by Eileen Wilks
The one currently looking at the driver’s license she held in a plastic baggie wore leather pants dyed lime green and inch-wide leather straps crisscrossing her chest: X marks the spots. Her hair was blonde where it wasn’t purple. She had seven earrings in her left ear, three in her right, a ruby stud in one nostril, and a tiny hoop in her navel.
Her name was Stacy Farquhar. Her voice was as soft and high as a little girl’s. “I know I’ve seen him before, but driver’s licenses, you know, they never look like the person.”
A skeletally thin man in a black leather body suit was looking over her shoulder. His dark brown hair, glossy and well kept, hung past his shoulders. He wore a single earring in his left ear, either a diamond or a good imitation. “Looks like Carlos Fuentes.”
“Carlos?” That came from the other woman, a chubby Caucasian with dyed black hair twisted into dozens of braids. She crowded closer and peered at the license in Lily’s hand. “Oh, God. It’s him. Poor Carlos.”
“You know Carlos Fuentes, ma’am?” Lily asked.
“We all do. That is . . . he hangs out at the club sometimes.” She exchanged an uneasy look with the other woman.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” the thin man said. “It’s not like it’s a secret. They’re going to find out anyway.”
“You know what you are, Theo?” the chubby woman said. “Jealous. You’re just jealous as hell.”
“Me, jealous? You’re the one who—”
“I can’t believe you’d rat him out!” Stacy cried. “You know what kind of deal he’ll get from the cops!”
The chubby woman nodded. “They’ve always persecuted the lupi. Centuries of—”
“. . . in a lather . . . everything but dope Rachel’s drink to give you a shot at him.”
“Police brutality isn’t a myth, you know. Just last year in New Hampshire—”
“. . . rubbing all over him last Tuesday. Too, too obvious . . .”
“Used to shoot them on sight, so if you think any lupi would get a fair hearing—”
“But he didn’t want any part of what you were offering, did he?”
“You just wish he swung your way!”
“Who’s he?” Lily asked mildly.
They fell silent, exchanging guilty glances.
One of the men—Franklin Booth, medium build, shaved head, leather vest the color of his skin worn over a black shirt and jeans with silvery studs up the seams—tossed aside the cigarette he’d been smoking. “Poor Rachel.”
Lily turned to him. “Rachel?”
“Carlos’s wife.” He sighed. “She’s at the club now with—”
“Franklin!” the chubby one exclaimed.
“Sugar, it’s no good,” he said gently. “Theo is right. They’re going to find out. And maybe he’s alibied. I mean, we all saw him there, didn’t we?”
There was a relieved murmur, with Stacy asserting loudly that “he” had been there for hours. Lily spoke to Booth again. “Rachel Fuentes is at Club Hell now?”
“She was when we left.”
“Who was she with?”
The thin man laughed. “Why, who else would put the ladies in such a flutter? Some of us gentlemen, too, I’ll admit,” he added with a little bow to the chubby woman, conceding her point. “For all the good it does us. Lupi are religiously hetero.”
“I could use a name.”
“Rule Turner, of course. The prince graces the club with his presence now and then.” He smirked. “Recently he’s been gracing Rachel with a good deal more.”
LILY had orders to call Captain Randall once she’d finished the preliminaries. She did this on her way to Club Hell.
The click-click from her heels on the sidewalk made her feel isolated, though she could hear the bustle at the crime scene behind her. She blamed the feeling on the odd mist, so unlike San Diego. It hung in the air like a cold sweat. She was glad she didn’t wear glasses. She just wished she wasn’t wearing heels. They’d be hell to run in.
Of course, she was supposed to have been off duty tonight. She punched in the captain’s number.
She couldn’t remember the last confirmed case of a human killed by a lupus. Certainly there hadn’t been one in San Diego since the Supreme Court’s ruling rendered the lupi subject to the penalties and protections of the law instead of a bullet. It didn’t take a precog to picture tomorrow’s headlines. This one was going to generate a lot of heat.
Lily’s years in Vice and Homicide prior to making detective had rubbed the green off, but her shield was still shiny. She figured she could be philosophical about handing this one off to one of the senior detectives . . . after she conducted the initial interviews at Club Hell.
Randall was waiting for her call. It didn’t take long to summarize her progress. “After speaking with the bystanders, I followed the tracks left by the perp. Visible traces petered out near the west end of the playground, but I was able to continue beyond that.” She’d taken off her shoes and stockings, actually, letting her bare feet find traces where magic had passed. Her feet were filthy now, but it had worked. “The trail ended in an alley between Humstead Avenue and North Lee.”
“You couldn’t track him beyond that?”
“No, sir. I believe he Changed there, between two Dumpsters.” The magic imprinted on the dirty concrete had been strong—unfamiliar but distinctive. “In human form, he wouldn’t leave the kind of traces he does in wolf form.”
“Hmm. You’ve secured the alley?”
“Yes, sir. The S.O.C. crew will get to it when they can. I left O’Brien in charge at the scene.”
“What the hell do you mean, you left him in charge? Where are you?”
“Outside Club Hell,” she said, exaggerating a trifle, since it was still half a block away. “The victim’s wife should be there. I need to notify her. I also need to talk to Rule Turner.”
The raspy sound in her ear was only recognizable as a chuckle because she’d heard it before. “Think you’re stealing a march on me, Yu? Relax. I didn’t have you yanked out of your sister’s fancy party because I wanted someone else in charge.”
“Then it’s still my case?”
“You’re lead. Unless you think you can’t handle it.”
“No, sir, I do not think that. But I don’t have as much experience as some of the others.”
“Your, uh, particular skills may be useful. And the last thing I need is some prejudiced asshole making like a tough guy with the Nokolai prince. He’s good at playing the press, and they’re going to be breathing down our necks on this one. So it’s yours. But unless you get a confession right off the bat, you’re going to need help.”
Still swimming in surprise, Lily agreed automatically.
“I can let you have Meckle or Brady.”
“Mech. Sergeant Meckle, I mean.” Both were good cops, but Brady didn’t play well with others—especially young, female others. “Tell him to pick up an evidence vac and some paper from O’Brien. If the lupi at the club cooperate, I’ll get their shoes for the lab. Mech can vacuum their clothes.”
“The killer wasn’t wearing clothes when he ripped out Fuentes’s throat.”
“No, sir. We won’t be able to tie him to the scene, but we might be able to connect him to the alley where he Changed. He’ll have had a lot of Fuentes’s blood on him. Even if the Change removed all traces from his body, it wouldn’t clean up any drops that fell. Might be some of that blood got on his shoes after he dressed, or something else from the alley that connects him. Or maybe a few of his own hairs got in his clothes—wolf hairs, I mean.”
“Good thinking. It’s worth a try. I’ll roust Mech out of bed and send him to you. In the meantime, handle Turner carefully. Call if by some chance you make an arrest. Otherwise, I’ll expect to see you in my office at nine.” There was a click, followed by the dial tone.
Lily frowned as she jammed the phone into its pocket in her backpack. She didn’t suffer from false modesty. She was a good cop, a good detective—but she was
n’t the only good detective in Homicide. The only sensitive, yes, but the captain could have had the use of her ability without putting her in charge. She’d never been lead on a case this big.
He must think she was up for the challenge. She meant to prove him right.
TWO
THE mist had thickened. The smallest breath of wind would have chased the tiny droplets together, turning dampness to drizzle, but the air remained still. Blurry halos hung around streetlamps, stoplights, and neon signs.
Like the one Lily was looking up at now. Neon red devils danced at either end of the sign, jabbing tiny pitchforks into the glowing letters that read Club Hell.
“Kitschy,” she murmured. The sign suggested a fifties sort of naughtiness, innocent compared to the real nastiness of the neighborhood. How long had the club been around, anyway? “I wonder if that’s on purpose?”
“Pardon?”
She glanced at the young man who’d spoken—Officer Arturo Gonzales, Phillips’s partner. He was about five inches taller than her and husky in a fit, just-out-of-the-service way, but with the kind of round cheeks old ladies like to pinch. She’d sent him to keep an eye on the club’s entrance until she could get here. “The club must do a pretty good business if they can afford a parking lot and guard. You ever been inside, Officer?”
“No, ma’am.”
A smile tugged at her mouth. “You’re Southern, I take it.”
“No, ma’am. I’m from west Texas.”
“Sounds Southern to me.”
He nodded seriously. “Funny how people who aren’t from Texas think that. I guess it’s like with folks from Los Angeles. They never say they’re from the West Coast or California—just L.A.”
“I guess that says it all. What do you know about Club Hell?”
His lips twisted. “It’s a werewolf hangout. Them and their groupies.”
“Don’t forget adventurous tourists. They like to check it out, too.” She studied him a moment. Lupus sexual mores being what they were, the nightclub was considered seriously depraved. Naturally this made it a popular spot. “Texas was one of the shoot-on-sight states, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am, it was. Till the courts changed things.”
“Well, California wasn’t. So it’s always been legal to be a lupus here, as long as you were registered.” That’s who originally hung out at Club Hell—the registered lupi, the ones who’d been given shots that prevented the Change. The ones people thought were safe.
“Your X-Squads killed them.”
“Only if they violently resisted registration or if a court determined there was a clear and present danger.” That was the theory, at least. Federal law used to call for all lupi to be registered—forcibly, if necessary—and given the shots. But “forcibly” covers a lot of territory when you’re dealing with creatures who can absorb a couple of rounds without slowing down on their way to rip out your throat.
Lupi had been notoriously averse to the registration process.
“I’m going to talk to the people inside now,” Lily said. “Some of them will be lupi. They’re citizens now, entitled to the same rights as other citizens. You okay with that, or do I need to get someone else to assist?”
He thought it over. Lily didn’t know whether to be appalled at how much thought it took, or impressed by his honesty. At last he nodded. “Guess we’re around to enforce the law, not decide on right and wrong.”
“Guess we are.” She started down. The entrance to Club Hell was, appropriately, located below ground level. Wide, shallow steps led underneath the building, down a tunnel faced with stone. It gave the descent a nice dungeon ambiance, she thought, though the cold blue lighting made Gonzales look like the walking dead.
At the bottom was a plain metal door, painted black and leaking music. It swung open easily.
Scent, sound, color—all smacked her in the face at once. Colored lights strobed a cavernous room crowded with tables, people, voices, and music. The ceiling was high and lost in darkness, the music was loud, and she smelled smoke.
Not tobacco or pot. Not woodsmoke, or anything else she could name. More of a scent than actual smoke . . . someone’s idea of brimstone, maybe?
The song crashed to an end. Belatedly she identified it and grinned: “Hotel California.” Management obviously believed in staying true to its theme.
“Welcome to Hell,” a deep bass voice rumbled on her left. “Now you must pay the price for crossing the portal.”
She turned her head. A little man with a big head and burly shoulders sat on a high stool beside a table holding an old-fashioned cash register. His suit could have come straight from an old black-and-white movie, but that wasn’t what made Lily stare. He possessed ugliness the way a few rare souls possess beauty, an ugliness that fascinated.
His nose was long and thin. It stretched toward his mouth like a cartoon witch’s, as if it had melted, then re-formed in mid-drip. He had no hair, not much in the way of chin or lips, and skin the color of mushrooms. His feet were the size of Lily’s hands and dangled well off the ground.
She blinked. “Ah—there’s a door fee?”
“Twenty a head.”
“Not this time. I’m Detective Yu,” she said, taking her shield from a side pocket of the backpack and holding it out. “And you are . . . ?”
“Call me Max.” He squinted at her shield suspiciously. “So what do you want?”
“To speak with some of your customers. I understand Rachel Fuentes and Rule Turner are here.”
“And I should care?”
“You should cooperate. Are they here?”
He shrugged. “I guess.”
“How long has Mr. Turner been in the club?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m a cop and I get to ask questions. Have you been at the door all evening?”
“Since nine.”
“Do you know how long Turner’s been here?”
“Maybe.”
He didn’t add to that, just stared at her. He had a disconcerting stare, unblinking as a reptile’s. Lily’s lips thinned. “Maybe I should speak to the owner or manager.”
“No manager, and I’m the owner.” He sighed. “All right, all right. His Big-Deal Highness arrived at nine-fifteen, nine-thirty, something like that. Fuentes was already here.”
Nine-thirty. That was within her best-guess window for when Fuentes had been killed, but she was hardly an expert. “Where’s your exits?”
“This one and the fire exit at the back.” He sighed heavily. “I hate cops.”
“And I should care?”
“Maybe you aren’t as stupid as you look.” He spoke pessimistically, as if he held out little hope of the possibility. “Nice boobs, though. I like ’em little. Want to fuck?”
Her mouth fell open. Her hands twitched with the urge to strangle the little creep. “Want to spend the next couple weeks locked up in a teensy, tiny cell?”
“Hey, I just asked.”
“Take me to Rachel Fuentes.” Popcorn? Did she smell popcorn? Surely not.
“She’s with Turner.”
“Then take me to Turner.”
“You don’t read the papers? Everyone knows what he looks like.”
“I’ve seen pictures.” The prince of the Nokolai Clan was something of a celebrity, appearing in gossip columns and magazines, getting his picture snapped with actresses, models, and the odd politician or business tycoon. He lobbied Sacramento and Washington for his people and partied with the Hollywood crowd. “I’d still like him pointed out. And Rachel Fuentes.”
“All right, all right. You!” He hopped off his stool as he yelled at a bare-chested young man distributing drinks. “Dip-shit! Come take the door.” He scowled up at Lily. “You coming or not?” And started off.
Lily followed him into the crowded room, Gonzales trailing behind.
Her stomach was starting to hurt. In a few minutes she’d be telling Rachel Fuentes that her husband had been murdered. Maybe the woman
had been getting some exotic extramarital nooky. Didn’t mean she’d take news of her husband’s death calmly. Experience had taught Lily that love took many forms, not all of them obvious or even healthy.
At least this time she wouldn’t have to treat the new widow as a murder suspect. Accessory, maybe, but whoever had killed Carlos Fuentes, it hadn’t been his wife. There was no such thing as a female werewolf.
Her short, surly escort had paused to deal with a couple of customers who wanted to know when the floor show would begin. When he started moving, Lily asked again for his name. She’d need it for her report.
“Don’t listen well, do you? Max.”
“You have a last name?”
“Smith.”
Smith? That shrunken blob of malevolence was named Smith?
Gonzales moved closer and whispered, “He looks like a gnome.”
“Too big. Too mean. And who ever heard of a gnome hanging around humans?”
“A crazy gnome, then. On steroids.”
Her lips twitched. “I guess so, in a psycho sort of way. But gnomes can’t own property.” Though that would change, if the Species Citizenship Bill went through.
The place was busy. They threaded their way through a maze of small, black tables and their chattering occupants. The overhead lights had stopped playing rainbows and were stuck on a less-than-hellish rosy pink. A glance overhead told her the lights came from spots fixed on scaffolding that crisscrossed the gloomy upper regions.
Red candles flickered on most of the tables. A circular stage, currently empty, held down the center of the big room, while neon flames climbed the stone walls. So did two circular staircases, fading into darkness after the first story.
She saw a lot of odd hair and look-at-me clothes, but many of the customers looked like club hoppers anywhere. Gonzales’s uniform drew a lot of attention as they reached the dance floor, which was emptying now that the music had stopped.
Through the thinning crowd she saw where Max Smith was taking them. In the farthest right corner of the room three larger tables floated in their own little island of space, set apart from the rest. There were five men at those tables . . . and a lot of women.