by Sierra Dean
I didn’t know if Tyler would be able to stomach coffee anymore, considering the last time I’d seen him with a cup it ended up being seasoned with a hell of a lot of blood.
“How long have you known Gabriel Holbrook?”
“We dated for about a year. And that was almost three years ago. He and I broke up awhile before I met you.”
Tyler ignored my reference to our ill-fated date. “Have you been in contact with him since?”
I snorted.
“That’s not an answer, Miss McQueen.”
“No, Detective. Gabriel broke up with me on a note stuck to my fridge. I woke up one night to find all of his stuff moved out of our apartment, and I can’t say I had much interest in talking to him again after that.”
“So if you and the suspect aren’t close, why would he call you?” Hearing Gabriel called a suspect rankled me a bit. I may not have the warm fuzzies for the guy, but he was my first love. Even if he was an asshole, that still meant something to me.
“You know what I do for a living.”
“Yes.”
“Who would you rather call if you got arrested? Your mom, or someone who might actually be able to help you?” I didn’t mention that Gabriel’s mom had run off with a carnie when Gabriel was seven, and he’d been raised by his ultraconservative grandmother. I wondered if Ellen was still alive.
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“How the hell should I know why he called me, Tyler?” I shrugged. “I haven’t talked to the guy in years.”
“Do you want to talk to him now?”
My back stiffened, and I focused on the wall behind his desk. There was a corkboard with a map of the area around the precinct and several arrest reports pinned next to it, along with mug shots of some of NYC’s most wanted. I couldn’t picture Gabriel’s face as a mug shot.
“Not really,” I admitted. “But I came anyway, didn’t I?”
Tyler’s expression softened. He might have his problems trusting me, but I think deep down he still liked me. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”
The holding cells were all located in the basement, and Tyler led me down a long, dimly lit gray hall. Most of the cells were empty, a few had grim-looking drunks waiting to be bailed out, but a beige door at the end of the hall led to a different annex. When he unlocked the door, there was a desk inside with an officer seated at it watching a closed-circuit monitor of the four cells beyond. A door behind him marked Restricted Access Only had a little picture of stairs under it. Guess it was a more direct route for the cops upstairs to get to the serious offenders. I’d been taken on the scenic public-access tour.
The desk officer had a clipboard and a pen in front of him. “Sign in and check your weapons,” the officer instructed, like Tyler was too stupid to know the rules.
Tyler signed the sheet and left his gun with the officer. I played innocent and was about to follow him to the door when the officer coughed loudly and tapped the clipboard.
“Sign in and check your weapons,” he repeated.
Well, it had been worth a shot. I signed my name on the next empty line, then unzipped my boot and placed a sheathed dagger on the desk. I took off my jacket and put my SIG next to the blade. The officer eyed me suspiciously.
“I’m licensed,” I told him, daring him with my eyes to doubt me.
He put my weapons in the top drawer of his desk along with Tyler’s and buzzed us in.
“Nice collection,” Tyler said as we passed through the door.
“A girl can never be too safe.”
“Something tells me that’s not really an issue for you.”
We stood in a short hallway with two cells on either side. The one closest to us on the right held a man who was fast asleep on his cot, snoring lightly. The one on the near left was empty, but I caught a familiar smell from the cell next to that, and I knew where Gabriel was. It wasn’t like sensing Desmond or Lucas, but the scent of Lacoste Essential and Tide blended with his personal pheromones was distinctly Gabriel.
I moved ahead of Tyler, and the detective didn’t stop me.
Gabriel was sitting on his cot with his fingers threaded through his dark blond hair. His stubble was coming in, and his clothes were rumpled. He’d obviously been here through the day. When I stopped outside his cell I said nothing, but he must have heard us coming because he looked up. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he appeared older than he had the last time I’d seen him. Unfortunately, the moment he smiled his hazel eyes lit up exactly the way I remembered.
My heart skipped, and I wanted to rip it out and throw it against a wall. He’d destroyed me, broken my heart into a thousand pieces, and still I was excited to see him. It was all the proof I needed to know you could never be objective when it came to people you’d once loved.
“You came.” He got to his feet and stepped up to the metal bars, looping his fingers around them. Instinctively I took a step backwards. Not because I was afraid of him, but I couldn’t handle the thought of him touching me.
“Yeah, well. I wanted to see what you looked like behind bars. It suits you.”
He grimaced. “I deserved that.”
“No, Gabriel. What you deserve would be for me to have left you here to rot. Pretend I’d never gotten your message. Or better yet, called back and have them deliver my own message. A big old fuck you from yours truly.”
Tyler edged closer, obviously worried my bitching might turn violent. I’m not sure if he was more worried for my safety or for Gabriel’s.
“But instead, you’re here.” His voice never faltered, and the hint of a smirk hung on his lips. Cocky bastard. He’d known all along I would come, and I hated that he knew me well enough for that.
“So, who are they saying you’ve killed?”
Tyler moved backwards, closer to the exit. He probably wanted to diminish his presence in case Gabriel was about to tell me something that might be useful. I doubt he would get anything helpful, but if he did, all the better.
“Some coed at Columbia. A girl named Trish Keller.”
“Do you know her?”
“I did, yes.”
“How well?”
“We fooled around a little sometimes. Nothing serious, you know, late-night booty calls. I’m a TA in one of her classes. It’s sort of frowned upon.”
“You’re a TA at Columbia?” I couldn’t hide the shock in my voice. He’d been in his senior year at NYU when we met, and he’d talked about doing his Master’s, but I’d thought he was too flighty to seriously do it. Apparently I’d been wrong.
“Yeah.”
“Why do they think you did it?”
“Well, they’re not really opening up to me about the case against me, you know? But I’m guessing it’s because I’m the last person who saw her alive. Well, me and whoever killed her,” he corrected quickly. “We met up at a pub, went back to my place, fucked, and she went home around two.” His callousness wasn’t doing much to help his case, but Gabriel always had been a little too blunt for his own good. “Someone found her sometime after that, and one of her friends told the cops she left the bar with me. So now, here I am, public enemy number one.”
I frowned. “Anything else?”
“No.” He stepped back from the bars, shoved his hands in his pockets and smiled. “You look good, Temple. I missed your disapproving face.”
The only man to give me a nickname, and he hadn’t forgotten it. He used to tease me mercilessly about how my hair made me look like Shirley Temple. It hadn’t helped that my love for old movies and the Turner Classic Movies channel meant he had a lot of opportunities to make the reference. I swallowed a mouthful of acid.
“Did you kill her?” I replied.
“No.”
“Okay.”
“You going to help me?”
“Seems like it.”
Chapter Eleven
“Desmond?” The apartment door closed with a quiet click, and silence rushed to greet me. I didn’t ne
ed to search the rooms to know I was home alone. Shucking off my jacket and boots, I left them in a heap in the foyer and made a beeline for the bathroom.
Under the dim lights and against the overwhelming pinkness of my fixtures, I looked sallow and exhausted. I’d left my hair down when I went to the station since everyone’s reactions to Lucas’s love bite had been so negative, but now I shoved my hair back over my shoulder to get a look at it myself.
It wasn’t terrible. Two red, raised rows showed the perfect impression of his teeth, and a bluish-purple bruise swelled out around the bite. I’d never had a hickey, at least not one that lasted long enough for me to see, so I gathered this was what they usually looked like. No big deal, right?
I rubbed the area and winced. The bite ridges were warm, and touching them made my neck throb. The bruises felt like a dull ache. How was it possible such a minor wound hadn’t healed in almost twenty-four hours? I could heal a bullet wound in the same amount of time. There was no reason these marks should still exist.
Back in the living room I paced the area in front of my couch. Rio, my sinewy white cat, came to perch on the edge of the loveseat. Her tail flicked with each step I took, and her head tilted to the left as she watched me with her slitted green eyes.
What a week this was turning into, and I was only three days in. My ex-boyfriend was being accused of murder; the queen of the were-ocelots was asking me to find her niece; Lucas had an impending invasion to deal with; and now one of my boyfriends wasn’t talking to me because of a bruise that refused to heal. My plate was more than a little full.
I’d need to wait to deal with Lucas and the bite. Obviously there was more to it than simple foreplay, and I’d need to know what was up so I could respond appropriately to Desmond’s irrational anger. But that was my personal life, and it had to take the back burner to more pressing matters. Lucy Renard was missing, and she attended the same school as Trish Keller, the girl Gabriel was accused of killing.
Looks like all roads led to Columbia University.
I knew there was a reason I avoided campus bars.
The Angry Butterfly was located two blocks west of the Columbia campus, but I had realized a long time ago anything within stumbling distance to the dorms was considered fair game for those who matriculated at the prestigious school.
It was eleven o’clock on a Wednesday, but apparently no one cared too much about being hung over for morning classes because the bar was crammed full. There had to be some sort of capacity violation going on here. A big jock-type telling a loud story staggered backwards while laughing, elbowed me in the ribs and sloshed beer on my boots.
Changing out of my brand-new Prada dress had been a good idea.
“Heyyyy, sorry,” the drunk guy slurred, splashing me with more of his beer as he brushed off the shoulders of my jacket. How sauced was this idiot?
“It’s fine, just go away.”
“Maaaan, can I buy you a drink? You’re pretty.”
I rolled my eyes and weaved past him without another word. By now I knew talking to the drunks only encouraged them. Winding my way to the bar, I signaled the bartender over with a jerk of my chin. He was an older guy, mid-forties, and the strain of being so close to this many loud-mouthed drunks was starting to show on his face and in the gray around his temples.
“What’ll it be?” he growled.
“Jameson straight with a Guinness chaser, please.”
“A Guinness chaser?” He glared at me with naked suspicion. “Can I see some ID, girlie?”
Trying to be on my best behavior, I refrained from a snide comeback and opened my wallet to show him my license, proving I was twenty-three and perfectly legal to drink, thank you very much.
“Secret, eh?”
“I’d have to be pretty stupid to make up a name like that,” I replied, shoving my wallet back in my purse. Finally I had succeeded in making the barkeep smile, and now I knew he’d be more amiable. Good thing, too, because I needed to ask him some questions.
He poured my whiskey and put it next to a pint glass of near-black Guinness. I did the shot first, wrinkling my nose as it burned a path down my throat and made my insides feel like I’d swallowed smoke. Smacking my lips, I reached for the beer and took a mouthful, ran my tongue over my teeth and grinned.
I like my Irish booze, what can I say? I am a McQueen, after all.
“You take it easy,” the bartender warned. “Little thing like you, don’t want to see you getting into any trouble.”
“Do you see a lot of girls getting into trouble?”
“Not if I can help it. But I’ve only got two eyes, and there’s a lot of young ladies in here.” He nodded to the bustling crowd. “I can’t be everywhere.”
“Hey, can I ask if your two eyes remember seeing some girls in here recently?”
Someone at the other end of the bar hollered, and the bartender shot him an unfriendly look. “Yeah. Stay here, and when I’m done with this asshat, I’ll see if I remember your friends.”
I nodded, and my patience was rewarded when the stool nearest me was vacated. I pulled two photos out of my purse, one a candid snapshot of Lucy that Genevieve had given me, and the other a computer print of Trish Keller I’d taken off Facebook. God I love the Internet. The photo of Trish was perfect because in it she looked half drunk and was holding a glass in her hand. It might help the bartender remember the wildlife better if he could envision her in her natural habitat.
I tried to tune out the animated environment of the bar. After the Rangers game and my near vamp-out, I was wary of being in crowds. Especially big boozy crowds full of drunk idiots who acted like the human equivalent of a wounded gazelle. If I wanted to keep a grip on myself, it might be a good idea if I didn’t start thinking of college kids in terms of prey. Taking another sip of Guinness, I did my best to ignore the nice, blood-scented crowd.
A girl came up next to me, but I didn’t pay any attention to her. Not until she reached out and snatched the picture of Trish.
“What are you doing with this?” she demanded. She was drunk, had a full drink in hand and was teetering precariously on her too-high heels. I could smell rum on her breath.
I sipped another mouthful of my beer, then took the paper out of her hands and set it back on the bar beside the photo of Lucy. “I’m looking for someone.”
“Well she’s dead.” The girl jammed her finger so hard into the picture she broke a stick-on nail. “So you can stop looking.”
Wow, someone was feisty. I swiveled on my stool, and she obviously wasn’t expecting it because she staggered backwards and almost toppled over.
“How well did you know Trish Keller?”
“Better than you,” she snapped, but it was apparent she was already losing steam. The girl sucked her drink through a little red straw and tried to act casual. “Why?”
“I’m investigating her death.”
“You a cop?” She looked me up and down, then sneered. “You don’t look like a cop.”
“And you don’t look very smart, but I’m not rushing to any conclusions there, am I?”
She choked on the next swallow of her drink and sputtered, “What?”
“I asked how well you knew Trish.”
“We party together.”
Oh yeah, real besties these two. I bet they had slumber parties and braided each other’s hair while gossiping about all the pre-law hotties. I wondered if she’d known Trish’s last name before I told it to her.
“Did you see her last night?”
“Sure, she was here for a bit.”
“With anyone?”
“That smoking hot TA from Intro to Medieval Lit.”
“Gabriel Holbrook?”
“Yeah, Mr. Holbrook.”
It felt bizarre to hear Gabriel referred to as Mr. Holbrook, as if he was someone in a position of authority. The only times I’d heard him referred to as Mr. Holbrook were when bill collectors called the apartment. Or at the police station earlier tonight.
“I guess.” She sipped her drink again, none of her former bluster in her words. “I mean, she left after he got thrown out.”
I was glad I didn’t have a mouthful of Guinness right then because I might have spit it out all over her. “Excuse me?”
“Yeah, he got into a fight with some guy, and they both got kicked out. I didn’t see Trish after that.”
“Do you know who he got into a fight with?”
“I just said, didn’t I? Some guy.” She rolled her eyes at me like I was the stupid one.
“How remarkably helpful.”
“Yeah, you’re welcome.” She was distracted now and waved to someone on the other side of the room. “Thanks for the drink,” she added, raising her glass and tapping it against my beer. “See you in Anthro.” Then she teetered off, shrieking, to go hug some mammoth guy in an NYU hoodie.
Okay, so she was clearly drunk off her ass. Did that mean everything she told me was pure fantasy? She’d confirmed Trish had been here with Gabriel, but maybe she was remembering a different night. And Gabriel hadn’t mentioned anything about a fight to the cops. Why would he leave out a detail that would be so easy to confirm?
The bartender returned, grumbling about idiot kids, and I slid the photos across the bar to him. He took a look at both, then slid the photo of Lucy back to me. “Never seen her before, looks like a sweet girl, probably too nice for a scene like this, you know? This one though…” He turned the photo of Trish towards me, like I’d never seen it before. “If we had a frequent-buyer card, she’d be first in line to get one. Trouble with a capital T.” Trish smiled out from the picture, oblivious to how her reputation was being sullied postmortem.
“Someone told me her boyfriend…” the word gave me pause, “…the guy she was with last night, got thrown out for getting into a fight. Is that true?”
“Two-dollar draft Tuesdays?” He snorted. “Lots of fights happen on Tuesdays, sweetheart.”