Smoke & Mirrors

by C. L. Schneider

  “Must be the hot new trend. Any logo this time?”

  “Nothing. No prints, no GPS. Inside is clean. I haven’t heard back on the plates yet, but I’m not holding my breath. Watson’s driver was conscious when the EMTs arrived. He claims dispatch called him for an ordinary airport run. He picked Watson up outside the hotel. The man loaded his own luggage in the trunk and spoke only to confirm his flight information.”

  “The M.E. is on his way,” Harper said. “You have a few minutes, if you want a look at the body without Chen getting all…” She screwed up her features, tightening them into something more comical than scary, but I got the point. Chen didn’t like to share.

  I dropped my bag on the street. Donning gloves, I put a careful knee on the glass-littered back seat and leaned in. Watson’s body hung limp from its seatbelt. Bones were broken. Skin was split. His left orbit was crushed. Teeth were sprinkled on the floormat. All his injuries were in accordance with the accident.

  An open briefcase was on the floor at his feet. Papers were spread about, dotted with blood and fragments of glass. His suit and shoes looked expensive. The bolero around his neck suggested southern descent. His square-jawed face was split with a heavy gash. Below the blood, his skin was smooth and supple. So were his hands.

  I looked back at Creed. “How old did you say he was?”

  “A hell of a lot older than he looks. Could be his ID is fake.”

  “Most people take away years when they lie about their age, not add them.”

  Watson’s tan suit jacket was open. His shirt was askew. I lifted the edge. Unlike his face and hands, the skin under his shirt was saggy and weathered. Either the man spent a fortune on age-related treatments and plastic surgery or… I breathed deep.

  Underneath the scent of blood and aftershave, Watson was human.

  And yet…not.

  The anomalous scent had to belong to whatever the man was using to turn back the clock. It wasn’t a product made in a human laboratory. It was something special, procured from the body of an off-world creature. The mix of ingredients disguised which one, but a good number of beings possessed physical or biological characteristics capable of restoring or enhancing other species. Some were widely acknowledged, like the healing properties of a dragon’s body. But there were countless tales of magical attributes being transferred through various procedures. Until a certain dragon eye fell into my hands, I’d never had a reason to pay the rumors any mind.

  But I knew their source.

  Oh…fuck, I thought, as the lightbulb went off. Watson’s condition, the surgeries and missing pieces, my vision at the Gant estate as Oliver and his son spoke of monsters and the family business; it all made sense.

  Only one place allowed for the purchase of such “magical” items, one organization dealt in the procurement and sale of impossible things. A cornerstone that had existed in the shadows of Sentinel City since its founding: the Supernatural Black Market.

  Doing business under the blessing of Naalish, “the Market”, as it was widely known, undoubtedly possessed the resources to kidnap, butcher, store, and prepare a multitude of products for sale. Except, the establishment was exclusive, conducted under the utmost secrecy. Sales were said to be infrequent, clandestine, invitation-only affairs. Those who ran the network, from the top to the lowliest employee, were impossible to find. And if you tracked them down, you became impossible to find.

  They didn’t bury their overstock on the riverbank, drop breadcrumbs to the front door of their butcher shop, leave a body in a freezer for the cops to find, or drive with broken tail lights. Neither were they sloppy enough to arbitrarily snatch creatures off the streets.

  But profit is profit. If demand increased for some unknown reason, supply would have to follow. The pressure to fulfill orders could lead to rush jobs and the hiring of extra, untrained help. And, if someone was unhappy with the new situation, a snitch.

  Damn. It fit a lot more than I wanted it to.

  I backed out of the car. Creed said nothing as I opened one of the coolers in the trunk. The temperature this morning was barely out of the 40’s. The ice inside was still intact. I moved it out of the way, uncovering three glass vials filled with a yellowish fluid. I opened the rest of the coolers. The contents were the same.

  I spun to face Harper. “Can you give us a minute?”

  Creed asked the same of the officers nearby. When everyone was out of earshot, he joined me at the trunk. His arms were crossed. His gaze was narrowed in a studious squint. He was ready to process whatever I might throw at him. Except this, I thought. He wasn’t ready for the path I was about to barrel us down.

  Not that I was, either. No one tangled with the Market.

  “I need what’s in these coolers,” I said.

  He grunted, unimpressed. “Is that all?”

  “I asked nicely.”

  “You asked nicely to remove evidence from a crime scene.”

  “It’s better than not asking at all.”

  “How many times have we had this conversation? The evidence has been logged. If the containers don’t arrive as noted, Harper will get in trouble. I’ll get in trouble.”

  “You’re always in trouble.”

  Creed’s jaw clenched. “Why?”

  “Watson was making himself young by either ingesting or shooting up with whatever monster juice is in these vials. If you let me take some, I might be able to track the creature who produced it.”

  “When you say juice,” he grimaced, “what exactly do you mean?”

  I shrugged. “Drink it and find out.”

  “No thanks. How do you plan to track with it?”

  “I’m not sure I can, but it’s worth a shot.” Creed was already agitated, so I threw a little more at him. “Watson isn’t our killer. He’s a client. If we can find out where he purchased—”

  “Wait a minute. Someone is selling the missing parts of our victims?”

  “It’s a working theory. But a pretty solid one.”

  His stare drifted a moment. “Okay,” he said, accepting the concept as fact quicker than I expected. “Watson, I get. We all want to be young forever. But who the hell wants to buy a fucking severed arm? And the internal organs? Are you talking about inter-species transplants here, or should I look for a bottle of Chianti in the glove box?”

  “Probably both. The Market offers a wide range of products to fulfill the needs of anyone wealthy enough to pay.”

  Creed pushed a rough hand back over his hair. Shock turned to irritation, then blame, and his words took on a fine, sharp edge. “Why am I only hearing about this now? If you knew this was a thing—”

  “I knew it was a thing, but I didn’t know it was our thing. The Market operates in shadows deeper than any I frequent. They don’t kill en-masse, and they never, ever leave evidence in the open. It’s how they’ve stayed in business so long.”

  “How long?”

  “Um…” I blew out a breath, thinking. “Long-ish?”

  “I’m trying hard not to hit you right now.”

  “Go ahead. But if I knew the Market was involved, I would have told you. Since I’m telling you now, you can listen, or I can handle this on my own.”

  He gave me a “no way is that happening” face, and I went on.

  “You’ve heard the myth of a unicorn’s horn or how the bones of an ogre have healing powers? Well, they do. And not just them. The physiology of numerous species provide benefits most would see as magical or superhuman.”

  “I love how nonchalantly you said unicorns are real.”

  “Were real. They’re extinct.”

  “Uh huh.” Studying me, Creed rubbed the scruff on his chin. “How does this market normally come by its product? Because, if it conducts business under as much secrecy as you say, I assume none of what’s been happening the last few days is normal.”

  “It’s not. Most of the creatures donate voluntarily. They sell pieces of themselves and regenerate more. Like a blood donor. Some do i
t to satisfy personal or family debts, or even crimes. Most are harvested from the recently deceased, like organs in a human transplant.”

  “You seem to know an awful lot about how it works.”

  “I know it exists. I know the kinds of things they sell and the general mechanics of the operation. But I’ve never dealt with anyone involved.”

  “You just let it go on.”

  “This isn’t a psycho with a knife, or some hungry creature looking for a midnight snack. This is a business, with human employees, non-human security, and arms that reach outside the Sentinel. And they weren’t breaking the law. Much,” I added, at his perturbed stare. “Think what you want of me, Alex, but I’m not a one-woman army. I can’t save everyone. And neither can you.”

  He didn’t reply.

  With a sigh, I tried to offer something that didn’t sound like it was spewed from the top of a soapbox. “If the Market is behind this, then they’ve pulled out of the shadows and become a threat to the inhabitants of this city. And that I can’t let go on.”

  Creed’s gaze dug into mine. “You want a sample? Fine. I’ll authorize it. But you can get it from the lab. I have rules to follow, Nite. I can’t compromise for you at every turn.”

  The depth of his anger caught me off guard. Every time I thought I’d made inroads with the man, he pushed me back. Because he’s tired of the lies, I thought. Tired of being the one who’s always forced to give. I couldn’t help it. But I did understand it.

  I pulled off my gloves in surrender. “Okay. By the book it is.”

  “Good. If Watson was a client,” he said, shifting gears, “I’m assuming Gant was, too. They both clearly had the money needed to get in the front door. Why kill them?”

  I debated how wise it was to tell him he had it wrong. Oliver wasn’t a client. Clearly, the Market was the family business Arno had been so desperate to escape—which put Oliver at the head of the crime table. At least, it did, until someone ripped out his heart and stuck him in a freezer. But my only proof was obtained in a psychic vision. And I had no idea who took over after Oliver died. Was he killed in a coup by some outside player? Had a trusted employee stepped up to take the reins? Was Arno still alive, or was his body yet to be found?

  It was too dangerous a path to send Creed barreling down without evidence and a workable plan. So I pretended to contemplate his question, and not my own lies. “Well… This wasn’t a deal gone wrong. If Watson pissed someone off enough to kill him, they wouldn’t have left the merchandise behind.”

  “Watson had a private plane. He could’ve taken whatever this shit is out of the city without anyone knowing. Maybe someone didn’t want him to.”

  “Like our mysterious snitch?”

  “Yeah. Maybe. We have Watson’s phone and his luggage. Hopefully they’ll give us something.” Creed’s attention shifted. Exasperation leaked into his tone. “Great. Dr. Personality is here.”

  I followed his glare to the unassuming form in slacks and a blue jacket, squeezing between the barricades. Chen scrutinized the scene as he crossed the center of the wide street. Noticing us, his sharp cheekbones lifted, and his mouth twitched in a blink-or-you’ll-miss-it, obligatory smile.

  Creed watched his approach. I knew what was coming. And I knew why.

  Not only had Chen taken Sam’s position after she died, she’d been vocal in her dislike of the man. Sam had called him pushy, arrogant, and controlling—and Creed knew it. Thankfully, Sam failed to relay to him her most damning theory (of Chen’s involvement in a department cover-up) before she died. Otherwise, Creed would be doing a lot more than scowling and prying open his stiff jaw for an unenthusiastic, “I’ll let you deal with him.”

  “You’re going to have to at some point.”

  “Not today,” he said. “I want to take a crack at the witnesses and get them out of here. I’m sure they’re anxious to get to work.”

  “Only if their names are Alex Creed.”

  He cracked a smile and walked away.

  Chen approached the car and sat his case down. “I’m still amazed at all the ways humans find to kill themselves.”

  “I’m no doctor,” I said, moving in, “but I don’t think this one killed himself.”

  “Oh, trust me, he did. With his careless decisions and emotional whims. Stupidity was the death of him. It will be the death of all his kind.”

  “You’re really not a morning person, are you?”

  Without a reply, he squatted beside his case and opened the lid.

  “I’d like to have a look at Oliver Gant later,” I said, watching Chen gather what was necessary for examining the body. “I need to know how he died.”

  “The lack of a heart is a good place to start.”

  “I was talking about what happened before he stopped breathing.”

  “Oh, you mean that little psychic thing you do, playing with the dead? How tiresome it must be, bearing witness to such disgrace, over and over. All the groveling and whining...”

  No hitting, I thought, my fist clenched. Creed would never let me live it down.

  “If you’re through here,” Chen said, “why don’t you go concentrate on not screwing up your part of this investigation, and let me do mine?” He gave me his signature twitching smile. Like if he held the position too long, it might hurt, and I wasn’t worth the discomfort.

  “You could try to be a little less of a dick, at least in public.”

  “For what reason? My primary mission in posing as the city’s medical examiner is to debunk and conceal. Unlike you, Dahlia,” Chen said, tight with exasperation, “I see this only as an assignment. I have a home to go back to. There’s no need for me to expend my energy attempting to fit in.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “You’re not.”

  Fourteen

  Creed’s stare burrowed through the rectangle of two-way glass. On the other side, in the interrogation room, was our semi driver; bruised, bandaged, handcuffed, and waiting to dodge our questions. “Let’s let him sweat another minute.”

  “Fine by me. This is the most fun I’ve had all day.”

  Creed gave me a look.

  “What? When your morning starts with organs in a cooler, this,” I gestured at Nicholas Dane, squirming dramatically in his chair, “easily qualifies as fun.”

  Rubbing a hand across his face, Creed leaned back against the mirror. “Three hours ago, you stood in the middle of a street, talking about ogres and unicorns and magical body parts. There’s an illegal, supernatural trafficking ring operating in our fucking backyard. You know how much time I’ve had to process that? Zero. This is your life, Nite. All this might roll off your tongue. And I know I asked for it, but every time you open your mouth with some new revelation, it feels like a goddamn sucker punch.”

  “You don’t want me to lie, but the truth makes you angry? What am I supposed to do with that?”

  The door knob turned with a click. Creed made a sound, irritated by the interruption. I was glad for it. I didn’t want to fight with him. I wanted to find neutral ground, a way to work together without jeopardizing either of us. I was starting to think such a thing was impossible.

  The door opened, and Evans peered in. His smile was natural. Relaxed. Like all was well. I wanted to accept what he was projecting, but I wasn’t so sure. We had a brief text exchange this morning when I told him Nyakree was alive. Otherwise, we hadn’t talked since Monday night. Since I told him why I left home.

  I had to believe his silence was a coincidence. Evans lying to Creed about needing time off, though, felt like something more. It wouldn’t have until two days ago—until he lied to me. Now, it was a pattern that could get him killed.

  Creed beckoned, and Evans stepped into the room. Pulling an evidence bag out from behind his back. He presented it to Creed. “Nicholas Dane’s personal effects.”

  “I’ve been looking for that.” Creed pushed off the mirror. “I was trying to track it down last night, but it was never logged in.”

&n
bsp; “It wasn’t here.” Evans handed him the bag. “I heard, after shitting about a half dozen bricks, they found it this morning. Looks like the bag slipped between the seats of the squad car.”

  “How the hell did that happen?”

  I rolled my eyes over to Evans. “He means thanks.”

  Evans swallowed his grin. “We got a name on the van that hit killed your investment banker this morning. It’s registered to a Mr. Norman Key. The van was reported stolen last month.”

  Creed looked up from the evidence bag. “Anything on him?”

  “A couple of traffic tickets. He’s the right age for the driver, but about 300 lbs too heavy. Either he lost mega weight since his last license photo or it’s a fake.”

  “Or it’s not him.”

  “There’s that,” Evans admitted. “But there’s something up with this guy. He’s got a list of prior addresses longer than both my arms put together. Most recent is South Donovan Street.”

  “That’s a shitty neighborhood,” I said. “No wonder his van was stolen.”

  “Geronimo are I heading out now to see if we can pick him up,” Evans said. “We’ve got some entries from Watson’s calendar, too. They look legit, but we’ll check them out.”

  “Keep me posted,” Creed said. “And don’t hesitate to call for backup. This might be bigger than we think.”

  As Creed went back to examining the contents of the bag, Evans shot me a veiled, questioning frown. If he hadn’t been quasi-ghosting me for over twenty-four hours, he would have known about the Market. But his odd behavior didn’t make Creed wrong.

  “I’ll fill you in later,” I told him. “For now, keep your eyes open. These guys aren’t exactly operating in the shadows.”

  “Monsters who like the daylight. Got it.” Evans saluted me and ducked out.