Claws Bared

by Sheryl Nantus

  He scuffed the tip of his shoe on the edge of the curb. “He bled out pretty good.”

  “No blood trail leading to or from the scene.” I pushed one butt around with the edge of my fingernail. “Could have been a body dump to try and throw us off the track.”

  Trace shook his head. “Look at the amount of blood. No way he bled that much anyplace else.”

  I went over to him and leaned over the stained grass. The thick soil still reeked of blood, the coppery scent sticking to the back of my throat. If Mike Hancock had been killed elsewhere and dumped here, the killer had carried a bag of blood with him or her.

  “He doesn’t smoke. So he comes out here to...what?” I stood up and spread my hands. “Meet someone? His contact giving him info about the club’s finances? Practice new dance moves?”

  Trace shuffled to one side. I recognized the moves—standard tracking practice. He sniffed the air and grimaced.

  “You wouldn’t think a nightclub would generate so much garbage.” His nose wriggled as he fought with the ugly smells contaminating his senses.

  “And yet they do.” I moved away from the darkened grass, trying to pick my way through the competing scents. It was like maneuvering inside a kaleidoscope.

  “Must be picked up once a week.” Trace waved a hand toward the Dumpster. “Damned thing’s probably full of used hair gel bottles and body wash.” He gave a visible shudder.

  I paused. It’d been technically part of the crime scene but I’d ignored it, pursuing the original theory that Hancock’d been killed by a jealous lover.

  I’d also assumed Carson had checked it out already.

  Insert “ass-u-me” joke here.

  I approached the box, swearing under my breath. Dumpster diving was one of the things I hated about this job—you never knew what you’d land in. One time I’d had to jump in to retrieve a receipt to prove a false insurance claim and ended up ankle-deep in rancid wonton soup.

  My stomach flipped at the memory.

  Trace grinned. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “Not a chance.” I flung the thin sheet metal flap open and peered inside, trying not to inhale. “No pain, no gain.”

  Trace knelt down and linked his hands together. “I’d offer to go but I’m not a trained investigator.”

  “And your work boots are too pretty.” I stepped onto his intertwined fingers, using the makeshift step to swing my leg up and over the rusted metal top.

  I winced as my shoes crushed something glass, the tinkling loud in my ears. “Come on in, the water’s fine.”

  “I’m good,” Trace said. “I’ve got your back.”

  I coughed, trying to sort out the various smells. “Thanks.” I knelt down on a flattened cardboard box. “Wish I had a pair of gloves. I’m afeared of what I’ll find in here.”

  Trace appeared at the edge of the Dumpster. He leaned in and took a deep whiff. “Not much rotting food.”

  “Probably just from the bar and fast food lunches.” I turned over a plastic bag to reveal a stack of shredded coffee-stained napkins. “Lemons, cherries and the like from those fancy drinks with the umbrellas. I don’t remember them having a full menu.” I shuffled the ragged streams with one foot. “Hello. What’s this?”

  The folded bloody napkin lay at the bottom of the stack, the dark stain almost blending in with the coffee.

  Almost.

  I pulled it out with care, easing the dried, brittle paper edges over.

  The long, slender half circles lay in the middle of the napkins, edges touched with crimson.

  I leaned in and sniffed.

  Blood.

  Mike Hancock’s blood.

  It wouldn’t stand up in a court of law but I was hell and gone from anything resembling a courtroom.

  “What are those?” Trace stared at the scattered light blue crescent moons littering the area. Half of them were bloodstained in some way or other. The edges were curved up into sharp points, artificial claws.

  “The murder weapon. Or weapons, depending on how you look at it.” I leaned in and sniffed again, trying to pick up the owner’s scent.

  “Whose are they?” Trace studied the small pile.

  I drew in another deep breath, holding back a cough. “It’s a mess. I got Hancock clean and clear but this, this is a mess.”

  “Can I see?” Trace sounded like a little kid eager to see a fresh gash on someone’s arm.

  I used the remnants of a half-shredded page to push them together on another sheet. “Let me just get out here first.” The whiff of something dead and decaying spurted up when I shifted my foot to one side.

  I resisted the urge to gag and took small puffs.

  “Don’t you need an evidence bag or something like that?” Trace asked.

  “Fuck, yeah.” I carefully folded the page again and again, trapping the thin wafers inside. “But I’m a master at improvising. Now help me get out of here before I puke.”

  I moved to the side of the container, keeping a firm grip on the evidence. It took an effort to swing my foot up and over the thin wall. A sharp pain ran up my back, reminding me yet again that I wasn’t as young as I used to be.

  At least when it came to straddling iron bars.

  Trace grunted and helped me out of the Dumpster, pulling me over the rough metal edge as gently as he could. His hands tightened on my waist, tucking under my duster with an unsettling familiarity.

  I let out a short meep as he set me on my feet, holding onto the packet as tightly as I dared.

  Trace chuckled, his voice low and seductive. “Cute sound.”

  “Don’t get used to it. I need to call Carson.” I dug my phone out of my coat pocket with one hand, not daring to relinquish my death hold on the paper.

  “Here.” Trace took the phone from me and tapped in a number. He looked up at me, seeing my curious glance. “We don’t use 911 out here. Not for that, anyway. Pride’s got a private number for him.”

  I hefted the small package in my hand, wondering what else we had missed.

  “Chief? Yep, I’m out here at the club with Rebecca. She wants you to come here pronto.” Trace said. “Girl’s a damned good tracker.”

  I plucked the phone from his hand, giving the alpha male a scowl. “Chief Carson?”

  “What do you have?” Carson spoke quickly, his tone somewhere between a yell and a whine. “What do you have?”

  “I think I’ve got the murder weapon.” I hefted the paper in my hand.

  “Is Trace working with you now?” There was a note of confusion in his voice.

  I glanced at Trace. “Yes, yes he is. We agreed to disagree on the method of him babysitting me.”

  “Your man let you hang out with Trace?” Carson let out a hoarse laugh. “What’s he doing, pouting back at the hotel as he knits you a sweater?”

  “He’s following a lead, working online from our room.” I tried to take command back of the conversation back and pull it away from my love life. “Look, why don’t you meet me at the hospital. I’d like Henry to get what he can off this evidence. If you’ve got DNA on any of the family...” I hoped that between Henry, Carson and Trace we’d be able to scent the real killer. My nose just wasn’t that good.

  “No, no. You stay right there. I’m coming over,” Carson barked. “Have you spoken to anyone else yet about this?”

  I shook my head, forgetting I wasn’t using one of those newfangled video phones. “We just found it and the club isn’t open yet. A few people hanging around but no one’s seen us yet.”

  “Good. I don’t want this getting around. You know these small towns—rumors travel faster than deer in hunting season.” He chuckled. “Best we keep this as quiet as possible until it’s time to move.”

  “I hear you.” I felt the hairs on the back of my neck twitch. “Meet me in the parking lot. We’re traveling in my car.”

  “I’m on my way.” The line went dead.

  “Hey.” Trace touched my arm. “What you just said ’bout n
o one seeing us yet? Look up and smile.”

  I followed his outstretched finger to see a minicamera mounted on the edge of the building, pointed squarely down at the smoking area.

  At us.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Damn,” I swore, holding back on more colorful language in case the camera had audio. “Didn’t even think about it.”

  “What?” Trace asked.

  “Sophia Martin.” I peered at the small lens. It wasn’t mounted on a swivel base, meaning it couldn’t follow us. I gestured for Trace to follow me just out of range, back around the corner of the building. “She’s got a set of monitors in her office. She told me she just installed that one after the murder.”

  “Think she’s in her office and saw us?”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  I’d taken only a handful of steps toward the front door when it flew open.

  Sophia Martin strode out, leveling a shotgun at the two of us. Her long red hair stuck to her sweaty face and shoulders, covering the scrap of a T-shirt she wore.

  The long dark-steel double barrels pointed at my chest. I knew my leather duster could take a few smacks, but it wasn’t body armor.

  Trace made as if to move in front of me.

  “Don’t even think about it,” she shrieked. Her eyes were bloodshot and wide. “I can get you both at this range.”

  Trace let out a low growl. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him tense up, ready to Change. At his age with his experience he could do it within a minute.

  If Sophia didn’t blow him away first.

  I could distract her, make a move to separate from Trace. She’d follow me. I was her main target. I could buy time for Trace to complete his Change.

  There was a chance he could wrestle the shotgun from Sophia before it went off.

  A small, minuscule chance. Felis reflexes were good, but with her finger on the trigger and in her emotional state it’d be too close to call.

  I gave him an almost imperceptible shake of my head. The last thing I needed right now was a shootout.

  He hissed between clenched teeth but remained human.

  “You know what happened to Mike. You know how he ended up dead.” I spoke slowly, letting each word take up optimum air space.

  A thick tear washed out of Sophia’s right eye, dribbling through the thick makeup to land on her chin.

  “Was it an accident?” I held up the small packet in my hand. “Is that why you cut your nails?”

  Trace looked from me to the folded paper, the revelation dawning on his face. I saw his right hand flex, his claws ready to come out if needed.

  Sophia’s eyes darted down to her own mangled nails. The one I’d spotted at our first interview bled freely now, the blood oozing over her finger. She licked her lips and I knew she wanted to pop it back in her mouth and continue her painful penance.

  “In your flyer you’ve got long, beautiful nails.” I advanced a step. “Now they’re short and mangled. You must have hated to clip them. A lot of time and work there.”

  She took a strangled breath. “He shouldn’t have been here. He shouldn’t have been poking around.” Her voice rose a notch. “I work hard for my money. Everyone here, they work damned hard for their money.”

  Trace held his ground as I shuffled closer.

  “You smoke. Mike doesn’t. You were out here, having a smoke.” I started to lay out my scenario, hoping and praying Carson would arrive soon. Maybe if she saw a lawman she’d be less likely to blow a hole in my midsection.

  “I smoke in my office but sometimes I come out for a bit of fresh air.” She puffed at a wet strand of hair stuck to her cheek.

  I tried not to smile at the oxymoron.

  Another tear dripped off her chin. “I suspected he’d been poking around my office. Papers shuffled, little things like that.” Her eyes darted toward Trace’s before returning to mine. “I set up a camera in my office, caught him red-handed going through my drawers after his last shift.” One side of her mouth twisted upward. “So to speak.”

  I grinned at the weak joke. “So you knew he was messing with your stuff. You come out here, try and get your thoughts together about what to do. Have a smoke, relax for a minute and figure things out. Think about how to deal with him, how to keep your secrets.”

  She nodded. The shotgun barrel wavered a bit but stayed trained on me. “It’s the end of the night; no one’s left but me and the bar staff. Mike comes out, heads for his car. I call the shithead over and tell him I know about his stunt. I know he’s digging for dirt and I don’t want him around. I’m not going to have a good deal screwed up ’cause some punk wants to get his name in the papers.”

  Inwardly I cursed Mike Hancock for responding to Sophia’s challenge. His pride had gotten the best of him—he’d walked back here without fear, thinking he could take anything the short old woman could hand out. He had the files, he had his story. All he needed to do was walk away and write his little heart out.

  I didn’t want to speak ill of the dead but Hancock had been an idiot.

  “You got pissed ’cause he was acting like a smart ass.” I shuffled forward at a snail’s pace. The shotgun was almost within reach.

  Where the fuck was Carson?

  “He bragged about it. The bastard bragged about how he was going to take the club down, take me down.” The tears now flowed freely, drawing tiger stripes of mascara down her cheeks. “We’re important to the town. We can’t be shut down. It’d ruin this area.”

  “I hear you.” A short lunge could put the shotgun in my hands. Or have me farting pellets for the rest of my short, painful life. “He made fun of you. He shouldn’t have done that.”

  Sophia blinked away more tears. “He was a prick. I thought he was a nice guy, a decent man just trying to make some cash. The ladies loved him and he was one of my best money-makers.” She sniffled. “Son of a bitch was playing me. Played me for a fool. Took advantage of my generosity in giving him the job in the first place.”

  I heard the pain in her voice. She’d cared for him—too much.

  “He mouthed off. He was being an ass.” I filled in the details. “You got mad. You got pissed. Who could blame you?”

  “It was an accident,” she sniffled. “He laughed at me, told me to go back inside and get ready to lose the club.” Her hands tightened on the shotgun, fingers resting on the trigger. “Bastard grabbed my arm and shoved me, shoved me hard.”

  “And you fought back. Who could blame you?” I nodded, hoping the sympathetic tone would cool things down. “You get back up and show him you’re not one of the girls, you’re not someone he can mess with.”

  She nodded.

  “You lash out at him, mess up that pretty little face.” I continued the scenario. “Make him not so hot, not so pretty.”

  “Show him not to fuck with me,” Sophia whispered.

  “And you cut deep.” I lifted the paper packet. “Your long nails hit just the right spot at the wrong time.”

  Trace looked at me, the shock evident in his eyes.

  Sophia’s eyes went blank and I knew she was reliving the moment she became a killer. “He started to bleed and bleed and bleed,” she stammered. “He sat down on the curb and put his hands to his throat. The gurgling...” She gulped for air. “He couldn’t speak. I didn’t know what to do.” Sophia shook her head, the disbelief showing in her eyes. “How can that much blood come from a cut?”

  I heard a noise from Trace, something between a cough and a laugh despite the desperate situation. We knew how fast a seemingly innocent cut could bleed out.

  “Sophia, put the gun down. We’re not the bad guys here.” I nodded toward Trace. “We’re here to help you. It was a mistake, a horrible accident. Let’s work on finding the right way to deal with this.”

  She shook her head, the shotgun barrel bouncing up and down. “I can’t fix it. A man’s dead and it’s my fault. I can’t ever fix it.”

  I opened my mouth to say something witty an
d deep when the front door opened behind her.

  Sophia spun around with a gasp, weapon at the ready.

  I sprang at her back, sensing Trace right behind me. The nausea ball exploding in my stomach told me that I wasn’t fast enough; there was no way I’d ever be fast enough to stop her from shooting that weapon and someone innocent was going to die.

  I felt Trace’s hand on my shoulder, either to push me aside or pull me back. I twisted my body to one side and shook off the grip, still charging.

  Everything went off in a smeared blur as if a mammoth hand had brushed over a fresh watercolor print of the scene.

  I’d forgotten how fast Felis could be. How fast I could be.

  Hands reached out and closed on the double barrel. The metal tubes shifted upward and to the right. Sophia’s fingers twitched on the trigger.

  The shotgun pellets cleared the top of the building by inches and shot into the sky, hopefully falling to earth without hitting anyone.

  Patty Mills stared at the shotgun in her hands for a second before snatching it all the way from her boss.

  “You shouldn’t be playing with this,” Patty said in a nonchalant tone as if chastising a child. “Be bad for business if you start killing off the customers.” She looked upward. “Hope you didn’t hit any birds.”

  Sophia looked down at her empty hands before falling to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably.

  “Where the hell is Carson?” I spun around, searching the parking lot. “Where the fuck could he be?” I crumpled the packet in my hand. “Where is he?”

  There was a squeak in my voice, a mixture of fear and relief. I didn’t like guns before I arrived in Penscotta and I liked them even less now.

  Sophia looked up at me, her tear-stained cheeks a Picasso of makeup. “Carson? How did you know it was Carson?”

  The world whirled around for a second. I staggered to the side and would have fallen if Trace hadn’t grabbed me.

  “Oh, fuck.” Patty cradled the shotgun in her arms, still perched over the hysterical woman. “Carson killed Mike?”

  Sophia wiped her nose with one long flowery sleeve. “He sat there. Mike sat there with his hands over his throat. His eyes were so wide...” She balled her hands into fists. “I called Carson. I asked him what I should do.”