didn’t look too closely at the tall angry guy.

  All three exited the office and moved toward the lobby and the front door beyond.

  Remy walked out in front so he could partially block the huge, saggy-faced troll, not to mention the fact that Taylor held said troll’s arm in her deceptively powerful grip and guided him as she moved.

  Shauckburn muttered again, “This is still bullshit. This isn’t over!”

  A balding man of medium height with a dark-blue overcoat draped over his shoulders stood before the reception desk. The chief was perfectly positioned to witness their disgruntled client’s exit.

  The investigator took a deep breath and tried to think of how best to explain the shouting plus the crash of Shauckburn knocking over the side table. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to mention the fact that the troll’s face looked rather like it was melting on the left side.

  To everyone’s surprise, however, the chief offered only the briefest of sidelong glances as the trio, including the large angry troll, passed behind him and through the doors. He seemed completely enraptured by Bobby. She prattled about something or other and more importantly, her blouse was indeed low-cut.

  They stepped outside.

  “Again,” Taylor said, “we apologize. And of course, Remington will make good on his offer of a ten percent reimbursement discount. Please try to have a good rest of your evening, Mr Shauckburn.”

  A tremble of rage went through the troll as he loped off toward his truck. “Too fucking late, but thanks.” Finally, he was gone.

  The young man and the vampire stepped back toward the door, paused a moment in the chilly January air, and examined the policeman through the glass.

  Taylor patted a slim hand on his arm. “Nicely done,” she said.

  He grinned and mentally prepared a comment to acknowledge how well he’d handled the Shauckburn situation, but Taylor interrupted him. “Hiring Ms Diaz to be our receptionist, I mean. It seems she’s working out even better than expected.”

  Remy shrugged, then nodded. He would take what compliments he could get. Besides, the first time he’d seen that cleavage, he knew he was looking at a potential business asset.

  The two pushed through the door and stood behind the chief. The man spared another quick glance toward them but returned his gaze to Bobby’s chest as he opened his mouth to speak.

  “So, hi,” he began. “I’m here to follow up on that incident from five or six weeks ago. The disturbance.”

  The investigator nodded and maintained a vaguely pleasant smile—the kind of expression he always used for Public Relations. Of course, he knew exactly what the man was referring to, but both he and Taylor waited to hear more before they offered their two cents’ worth.

  The chief cleared his throat. “Your neighbors complained of a loud, violent confrontation—considerable shouting, crashing and things breaking, and even gunshots. They thought it was a goddamn gang war or possibly a terrorist attack. Police responders arrived on the scene to find your office trashed. I’m sure you remember—”

  “Yes,” Taylor answered and kept her voice mild. “We filed a report.”

  “Yeah.” The man dragged his gaze away from the receptionist long enough to produce a manila folder from under his coat. He set it on the desk, opened it, and made a show of leafing through a few papers within.

  Remy squinte
d at the documents. What the hell are those, warrants for our arrest?

  The chief cleared his throat. “So, according to this, you said teenagers broke into the place after hours and used it to throw a party, trashed the place, and then got into an altercation with one or two junkies passing through the area and someone pulled a gun. Which led to further trashing.”

  He raised his gaze to meet Taylor’s. “Is that correct?”

  She nodded. “It is, to the best of our knowledge. Our people did not arrive until the damage had already been done.”

  Watching the cop, Remy noticed the steady, narrow-eyed gaze and the slight pucker of distaste around the mouth. Clearly, he thought they were hiding something and he seemed highly interested in finding out exactly what.

  “You know,” the man countered, “we canvassed the area, interviewed the locals, and checked some of the security feeds and all that, and a funny thing turned up. No one seems able to remember any teenagers hanging around the neighborhood that night.”

  Taylor raised her left eyebrow and shrugged. “They must have come from another neighborhood nearby and been sneaky about it.”

  “The thing is,” the chief responded almost instantly, “what a coupla people did claim to see was some people in dark suits skulking around. Being real sneaky like professionals. They weren’t sure exactly where these individuals were going but it was in this vicinity.” He waved his index finger in a circle while he pointed it at the floor.

  Remy pretended to look surprised, even though the man had focused most of his attention on the vampire. The man was referring, of course, to Agent Kendra Gilmore’s team, who’d staked out a building down the street to help capture Moswen Neith’s servant, Alex.

  The fact that he seemingly had no idea who they were meant that, as planned, the FBI still hadn’t bothered to share its information with the NYPD. Gilmore had kept her word.

  Taylor made a show of pondering this supposedly new information. “I see,” she commented finally.

  “And,” the chief went on, “that doesn’t seem the slightest suspicious to you? Like it contradicts some of the finer points of your statement? You didn’t neglect to report anything like, say, a well-organized squad targeting a safe box in your office that might have held something you wouldn’t want to talk about?”

  She placed a finger over her lips. “Hmm…well, no. I’ll concede that the detail about the black-suited persons is disturbing. However, we’re really quite backed up with cases right now, which makes it difficult to do our own investigation. So, if you’re unable to do your own job and want me to look into it, I’ll have to charge you our standard fee for a private case.”

  He snorted and seemed almost to bristle as he stuffed the report papers into the folder and took a step back. “That’ll be the day.” He grunted.

  As he turned and marched toward the door, Remy saw a short, broad figure coming in from the opposite direction.

  The man ignored the newcomer and said over his shoulder, “It’s a good thing the Guggenheim Museum was able to recover that stolen idol.” Then, he was gone.

  Remy sighed. “It was a fake, anyway,” he muttered.

  The man who now entered the office brushed shoulders with the departing cop as he stepped into the lobby. It was Surrly, the dwarf. Even by the standards of his species, he was squat and broad.

  “Oblivious humans,” he grumbled. “You’d think I’d be unusual enough to warrant the dignity of a second glance.”

  Remy waved. “Hi, Surrly! How goes the rocks business?”

  “Rocks!” The dwarf snorted. “Your kind are as oblivious to mineral value as you are to the existence of differences between sentient peoples.”

  Bobby started to ask their guest if he was related to Andrew Volz, their tech specialist, but Taylor stepped forward to greet him before she could finish.

  “Surrly, nice to see you again. What brings you here this evening?” She extended a slim white hand.

  He smiled beneath his iron-colored mustache and extended a hugely thick arm. It looked as though he might crush her hand or snap her forearm with his grip, but she displayed no sign of discomfort.

  The visitor opened with a grunt. “I have another job for you. Not so much an investigation, but it is something I’m sure you could handle.”

  Remy thought of how he’d exchanged some of Surrly’s “rocks”—uncut gems—for cash by trading them to a certain werecat. It was probably something like that, he concluded.

  Taylor spread her hands. “Go on. I don’t believe you’ve ever come to see me yourself while requesting my services before, so I am intrigued.”

  When he studied her, Remy noticed a slight tension and skepticism. She had a hell of a poker face but then again, he was a hell of a poker player.

  The dwarf took a few more steps in and seated himself on one of the lobby’s chairs.

  Bobby caught his attention. “Do you want any coffee, Mr…uh, Surrly?” she asked.

  He raised a blocky hand. “No, thank you. I’ll not be here for too long.”

  “Okay. Let me know if you need anything.”

  The receptionist leaned back and buried her face in the latest issue of The New England Inquirer, a disreputable gossip sheet which often attempted to report on the preternatural but usually failed miserably at it. Remy had featured in quite a few of their stories. When neither of her two bosses made a move to escort the client through to the inner office, she set her reading matter aside and wandered off, presumably to give them space or perhaps simply to make herself coffee.

  Remy hung back, leaned against the reception desk, and folded his arms over his chest while Taylor sat in another chair across from the dwarf.

  “Now,” Surrly began, “what I’d like your help with is in granting me certain assurances. You see, my cartel is moving in a certain amount of extra merchandise lately.”

  He seemed to pause for a second to consider his words, but before he could go on, Taylor interrupted him.

  “What is the merchandise?” Her tone was still mostly soft, but Remy noticed the underlying edge to it.

  The dwarf bristled. “My client has requested privacy on the matter, so I am not at liberty to divulge that information. Suffice to say that, as with everything I deal, it is of great value.”

  “Avocados?” the investigator guessed.

  Surrly shot him a death glare and his busy unibrow angled downward in the middle. “No.”

  Taylor ignored her partner and pressed on with another question. “And what kind of assurances are you talking about?”

  He turned back to the woman. “I wish to be assured that my merchandise will be safe. After the shenanigans six weeks ago, one can’t be too careful. Not to mention, all that nonsense drew undue attention to my operations. Vultures have begun to circle. From what I hear, newer and bigger vultures.”

  Remy filed that intriguing detail away in his mind. Later, it might be wise to determine if their visitor knew anything about Moswen Neith.

  The stout man went on. “Everything I know suggests that you would be the one to stop anyone from interfering with the shipments. Few in this city are stupid enough to cross you.”

  Something in the energy she gave off grew cooler, harder. “No,” she stated flatly.

  “What?” Surrly straightened, shocked by her response.

  She did not react. “You’ve come to request security from a firm that performs investigations. We’re private detectives, not hired muscle. Anytime we flex our muscle, it is only in response to someone egregiously flaunting the rules or threatening us directly. We are not a ‘show of force’ to be rented for the purpose of intimidating your rivals.”

  Scoffing and muttering under his beard, the dwarf heaved himself to his feet. “I would not have expected this kind of treatment from you of all people.”

  An average-looking, thirtyish blond man stumbled into the lobby from somewhere deeper in the office.

  “Uh, does our guest want any coffee?” he asked in an Aust
ralian accent. He squinted at the client and seemed to recognize him, immediately went pale, and backed away slowly. Fortunately, the dwarf paid him no heed.

  “No,” Remy called after him, “Bobby already asked about that. Thanks for being such a good intern, though.”

  Surrly, ignoring the interruption, had pivoted away from them and was about to leave. Taylor and Remy watched as he stormed toward the door, paused a few feet before it, and half-turned toward them.

  “I may have to rethink our business relationship,” he said over his shoulder. “Clearly, you care more about technicalities or your reputation than you do about actually helping your customers.”

  “Not necessarily,” Taylor replied calmly. “Cool down a little and perhaps you can contact us again at another time.”

  Shaking his head, he shoved angrily through the doors and disappeared out into the night.

  Remy sighed. “It’s a shame. He’s actually a charming fellow to work with, aside from being a total asshole and all. Plus, I’m a tad disappointed that we weren’t able to introduce him to Alex as ‘the guy who killed your guys.’”

  Thinking back on the horrid scene of half a dozen of Surrly’s dwarves torn apart in a sewer tunnel, he almost immediately regretted his own attempt at humor. The image still haunted his nightmares. And while Alex had been rendered harmless, the creature who’d driven him to do that was still on the loose.

  Taylor’s eyes had gone distant, and she drummed her red nails on the armrest of her chair.

  “It’s strange,” she muttered finally. “What could Surrly’s cartel possibly be shipping that’s so valuable that he would look for outside help to protect it? That’s not like them at all. Dwarves usually like their privacy and prefer to work within their own circles. And it’s not as if the diamonds and such he dealt in before were exactly worthless.”

  He almost answered but realized he’d already blown his “avocados” comment and didn’t have a Plan B.