Claws Bared

by Sheryl Nantus

  I turned and leaned on the bar, catching the attention of the bartender.

  She trotted over, eager to please. “Beer?”

  “Sure. Surprise me.” I spun and rested my elbows on the bar, eyes on the stage.

  Never let it be said these men didn’t work for their money.

  The vampire put his hands behind his head, lowering himself down to his knees and vibrating muscles I didn’t know existed. I wondered how much he spent on chiropractic bills.

  “Where are you from?” The bartender interrupted my medical observations.

  “Toronto, Canada.” There was no way anyone could bend that way. I made a mental note to ask Bran about certain parts of the male anatomy. Or maybe check it out myself.

  “Heard there was a Pride up there. Never met anyone from Canada before.” She tapped her chest. “Patty Mills.”

  I turned away with regret from the well-oiled muscles and picked up the cold beer, trying to place the woman’s unfamiliar face. “Rebecca Desjardin. Weren’t you at the farm earlier tonight?”

  “I’m on shift from six until close,” she said, a trace of regret in her voice. “Usually I can trade off but couldn’t get it this time.”

  My throat welcomed the cool brew. It’d been a long day and a rather annoying one. “Lisa Darning come here often?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “She comes in. Why?”

  “Just wondering. She smacked down a kit tonight. Fun to watch.” I sipped the dark beer and waited to see if this bartender lived up to her brethren’s rep about chatting and delivering information.

  “Lisa doesn’t tolerate shit on her watch.” A bowl of popcorn appeared from under the counter and slid next to my drink. “She’s a good woman.”

  “Seemed like that to me.” I took a handful and began popping the puffed kernels into my mouth one at a time. “How come she’s not on the Board?”

  Patty let out a snort. “She’s next in line, been in line for years. But no openings.”

  I frowned. “Can’t she just challenge for it?”

  She picked up a black plastic stir stick and began chewing on it. “She could but it’d be a hell of a fight.”

  “McCallum and Plussey aren’t that young.” I nudged the conversation forward. “Wouldn’t be that hard to put either of them down.”

  “Give me a second.” She strode down to deliver a tray of refills to a waiting server. As the cold beers slopped over the edges of the frosted glasses I spotted Bran at the side of the stage, fully clothed. He was deep in conversation with the next dancer about to strut his stuff, a young man wearing a too-small firefighter’s coat and carrying a plastic ax.

  He laughed as the dancer bent his knees and thrust outward, showing off a move. Bran mimicked him, adding a twist of his hips to the action. As the two men laughed I glared at him, hoping our psychic link would tell him of my annoyance.

  Bran didn’t twitch.

  So much for mental connections.

  Patty returned, glancing around at the nearby customers. They ignored us, focused on the stage. It was a perfect time to talk about family business.

  “Don’t know how they do it up there in Canada but we allow proxy fights.” The swizzle stick bounced around in her mouth. “When you get too old to fight but you’re wise beyond your years and all that. Brain over brawn.”

  “For everything?” I shook my head. “Sounds like there’d be a lot of scratched-up kits.”

  She laughed softly. “Usually by the time we hit puberty we’ve figured out what’s worth fighting over and who’s going to back you up on it. If you’re going to pick a fight it’ll be over something big, and you better be ready to deal with whatever comes your way.”

  “Brutal but fair. So if Lisa challenged either of the men she’d have to face a younger fighter.”

  “And they’re not ready to retire just yet.” She grabbed a rag from under the counter and swiped at an invisible stain. “Lisa’s a damned good leader but she won’t get a chance if she challenges. They’ll set some strongman on her and that’ll be done.”

  “She doesn’t have any fellows willing to fight for her?” I sipped the beer, wondering how Jess would fare under this system.

  I suspected there’d be ambulances at the farm day and night.

  “She’s had her fair share of suitors,” Patty said, “but no one was able to handle her. If they can’t handle her they’re not going to fight for her and end up being the Board’s boy toy.”

  I bit back a number of sexual comments.

  Her eyes darted around the bar. “No offense, but I’m getting a bit uncomfortable the way this chat is going.” She let out a sniff. “Nothing personal but we ain’t blood kin and you’re looking to put one of our own down.”

  I sipped the beer. “I hear you. I’m not here to cause trouble, just to help figure things out.”

  “Yeah, well...” She folded the damp towel into a tight little square. “I’m sorry he’d dead. Mike was a nice guy.”

  “I’m hearing that a lot.” I lifted my glass and tipped it toward the stage in salute. “Any of the usual crowd ever think about getting some private dancing with Mike?” I tilted my head and gave her a knowing look. “Humans included. I know we’re not the only ones who like some beefcake.”

  “Not a chance. Mike never let any of the women get too close, anyone.” She nodded to someone in the crowd. “He kept mostly to himself when he was here, which was a lot of the time. Came early to practice his moves, took extra shifts when asked and stayed late to walk me to my car when we locked up.” A sad smile touched her lips. “Sort of wasted but I appreciated the intent. A real gentleman.”

  I sensed Bran coming up behind me, his distinctive scent cutting through the perfume and foggy air. “You got any idea who killed Hansa?”

  “No idea.” She smiled at Bran over my shoulder. “Can I get you anything?”

  “Not right now,” he purred in a low, heavy tone. I’d heard that tone recently, within the last hour.

  I fought back a growl starting at the back of my throat and finished off the beer. “I’m at the Super 6 if you think of anything else.” I put another business card down.

  “Sure.” Her eyes stayed on Bran. “I’ll call.”

  I turned to see Bran wearing a wide, friendly smile.

  “Let’s go.” I scowled at the grinning man before leading him out of the club. I might have deserved it but I sure as hell didn’t have to like it.

  “That was interesting,” he mused as we walked through the parking lot. “Do you know how much those guys make a night?”

  “More than I do. You considering changing professions?” I resisted the urge to look over at the green pickup.

  Bran chortled. “Well, they do look like they’re having fun.”

  I wanted to slap the smile off his face. Instead I tossed him the keys. “I had a beer. Last thing I need is a conviction for drunk driving. I’m willing to bet Carson’s boys have this place on their radar every night.”

  The headlights shot bright beams across the darkened parking lot as we maneuvered our way out of the maze of parked cars. “Learn anything about Hansa’s death?”

  “Maybe. I learned he wasn’t doing any of the girls here.” I looked in the rearview mirror and spotted a set of headlights far behind us.

  “Still got our ghost. If he’s smart he’ll keep that distance.” Bran drove along the darkened road.

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Guy I spoke to said the performers tend to keep away from the women. Don’t need a catfight in the parking lot.” He looked over at me and I spotted a smirk in the dim light. “So to speak.”

  “Smart ass.” I blew a raspberry at him. “Owner’s tough as nails with bigger balls than most of her dancers.”

  “Sort of have to be.” Bran blinked. “Was that just a deer?”

  I twisted around and spotted the shadowy figure behind us, fleeing across the road. “Yep. Thanks for not hitting it.”

  He let out a wheeze of
relief.

  “Bartender says Mike didn’t have any favorites among the women.” I peered ahead into the night. “Which pokes another hole into the angry-jilted-lover theory.”

  Bran tapped on the brake, keeping us well within the speed limit. “Doesn’t mean he didn’t have something quiet on the side and wasn’t meeting her elsewhere. The last place you want to have an affair is someplace obvious like the club. Go elsewhere to do the dirty.”

  “There’s no scent in his apartment. It’s practically sanitized. His truck, well—it was a mess. Not the place to get in the mood unless you were desperate.” I glanced in the side mirror. Trace was still a goodly distance behind us, keeping pace. “If he was doing any of the women it had to be at her place or in a hotel.”

  “A lot of work for sex.” Brandon slowed down to take a turn. “And how do you keep that a secret in this small a town? Especially, like you told Jess, there’s Felis all over the place. He books into a hotel with a Felis, you can bet the Board would know tout de suite.” His fingers drummed on the steering wheel. “Maybe they were connecting through email, making arrangements that way. Go to another town, maybe use her car.”

  I shook my head as we parked at the hotel. “I didn’t find a computer in his apartment. If it was there Carson’s boys took it, and since I’m still here it’s obvious Hansa didn’t have his girlfriend info on it. If he had a cell phone it was taken by the killer, and I don’t have the ability to get to his phone records. Carson could ask for a warrant but without due cause it’d be refused.”

  “Because it’s a bear attack,” Bran said.

  “Exactly. Great cover story but it kills a lot of options for us to explore legally,” I grumbled. “I can’t be sure about the legitimacy of anything at Hansa’s apartment. The place was searched before I got there.”

  Bran cut the engine. “What?”

  I got out of the car and stretched, letting the brisk breeze wash over me. “Pride had his place tossed before I got there. While I was there they tossed the hotel room here.” I nodded toward the lobby. “Clumsy oafs.”

  I could hear his teeth grinding as he locked the car. “They went through your stuff?”

  “Don’t worry; I didn’t bring down any sex toys.” The joke fell flat as I saw his face. “It’s what they do, Bran.”

  “It’s not what we do.” He headed toward the front door. “I’m going to talk to the manager.”

  “Don’t.” A few quick steps and I was at his side. “I don’t want them to know that I know. They’re assuming I’m as slow as most humans.” I lowered my voice. “Let me play this out my way.”

  He paused with his hand on one of the two stainless steel doorknobs. “I hate this.”

  “Me too. But until I figure out who’s friend and who’s foe I can’t risk alienating anyone.” I took his hand, squeezed it. “Let’s just go back to the room.”

  I saw the anger in the way he strode past the night clerk, his eyes darting toward the woman as if he expected her to Change and challenge him.

  I fumbled for the cardkey in my pocket and unlocked the door in silence.

  Bran walked in and tossed his coat on the far chair. “So aside from being spied on do you have any more clues?”

  I toed off my shoes and hung my coat up, grateful for the chance to do something simple and menial. “I’ve got some solid facts that can’t be disputed. Mike Hansa was slashed up by a Felis. Those claw marks weren’t from a bear.”

  Bran opened the minibar and helped himself to a water bottle. “Right.” He perched himself on the edge of the bed. “And Carson thinks he was killed ’cause of a jealous feud.”

  “Which I can’t deny or confirm.” I hopped up on the bed and wriggled my socked toes at him. “But it seems to be what everyone’s thinking.”

  “But you can’t find any evidence he was seeing anyone. And the guys at the club say he was happily single.” Bran drained half the bottle in two gulps. “So someone’s not telling the truth.”

  “Either he was having a relationship and kept it very, very well hidden...” I picked up the file folder containing the crime scene photos and handed it to Bran. “Or there was no relationship and he was killed because of something else.”

  “Like what?” Bran opened the file. “False advertising?”

  “Smart ass.”

  “And all the rest of me, baby.”

  Bran stared at the gory autopsy photographs, showing no emotion. I figured he’d seen worse working as a journalist. He flipped through the clinical shots of the mutilated torso, pausing for only a few seconds on each one.

  His eyes narrowed as he studied the promotional body shot provided by the Cat’s Meow at the back of the file. “Who is this guy?”

  “Mike Hansa.” Even as I said the words my pulse doubled. “What?”

  Bran tapped the photograph. “I know this guy.”

  Chapter Nine

  I raised one eyebrow. “Want to tell me something about your illicit past?”

  “I mean, I’ve seen him somewhere else.” He closed his eyes, forehead furrowed with concentration. “I’ve seen him before. With his clothing on.” Bran reached over and plucked his laptop from the travel bag. “Let’s see what I can find.”

  As it booted up Brandon shook his head, deep furrows appearing on his forehead. “Maybe it was an article. A photo op.” He chewed on his lower lip. “I don’t remember, damn it.”

  I glared at the small screen, mentally speeding the process up. “Maybe you did an article on male dancers already? Small towns going under?” I let out a sigh as the familiar generic desktop image appeared. “Maybe his last place of employment let him go on a grudge; maybe he ticked someone off in his last job and wrote a letter to the editor that got published. Maybe he got into a fight and made it on YouTube.”

  “Nothing rings a bell.” He took the laptop and balanced it on his thighs. “Let me see what I can find out.”

  I helped myself to a soda. “I did a search on Hansa. Nothing much out there other than a few promo shots for the club.”

  “So who was he before he became an exotic dancer,” Bran murmured. “He didn’t go to school, never graduated, no cyber trail behind him.”

  “What, he was an international spy?” I drained the can in two gulps. The caffeine rush went straight to my head along with the carbonation. I burped loudly.

  “Such a lady.” He didn’t look up as his fingers banged out a rhythm on the keyboard. “Let me surf around for a bit. Do a search on his promo pic and see if it jogs my memory.”

  I spotted a candy bar in the side pocket of his bag. A sideways swipe had it in my hand.

  “That’s stealing.” He moved to the desk. “I’ll expect you to pay for that later.” He wagged his finger.

  “I thought I already did.” I shot him one of my come-hither looks. “And credit.”

  The low chuckle sent a hot rush up and down my spine. “We’ll discuss a payment plan later.”

  His fingers danced on the worn keyboard, the white lettering almost rubbed off with prolonged use.

  I sniffed the candy bar. Nougat and caramel wrapped in a chocolate coat of delight. Sweet, sweet sugar rush.

  “Ah.” Bran leaned forward, his nose almost touching the screen. “Oh. Wow.”

  “What?” I scrambled over to the desk, my mouth full of chocolate gooeyness.

  “A man of many talents.” Bran grinned. “He’s not only a male stripper—” he swung the screen around so I could see it, “—he’s also a shit-disturbing investigative reporter.”

  I stared at the full-sized color image on the screen. A long line of tuxedo-clad men stood in a line, holding some sort of award between them all. It was an ugly varnished piece of wood with a silver quill sticking out of one end.

  “Mike Hancock, among others, receiving the Silver Quill for his story on government corruption,” Bran droned. “Give me a second and I’ll pull up the esteemed tome.”

  “Sounding a bit bitter there.” I took another bite of
the chocolate bar as he spun the laptop back to face him.

  “Me? Pshaw.” He tapped on the keyboard. “Glory hound. Wins one award and thinks he’s God’s gift to journalism.”

  “He’s dead. I don’t think he’s going to be winning any more awards.” I glanced back at Bran’s laptop. “So he was running undercover as a stripper.”

  “Won the award for a series detailing massive abuse in the waste management services for three counties in Pennsylvania. In other words, he dug up the garbage on the garbage.” Bran smacked his lips. “Good report. Clean kill. Got a lot of dirt stirred up and investigations started on all levels of government.”

  “Was anyone powerful fired? Could be a revenge killing. Depending on how high he went with his crusade it’s pretty plausible.” I moved to stand behind him, trying to make sense of the images on the screen. “Let me see if the hotel here has a printer. I want to get a hard copy of that award ceremony picture.”

  It took only a few minutes to call up the front desk and confirm they had a printer we’d be able to use. I motioned at Bran to send it through and headed for the door.

  I peeked out into the parking lot as the clerk waited for the printer to finish. Sure enough Trace was there, napping behind the wheel.

  I resisted the urge to go over and thump on the window. Then thump on him until he’d just go away. I didn’t need the distraction and sure as hell didn’t need to worry about Bran running into him again.

  Bran looked up as I re-entered. I gave him a thumbs-up and passed him the photograph.

  I looked at the screen. “Any idea what he was working on here?”

  “None,” he admitted. “If he’s like the rest of us he doesn’t kiss and tell.” Bran smacked his lips at me. “Competition’s the name of the game. Your story can become someone else’s byline in a minute.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “Not on this.” He pointed at the laptop screen. “It’s not uncommon for reporters to be working on the same story but different angles. It’s a matter of who gets to market first. You may have the better article but if it’s on page eight because the headline went to Jane Smith who got a juicier twist...” Bran blew a raspberry. “Done like dinner. You don’t get any prizes for second place.”