Lily scowled. It was a good thing she hadn’t gone to bed with Rule. If she had, the hotheads slamming her and the department would have live ammo. Right now they were firing blanks.
She grabbed her keys and tried to be relieved about that, but the phone rang before she reached the door. She almost didn’t pick it up, thinking it might be a reporter. But the caller ID told her it was her downstairs neighbor. Mrs. Hodgkin took Worf out most days around lunch so he could relieve his bladder, and sometimes at supper, too, if Lily was working late.
Mrs. Hodgkin claimed that her arthritis was acting up and she wouldn’t be able to manage the stairs anymore to take Worf out.
Since the older woman tied herself into yoga pretzels regularly, Lily doubted that inflamed joints were the problem. No doubt Mrs. Hodgkin read the paper, too.
Why were people so quick to judge? They knew nothing about Rule except that he was a lupus. And they believed the myths—that lupi were indiscriminate killers. Or crazy. Or both.
The myths were based on fact, she reminded herself as she slammed out of her apartment. Some lupi did kill. Not as often as the more sensational press liked to claim, but the rampage the paper had dragged up had happened. For reasons no one had ever known, a lupus in Connecticut had gone berserk. Sixteen people dead, thirteen injured. And Rule himself had said that adolescent lupi couldn’t control the beast.
Lily scowled and clicked the “unlock” a dozen feet from her Nissan.
“Ms. Yu?”
Lily turned. A pretty young teenager with a spiky haircut was running across the parking lot toward her. Lily identified her automatically: Cili Yosamoff, apartment 614A. Two younger sisters, and a father who worked nights. She had a fondness for black—clothes, lipstick, and eye makeup.
Cili stopped in front of her, breathless and smiling. “I wondered—would you mind—I mean—oh, here!” She thrust out a pen and pad of paper. “Could I have your autograph?”
Lily blinked. “My what?”
“And maybe you could ask the prince for his, too? I mean, he’s so rad, isn’t he? I was just maxed out when I read that you’re, like, dating him!”
“Oh. Sure.” Why not? Lily thought, taking the pen and scrawling her name across the paper. Maybe the girl would decide that cops were cool, too, if one of them could date a rad guy like Rule. “I’ll ask the prince to sign something for you next time I see him,” she said, handing back the pad.
“Jenny is just going to die when I show her the prince’s autograph.” Her friend’s imminent demise gave her great satisfaction. “Is it true that lupi, like, don’t do drugs or alcohol or anything?”
Lily had no idea. “Absolutely,” she assured the girl gravely. “They have too much respect for their bodies, in whatever form.” Her name might be dirt with some people—like her mother, her downstairs neighbor, any number of reporters and fellow citizens. But it looked like she could count on support from the fifteen-and-under set. “Would you be interested in earning a little running-around money?”
“Well…yeah. Probably.” Heavily mascaraed eyes blinked at her dubiously. “I guess it would depend on, you know, what you want me to do.”
“I need someone to walk my dog.”
AT HEADQUARTERS LILY noticed a distinct chill in the air. A sergeant who usually greeted her looked away. A patrol cop made a crack to his partner about people who would do anything for their five minutes of fame. And it was quiet—much too quiet—when she walked into the Homicide bullpen. Only three officers were there, and all were terribly busy. Too busy to look up, much less greet her.
Until Brunswick started howling.
She could have kissed him. It was so obnoxiously normal. The other man laughed and the female detective told him to put a sock in it.
“You really need to do something about that sore throat,” Lily said as she sat at her desk, fighting back a grin. “You’re sounding hoarse.”
“I want details,” he said, spinning his chair to grin at her.
“Times, places…especially times. As in, how many. Scuttlebutt has it that lupi are real gifted in the stamina department, but I—”
“You can tell us about your sex life another time, Brunswick,” Vivian Shuman said, and grimaced at Lily. “Ah…the captain said he wanted to see you in his office when you showed up.”
Great. Lily sighed and shoved her chair back. “Do I get a blindfold?”
CAPTAIN FOSTER WAS a short, squat man with a round head, no neck, and all his features crowded together in the bottom half of his face. He chewed gum constantly, had a lousy temper, and was one of the best cops Lily knew.
From the expression on his face when she walked in, she could have used the blindfold.
“You’re off the lupus case. Pass everything you’ve got to Simmons.”
Her head jerked slightly and her whole body went stiff, as if someone had yanked her straight up by the hair on her head. “What?”
“You heard me. You’ve compromised the investigation.” His mouth twisted. “Of all the dumbass stunts to pull! You couldn’t find a human to date? Or just put your hormones on hold?”
“I wasn’t aware my private life was subject to your approval. Sir.”
“It is when I spend an hour in the chief’s office trying to explain why the detective I insisted on has made more progress with her private life than her investigation. A man was beaten last night because he’s got hair on his back, for Chrissake. People are scared. The mayor is scared. And you get your picture plastered all over the front page, cuddled up to a lupus closely tied to your investigation.”
“Captain…” Her jaw clamped hard on all the things she wanted to say. She started again. “Turner is not a suspect. He’s solidly alibied for two of the three killings—one of those alibis being the mayor. Working with him was the mayor’s suggestion, as relayed to me by the chief.”
“You weren’t working with him last night. Dammit, Yu, just because the man has an alibi doesn’t clear him! He could have arranged the killings.”
“I see. You consider him a suspect because he’s a lupus.”
“Use your head.” His jaw flexed. He was chomping down hard on his gum. “We know the murders were committed by one of his people. Even if he isn’t personally involved, you can’t trust him. Lupi don’t exactly have a history of cooperation with the police, yet he’s apparently eager to help you track down one of his people. Dammit, I shouldn’t have to tell you all this.”
“No. You shouldn’t.” Lily’s anger was cold now. Icy. He was questioning her competence, her integrity. “I assume, then, that if I were dating the head of the NAACP you would remove me from any cases where we knew the perp was African American.”
Foster’s mouth opened—and closed. His jaw worked. He wanted badly to tell her that was altogether different. And couldn’t.
She leaned forward. “Sir, I’m aware that Turner’s agenda may not be as altruistic as he’d have us think. Maybe he means to misdirect me, if he can. Or even warn the killer. But I consider that a very low probability. His first priority is the welfare of his clan, with that of lupi in general a close second. He’s been doing everything possible to promote the Species Citizenship Bill that’s in subcommittee now, and these killings damage its chances.”
“You think he agreed to help us for political reasons?”
Lily took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “I think he wants to find the killer every bit as badly as we do—only he wants to find him first. And turn him over to his clan for punishment.”
Foster studied her in silence, for once not chomping on his gum. Maybe he was wondering the same thing she did: had Rule involved himself with her for the same reason he’d become involved with the investigation?
Finally he spoke. “Lupi in wolf form aren’t protected by law, so he might be able to carry out some kind of vigilante justice if he gets to the perp first. But it would reflect badly on him and his people, damage his cause.”
“Not necessarily.” She’d thoug
ht all this out last night. “He’s good at PR. Reporters love him—he’s great copy. If he spins it right, the Citizenship Bill might gain backing. See, right now the Justice Department and most law enforcement associations oppose the bill. But if he makes headlines for taking justice into his own hands—legally—that could change. Can’t have the reporters saying we approve of lupi circumventing the law, can we?”
She’d reached him. He started chewing again, more thoughtfully. “You think that’s what he’s after? Making political hay out of these murders by committing legal murder himself?”
“I don’t know,” she added, careful with her voice and her face, sick in the pit of her stomach. “But it seems possible.”
He told her to brief him on where she was now, what she planned to do next. And before she left he told her to divide the list of registered lupi with the others who were in today and start checking them out.
The case was still hers. Lily stood. Her knees felt spongy. “One more thing. No one was supposed to know Turner was working with me. And the only people who knew he would be at the party last night were my mother and grandmother. And they didn’t tell anyone.”
“Trying to teach me how to suck eggs? I’m aware of the obvious. Someone leaked the story to the press. I want to know who and why. Leave that to me.”
So Lily went back to the bullpen and told the other detectives they’d been conscripted. There were groans and teasing—she’d gone in to get her ass chewed out and come out with the captain’s backing to pull them off their current cases. She told them clean living gave her an edge, got a couple of snickers, and waited to feel better.
She ought to be relieved. The captain had been ready to yank her off the case, but she was still in charge. Yet she felt was sick. As if she’d betrayed Rule by telling Foster what he might be planning.
And that was just stupid. She’d known Rule only a handful of days. She would ignore her stupid, cartwheeling emotions and get on with the job.
Being a cop came first. Always.
WITHIN AN HOUR Lily had the paperwork for a search warrant ready to submit. She called Rule, but his machine picked up. She left a message. Around noon she hit the streets with six names of lupi confirmed to be still living in San Diego.
By three she’d spoken to three of the lupi on her list and eliminated one conclusively. He worked nights as a bouncer and was solidly alibied for all three nights in question. The other two were less certain. Each claimed an alibi for one of the murders, but it was possible that more than one lupus was involved. The physical evidence was inconclusive. They’d retrieved hair from two of the three crime scenes that looked alike—mottled silver and charcoal—but the lab couldn’t prove that it had come from the same lupus without DNA testing. And the stuff wouldn’t behave under testing.
Lily really, really didn’t like Rule’s conspiracy idea, but she couldn’t ignore it.
At five-fifteen she left another message on Rule’s machine. It was nearly eight when he returned her call. “I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner.” His voice was rough, but she couldn’t tell what emotion moved him. “It’s been a difficult day.”
“Tell me about it. I called because I wanted to give you notice. I’ve put in for a search warrant to get me into Clanhome. I expect to have it by Monday at the latest.” He was silent so long she wondered if her phone was working. “I told you I couldn’t wait much longer.”
“I have to talk to you. It will take me thirty minutes to get to your apartment.”
“I’m not there. I’m working.”
“At this hour? What—never mind. Just tell me where I can meet you.”
She knew what she heard in his voice now—urgency. Against her will, it convinced her to see him. She gave him the name and address of a bar down the street and disconnected, frowning.
There was no way of knowing what he meant to say until she saw him, so she shoved it into a corner of her mind, climbed out of her car, and went to talk to Amos Whitburn, the fifth name on her list.
Amos Whitburn turned out to be ninety-two, and even lupi weren’t proof against age. He moved well—arthritis didn’t seem to afflict weres—but he was nearly blind. Cataracts. Crossing him off her list didn’t take long, which meant that she arrived at the bar well before Rule did. This gave her plenty of time to wish she’d picked another spot.
The area should have warned her. It wasn’t a slum, but it was on the far lower end of working class. The bar itself was what she’d expected—dark, dingy, and smelling of beer. She’d been in plenty of places like this since she joined the force. But usually she’d either been in uniform or flashing a badge. Tonight she was in wrinkled linen—baggy walking shorts, sleeveless shell, and a loose, lightweight jacket that covered her weapon. Not exactly come-hither clothes, but it didn’t seem to matter.
Lily took her Diet Coke to a corner where she could keep an eye on the room. Her stony stare worked on the first two men who started toward her—they veered away, pretending they’d been heading to the men’s room all along.
The next guy was more persistent. Probably trying to win a bet, Lily thought, disgusted, as he approached. He’d been sitting with the other two.
“Hey, there, honey. My name’s Biff.”
Oh, surely not. Would any woman do such a thing to her child? Lily looked up. Way up.
He was huge. Six-four, maybe two-thirty. He wore a red ball cap and jeans tight enough to endanger his future offspring. His head was too small for his body, but his features were regular enough that he probably thought he was good-looking. He carried two beers in one hand, and smelled as if he’d already drunk several. His hands were the size of catcher’s gloves.
“I don’t want a beer, and I don’t want company.”
“My treat,” he said genially, setting both amber bottles on the table and reaching for the other chair.
She kicked the chair away. “My mama told me never to talk to clichés.”
“C’mon, honey, don’t be that way. I’ll treat you real nice. Ask anyone here. Matthew!” he bellowed. “Tell the lady what a nice guy I am.”
The bartender looked over, bored. “Real nice.”
“There, you see? I’m not gonna hurt a sweet little thing like you. Would you rather have somethin’ else to drink? Maybe a Tom Collins. Hey, Matthew, get this—”
“No. Go away. I’m waiting for someone.”
“Hey, I’ll do just as well! Probably better.” He beamed at her, dragged the chair back, and sat down. “I’m a fun guy.”
Lily put her arms on the table and leaned forward. “Let me explain. I don’t want company while I wait, I don’t want a drink, I don’t want to dance or talk to you or look at you. You’ll have to trust me on this. You won’t do at all. You will get up now and go away.”
He leaned back, still smiling. But his eyes lost their amiable gloss, and underneath they were pure mean. “Well, now, I don’t quite see how a little bitty thing like you is gonna make me do that, if I don’t want to.” He rested his forearm on the table, closed his hand into a fist, and made his biceps clench.
His friends—the two men Lily had sent off with the Stare—sat at a table about ten feet away. The bar wasn’t crowded. They had a great view, and were nudging each other and chuckling.
Real funny, hassling a woman because they thought they could get away with it. Briefly Lily toyed with the idea of stating her price, letting him agree to buy an hour of her time, and then arresting him. She sighed. It was a pleasant fantasy, but impractical. Instead, she reached inside the flap of her purse—and saw Rule near the door, headed for her.
He was not happy.
Time to move mean-and-stupid along. She pulled out the leather case with her shield and showed it to him. “You want to leave now.”
He looked at it, his heavy eyebrows pulling down.
“You heard the lady.” Rule’s left hand clamped down hard on Big Biff’s shoulder. His fingers dug in. His face wore a curiously intent, inward expression.
“But you weren’t listening, were you?”
Biff’s eyes bulged in sudden pain. He went stiff and made a choked sound.
“Rule!” She spoke sharply. How had he crossed the room so fast? “Don’t break anything.”
“Hmm?” He glanced up, his eyes meeting hers. His eyes. Dear God. The color had bled into the whites until they were wholly dark, gleaming. “Oh, yes,” he said mildly. “Sorry about that. Here, let me help you up.”
He didn’t give Biff much choice, hoisting him bodily from the chair. The big man swayed for a second, blinking fast to get rid of tears of pain.
Just how strong was Rule?
“What the hell—?” Biff’s protest was weak. He was trying to regain his swagger as he turned. “I don’t know who the hell you think you are, grabbing me that—holy shit.”
He’d seen Rule’s eyes.
Lily shoved her shield back in her purse and stood. “I don’t like it here. Too many friendly people. Let’s go somewhere else.”
“Hey!” Biff’s voice rose. “Hey, I know who you are. You’re that werewolf!”
Silence scattered like sparks around the room, striking those closest first and spreading fast. Biff’s buddies shoved to their feet.
“You’re right,” Rule said, but he was looking at her, not Biff. His eyes still looked weird, but the whites showed at the corners again. “We need to leave.”
The crowd was decidedly unfriendly now. There were mutters from a couple of men at the bar. Biff’s two buddies started toward him. Lily and Rule headed for the door.
“Hey, you!” the bartender shouted. “You didn’t pay for your drink!”
Lily barely slowed. “I gave you a five.”
“No, you didn’t. You come back and pay or I’m calling the cops.”
“I am—”
“Here.” Rule tossed a bill in the general direction of the bar, grabbed Lily’s arm, and pulled her toward the door. He let go as they stepped outside.
It was dark and drizzling, a drab wash of grays and blacks. Parked cars lined the street on both sides, but there wasn’t much traffic. Hardly any pedestrians, either. The traffic light on the corner was barely visible through the haze, a dim red glow.
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