My blood pressure started rising. “And you gave the original over to your editor?”
“Like I wasn’t going to?” Bran put the fork down with a loud clink. “I didn’t think this was from the murderer. I figured it was just another cop looking to screw the department. Then, when I looked it over again I figured out it wasn’t a cop.”
“So how did you know it’s not?” My head was beginning to spin with the doubletalk.
“Because I’ve seen enough cop shots in my time to know the difference. This was too soon after the death. The blood was still pooling under her body.” The man slung one arm behind him, around the chair. “I could tell it wasn’t a cop. But at the same time I couldn’t pass up a good shot.”
“So you sold the picture and wrote the story to go with it.”
“Right.” He rapped the table with his knuckles. “I did exactly what I get paid for and what the public wants.” Bran smiled. “And now you’ve got me just curious enough to keep following this story much further than I would have taken it if you hadn’t shown up. The fact that her family’s more than just pissed, pissed enough to call you in makes it much more interesting.”
“But you can’t prove it’s not the killer.” I wished I had had more coffee and less beer.
“Nope. Nothing but a hunch.” He pressed an index finger against his right nostril with a wide grin. “That’s what reporters go on, honey.”
“Right.” Pulling out my wallet from the back pocket of my jeans I tossed a few bills onto the table. “We’re out of here.”
Bran’s eyebrows rose again as he looked at me for a minute then slid off the chair. “Right. I must admit, you’re pretty easy.”
“Don’t bet on it.” I caught Eddie’s eye and waved, pointing at the money. “Now let’s go home.”
Chapter 5
We flagged down a cab right outside the bar, Hanover raising the long, lanky arm of his black leather duster and waving down one of the busy vehicles. It was well into rush hour by this point and I had chosen wisely to not try to bring my car into this mess.
As the taxi began to manoeuvre in and out of the traffic on Queen Street, Bran turned to me, a curious look on his face. “So what got you into this business? Seems to me like a girl like you deserves better.”
I couldn’t hold back the laughter. Chuckling, I glanced out the window to make sure I knew where we were going. The smell of old cigarette ash was almost overpowering. The cab obviously one of the last to switch over to non-smoking as the decal on the window attested.
“Been a while since anyone called me ‘girl.’” Rubbing the tip of my nose I saw a bit of the playfulness disappear from his face. “Let’s just say that I fell into working security and then just expanded into the private arena.” The traffic slowed to a crawl around us. “So how does a reporter like you end up working for a rag like the Inquisitor?”
“Bad luck. Bad timing.” He lifted his hands in a melodramatic display. “Either way, we’re here now and that’s what’s going on.”
“Thanks for the update.” The vehicle pulled up at the entrance to a small apartment complex down near Yonge and King. This wasn’t a rundown area or some block filled with houses chopped into small apartments by slumlords looking to get as much money per square foot as they could. To the contrary—it was actually one of the hot-and-upcoming spots for the youthful businessman in the downtown core. These condominiums cost a quarter of a million dollars. Not what I expected from a cheap hack. Maybe I should be looking more into Mr. Hanover’s finances.
The doorman nodded to both of us as we walked through the lobby, his eyes scanning me as a security professional would. I had no doubts if a cop came by later he’d be able to give a pretty darned good description of me with the exact moment my foot crossed that threshold. You didn’t get that sort of experience hanging out at the donut shops. This was a pricy place that didn’t hire kids looking to find a place to sleep or study on the night shift.
We stepped into the elevator, a gaudy trip of mirrored walls and gold-plated buttons screaming upper class.
Bran was silent on the trip up, bouncing back and forth on the toes of his black running shoes as if he was preparing for a marathon, quiet until we hit the seventeenth floor and walked out into the hallway.
“So, what do you think?” He fumbled in his slacks for the keys, finally hitting the lock on the third try.
“Aren’t you supposed to ask that after I see the interior of your apartment?” I joked, trying to figure out who this guy was.
“I guess asking if it was good for you too should wait then.” Grinning widely he stepped inside, flicking a set of light switches to his right.
The condo was larger than if you had dragged my house’s second storey down onto the first floor and measured out the space but there were no walls. Instead a variety of shelves stood here and there, splitting the spaces into rooms. Off to one side I spotted the largest large-screen television screen I had ever seen, outside of stadiums and rock concerts.
“Want a drink?” Taking off his leather coat, he hung it on a series of wooden knobs set into the wall, not offering to take mine. Good thing, because I hate awkward goodbyes. Bran walked into the spacious kitchen, gesturing at a number of appliances laid out on the marble counters. “Cappuccino? Espresso? Whiskey? SoCo?”
“How about just coffee?” I moved toward the kitchen, my feet light on the hardwood floors. They had been polished to a bright sheen and just screamed for a sock dance. “I think we’ve both had enough to drink tonight.”
He shrugged, pulling out a machine that had more buttons than my entire building. “Whatever.” Punching in codes to probably set off nuclear missiles toward Cuba, he set two matching mugs into the small recesses. “Milk? Cream? Half and half?”
I turned back from where I had been unabashedly staring at the oversized computer monitor and the top-of-the-line machine artfully hidden in a dark redwood desk. “Half and half, if you have it.” My stomach began to hum in anticipation of the creamy delight. I love it, but it was something I saved for a treat.
“Make yourself at home.” I didn’t need to be told twice. While he mucked about in the kitchen I inspected the rest of the apartment, save for the double bed discreetly tucked at the far end behind a set of tall black oak shelves. I wasn’t that curious about the man. Still, he was neat and tidy, and obviously had a bigger pocketbook than I had expected.
“Pretty good for a hack, eh?” Bran appeared, a mug in each hand. Gesturing to the black leather couch, he sat down opposite me, placing the cups on two of the small round stone coasters spread across the glass table.
“Obviously the Inquisitor’s paying more than I thought.” The cups were black ceramic, immaculate and beautiful. “So, about that envelope.”
“I told you I trashed it.” He took a sip. “Special Columbian blend. Can’t get it at Starbucks. Delivered special through private courier once a month.”
“Then I need to see your garbage.” I put on my best smile. “‘Cause I’m going to drag it all across this sweet hardwood floor and make sure you didn’t keep it by mistake.”
His right eye twitched. Bingo.
The mug went back on the coaster. If nothing else I knew how to play nice. “Now, you got that photograph barely two days ago, just in time to hit the presses with this hot scoop. I think you used that nice fancy scanner over there to scan in the shot and send it to your editor that way. You’re not going to hand-deliver this. So that envelope is here, along with the original picture.” I glanced around the apartment again. “One man doesn’t make a lot of mess, so...” Standing up, I walked to the kitchen, opening random bottom cabinets. “Why, lookie here. A garbage pail.”
Bran stood up, his hands in his pockets again and a sheepish grin on his face. “Damn, you’re good.”
I beamed back at him with an even wider grin. “You’ll never know.” Pulling the white garbage bag out of the plastic bucket I turned it over and dumped it onto the floor. Old coffee
grounds were mixed with limp shredded carrots and a dash of sirloin steak tips just beginning to get ripe. My nose wrinkled at the different scents trying to overwhelm each other. There, at the bottom, lay a single manila envelope.
Plucking it free I brushed off a handful of coffee grounds, waving it in the air. “Why, look what I found! It’s a miracle!”
He chuckled, looking at the floor. “Guess I didn’t empty my garbage as often as I thought I did.”
“So there’s the envelope.” Tossing it onto the table I stared at it. “You’ve got three minutes to produce the original before I move this garbage bag across your entire clean apartment to search for it.”
“What makes you think I kept the photo?” Bran shuffled over toward me, an angelic expression on his face.
“Because I can smell it.” I tapped the tip of my nose. “You don’t get rid of anything you can recycle. That photo’s something you’re saving for the ‘best of’ volume in your scrapbook.”
He let out a low whistle, crossing to the computer desk. Opening up the top of the scanner, he peeled off the black-and-white photograph from the glass. “You ever play poker?” Walking over he placed it on the marble island between us, rotating it to face me. “I think you’d be deadly.”
I shook my head. “Not good at bluffing.” Nudging the coldwater faucet I washed my hands quickly, wiping them on the pristine dishtowel hanging from the bar set on the refrigerator side.
The shot was the same as in the tabloid but this one was untouched. Janey’s blank eyes stared up at me, the slightest tufts of orange hair breaking free across her face. They had blurred the face somewhat and managed to hide her identity just enough so as to probably not be liable for showing her off, but it still disturbed me.
“You knew her.” It wasn’t as much a question as a statement, his words low and soft. I started, suddenly aware of him standing way too much inside my personal space. The thin hairs on the back of my neck began to tingle. I had never been a big fan of letting anyone get close to me physically or mentally.
“She was a bit older than me. We didn’t know each other directly. Family friend.” At this distance I could smell the beer mixed with sweat and his personal musk. Dang, it was seductive. It’d been a long time since I had gotten involved with anyone. It was just too difficult to explain some things. I took a deep breath, trying to clear my mind. Stepping back from the island I reached out and touched the dead woman’s face.
“So you’re working for free?” he whispered, still too close for comfort. I shook my head and spun around, breaking the contact while I washed my hands again.
“I never work for free.” We were back on professional ground and I was glad of it. I wiped my hands again, flipping my ponytail back over one shoulder. “Not a chance of getting prints.” I leant in again, inhaling deeply. Scent tracking might not be standard procedure for most investigators and wasn’t admissible in court but it worked for me.
“I’d think not.” Bran scratched the back of his head. “It’s been fondled enough by myself and I doubt he’d have been stupid enough to leave anything that’d stand up in court.”
I nodded, closing my eyes. Damn it. It was faint, so faint I could barely catch it but it was there. Pride scent.
The envelope was blank on all sides, the flap torn open where the owner had taped it shut. “No chance of getting saliva from here.” I shook my head. “He’s a smart one.”
“It’d take you weeks to get a DNA match anyway.” Bran leant forward again. “That sort of fast response only happens on television. And with you not being a cop, well...” He spread his hands, a hapless smile on his face. “I don’t think you’re willing to wait that long.”
“I still don’t understand why you didn’t turn this into the cops.” I traced the bloody black-and-white image with one finger.
“Because they’d haul my ass in and I couldn’t tell them anything more than I’ve told you.” He snorted, shaking his head. “As if it’d make a difference in tracking down the killer. The picture’d just muddle the waters. Besides, what are they going to do? Right now they’re calling it a cold case. There’s so much happening that they can’t spend more than a few days on a murder like this. They’ve got the crime scene. They’ve got way more information than this scrap could give them.” Reaching over, he touched my hand, lightly running his fingers across the back of my hand. “And they’re not going to listen to an old hack like me.”
“Precisely.” Pulling away, I leant on the counter behind me, trying to get the mixed scents of Bran and the unknown Pride member out of my head. “Old hack, indeed.” The words echoed around the oversized apartment. “So how does an old hack working for a tabloid rag afford this?” I raised one eyebrow. “Working under the table, maybe? Criminal attachments, maybe?”
“Inherited old money, maybe?” Walking away from me, Bran sat down on the couch, spreading his arms across the long, leather back. “My parents were pretty well off. Invested in this back when it was fresh and new and when they thought I was going to be a journalist.”
“And you’re not.” Picking up the envelope and photograph, I returned to my seat, placing the two items on the glass table between us. It was better to keep my distance and my senses clear.
“I decided to take the path less chosen.” He avoided my eyes, focusing instead on the accusing photograph forming a wall between us. “So, what next?”
“Tell me about your sources.” I held up a hand as his mouth fell open, ready to object. “Look, I’m not a cop and I’m not going to drag you into court. But tell me what sort of people bring you their garbage and think that it’s fit to print.”
A jovial grin appeared on his face. “Well, aren’t you the snob?” He shrugged, the black shirt riding up and down across his broad shoulders. “I get the same sort of ‘deliveries’ as everyone else in the business—some very honest hardworking people seeking to have their story told and more than my fair share of wackos looking for their moment in the sun. They’ve got the nine-eleven tapes, the Bigfoot photographs, the reason why the oil prices are so high and the air car conspiracy. All wrapped up, usually, in a brown paper bag smelling of booze and old vomit tied with twine and a handwritten letter declaring that I’ll be saving the world if I just print this.” His head rolled back and he stared at the exposed wooden beams of the ceiling. “Those are just the ones I can stand to remember.”
“Delivered to your front door?” I jerked a thumb behind us at the entrance. “How did they get past your doorman, who seems to be ex-military and also as sharp as a tack?”
He frowned while he kept looking at the ceiling. “Good point there. Dan’s usually pretty good at keeping the riff-raff out.”
“And this guy slunk in, trotted up to your front door and slipped this under then left without a note or anything to claim credit for it.” I leant forward, cupping the now warm coffee mug in both hands. “He wanted you to get the photo and to print it.”
“Why?” Now it was his turn to lean forward. “What’s so special about this woman that the killer wanted to display her?” His fingers, long and slender, pulled the photograph closer to his side of the table. “Who was she?”
“Janey Winters was a teacher, nothing else.” The cup of coffee grew colder in my hands. “She was in the wrong place at the wrong time and someone wanted to make a spectacle out of her death, which you provided when you sent this to your editor and it got published in that piece of crap you call a newspaper.” A growl began to grow in the back of my throat, threatening to break free. “If you hadn’t published that...”
“Hey, back off.” Bran pointed his index finger at me. “First, all I knew was that there was a funky picture of a catwoman slipped under my door and that’s a story. I didn’t print her name or anything and we blurred the important points, so don’t get your knickers in a knot more than you’ve already done.” His stare returned to the ceiling, inspecting every knothole. “Now all you need to do is tell me about her skin condition. It wou
ld be a great follow-up column.”
“I think not.” Getting up from the table, I snatched up the picture, stuffing it into the torn envelope. “I’ve got what I came here for. I’ll leave you to your trash reporting and malicious rumour mongering.”
He sprang like a lion toward the door, reaching it before I could. Arms crossed, the man waited for me to approach, a stern look on his face.
“That was uncalled for.” Bran looked down on me, taking every advantage of his height.
I said nothing, standing there in silence. Our standoff lasted two full minutes. I counted.
“I had nothing to do with her being murdered,” he said in a low voice, stepping into my personal space. “So don’t go pissing on me ’cause you’re annoyed with the real killer.”
Resisting the urge to take a step back to relinquish my area I instead leant forward, our noses almost touching while I slipped one hand under my jacket toward the stun gun I kept in an inside pocket. Illegal, yes. Necessary, at times. “I think I’m going to leave now.” My tone was low and just threatening enough to usually get me out of any situation, at least, until now.
“No.” One hand moved out to land on my right wrist, the hand still inside the jacket inches from the taser, the electric sparks from his touch shooting up my arm and down my spine. “Take that back. Please.” A sudden sadness appeared in his eyes, startling me. “I’m not all that bad.”
I had the urge to tell him I was just being a badass and it was more about him than me and there was so much I couldn’t tell him that I didn’t know where to start and I hated being such a bitch on our first meeting. Once I did that the entire case would be over and I’d be hopelessly compromised.
What God and Cats Know Page 6