Shadow of the Moon Box Set (Werewolf / Shifter Romance)

by Mac Flynn

  Quinn leaned forward and pulled the pile of cash towards him. "That's for you to find out, detective. I just gather and give the info. I don't guess anything from it."

  My hand flicked out and I grasped his hand with the dough in mine. "Wait a sec. I'm not done yet," I told him. I reached into my coat and tossed him the envelope with the samples. "What about the guy who's hair this belongs to? Got anything on him? Jim down in forensics couldn't find a thing in our databases."

  "I don't deal in forensics," Quinn commented.

  "What if I were to tell you this hair has a load of info that you might want?" I asked him.

  He paused. "I'm listening."

  I nodded at the envelope. "What if I told you that's the hair of the murderer of those two guys?"

  Quinn shook his head and pulled his hand, and the money, out of my grasp. "That'd be useful only if the precincts started paying me for their services. As it stands, nobody's asked for the murderer's name except you." He slipped the money into his overcoat and tapped his fingers on the screen. "Now if that's it then-"

  "Moonstone."

  Quinn froze and whipped his head back so hard his cap slid back a few inches to reveal his weathered old self. His face was an odd mix of smooth skin and wrinkles with deep-set eyes in his angular face. It was almost like half of his face found the Fountain of Youth and forgot to tell the other half. "What'd you say?"

  "You heard me. I said 'moonstone.'" I leaned forward and studied his wide eyes and stiff face. "Know anything about it?"

  He shook himself from his surprise and readjusted his cap. "Not much, but how do you know about it?"

  I snorted and leaned my elbows on the table. "I thought you knew everything?"

  Quinn studied me with his dark eyes for a moment before his readjusted himself in his chair and shook his head. "You don't know anything about it," he surmised.

  "I know where it is, or at least where it was," I revealed.

  "Give the address."

  I snorted and shook my head. "This is the most interested I've seen you in anything since I've known you. That means the info I have must be pretty important, and I'm not handing it to you until you can tell me everything I want to know." I tapped the envelope. "Everything."

  Quinn sat still for a moment before he pulled the envelope towards himself. It was soon tucked away into the bowels of his overcoat. "What else did you want to know?"

  "I want to know about this moonstone. What's so important about a common gem that everybody wants it bad enough to kill everybody else?" I questioned him.

  He shook his head. "This isn't your typical moonstone. Rumor has it it was found by Roman soldiers in the far east."

  "So it's what? An old rock?" I guessed.

  Quinn tapped on his smart phone for a few seconds. "The rarity lies in its purported ability to give anyone who touches it superhuman strength," he told me.

  I snorted. "Seriously? So it's like the anti-Kryptonite for humans or something? Gives them super powers and stuff?"

  He lifted his eyes to mine and didn't blink. I saw a seriousness in their depths that made me gulp. "Not quite. The Roman soldiers brought the gem back to their encampment and reported their find to their commander, who took it to present to his wife. The next day there was an ambush by the local warriors and most of the soldiers were slaughtered. The few who survived were those who had touched the stone. The soldiers believed the stone was the cause of their increased strength, so they took the gem and retreated to the nearest encampment. They were reprimanded for the loss of such a strategic position and awaited their punishment when the full moon rose."

  I frowned. "You're not seriously going to tell me they turned into werewolves, are you?"

  "That's how the legend goes," he admitted.

  I rolled my eyes and threw up my arms. "First silver bullets, now tales of werewolves. What next, Count Dracula walks into the precinct armed to the long-teeth with stakes?"

  Quinn swiped his screen and it went black. "If you don't want my information then don't waste my time asking for it."

  "I want the facts, not some legendary story about a rock that turns guys into werewolves," I told him.

  "You asked why the moonstone was so sought after, and I gave you that info," he pointed out.

  "Does anybody really believe that bullshit?" I retorted.

  "I've been getting a lot of requests, high-level requests, for info about it."

  I raised an eyebrow. "Were those two guys who got shot up some of the questioners?" I asked him.

  He nodded. "Yes, but they're not the high-rollers I'm talking about. These people make those chumps look like saints."

  "Got any names to these high-rollers?"

  Quinn shook his head. "I don't give names unless I'm told I can, or the client is dead," he informed me.

  "Then what info could you give them?"

  "The story I related to you, and the name of the last known owner," he told me.

  "And that was?"

  "Doctor Thomas Lowell."

  My eyes widened and my mouth dropped open. "Are you serious?" I asked him. He stared at me without speaking. I sighed and leaned my elbows on the table. "Okay, so you're serious. Did these guys recognize the name?"

  Quinn shook his head and pocketed his smart phone. "I've said all I've wanted to say for today."

  "So we'll continue this conversation tomorrow?" I quipped.

  "If you have the info to trade," he countered. "Now what about the address for this moonstone?"

  I grinned and slipped out of my chair. "I'll have to get back to you on that one. I can't quite remember what the address is, but I'm sure I'll think of it tomorrow after you tell me some more stuff."

  "Don't do something you'll regret," Quinn warned me.

  I stepped backwards away from the table and shrugged. "When do I not do something stupid?"

  "When you deal with these people," he replied. He leaned over the table and his eyes caught mine with their intensity. "These people aren't the usual crowd you deal with, and this isn't a simple murder case. If you'll take my advice you'll keep yourself out of it before you're in over your head."

  I raised an eyebrow and frowned. "Thanks for the warning, Quinn, but I'm a big girl. I can handle myself."

  "Like you handled that situation in the alley?" he quipped.

  My hands balled into fists at my sides. "I'll admit that was a rookie mistake, but it won't happen again. If all you've got for me are some doom-laden warnings then I'll see you tomorrow."

  I turned and left the bar without looking back. Sometimes he really pissed me off.

  CHAPTER 11

  At least Quinn was useful. That story about the moonstone was a load of bull, but the address where the bodies were found was real. I got into my car, but paused as I put the key into the ignition. My neck was reflected in the rear view mirror. I pulled down my turtleneck and touched the scar with the tips of my fingers. There was no physical feeling from them, but a shudder went through me.

  "Werewolves. Silver bullets. . ." I muttered.

  I rolled my eyes and started the car. This city was getting weirder by the day.

  I drove down to the district along the river where Mortum Street sat. It was a nice ruin of a district with washed out factories and shuddered warehouses. The type of place you'd want to take your girlfriend if you wanted to scare the heck out of her. The classiest part of the place was the river itself.

  The poor old thing meandered through the industrial district like a shambling old woman. The gray hairs came from the sewage that dripped from the abandoned pipes. They stuck out from the embankment near the wrecked factories and leaked their filth into the slow, muddy waters of the river. Nobody claimed ownership of the properties, and the city was too busy wasting money elsewhere to want to clean it up themselves, so there they sat messing up everything downstream of them.

  The air smelled like sulfur and rotting fish. The marine life needed an extra gill to siphon the sewage through their bodies
.

  It didn't take me long to find the crime scene. The place was marked by the usual yellow-colored Do Not Cross police tape. The perimeter stretched from the bumpy, cracked concrete road down the steep, muddy embankment to the river. The place was littered with litter. There were mattresses, tires, fast food bags, everything a Post-Modern or Post-Apocalyptic artist could have ever wanted.

  I stepped out and looked around. The place was covered in boot and tire tracks. I wouldn't be following any suspect trails. I walked around my car and to the edge of the steep embankment. Thirty yards below me was the water. It lapped against the grimy bank and made a horrible squishing noise.

  Most of the footsteps were centered around a spot along the bank. I ducked under the tape and skidded down to the spot. There were tiny flags to mark the placement of the bodies. I could just imagine a photographer taking a picture and the bodies being hauled up the hill. Must have been fun. At least the were still in good shape after such little time in the river.

  I lifted my head and frowned. The victims had been found only a day after their deaths. I turned and looked up the slope. I could see two-thirds of my car above the lip of the top. The road was deserted. I could barely hear any traffic, and nothing moved in or on the water.

  How the hell did they find them so fast?

  That was something I'd have to wrangle out of Randy or the chief. Probably Randy, if I could corner him.

  I made to climb the hill, but something made me freeze. It was a whiff of something, something that didn't smell like anything else in the area. I raised my nose to the air and gave a deep sniff.

  Big mistake. My nose filled with the overpowering scent of wet dog. I clapped a hand over my nose and tried not to gag. Whatever it was it'd been here recently, and there'd been a lot of them. Maybe it'd been a pack of wild dogs. They were known to roam the streets in search of trash cans and first-born. The only problem with that theory was neither of those options were anywhere near this wrecked dump.

  Another problem was the scent came up the road in the direction my car was pointed and made a straight beeline for the flags. I glanced over my shoulder and squinted at the ground. My eyes caught on some footprints in the mud. They were dog footprints, but it must've been one hell of a mutt to make something that size. They were at least a size twelve in men's, and were long and narrow. The points of their claws dug deep into the muck. At that depth the pups must've been carrying a good weight above those paws. I wondered how anybody had missed them.

  I knelt down and drifted my hand over one of the prints. A feeling inside me told me something smelled fishy, and it wasn't the three-eyed variety that swam in the river. Guys with silver bullets in their bodies, dog tracks the size of a Volkswagen Bug, that bullshit story Quinn gave me. Even if it all was a load of bull somebody was obviously going to a lot of trouble to get me to believe otherwise.

  I stood and climbed the hill, but not towards my car. I followed the dog tracks up the slope and onto the road. They led down the road in the direction of the active industrial district. I checked my watch. Two o'clock. My stomach growled. I'd skipped breakfast and lunch. Food had to come first. I hungered for steak. Then I'd come back and follow those tracks. Something told me I'd find some useful bits of info at the end of that paw-shaped rainbow.

  The Rusty Knife wasn't an option. Their food was so under-cooked it threatened to eat you. I knew another place not too far away. It was one of those old diners with the row of stools and a narrow row of booths with faded, patched cushions. The place was old, but clean, with crystal-clear counter tops and swept floors. The lady who handled the counter chain-smoked her way up and down the stools. She wore a white apron over her plain pink shirt and calve-length skirt, and somehow got through those long days in short heels. I don't know why she bothered with the apron. Food didn't dare spill on her.

  Her silver-streaked hair was pulled back in a tight bun and her well-manicured hands rang up the price of meals faster than any hacker. There was always a smile on her face for her old favorites and a sneer on her lips for the not-so-favorites. Matilda tolerated stupidity less than I did.

  Fortunately, I was one of her favorites. I walked into the rectangle-shaped diner and to one of the empty stools at the back. Matilda looked up from talking with a hard-hat wearing customer and smiled at me.

  "Look what the cat dragged in," she quipped as her eyes followed me down the counter to my seat.

  I slipped onto the stool and leaned over the counter. "How are things here?" I asked her.

  She strode over to me and shrugged. "The same. Jeff's threatening to quit if I don't give him a raise-"

  "Because you haven't given me a raise in ten years!" a voice shouted from the back room. A man Matilda's age stuck his head out the swinging door that led to the kitchen. "And I will, too, if you don't!"

  "Your food's second rate, and so is your sex, so get back in there and cook this girl up a steak," Matilda snapped. Jeff frowned, but slipped back into the kitchen. The pots and pans rattled loud in the rear. Matilda turned her attention back to me. "Don't ever get married, hun. Your husband will be demanding every cent you have." She sighed and there was a small smile on her lips. "But lord do you love your man."

  "Even when you've been married to him for thirty years?" I teased.

  She nodded her head. "Even then, but enough of me. What'll you have with that steak?"

  I started back. "How'd you know I wanted steak?" I questioned her.

  She laughed. "Just because I'm not wearing a uniform doesn't mean I don't see anything. You got that hungry look in your eyes that I see in the hard hats when they want a real juicy steak. T-bone or prime rib?"

  "The rib, and a side of-"

  "Mashed potatoes. Already got 'em coming," she assured me.

  Matilda wrote the order on a piece of paper and walked over to the window in the wall that separated the kitchen from the space behind the counter. She slapped it down on the metal shelf of the window and rang a bell like it was service hour on Sunday.

  "One cow almost mooing and a side of Irish!" she called out.

  Jeff raised his head above the window and glared at her. In his mouth was a half-spent cigarette. "Ya don't have to yell, woman, they can hear you at the city jail."

  "You always say the nicest things," she quipped.

  He grinned. "You know I do, baby. I'll have this plate done in no time."

  It wasn't quite that fast, and by the time it arrived I was famished. My stomach growled like a V12 engine revving for a chance at the drag races. Matilda set the plate down along with a steaming mug of coffee.

  She tapped the large white mug. "You look tired, so I thought you could use this," she told me.

  I picked up my knife and fork and shoveled into the food. "I guess," I mumbled through the food.

  Matilda leaned against the counter and looked me over. "There's no guessing on my part, hun. You've got that tired look in your eyes like you've been out on the rails all night waiting to play chicken with an oncoming train. This murder case got you down or something?"

  I snorted and nearly choked on my food. "Nothing gets past you, does it?" I asked her as I took a swig of the coffee. I nearly choked on the coffee. It was as black and rich as a Texas oil field. "What'd you put in this stuff? Tar?" I questioned her.

  "Nope, just a load of beans, which is what you're not gonna give me when I ask you what's wrong," she persisted.

  I shoveled away the last bits of my steak and potatoes. I'd never eaten that fast in my life. I was surprised the fork and knife hadn't caught the steak on fire. "We'll just say I haven't been sleeping well," I admitted as I pushed the empty plate away.

  "Or eating well. You act like a half-starved dog," Matilda commented as she took the plate.

  I shrugged. "When you're on a case you don't-"

  "Starve yourself to death," Matilda insisted as she put the plate on the window sill. Jeff grumbled about more work, but took the dirty dishes. Matilda leaned over the counter and l
ooked me in the eyes. "Now you promise me you'll keep better care of yourself and keep out of trouble, ya hear?"

  I grinned and slid off my stool. "I can promise the first one, but the guys I deal with are going to try their hardest for me to break the second."

  "Then you call for backup next time and make sure they don't get that chance," she insisted.

  I tossed down enough cash for the meal and waved to her. "Bye, Matilda, and thanks for the coffee."

  "Don't let me hear about you getting in trouble again!" Matilda yelled as I exited the joint.

  I stepped outside into the hot afternoon air. I still had enough light to do exactly what Matilda didn't want me to do: get into trouble.

  CHAPTER 12

  I slid into my car and drove back to the river road. Everything was as I left it, so I followed the tracks down the bumpy, muddy road. The road followed the river out of the city, but the prints turned off down a ramp that led into the rat-maze that was the industrial district. Huge, billowing plumes of black smoke was pumped from the brick smokestacks that sat beside the large brick factories. The parking lots were filled with the cars of the workers. Forklifts and semis with their loads drove in, out and around the places like busy worker bees.

  It was into this jungle that I drove, and it was at the first paved parking lot that I lost the trail. The paw prints walked onto the hard pavement and disappeared. I stopped the car and stepped out. There was no sign of the prints, and I couldn't smell anything through the sulfur and burning coal. The trail was cold. I wondered if they'd gone this way on purpose.

  I slipped back into my car and drove through the district to the streets beyond. One lead was dead, but I still had the good doctor to talk with. He had some explaining to do about owning that moonstone, and why anybody would be asking around for it. Maybe even killing for it.

  I got to the hospital a little after four and headed to the front desk.

  "Is Doctor Lowell in?" I asked the receptionist.

  The woman was portly with as friendly a smile as a cobra. She studied me over the top of her horned glasses and frowned. "Do you have an appointment?" she questioned me. Her words were as sharp as her tongue.