Shift Work (Carus #4)

by J. C. McKenzie

  “Not unless you’re a necromancer or know one,” Stan said.

  “Screw that. Necros creep me out.” Reason number one why I never used them and didn’t seek their help during the Supe Slayer or the Dog Demon cases.

  “Why?”

  “They require sacrifice. And I’m not talking chickens.”

  A pause. “Yeah. Fuck that. Well, Patty Cake may still tell us something useful.”

  “How?”

  Stan tsked.

  My fingers pressed against the phone as I waited for him to enlighten me.

  “His possessions, you amateur. His cause of death, location of death, all these things can be valuable clues or lead us to some.”

  “Or lead us to more dead ends.”

  “Who made you Ms. Pissy Pants? We have to start somewhere.”

  “I know that. I just hate investigating shit.”

  “That’s because you suck at it.”

  Jerk! He was totally right, but he didn’t have to say it. “I wasn’t trained to investigate. I kill supes.”

  Stan cleared his throat. “Meet me at the morgue?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Stan hung up and left me staring at the closed silver doors of the elevator. They dinged and opened. There, on my right, stood Agent Tucker, fixing a stray hair in his reflection of the shiny metal while making an epic trout pout. He jumped when the doors slid open and turned to face me. His gaze narrowed.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  Should’ve taken the stairs.

  Agent Tucker fixed me with an “I’m-superior” stare, making my mountain lion hiss and my falcon urge me to peck out his eyes. He had no idea what I could do to him. Take the stairs?

  Nah, this would be more fun.

  Tucker’s eyes widened when I stepped into the elevator. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice cracking.

  “Is there a rule against civilians entering the SRD headquarters?”

  He sputtered. “Ex-employees are not permitted on the premises. Security should’ve detained you.”

  Oops. Didn’t want to get my Witch-boys in trouble. “I made sure they were distracted. And the ex-employee thing only applies when the employee is fired. Technically, you laid me off. I received a wonderfully articulate letter to prove it.”

  Tucker’s glower had no effect on me.

  I stepped closer. “Are you worried?”

  Tucker tensed, and a sweet, sweaty scent rolled off his lips. “No.”

  His lie stunk up the elevator.

  I took another step forward, my face within head-butting range to his. “You should be.”

  The elevator stopped on the third floor, and the doors dinged open. I swiveled to stand shoulder to shoulder with a frozen Tucker as two women stepped inside, most likely accountants from their shapeless skirt-suits and stern expressions. The elevator filled with the aroma of computers, paper, and pencils. The women turned their backs to us without a second thought or glance. Not even a “hello.”

  My mountain lion paced in my head and hissed at me. Take them out. No witnesses.

  My falcon squawked her agreement.

  Silence followed. A silence that would’ve been filled with my wolf’s growling…if she still lurked inside.

  The other two feras started up again, as if sensing my sadness. I shushed them and enjoyed the smell of Tucker’s fear.

  Why hadn’t he run off the elevator when he had the chance?

  Pride?

  Did his arrogance overpower his fear that much? He certainly didn’t possess any common sense, but that was nothing new.

  The elevator stopped on the next floor, and the women walked off without a word. Again. Instead of using the stop as an opportunity to escape, Tucker stood like a statue in the corner of the elevator with his knees locked and posture stiff. When the doors closed, I turned to him.

  “You can’t kill me,” he said.

  I had no intention of harming Tucker where videotape and witnesses could lock me up. But it sure as hell was fun to fuck with his mind. I leaned in. My mountain lion purred and urged me to rake my claws down his face.

  “They’ll catch you. I have cameras everywhere,” he rambled.

  “But,” I paused for effect, “you’ll still be dead.”

  His lip trembled before he sucked it in and clenched his jaw. Arrogant, proud, and stubborn, apparently.

  The elevator slowed for the ground floor.

  “You’re right, though,” I said. “I have more finesse than an elevator mauling. You can relax.”

  His stance loosened. Within seconds, his smug expression returned to his smarmy face, and my mountain lion nudged my brain again.

  Rake, she said.

  I spoke again, before he could. “I’ve been too busy to plot your demise. But one day, I’ll find the time. One day, I’ll make you pay.”

  I enjoyed another waft of fear before the doors opened and I walked out, giving Tucker my back.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “A live body and a dead body contain the same number of particles. Structurally there’s no discernible difference. Life and death are unquantifiable abstracts.”

  ~Dr. Manhattan, Watchmen: Chapter 1

  Central City Morgue sat attached to the new hospital on Sixth Street and Royal Avenue in New Westminster, the original capital city of British Columbia before Victoria stole the honour. With rundown parliamentary buildings and a healthy dose of street skids who could rip a stereo system out of your car in under three minutes, this municipality, dubbed Royal City, still held its head high with picturesque views of the Fraser River and easy access to surrounding areas.

  After the Royal Columbian Hospital burnt down from malfunctioning equipment way past expiry date, the city rebuilt the medical facilities here. Sixth Street dipped with a steep decline to the heart of New West’s downtown. Standing on the precipice, the view offered was breathtaking. I took a moment to enjoy the misty Fraser River, and bustling city below before steeling myself for what was to come. I pulled open the thick double-paned glass doors leading to one of the outer wings of the hospital, and followed the stairs down to the cold, drafty basement.

  I hated morgues. Not because they smelled bad. They didn’t, really. The clinical environment and chemicals overpowered the decay, and they kept the decomposition minimal with their body sized cold storage spaces.

  No, I hated morgues for another reason.

  They creeped me out.

  Central City Morgue specialized in storing the deceased for autopsy. After researching the morgue on my smart phone, I discovered it prided itself on providing a clean and isolated environment for autopsies. It made me wonder what other morgues were doing that “clean and isolated” environments became a selling feature for Central City.

  I walked up to the receptionist’s desk and provided my details. The young woman in scrubs nodded and pointed at the swinging side door with the “authorized personnel only” sign in big, red block letters.

  “They’re in the back, waiting for you,” she said.

  Great.

  I managed a smile, and then pushed through the door, which led to a hallway, lined with what looked like autopsy rooms. I followed the path and signs like Dorothy following the yellow brick road and took a deep breath before entering the storage room. Floor to ceiling stainless steel gleamed back at me. The air hung light and crisp, flowing gently through the well-ventilated and fluorescent-lighted room. The decay odor minimal, but present.

  The coroner and Stan turned at my entrance, but my senses remained preoccupied by the deathly horrors confronting me.

  The large metal, cold storage spaces where they stored the bodies lined an entire wall. More than a few bodies had been pulled out. Not sure why, but the sight of them churned my guts.

  The gray, lifeless bodies lay on stark, narrow slabs. Their broken, gouged, and swollen faces with sunken cheeks and dead glazed eyes stared at the ceiling, their mouths agape, their expressions forever frozen in stif
f anguish. Some young, some old, some in between, their bodies, hollow of life, contorted in awful positions. Later, their limbs would be broken and snapped back into place. Some carried the lingering stench of sadness and misery, others of resignation and acceptance, and others of dark vices. They all ended up in the same place, empty and devoid of life, the soul long gone to wherever souls go, to whatever afterlife awaited for them.

  What would happen to my soul when I died? Would I go to hell because of my tie to Sid or because of my past actions?

  “Andy?” Stan’s voice yanked my mind away from its morbid thoughts. “You okay?”

  “Huh? Yeah, yeah…I’m good.” I turned to face the career cop and coroner. Rarely did I deal with the aftermath of death, I just caused it. Feradea, how did Stan do this on a regular basis? Scrap that. How’d he appear calm and collected now, after his wife’s death? This had to cut him emotionally, yet he asked if I was okay. My eyes tingled.

  Suck it up, buttercup, I told myself.

  Stan studied me for a few ticks of the clock and then nodded. “Patty Cake is over here.”

  I nodded at the coroner. “I’m Andy.”

  “Dr. Cohen. You can call me Greg,” he replied. Wearing a crisp white lab coat and thicker round lenses to magnify his large brown eyes, the man with a curly fro looked like the classic geek. Nothing wrong with that. Geeks were my people, but this guy’s appearance was so stereotypical it was almost comical.

  “We find out anything?” I turned to Stan.

  He shook his head. “Real name is Dwight Lancaster, twenty-two, in and out of foster homes. Alcoholic mother, absentee father, stereotypical path to self-destruction.”

  I grunted. Some people started life with a few strikes already against them, and faced an uphill battle out of depravity. Reality sucked. Often, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. Growing up, I’d hated that expression, but a number of life experiences taught me there was more than a bit of truth in the statement. I commended those people who stopped the negative cycle and broke out of their preformed mold.

  “Cause of death?” I asked as I leaned over the deceased body. With a lean, long frame, Dwight’s sunken features and scar-riddled forearms spoke of chronic drug abuse. He would’ve been handsome, had he been clean and given a chance at a good life. Another soul our society’s system failed.

  “Overdose,” Greg said. “We’re waiting for the lab to confirm, but we suspect it was King’s Krank. There were several glass vials, some full, some empty, on his person.”

  “Anything else interesting in his possession?”

  “No,” Stan grunted. “His wallet had been cleaned out. Only his licence and the vials.”

  “Huh.”

  “Yeah. Can you get…anything more from the body?” Stan asked, shifting his weight on the sterile metal flooring.

  Greg’s eyebrows pinched together as he turned to me, but I ignored him and leaned closer to Dwight’s body. The smell of oven cleaner lingered on his skin—King’s Krank, all right. But nothing else. No grease on his hands from a chicken finger dinner, or perfume from a midnight liaison, not coffee or cigarettes, not that many people smoked these days, but still. Nothing. This man must’ve recently bathed. And by bathed, he must’ve scoured the first couple layers of skin off.

  “He’s been cleaned,” I said. “But I can confirm the KK.”

  Greg’s face twisted up in a skeptical what-the-fuck-do-you-know face.

  I shrugged.

  Stan grunted.

  “Will that be all, officers?” Greg asked. He shifted back and forth on his feet.

  “Yeah, we’re done here,” Stan said.

  We walked in silence together down the hall, leaving Greg to his room of corpses. My mind ran through all the possibilities. Most street level dealers weren’t known for their personal hygiene. They certainly wouldn’t go to such measures to remove all scent traces unless they expected an interrogation by the SRD, or a supe with a sensitive nose. Someone in contact with Patty Cake wished to remain anonymous.

  “Do you get the feeling someone’s cleaning up?” I asked Stan as we stepped out of the building and into wonderfully fresh air.

  “Definitely.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Why do they call it rush hour, when nothing moves?”

  ~Robin Williams

  The hot air in my car hung heavy and stagnant, with a side of pizza. I rummaged through the contents on the backseat and found an old cardboard triangular container from last week that had held some to-go pizza slices with pepperoni and green pepper. Hooker slices, I used to joke, because they cost only a dollar per slice. I climbed out of the car and threw the cardboard in the nearest recycling bin.

  My cheeks heated. Last week, I picked up a bunch of pizza and drove Tristan to one of the only drive-in movie theatres left in the Lower Mainland. We’d ended up making out like lusty teenagers in the backseat of my four-wheel junker instead. I still had no idea what happened in the movie, but half of Richmond knew what went on in my backseat. Oh well.

  Once in the car, I maneuvered away from the curb and into traffic. Sweat dripped down my face and lower back. Even with all the windows rolled down, I couldn’t drive fast enough to get much airflow. I sat in a sauna until I made it to the highway.

  The reprieve didn’t last long. Rush hour gridlock left me sitting in a boiler pot. The exhaust fumes radiated off the sweltering pavement and filled the interior of my car. Should’ve taken Kingsway instead of Canada Way. My falcon squawked for release. The clear skies called to me. If I didn’t have to worry about leaving my vehicle stranded in the middle of the Trans-Canada Highway and showing up at my ex’s naked, I would’ve gladly flown to my destination.

  My heart sank.

  With Allan unwilling to help, in any capacity, I had only one option left to ask about horde business. Technically two, but I’d rather peel off my fingernails than approach Clint again. That left one person who might help me.

  Wick.

  My body became one large beating, nauseated ball of nerves the entire drive to his place. All forty-two minutes of it.

  Luckily, when I pulled up to Wick’s house, only three vehicles sat in his driveway. The full moon wasn’t for another couple of weeks, but pack houses tended to be revolving doors of Weres.

  I didn’t have the heart, or the patience, to play nice with others right now.

  Sitting in the heart of trendy Kitsilano, only blocks from the beach, Wick’s house was quintessential Kits. Probably worth well over a million dollars, since housing prices for this area were ridiculous, it had multiple levels and a covered front patio I adored. Painted Parisian blue with bold white trim, the house fit in with the other heritage-styled buildings on the street. On the inside, everything had been upgraded and modernized…and Were-proofed. Wick did well in the building development profession.

  Tourists might see a beautiful home with a handsome owner, but few knew what went on inside. When I’d been held captive here, I’d fought for dominance with the leading pack-bitch and won, I’d sprayed dog repellant in Wick’s second-in-command’s face to escape, and I’d fallen in love with the Alpha. Not once were the cops called, nor did the neighbours call to complain about the racket.

  I hadn’t seen or heard from Wick since I broke his heart and denied his mate claim over me.

  Maybe I should put the VPD investigation off, and look for the missing Kappa instead. No bodies had turned up floating on the river, so wherever Tamotsu hid, he kept a low profile. There’d been no signs indicating he’d started on another supe sucking bender. Maybe he left for Japan. Maybe whomever killed Lucien captured him.

  I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel and mulled the idea over. As much as I would love to procrastinate when it came to contacting Wick, it would give Loretta’s killer more time to walk free, and Stan’s vengeance put on hold. My feelings regarding Wick were inconsequential. Dang it! I had to do this now. The Kappa could wait so long as he didn’t start rampaging again, and
under my control with orders to not kill anyone, I found that unlikely. Could Tamotsu be involved with my current investigation?

  If there’s a will, there’s a way around orders.

  I shook my head and wrenched open the door of my car. Tamotsu could wait. A loud grating sound erupted from the hinges and I winced. If the Weres didn’t know I was here before, they certainly knew now.

  Maybe I should’ve called instead.

  No. I wanted, needed, to see Wick and know he was okay. That and no one from this pack, Wick included, was likely to take my call.

  Now, with his house looming over me… Maybe my choice for a face-to-face conversation inflicted unnecessary cruelty on both of us.

  I took a deep breath, shoved the door closed and walked up the wood steps to Wick’s house. The twin oak doors stared back at me. Large, ominous, and thick. With a straight spine, I rapped my knuckles on the smooth surface.

  After a minute or two, the door swung open to reveal a tall redhead—Wick’s second-in-command. Ryan’s ice-blue eyes glared down at me, and his mouth compressed into a thin line. When I’d been held captive by Wick, we’d formed a fast friendship. Well, friendship on my part; Ryan made no secret of his wish for more. I’d used his desire for me to escape and ever since…ever since we’ve been not-so-friendly. Not for my lack of trying. I couldn’t blame the guy either. My attack had been a low blow.

  “Hi,” I said, rather meekly.

  His eyes narrowed. “Haven’t you done enough?”

  Before I could reply, he slammed the door in my face.

  I stared at the wood panelling with a gaping mouth. Did I expect a warm welcome, full of rainbows and unicorns? No, absolutely not. But a door in the face? Well, that was just rude.

  Hunt, my mountain lion suggested, and my falcon squawked her agreement.

  Once again, silence greeted me where my wolf normally piped up. She would’ve growled at the cat. But my body no longer housed the wolf. I didn’t just lose Wick with my decision. I lost my wolf, too.

  Destroy, my beast demanded, stirring from where she rested, shackled in my core.