San Diego Noir

by Maryelizabeth Hart

  Nothing like the hint of a serial fae killer to drop a spark in the very dry powder keg that was political relations between us and the human races. San Diego had always been a fairly easy, laid-back town. Tourists, convention-goers, Navy and civilian residents—all mingled with some semblance of polite disdain. I mean, for humans, the color of their skin or the weight of their bank accounts mattered very little nowadays. After all, until recently (as far as humans knew), every sentient being shared one thing: death. Or rather Death—the grim reaper who visited young, old, middle-aged alike, and no matter who you were, how much you were worth, eventually, the final score leveled everyone’s playing field.

  Not us. We didn’t die like they did—do, would. Oh sure, we could be killed, any living being can given enough effort, but we didn’t just die. Old age? Yeah, well, my cousin had seen the turn of the millennium—the first one—and was still performing as a dancer at the Gaslamp Strip Club. Yeah, yeah, it used to be a steak joint, but a lot of things changed. Family restaurants became bars; steak joints with bars became stripper clubs—with a higher cover. And strip joints, well, let’s just say that the Moral Majority didn’t win this one. Can’t say this happened all over the world, but it did in most of the sea and ocean ports and destination cities. Orlando? A heck of a new version of the Magic Kingdom. The one in Anaheim just got boarded up for lack of interest. I never really understood why. Maybe it’s because I’m a halfling. Thanks to my promiscuous mother who, a whole lot of decades ago, had decided to relive her heyday, this time in Haight-Ashbury, I was the product of a Beltane ritual gone wonky. What Mama never knew was that she herself was a halfling. Wood nymph, most likely, I was never sure. She’d gotten herself killed in a nasty hit-and-run when I was twenty. I never learned which of the several men she’d banged on that particular Beltane had contributed his sperm to my making. He’d been full fae, no doubt about it. My own genetics proved that. But he could have been anyone. Never really worried me. Mama and her sister June raised me and I turned out okay. By the time humans knew of us, I’d been an adult for a lot of years and able to figure things out on my own … like why, when I touched certain objects, I knew their history. June was the only one who’d believed me when I was a kid. She’d died in a car accident just last year: drunk driver.

  Some of us halflings were too human to make it in Faery; some too fae to make it in the human world. Me, I straddled the fence with the best of the undecideds. I could pass for either. Maybe that’s why my nickname was Chameleon. When I’d joined the Bod Squad, a traveling investigative team made up of two humans, two fae, and two halflings, they named me right away—not Cam for Camilla (a name I’d been known to use), but Chameleon, since I could seem like exactly what was expected. In a difficult situation, I was a tough cop/dealer/criminal. In the middle of a ladies’ church brunch, I looked like Mrs. Cleaver. Part and parcel of the package.

  We operated outside the normal parameters of the law, but within the strict guidelines and treaties set down fifteen years ago. We were in charge of any suspicious deaths that might involve fae. Thus, being called in to work at three-bloody-a.m. on a night I was supposed to be off. Not that I’d been sleeping. I don’t do much of that; it’s part of my nature. What I had been doing is my partner—an extremely hot faery princess, who also happened to be assistant DA for the city of San Diego. Risa was nigh onto six feet, gorgeous, all golden skin, red hair, and green eyes. She’d been the subject of many a love letter, the golden child of the district attorney’s office. Her conviction rate neared 90 percent, mostly because the crooks tended to fall in love with her at first site. Oh, it wasn’t her fault, really. There was a touch of siren in her bloodline. They just couldn’t help themselves: women, men, teenagers. I heard that she once got a marriage proposal from one of the sea kings. She never told me who. I was pretty sure it was Murrow, king of San Diego Bay and its surrounds.

  “Fuck.” I peered down at the boy’s hand, the only thing not absolutely covered in blood and bits. “Damn, fuck, and shit.” I loved cursing in modern-day English. It was so satisfying. I ran a hand over my hair, for a moment forgetting I’d cut it short and spiky. My persona tonight was that of tough woman detective. “Gloves,” I snapped, holding a hand behind me as I squatted to get a better look.

  “Problem?”

  A hand slapped a pair of latex gloves into mine. I nodded as I pulled them on and leaned forward. “Jason, you got all this?”

  “Got his head and shoulder, yep.” The photographer kept snapping away as I tucked two fingers under the dead head, turning the face just enough to be sure. Damn it. I let his face down gently back onto the asphalt. “I know him,” I said as I stood. “It’s Donny.” I pointed to the body’s left. “Jason, make sure to get all angles on his hand, okay?”

  “Why his hand?” Abe Abrams, detective with F unit and longtime acquaintance, bent over at the waist to get a closer look. I winced at his inability to squat. “Cam, the hand?”

  For a moment, I wondered why he was asking, then I remembered. He was human. He didn’t know.

  “Donny just got licensed,” I explained. “He should have a tat right there.” I pointed with my pencil to the bare left wrist. “That blank spot shouldn’t be blank.”

  “You sure about that?” Abe grunted, and with obvious effort, kneeled down. He played his flashlight beam over the dead boy’s wrist. “There’s no sign of the tat. Don’t those last for the full ninety days?”

  “Positive,” I said. “I inspected his group not four days ago and verified the markings. Donny and his crew were supposed to be working here at the Leaf through the end of the month. Then they were supposed to rotate to the other Ivy Tree hotels through their probation.”

  Abe shrugged. “Maybe a john treated him to dinner … then—”

  “What?” I spit out. “Then got his jollies in the alley behind the hotel before he killed Donny? Why bother? Have you been inside this hotel? They practically fall over themselves to give guests what they want, up to and including a blowjob if necessary. The Pros stationed here are the finest of the fine. Donny—Donal—was the best in his training group. Why would anyone want him dead? It’s not as if prostitution is illegal.”

  “Money? What if it wasn’t a john? He could’ve been mugged.”

  “A client,” I corrected him. “Clients here spend more money in a day than any Pro could make in a month. That, plus Donny’s tat wasn’t removable by just anyone.”

  “Magic?”

  “Yeah, fae magic and fae markings. Only removable by someone with the appropriate training and with fae blood.”

  I flipped on my flashlight and pointed it down Donny’s body, along the mangled back, the shattered leg bones, and then across the once pristine alley. “Blood trail’s over there,” I said. “Uphill.” That could only mean one thing. Fae. Blood followed fae like rats followed garbage. Instead of flowing into the very convenient drain just south of what was left of Donny’s once beautiful head, the boy’s blood flowed up a slight incline, slightly north and west of his body. “Abe, I’m going to follow this,” I muttered. “Blood’s following fae here. Just another nail in someone’s upcoming coffin.” My stomach tightened at the thought of fae killing fae in this brutal way. Despite our abilities, our talents, there were so few of us. The days of the wars were long over. I wanted to catch this bastard, have whoever did this answer to fae justice.

  Abe ignored me. He was a good guy, but just a smidge too close to retirement to want to be out here, working what could be a serial murder case—and worse, involving a fae Licensed Professional Worker, a protected class. Abe and I had both started in the department around the same time: him a fresh-faced detective out of the Central Division; me transferred in from fae relations up near the Mesa. I’d hated the PR gig—with a passion born of a million fiery suns and the anger of a true fae warrior. Making nice with human assholes, just because I was public affairs? Yeah, no. Not a job for me. I’d lasted all of a year before I nearly decapitated one annoyin
g lout who’d had the balls to call me a whore. It didn’t matter that our sexual practices weren’t the same as human ones; since we most often tended to look like them, they wanted us to be like them. We were as similar as a goat is to a GTO. I’d barely restrained myself, packed up my things, and told my then supervisor I was leaving. Three weeks later, I found myself filling out the job application for a San Diego city cop. They hadn’t accepted my application, but after negotiations I was brought on board as a special unit consultant and part of the Bod Squad, a.k.a. Risa threw a hissy and someone jumped.

  I dropped to a crouch, peering down the flashlight beam. The blood trail faded, but a few drops were still evident. A low chime from my watch made me glance at the time. Damn. Soon, the early worker bees for the restaurants and hotels would begin to arrive. We were smack in the middle of tourist central, near the convention center, pretty much in the middle of the Gaslamp. I didn’t know what ginormous gathering was in town this week—Comic-Con was over, but we were entering fall convention season. I hadn’t paid attention to the info sheet at the station. We were supposed to have this data, but I figured anything I could look up on my phone was something that didn’t need to clutter my memory. I stopped, sniffing the air as something pinged my awareness. Nothing on the ground. I turned my head and sniffed again. There, to the right. I pointed my light back behind a big gray trash barrel, this one marked with a stencil identifying itself as property of the Ivy Branch, a bar adjacent to the Leaf.

  A small hole, no bigger than a rat, shone with a slick of blood on its edges. No rat caused that blood to end up there. Scent was pure fae. Pure Donny. Poor kid had been so excited about his placement too. The Leaf was so prestigious, its concierge known for excellent matches. Rarely did a Pro ask for reassignment from here. This was an amazing place for someone as new as Donny, but his beauty and abilities had catapulted him to the top of the list, so when the concierge asked to supplement their complement of Pros, Donal ap Dylan had been one of the lucky few. Now, he’d be just another stat, another murder. San Diego had just doubled last year’s murder rate for the Gaslamp—only two last year. Now, with Donny’s death, we were up to four. Three dead Workers added to a fairly standard drunk-and-disorderly-turned-knife-fight from earlier in the year and it wasn’t even September.

  Sure, humans didn’t understand how anyone could want to be a prostitute, a Licensed Professional Worker, but for those fae with enhanced sexual abilities, it was a way to earn a living legally and still keep their emotions and magic in balance. When we’d revealed ourselves, thanks to an accidental discovery in Roswell that led to one of those ridiculous alien autopsy videos, we’d weighed the odds. Thousands of us versus billions of humans. Our power, life spans, and sheer chutzpah won out. We didn’t want to be caught up in another Area 51 debacle, nor run the risk of technology catching up to our abilities. It was time to make ourselves known, so we did. All at once, all over the world. Unlike stories of other supernatural species who’ve had to lay low and do this slowly, once all the fae clans were in agreement, it was as easy as putting the memories and knowledge into every human’s head as they slept. Within twenty-four hours, it was as if we’d always been there. Because we had—that shadow in the barn that didn’t belong; the scurrying feet in the attic; the face of the woman in the lake—not that I’d go so far as an arm in white samite, but still, a lot of those “edges of the eye,” seeings were us. All of us, in all our various forms.

  Sure, there were several years of bickering and politicking between the groups, but overall we’d just been granted citizenship for wherever we lived. A few countries weren’t as simple, so many of those fae just applied for sanctuary and asylum status in more liberal lands. Canada got a great influx, as did the U.S. All either of those countries wanted to know was that we were able to gainfully support ourselves. Most of us could, in fact, most of us had been doing just that. After things settled, many of the fae leaders simply started taking over certain professions, such as prostitution. They cleaned it up, managed to get a bunch of laws passed, and now, in all states except Utah, prostitution was legal and limited to LPWs—who were all of fae blood. This sat a lot better with the various church groups; after all, we weren’t quite like them. Unfortunately, now I was facing this case and someone who was tearing up young-looking male LPWs.

  A flash of headlights signaled the arrival of the official crime scene techs. I nodded to the lead, a sprite who’d taken the unlikely name of Lavender Gray when he realized no human could pronounce his real name. “He’s one of ours, Lav,” I said.

  A grunt was the only acknowledgment I got. The techs scurried through the alley in silence, placing markers, picking up near invisible bits and pieces, sealing up evidence bags. Abe and I watched just as silently. Jason trailed behind the team, snapping more photos whenever a technician pointed.

  “You think we’re going to—”

  “Yes,” I cut off Abe’s words. “We’re going to catch this killer.” I had no intention of letting Abe voice my own unspoken doubts. So far, the trace evidence in each case had been so minuscule, so vague as to implicate pretty much anyone—with or without a motive. In the previous two cases, we’d interviewed the victims’ clients, their team leaders, hotel managers, concierges. Abe had worked all his contacts at hotels, the navy, anyone who’d ever owed him a favor. Still nothing. So far, the only clues we had were that they were all males, all LPWs, and all looked very young. None of them were actually young, not in human terms—Donny had been at least a hundred—but young in fae terms. The other two victims had been in the middle of their second century. Two victims were blond, one a redhead. All had gray eyes. All had both human and fae clientele. Nothing in the victims’ backgrounds indicated anything sleazy, drug-related, or any other criminal behavior. I was at a total loss. The usual motives didn’t seem to apply. Jealousy? Perhaps, but there was no client common to the three of them. Money? Not a factor in Donny’s case, he was only a beginner, making scale. The first victim had just completed his apprenticeship, but his new grade wasn’t anywhere near the kind of money people usually killed for. The second victim’s rate was average for a seasoned apprentice. Nothing seemed to fit. The only thing they had in common was their current choice of profession and their sex—traits shared by hundreds. (At last count, San Diego County licensed 210 male LPWs, 212 female, and just under 100 intersex.) Each had been beautiful, male, and perfectly turned out, skin soft with lotion, nails of feet and hands meticulously manicured. All three of them worked the Gaslamp, but so did many others.

  What was so special, so unusual about these three that triggered their killer’s attention?

  “They’re done,” Abe’s voice interrupted my thoughts.

  The techs were climbing into their van and Jason was packing up his equipment. A coroner’s representative loaded Donny, discreetly wrapped in a body bag and gurney, into his van. I blinked and yawned. “I’m going home.” A quick cuddle with Risa followed by a few hours of sleep sounded perfect to me. “Lab at noon?” I asked Abe. “Then we can come back and talk to the staff.” Beat cops had already handled the initial questions, but now it would be our turn.

  “One,” he replied. “I’m doing lunch with Leah.”

  I smiled. “Tell her hi for me.” Abe’s daughter was visiting from grad school.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Will do.”

  I watched as he trudged to his car, every month of his nearly twenty years of service evident in the weary posture. I knew he resented me sometimes. He’d aged, and not too gracefully, muscles losing tone, eyesight deteriorating. He’d never been a poster boy for Sports Illustrated, but Abe had kept fairly fit. Now, after two knee operations, he could barely make it around the block without pain. When we’d pull cases together, I saw the looks he gave me. How could I not? I appeared to be in my mid-twenties. My hair still as glossy brown (or black or red) as it had ever been, my eyes keener than his ever were. He thought we were around the same age, fifty-five going on fifty-six. I’d neve
r told him he could be my grandson. It would have killed whatever was left of his self-esteem.

  My stomach growled reminding me I hadn’t eaten today. I checked my watch again. Too early for breakfast at Richard Walker’s, damnit. Sleep called, but hunger’s voice outspoke it right now. Maybe I could cajole Risa into rising early and making me something to eat. For while she was a powerful fae, equally powerful at her job, at home she loved to play at domesticity. I knew it was a phase, but hell, right now it worked for me. I hated domestic activities. My nature lent itself more to fighting and physical strength. Risa was probably as good a fighter as I was, but she loved to cook. I took a deep breath, the lavender scent filling my nostrils. Damn, that stuff lingered. I looked around at the scene, no longer clean, but that would be handled by morning. The brownie city services would take care of that. Another yawn and a stretch. That was it. Time to go home.

  No sooner than I’d made up my mind, I heard a squeak of door hinges. The green door creaked open, an eye peering out through the crack. I stared at it for a beat, then two.

  “You coming out?” I asked.

  Another beat and the door slowly opened to reveal a man of medium height, nattily attired in an expensive gray suit, perfectly complemented by a matching silk tie in varying shades of gray, a meticulously folded square of silk tucked into the breast pocket. I did a quick calculation. Newish suit, worn by someone who knows how to dress. Spent more on the suit than my monthly pay. A glance down confirmed the rest. Italian loafers, shined to perfection. Hotel manager, probably.

  “Mister … ?” I ventured forward, my hand outstretched, senses poised to gather as much intel as I could with the incipient shake.

  “Maggiano.” The man offered me a brusque bow. “Forgive me,” he said, remaining where he stood. “Ahem …” He motioned to the alleyway behind me, never closing the distance between us. “You are done here?”