by T. F. Walsh
She thought it a shame when they pulled him from street duty. The fiery passion his eyes used to hold had dimmed to embers. “How’d it happen?”
“Damn physical. Said my eyes weren’t good enough anymore. Unsafe for me to be on the street.” He waved his hands over the desk in a grand sweeping gesture. “So they make me captain and sit me here until I go blind from pushing papers all day.”
Adams patted his own belly. “Looks like it agrees with you, Sare.”
The old man snorted and rubbed the bulge poking over his belt. “Burnt coffee and stale doughnuts.”
They all laughed. “Yeah, that’ll do it.” Lydia rested a hand on one of the piles and leaned in. “Look, Sare, we need your help.”
“This about the Butcher case?” He raised his eyebrows.
“I think so. Do you recognize the name Virgil Miller?”
“Miller, Miller.” He rolled his chair and dug through one of the file cabinets behind his desk.
“Or Robert Cooper?” Adams added.
“Ah.” He stopped digging and raised a finger. “Cooper and Miller. Dynamic Duo. Cooper was killed in a wreck a few years back.”
Sare knew them. Elation filled her, and if it hadn’t been completely inappropriate, she would have turned to Adams and said, “Told you so.”
He rolled to the desk. “What do you need to know?”
She kept her face schooled in a somber expression. “Have you had any activity from Miller lately?”
“Trafficking?” asked Sare.
Lydia nodded. “Crystal meth.”
“Haven’t heard the name. We did have a handful of users in the hospital in the past few days. Every damn one of them claiming to have the flu, if you can believe that.” He shook his head. “No one would rat out their old supplier.”
Adams pursed his lips. “If their supplier got taken out in a fire, let’s say.” He caught Lydia’s eye. “A few days would have given the junkies time to use up their stash and start withdrawal.”
“Most junkies have a backup supplier,” she said.
Adams shrugged. “That’s why only a handful ended up in the hospital.”
Sare bounced slightly in his chair. “You think it’s Miller?”
“That’s the theory.” She tapped a fingernail on the pile of papers. “If I gave you a recent description of Miller, could you get it out to the people the department has undercover. We need to find his new base of operations.”
“To set up another sting?” Adams smirked and crossed his arms. “We’ve done well with that so far.”
Such a smartass remark needed a reaction, so she used one she learned from his mother. She stared at him, meeting his gaze easily until he finally averted his eyes. It took all the control she could muster not to smile when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sare shudder.
“Another raid. With a much smaller force.” She lifted a hand as both men started to speak at once. “The larger raid started a fire last time and provided him with the distraction he needed to escape. There will be no distractions this time. No bait. This time he goes down.” She smacked her palm on the desk.
Adams asked, “You’ll pass the description around then?”
The older man ran another hand through his already disheveled hair. His eyes recovered some of their old passion. “Yeah. Yeah, I will.”
She nodded. Sare would spread the word. One of the good things about being in the force for years, he knew everyone and accumulated many favors. He’d call them in, if only to catch the one that got away.
She turned to Adams to say as much when the booming voice of the chief called to her. The short, thin man limped toward her, his face hard as stone.
He dismissed Adams with a look, and returned his firm gaze to her. Unsure of the cause of his wrath, she started to give him an update on the case.
He held up a hand and motioned her to follow. And although the leg marred his gate, he set a quick pace. They didn’t head for the elevator and his office as she’d assumed. Instead, they turned a corner into internal affairs.
“What is this, chief?” she asked, silently thanking God she’d finished her transformation.
“This.” He turned and moved so close to her face she could feel his breath as he talked. “This is what happens when you ignore office politics. You haven’t been in the office lately.”
“Sir, I’ve been continuing the investigation. I’ve kept you appraised in my reports.” She met his eye and didn’t retreat.
“Unfortunately, there is more to the job than just doing your job.” He moved toward the internal affairs conference room. Glancing over his shoulder, he said, “You’ve done your job well and no one is faulting you for that.”
She held her ground, refusing to follow. “Sir, if I am to receive a formal interview, I was to be notified in writing of the reprimand.”
He stopped. “I know your rights, detective.” His exasperated tone revealed the interview’s nature — a political joke.
Finally, she made the connection. “Henson.”
He hobbled to her. “Henson. Saw you come in and called in all his favors to convene this interview. I don’t know what he’s up to, but if he weren’t so good at ferreting out information, I’d have fired him the day after he started duty. He’s a pain in the ass, but he’s good.”
“He’s not internal affairs, he just wants my case. He wants to make a name for himself at my expense, and I’m not going to let him.” Her anger manifested in a perfect cold, even burn, the kind that lasted and would feed the fight for hours.
She raised an eyebrow at the chief and motioned for him to lead the way. His eyes widened a moment then he led the way to the interview.
Like most conference rooms in offices, it held a long table surrounded by chairs in the middle of a rather nondescript room; the white walls interrupted only by a white dry erase board on the wall opposite the door. In front of the board, stationed at the head of the table, waited Henson. To his left sat a representative of internal affairs flipping through a packet of papers. To his right, folders were positioned like placemats in front of two chairs.
Refusing to play the game by his rules, she stalked to his chair. The chief said something as she moved, but she didn’t hear. She focused only on Henson’s smirk as she leaned close. “You want to make a name for yourself, you do it on your own.” She didn’t bother to whisper. “I’ve been told you’re a good detective. Well, that’s just fine. But you need to get something straight. If you want to work with me, you work with me. Intercepting my reports, spreading insidious rumors, and sabotaging my career to advance yours will not work in this precinct.”
Henson’s gaze darted to the man from internal affairs, who listened intently.
“My reputation is established here, as is my professionalism and integrity, so you can take your lies and walk if you have a problem with me.” She stood slowly, eyes locked with Henson’s.
When she faced the others, the chief rubbed his mustache vigorously, and though it obscured his mouth, it didn’t hide the mirth in his eyes.
Finally, she faced the man from internal affairs, whom she didn’t know. He must be new. Oh, great. I’m sure that part about being established must have gone over well. Making sure none of the doubt showed on her face, she waited for him to speak.
He took a moment, studying her. Then he extended a hand. “Detective, your reputation precedes you.”
She nearly cringed as she shook his hand.
“I’m Edward Arrington, internal affairs.” He reached into the breast pocket of his suit coat. “If you need my services … ” He glanced at Henson with distaste. “Give me a call.”
Henson sputtered. “She’s sleeping with a suspect. She’s let the Butcher get away three times.” He came across as a child pleading with his parents for a later bed
time. “How can you let her keep a case she’s mishandled so badly?”
Ignoring the tantrum, she turned to the chief. “Sir, I’d like to bring you up to speed with my findings so far.”
And at his nod, she followed him out of the room, leaving Henson whining at the weary Arrington.
• • •
Ryan settled into a folding metal chair at a heavy wooden table set in the center of the archive room. Surrounding him stood rows of floor-to-ceiling file cabinets. In this room, the newspaper stored all excess pictures and notes for their stories from the past four decades.
For years, rumors abounded that the archives would be converted to digital data files, but until they completely filled the room, the powers that be would not foot the money needed for such a project.
Writers of most other papers kept their own notes, and the photographers their own pictures. However, at the Daily Times, the data came here, available to all writers and editors. He never knew when he would need new material to do a ‘through the years’ story.
It took Ryan a while to find the article archived in microfiche, and notes and unused photos for the accident that killed Robert Cooper. He’d worked with this system as long as he’d worked for the Times, and although others ranted about the inefficient storage, Ryan enjoyed digging through the files. He smiled, finding it almost as fun as digging for treasure.
He opened a folder on the table and read the reporter’s notes. Not much on the slip of paper that didn’t appear in the article, so he lifted a stack of pictures.
The original photo, run with the newspaper article, showed wreckage down a hillside through foliage. Even in black–and–white, it appeared impressive. Metal twisted at all angles, and the shattered windshield rolled over what was left of the roof.
The rest of the pictures showed specific close-ups of the car and surrounding bushes. Ryan set aside the ones he thought would interest Lydia.
In the first photo, the front bumper wrapped partway around the mangled trunk of the tree that halted its descent. Not particularly relevant. He set the photo in the folder.
In the next, blood glistened on leaves and roots of a nearby tree. Most likely where Cooper fell when he was thrown from the car. This might be something.
Snapped branches from the fall impaled the vinyl back of both front seats. Wicked. He took a long look before discarding it into the folder.
The last picture seemed taken to finish off the roll. From the haphazard angle and the awkward lighting, it appeared snapped while the photographer walked from the scene.
There in the dirt, on the edge of the road, appeared footprints. Too large and too oddly shaped to be human. Although the edges of the image suffered bad blurring, the center showing the print looked only remotely fogged. Lydia needed this one.
He worked at gathering everything together when his phone rang. Lydia. “Hello, gorgeous.”
“Yeah, yeah” came the amused reply. “We’ll be out front in a minute. Did you find anything?”
“Yup. Just putting the rest of the pictures back.”
“Bring the whole thing.”
“You want to look at all of it?”
“Absolutely. We might see something in them that you don’t.”
He enjoyed her confidence and suppressed his injured pride. “Whatever. Be down in a sec.” He hung up, put everything in the folder and left. He stopped at a desk and signed out the folder.
As he walked out the front door, Lydia pulled to the curb. “Perfect timing,” she said as he climbed into the back.
“Hey, babe.” Ryan squeezed her shoulder, pretending to just notice Adams in the passenger seat. “Oh, you’re still here.” Then he leaned forward. “Where to now?”
“Let’s go to your place and go over what you found.”
• • •
Ryan spread the photographs on the coffee table. Lydia and Adams examined them with magnifying glasses while he read them the article and reporter’s notes.
When he finished, she snorted. “About as much in the newspaper’s account as there is in the police report. Seems everyone wanted to dismiss this as a normal car accident.”
“People only see what they want.”
She intently examined the picture in her hand.
“What do you see?” Ryan felt stirrings of desire. Even before she’d transformed, he knew this woman complemented him. Now they were beyond perfect for one another. I want her to meet my family. The stray idea startled him and drew him to the moment. He cleared his throat and sipped some of his coffee.
She glanced at him. “This may have been an accident at the start, but it wasn’t normal.” She pointed to one of the images she’d arranged on the table. “There are claw marks on the back of the front seats. And if you look closely at that one, the floor seems to shine.”
“And being that the carpet is maroon, and the car was mangled — ”
“It’s possible that the investigating officer overlooked the amount of blood because injuries were expected.” She tapped a fingernail on the table. “Here’s what I think happened. I bet they picked up … ” Her voice trailed off as she looked at Adams.
“Okay, here it comes,” he said. “Tell me what’s really happening here. What’s with all the animal evidence?”
• • •
Almost from the time she found out what she’d become, Lydia wondered how she would tell Adams.
She glanced at Ryan to see if he had an opinion on how she should tell the man who now stood in the middle of the room with his arms crossed, glaring at both of them. Ryan responded with a shrug.
Okay, fine. This was her problem and he’d stay out of it for now. Great. We’re werewolves. No. Remember the dog DNA? No, shit. Adams tilted his head. Ah, crap.
“Sit down, damn it. You’re making me nervous,” she snapped. When Adams didn’t move, she stood her ground. “I said sit.” She pointed to a chair.
Once he sat, she began to pace and decided to start at the beginning. “You remember the blood when you came to get me in the woods?” Only a nod in response. Okay. “The night before, I’d been attacked.” She paused. “Attacked by a werewolf.”
After a minute, he nodded. “Sure, makes sense. You know my father is a vampire and my mother is a banshee. You know, I think Fairweather is a leprechaun.”
“Oh, shut the hell up,” Ryan said as he picked up the magnifying glass and examined the pictures.
Lydia took advantage of the stunned silence. “It explains how Miller escaped when his house was in flames from the raid. The dog hairs we found at the scene. The canine DNA we found on Ms. Lenz. The attack patterns on all of his victims.” She drew in a breath. “And what happened to Jacobs and me.”
“What?” Adams squeaked and jumped from his chair as if spikes started to protrude from the cushion.
“I handled the change better though. With Ryan’s help.” She laid a hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “He’s gone through it, too.”
Horrified, Adams shifted his gaze between them while backing toward the window.
“Jesus, would you stop acting like we’re going to rip your head off?” Lydia’s voice cracked like a whip, stopping him in his tracks. “Okay, in a nutshell. A werewolf bites you then you turn into one. If you make it through your first full moon without killing a human, the urge to kill people goes away.”
Ryan stood and wrapped an arm around her. “Lydia just graduated.”
“Congratulations,” Adams muttered and sat. He ran a hand through his hair and slouched in the recliner.
“I know it’s hard to process, but you had to know the answer would have been difficult to take.”
Adams slouched and closed his eyes. “So, both of you are werewolves. And the Butcher, Virgil Miller, he’s one too.” It wasn’t a question and he didn’t look at her nod. “So, okay.” He
took a deep breath, as if steeling himself to look at them then raised his head. “So, what do we do? Use a silver bullet?”
“Actually, we’ve been doing research, and silver anything is good.” Lydia smiled and sat on the couch, pleased he made the attempt to understand. “A werewolf heals quickly from normal wounds. An injury inflicted by something silver causes a wound to heal in human time.”
Ryan gave a curt nod. “So, stab with a steel knife, it heals right up. Stab with a silver knife, he bleeds like a human.”
“Okay, I want some silver bullets.” Adams smacked his hands together. “Damned if I’m getting close enough to use a knife.”
Chapter 21
They planned strategy and discussed the reality of werewolves late into the night. When Lydia’s eyelids started to close by themselves, she told Adams to meet them in the morning and they’d go weapon shopping.
Once Ryan closed the door, she lifted her hands to the only man she’d ever surrender to. “Let’s go to bed.”
As he scooped her into his arms, he whispered, “Are you really tired?” His gruff voice sent shivers through her body.
“Not anymore.”
• • •
Once outside, Adams waved for a cab. As the vehicle pulled to the curb, he heard a growl. Spinning, he opened the door and fell into the seat, scanning for the noise. He pushed his emotions aside, every bit of police instinct coming to the fore. Bounding down the stairs of the next stoop came a flash of white. Cold as ice, he trained his weapon on the charging object.
Bellowing laughter of the cab driver filled the air as a toy poodle barked frantically at Adams, nipping and tearing at his pant leg. He kicked, and the little dog backed up enough for him to close the door. An elderly Asian woman scurried after and scooped the dog into her arms.
Adams leaned into the seat and struggled to catch his breath. For a second, he’d imagined the Butcher bounding toward him to rip out his throat. As the moment, and the cabby’s laughter, faded, Adams realized what a fool he’d appeared.