Smoke & Mirrors

by C. L. Schneider

  “That’s why the ulfar accepted him so easily as their alpha.” But not Jace, I thought. Gant must have seen the pack’s former leader as competition. Having him around was too great a risk. Yet, killing Jace would have been a waste of an asset.

  “Arno partially skins those wolves once a month. Then he lets them heal and does it again. While he wears their hide, they will die to protect him. You’ll have to take them all out to get near him. But if you do, if you kill Arno Gant, you’ll be cutting Drimera’s supply line.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Sugar, the blowback won’t be pretty.”

  “Please,” I blustered. “When have I ever gotten hung up on a little thing like consequences?”

  Twenty-Five

  Creed must have broken the record for the most text and voicemails in less than twelve hours. Make that three, I thought, pushing my tangled curls back as I scrolled through the list on my phone. While Creed had reached out late last night, making sure I was doing okay after Ronnie’s death, the bulk of his attempts to contact me were made in the last several hours.

  Barnes had said not to rush in. I told Creed to expect me after lunch.

  I wasn’t that far off.

  We’d trekked across a dying world, fought a nest of giant worms, and rescued over a hundred prisoners bound for Gant’s auction. Erich helped me burn, then heal Nadine’s wounds, and settle her into a room in the tunnels to rest. And it was barely 2 PM.

  Talk about breaking records.

  Something must have riled him up. Creed’s messages all had the same call me now theme. Yet, showing up coated in dirt and worm blood would raise more than a few eyebrows. I shot him a quick, on my way, text—via home, shower, and a change of clothes. I omitted the last part, and broke another record getting in and out of my apartment.

  Falling into bed would have been preferable over my mad dash to the station with a microwaved burrito in one hand. But it was my choice to use the time off the captain gave us to execute an off-world rescue. And I had to deal with Creed. We were going at it pretty good in the apartment before Ronnie died and after on the bridge.

  His texts weren’t about that, though. Creed said his peace. Until I did something else to piss him off, his focus was back on the case. He needed to know mine was, too.

  I snagged a coffee from the station vending machine on the first floor before heading upstairs. Not finding Creed at his desk, I checked the conference room with our current overflowing “murder board”. It was dark and empty. I still had no trouble seeing Ronnie’s picture pinned on the board.

  I checked the briefing room next; also empty.

  A collective somberness hung over the entire building. An underlying anger simmered beneath, keeping me from engaging the officers who walked by. Despite how the task force saw Creed, I sensed the mention of his name wouldn’t elicit a positive response.

  Hoping for someone less bias, I went to see Captain Barnes. He was on the phone, with a chaos of papers and files cluttering his desk. He’d changed his shirt, but the heavy stubble and lines etched under his eyes made we wonder if he’d gone home last night.

  Barnes noticed me hovering outside his office window. Pausing his conversation, he put a hand over the phone and waved me in. I opened the door, and he wasted no time blurting out, “Facial recognition found your mysterious Arno Gant.”

  “It did?” Gant had been under the radar for years. Why surface now? “I guess he’s alive then,” I said, testing the waters, making sure Creed kept his word. If he told Barnes about Gant, he’d likely told him about Ronan, too.

  “Looks that way,” Barnes replied. “We picked him up a couple of hours ago. Though, if I was Gant, I’d be suing the pants, the shirt—even the goddamn socks, off my plastic surgeon. No wonder he dropped off the grid.”

  “Any idea why he’s back?”

  “He claims he was headed here to clear the air. Creed’s questioning him now.”

  “Shit. Sorry, sir,” I added. “I didn’t mean…”

  “Sure you did. And I agree with you. After Geronimo, Creed’s head is far from level. You need to get in there and make sure he’s playing nice. I don’t want a complaint on our hands.” He waved me off, then called out as I closed the door. “Interview room one!”

  Zipping around the desks, as I turned down the hall, I considered observing their interaction first. But Barnes was right. A member of the UCU practically died in Creed’s arms a little over twenty-four hours ago. That was after collecting body parts all week, getting attacked at Juicy Bits and the slaughterhouse. I didn’t need a two-way mirror to know Alex Creed plus Arno Gant equaled a potential disaster.

  I tossed my coffee in the garbage can outside the door and went in.

  Gant was seated on the far side of the desk in a black turtleneck and tan blazer. Though he kept his gloved hands clasped casually on the table, I sensed his discomfort at having the fitted fabric pressing against him. He’d switched wigs, trading Nyakree’s hair for something long and brown. The excess cologne wafting off his body was so strong I could barely breathe. But, at least, it masked whatever skin was likely decomposing under his clothes.

  Gant’s exposed areas looked marginally better than when we met. The lack of visible stitching or rotting edges implied he had the ability to, at least, adhere the flesh for a short time. It was a good thing, too. If Gant had walked into the station as I saw him last (leaking sutures and patches of skin from multiple species), he wouldn’t have walked back out. This time, he more resembled a burn victim who’d undergone multiple reconstructive surgeries—in a back-alley, leaving him with uneven tones and large sections of pulled, saggy, lumpy skin.

  Careful not to show recognition, Gant’s stare met mine with full blown complacency instead. He was here because he wanted to be. Because he knows nothing we have will stick.

  I claimed the empty chair beside Creed, and he introduced me. “Arno Gant, this is Dahlia Nite. She’s a special consultant for—”

  “She’s late is what she is,” Gant replied, in his slow, careful manner. “I came here of my own free will, and you’ve detained me for nearly three hours in this drab room. I’ve proven my innocence, and your lack of evidence, ten times over. I’ve endured your delays, your shitty coffee, and your lackluster personality. I’d like to go home now.”

  “Hold on—” Creed started.

  Gant cut him off again. “Your tedious questions have been answered, Detective. I’m not answering hers, too. This interview is over. Arrangements must be made for my father’s interment. Charge me, or I’m leaving.”

  “Fine. Go.” Creed slammed the folder closed. “We’re done here.”

  “It might be you who’s done,” Gant muttered, “once I speak to your Captain.”

  A growl rose in Creed’s throat.

  I put a hand on his leg. “Alex, why don’t you grab some coffee. I’ll make sure Mr. Gant finds his way to his car.”

  Creed stood, shooting Gant a glare as he scooped up the folder.

  “I’ll take a cup, too,” I said. “Shitty coffee is my favorite.” I shot Creed a wink. A crack formed in his scowl, and he left the room. “A recluse, suddenly stepping into the spotlight to go on the offensive?” I said, fixing my stare back on Gant. “You’ve certainly got everyone’s attention.”

  “I had to defend my honor,” he replied, as aware of the camera in the corner, and the mirror behind me, as I was. “I’ve been living abroad for some time, recovering from my many procedures. Returning to find myself the subject of a police investigation was most unsettling. I came as quickly as I could to help.”

  “If only there were more model citizens like you in the Sentinel.”

  “Yes,” he said dryly, “if only. But with such flimsy evidence linking me to these heinous crimes, I believe we’re all relieved to have my innocence proven. Now your little team can concentrate on rooting out the real culprit.”

  “The last person to claim he was out of the country when all hell broke loos
e, wasn’t. So you’ll have to forgive Detective Creed when he triple checks every detail of your statement.”

  “Just as you’ll understand my need for a formal, written apology for how I’ve been treated here today.” Gant pushed back his chair and stood.

  I escorted him from the room. Hard stares followed as we maneuvered through the halls and down the front stairs. Word had gotten out that a “person of interest” in Ronnie’s death was in the building. Gant held his head high, not flinching in the least at their scrutiny. Though he didn’t go out in public for obvious reasons, he clearly didn’t care if people stared.

  I walked Gant as far as the curb, then said what I couldn’t inside. “If you wanted to keep the Market out of our investigation, this was the wrong move. You’ve made Creed even more determined to tie you to this case.”

  “Then I suggest you change his mind. It’s been some years since my father taught me to slaughter a pig, but I’m sure it would all come rushing back.”

  I laughed. “Were you this cheesy before you lost your humanity?”

  Gant stared a moment, as if my criticism—or perhaps my reminder of his former life—surprised him. “We were all something else once…executioner.”

  “Yes, which is how I know Naalish would prefer a quieter resolution.”

  “Naalish lacks time to quibble over every death; human or otherwise. Besides, if you truly cared for Detective Creed’s health, you’d stay away.”

  “I’m not the one who’s threatening to make sausage out of him.”

  Gant’s twitchy smile evolved into a laugh. “Come now, Dahlia, we both know the deadly side of good intentions. You’re as much a danger to Detective Creed as I am.”

  Before I broke his neck in the middle of the sidewalk, I let it go. “I need to see Ronan Locke. The operative Naalish assigned to you. Can you make that happen?”

  “I might have, but my shiny new lyrriken hasn’t checked in for days. What an unfortunate example of the queen’s preoccupied mind that one is. She should have kept him baking a while longer. He seems a little…underdone.”

  “Any idea where he’d hole up?”

  “Are you asking on the record or off?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Not to me. Locke killed a cop in broad daylight. He’s tainted goods. Execute him if you like. Arrest him if you prefer—just cut out his tongue first. And if you put it on ice,” he added with a languid grim, “I’d be happy to take it off your hands.” Gant started forward, then pivoted back. “I do hope I haven’t gotten under your skin.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I wouldn’t want our conflicting views on the ‘Sentinel’s finest’ to taint our arrangement. I’m looking forward to a potentially long and fruitful relationship.”

  I forced a smile. “As am I. I assume your offer of a preview still stands?”

  “It does. But be prepared to drop everything when it’s time. You’ll receive no advanced notice on the auction, and the window for entry is quite short. No late arrivals.”

  “You want me to come when you call,” I said, quoting Nadine. “Why am I not surprised?”

  Head tilting, Gant’s eyes brimmed with admiration. “I must say, it’s oddly refreshing to find someone who doesn’t cower at my presence. Though, I can see why Naalish takes issue with you.”

  I shrugged. “You can’t please everyone.”

  “Just so long as you please me.”

  Gant crossed the street. I watched him get into the back of a dark blue sedan. It wasn’t until the driver turned the corner that the stench of his cologne, and the icky sensation of being near him, began to wane.

  I turned to head back inside, and my phone rang. Dread hit me as I stared at the name on the screen. Oren had been my safety net for many years. We’d disagreed, but I’d never doubted him as I was now. I’d certainly never questioned his loyalty and affection. But I was positive in my suspicions. Oren knew about the necklace and the blight long before I brought either to his attention. He was also likely one of the “top minds” Aidric had working on the problem.

  What I didn’t know was how deeply was he involved. How much of Aidric’s plan was Oren aware of? Betraying the queen’s interest to further the extracurricular activities of her estranged mate was one hell of a move for someone in Oren’s position. Why risk it?

  “Dahlia,” he said hastily, as I answered. “Are you all right?”

  The concern in his voice wanted to eat away at my mistrust. I didn’t let it. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “After our last conversation, I was worried you might do something rash.”

  “Like what, Oren? Bring Officer Lane’s killer to justice?” I endured his perturbed silence a moment, before adding, “Ronan held the blade, but he’s not the only one to blame.”

  “I warned you against this course of action. You cannot go after him.”

  I glanced around. Was Oren here, somewhere? Had he seen me talking to Gant? “Yes, I know. Killing him kills the Market. From what I understand, it’s long overdue.”

  “This is an operation that’s run smoothly and quietly for generations. If you give it time, I’m certain, with some minor adjustments, the current difficulties can be rectified.”

  “I know the queen’s new orders are taxing resources. And with Arno too busy shopping for new skin every day to run a tight ship, there’s leadership issues. But the Market was perverted long before he took the reins. Do you have any idea what it did to Nadine’s home?”

  Oren was quiet a moment. “What are you going to do?”

  “Right now? I’m going back inside the station to talk my friend down off his ledge. After that… I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure you won’t like it.”

  It was too quiet. There was no hum in the vents or creak to the floor. I shifted my eyes to help with the lack of light, but it only made the shadows a different shade of dark.

  I don’t care if you’re a civilian, a cop, or a half-dragon shapeshifter; wandering through the morgue after hours, alone in the dark—the night before Halloween—is creepy as hell.

  The tables were empty, the drawers closed. There were no cadavers in sight. But they didn’t need to be seen. The cleaning crew’s overuse of chemicals had magnified the stale death-smell permeating the room. It was the kind of odor that tapped on your subconscious, never letting you forget what took place here.

  I eyed the sizeable refrigeration unit, wondering which one held the body of Oliver Gant. Ronnie was in there, too. She was lying behind one of the stainless steel doors, naked and discolored beneath a thin, white sheet. Picturing her smile, I wondered, for the hundredth time, if the truth would’ve changed anything. Would she have stayed away if she knew the man on the bridge was a monster? Would she have kept herself safe and let him get away?

  With a name like “Geronimo” the answer was obvious.

  If Ronnie knew the true nature of the threat, she would’ve run faster.

  Except, Creed wouldn’t have left her out there in the first place.

  I forced my exhaustion-fed, wishy-washy thoughts away. I didn’t have all night. The security guard made regular rounds. And while I had the proper clearance to be here, breaking in after-hours wasn’t proper. Neither was staring over Chen’s shoulder when he typed in his password. But I had a feeling being able to access his computer would come in handy.

  It was over a month ago. He might have changed it by now. But Chen had zero imagination. How many variations of “HumansDisgustMe123” could there be?

  I woke the screen and typed in the password. Thankfully, his dislike of humanity was still intact. It took less than a minute to search his files and locate Oliver Gant’s current home. I took another minute to scan Chen’s preliminary report. He estimated the body was frozen almost immediately after death. According to his notes, the drawer he’d chosen for Oliver was one of two in the morgue with its own temperature control. Being able to better regulate the thaw, allowed the body to defrost at a slow, steady rate. Othe
rwise, the outside would decompose before the inside softened.

  His frozen status shouldn’t interfere with me getting a read, but there was no guarantee I’d gain the insight I was looking for. Based on Nadine’s description, Oliver attempted a creature-related healing to save his son. I wasn’t an expert on the curative properties of every species, but I couldn’t think of one capable of transforming the sad, desperate man who set himself on fire in his family home into the psycho, supernatural mob boss he was today.

  So what went wrong?

  Grief has a way of coloring your choices. The more intense, the faster black and white disappear. Evans had teetered on the edge of that slope. Creed was stuck halfway down. Oliver Gant had gone careening to the bottom at full speed. And there he stayed, drowning in the chilling sounds of his son’s agonizing screams. They had become Oliver’s world. Nothing mattered but making them stop and repairing the blistered, charred body before him.

  Fearing he had little time, he panicked and tried everything. But Oliver gave no single remedy a chance to work before attempting another. His single-minded objective had left no room for caution—and turned his son into a monster.

  The degloved, humanoid corpse on the table, must have donated the layer of jagged, ill-fitting flesh resting atop Arno. Graphing the self-healing dermis of a skinwalker onto his son’s burned body was inventive. Except, whether it was a lack of equipment, patience, or Oliver’s extreme measures, the procedure didn’t work. The “suit” was clinging in places and rotting impossibly fast in others. And Arno was still screaming.

  Hooded figures circled the blood-soaked bed. A yellow powder was sprinkled onto Arno’s weeping blisters and burns. A soft voice chanted while techniques, potions, salves and mystical artifacts were recklessly overlapped. A transfusion with blood the wrong color to be human was underway, as Oliver attempted to sew on the rejected skin with trembling hands.