Amy claps. “Bravo, sister.”
Delarosa chuckles. “You do that.” He takes out his phone and copies the address into his Google Maps. “I know the werewolf drill. Speak softly and carry a big stick. Or is it speak loudly and carry a small stick? Regardless…” He rolls his chair away from the table and rises. “Let’s get our gear and head out, team—and Desmond. And…not Liam.”
Liam pouts but doesn’t complain about being left behind. And I wouldn’t either.
Werewolves aren’t exactly known for being the friendliest supernatural creatures.
Chapter Seven
As my team is heading down to the lockers to gear up for our trip to Slate’s house, I excuse myself for a pit stop. Ella warns me not to be late again—the threat of that lecture still hangs over my head—and I promise I’ll just be a moment. Then I duck inside the nearest restroom, waiting until the door is closed before I tug the vibrating phone from my back pocket. It’s been bothering me on and off for the past five minutes. An indication I’ve received several text messages back to back. And when I unlock the screen with my four-number combo, I’m entirely unsurprised to see who the texts belong to.
Erica.
Drafted onto the Jameson case by Marcus. Am told Riker’s team is on it.
Careful with this one. Marcus thinks you’ll smear Halliburton’s name without cause. ICM will be on the offensive.
Ambrose already in route, though Riker and co probably guessed as much. I’ll keep you updated on his movements.
If Halliburton was rogue, push the issue as hard as you can. This isn’t like Vickers. He had relatives up high. His bad name damaged theirs, so they tried hard to protect him.
Halliburton was popular but had no real connections. You can nail him if he’s guilty. Ambrose will back off to avoid embarrassing the High Court. Marcus will have to follow.
Rumor has it there’s a Wolf connection?
Rumor has it this rumor came from DSI.
Watch your back. Someone’s passing secrets.
My eyes scan the messages top to bottom four times in a row, and the last time, it strikes me that Erica may have been writing these during an ICM meeting, since each one adds new information less than a minute apart. A picture of her texting under the table surrounded by keen-eyed witches and wizards pops into my head, and I snort at the thought she somehow snuck all this obvious spy work past them. But then, I don’t know many ICM practitioners. Maybe they aren’t all as whip smart as Erica Milburn. Or maybe they’re too disconnected from the world of normals to care about someone’s apparent smartphone addiction.
Whatever the case, Erica’s messages are troubling, especially the last three.
Erica’s been secretly passing information to DSI for several years to help us navigate around the ICM’s incessant attempts to block our access to the supernatural underground, especially where magic practitioners are concerned. They don’t think we have a place in their world of strange powers and even stranger creatures. And while on some level, they’re right, the ICM’s inability to stop their world from affecting ours in all sorts of awful ways necessitates the existence of DSI. If it weren’t for all the supernatural crime the ICM fails to prevent, DSI wouldn’t be around to bug them in the first place.
So it’s a huge insult that they refuse to share—considering we put our lives on the line all the time to protect the practitioners that fall under their purview.
And that’s where Erica has picked up the slack. She gets it. What we do and why we do it. So she shares intel with us that Marcus would never let us have.
Riker used to be her go-to guy, but now that I’m, ahem, seeing her on a regular basis, my captain has quietly and without (too much) complaint let me take over his old role.
It’s a dangerous game to play, I know. If the ICM at large finds out, I could get my ass handed to me. And I don’t even want to think about what would happen to Erica. (She mentioned offhandedly once that the ICM is liable to bind a witch’s powers if she dares to step out of line. And I sincerely doubt that’s their worst punishment.)
Of course, DSI wouldn’t be too lenient either concerning a spy in our ranks.
And according to Erica, we have one.
I think back to all the DSI agents I saw at Jameson’s. Beyond my own team—and I know they’re trustworthy—there were a dozen crime scene techs on contract work, and a few other people from lower-level investigation teams securing various parts of the building. Most of those people were unknown to me, and most of them wouldn’t have been close enough to hear me shout about the dead werewolf. That basement level was pretty far from the main bar and seating area.
But if someone working that main room had shimmied two-thirds of the way down the storeroom stairs, then…yeah, they could have heard the tidbit about the Wolf and passed it on to the ICM.
I guess there’s also the possibility that somebody from Delarosa’s team is a plant, but besides Liam Calvary, all the detectives on that team have worked for DSI for nearly a decade. If one of them had been a spy all this time, Erica would have picked up on it sooner. Even if she wasn’t able to discern the identity of the spy, she’d have passed the information about their existence onto Riker. And Riker would definitely have smoked out the rat.
Could the spy be Liam then? The new guy?
I don’t want to think that—he seems like a decent dude (if not a little dim) from the few times we’ve talked—but the timestamp on Erica’s text about the mole…She sent me that message two minutes and sixteen seconds after Ella ended the task room meeting. And Liam, I recall, was the first person to leave the room. He zipped off down the hall and was already at the elevator by the time the rest of us had exited. He could have easily shot off a message to Marcus in the time it took the rest of the group to catch up.
Christ, I don’t want to think about internal strife.
I open up the reminder app in my phone and jot down Check into Liam’s history.
I’ll bring the issue up with Riker when we have a minute to talk in private.
Phone tucked away, I bend over the sink and splash my face with some warm water, trying to work out the strain pulling my lips into a tight line. After I dry off with a scratchy paper towel, I smooth out my spare uniform jacket, a bit wrinkled and musty from being stored in my locker, and finally head out of the restroom and down the hall. Regardless of the déjà vu, regardless of the spy in our midst, regardless of my building unease concerning the nasty politics already undermining this case—I have a job to do.
My steps grow brisk as I trek toward the exit that lets out into the parking garage where DSI stores its fleet of black, menacing SUVs. When I badge through the security turnstile, I catch sight of a familiar person leaning against a support beam near the door. The person’s head snaps up when my boots transition from the last patch of carpet to the worn white tiles. Then Cooper Lee speaks to me at last.
“Hey, Cal! Hear you guys caught a bad case today. The Jameson thing?” He runs a hand through his short, blond hair, smiling sheepishly. His other hand is clutching a brown paper bag.
“You know it.” I try my best to crack a grin. “Everybody says they want to be on an elite detective team, but I don’t think most of them really get the kind of crap we wade through on a regular basis. This one’s particularly rough. I’ll spare you the gory details. Just know we’ve got three dead guys, one of whom is ex-Mayor Slate, of all people, and not a single solid lead on who killed them or why.”
“Yikes.” Cooper frowns. “Poor Mayor Slate. At least, I hope so. It would suck if he was involved in a crime ring or something. I mean, he always seemed so nice. I even bought one of his watches at the Fall Fest last year.”
“Watches?” I roll back on my heels. “Oh, yeah. He started that little business after he retired, right? Handmade watches.”
Cooper nods. “Yeah, it was based in his home, I think. He sold online and at local events, mostly.” He pulls up his left sleeve to reveal a slim gold watch, which a
ctually looks pretty nice for a handcrafted piece by a hobbyist who didn’t start until his mid-sixties. “I saw him last month, you know, at Whole Foods. He mentioned he was getting into clocks too.” Cooper bites his lip. “Are you going to his house, since he’s a victim? I saw Ella and a few others walk by a couple minutes ago.”
“Yep. Delarosa’s checking out another victim. Ella and the rest of us are casing Slate’s townhouse. So I guess we’ll get to check out his watch and clock stock, huh?”
“Guess so.” Cooper lifts up the paper bag. “Made some pasta for dinner last night. Thought you might want the leftovers. Since I know you didn’t bring any lunch for yourself.”
I stare at the bag, then chuckle. The first time he made me food, that morning he called me over to discuss Etruscan mythology, I thought he was just being courteous. But it turns out that Cooper Lee enjoys cooking, and enjoys forcing those in his immediate vicinity to eat what he cooks whenever he thinks they’re not eating well enough by themselves. So ever since he returned to work, post-Tuchulcha kidnapping, he’s been slipping me food at every available opportunity.
Apparently, I eat like somebody doomed to die of congestive heart failure.
I accept the bag and dip my head. “Thanks, buddy. I’m sure this’ll be way better than whatever fast food Ella was planning on grabbing for lunch.”
“Definitely.” Cooper pushes away from the pillar and glances at the exit. “You should probably hurry up. Ella will bug you if you’re too slow.”
“Oh, yeah. I know. Going now.” I give him a friendly salute before continuing on to the exit.
“Let me know if you need any research done, Cal,” Cooper calls out behind me.
“Will do,” I reply without looking back, free hand on the door bar. “Not sure how much mythos we’ll stumble across in this case, but you’re my man, Coop!”
“Oh, Cal…?”
I stop, the door bar pressed halfway down, and peer over my shoulder. “Yeah?”
One of Cooper’s sleeves is now rolled up halfway, revealing the wicked, handprint-shaped burn scar from where Tuchulcha dragged him into the Eververse. He scratches at it idly, a look on his face I can’t quite identify. After a drawn-out moment of silence, he finally replies, “Take care of yourself, okay? With the déjà vu problem and all…”
“Oh, is that what you’re worried about?” I throw him a casual smile. “I got a handle on that.” At least I hope I do. “Scout’s honor.”
Cooper looks less than convinced. He returns my smile with a sad one that says he knows a lot more than I’ve given him credit for. “I get why you don’t want to admit you’re having a hard time, Cal. I really do. You don’t want to get stuck on indefinite leave while there are people out there dying, being blown apart by magic or ripped to shreds by vampires.”
He pauses, knowing I’ll take the second to think of Mac. I do.
“You want to be a hero, Cal Kinsey, because you know the world needs heroes. Because without heroes, like the brave detectives of DSI, more innocent people will suffer at the hands of so many terrible monsters. Some with human faces, and others like…” His lips twist into a tight frown as he remembers something. Perhaps the werewolf who killed his parents. Perhaps the haunting, shadowed face of Aida in the Etruscan Underworld.
He clears his throat and continues. “And you can’t stand that thought, can you? People dying while you sit in timeout. It burns you.” His tone grows softer. “Just like it burns everybody else. Everybody, Cal. Everybody inside these halls. You’re not an exception. You’re the rule. Ella and Riker and Desmond and Amy. Ramirez and Delarosa and Nakamura and all their teammates too. They’re all heroes, Cal. Like you. And being out of the game eats away at them too.”
I sigh. “I know that, Cooper. But the thought of being on desk duty while everybody else goes out and risks their lives…”
Cooper makes another incomprehensible expression, and then lets out the driest laugh I’ve ever heard. “Cal, you do realize you just described my job, right?”
Aw, crap.
I did.
Cooper’s an archivist.
“That came out wrong.”
“No, it didn’t. You admitted the real problem.” He shakes his head. “No matter what you might say about support roles at DSI, you can’t possibly feel you’re a hero if you’re not a detective on the front lines, protecting the vulnerable from the big bad monsters.” He waves his hand to stop me from interrupting. “And I don’t blame you for thinking that way either. My job might be important, same as the analysts, same as the techs, same as all the admin and IT guys, but the fact stands that we don’t save lives like you detectives do. We contribute to saving lives, but our hands don’t hold the guns, or shoot the beggar magic, or drag injured victims from the flames. That’s what your hands do. And that’s what they’re good at it.
“And that’s fine. Really. I don’t envy you. And most of us support staff don’t. We’re amazed, quite honestly, every time you come back from another battle with all your limbs still attached. It’s incredible. You’re awesome. You are heroes in the truest sense of the word.” He drops his hand to his side. “Which is why you’re pissing me off with the way you keep pretending that this déjà vu thing isn’t seriously affecting you. You’re being too hard on yourself, Cal.”
I grip the door bar so hard my knuckles ache. “I’ll go easy on myself when…”
“When you’re in a body bag?”
“Jesus, Cooper!”
He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he gives me a pitying look, eyebrows drawn down. “I’m not going to argue with you. I’m going to be frank.” He takes a breath. “Before you, there was somebody else on Riker’s team, remember? His name was Norman Bishop, and he tried too hard to protect others and cared too little for himself—just like you. And that habit eventually caught up with him. But, to be honest, I didn’t mourn him all that much because I didn’t know him all that well.” His voice suddenly grows bolder. “But you…You are my hero, you asshole, the man that saved me from an impossible situation, long after I thought I was dead. So watching you self-destruct over your goddamn pride is…I’ve never been so fucking angry in my life!”
His words echo down the hall and smack me in the face.
I don’t say anything.
What can I say?
Cooper turns away, clenching his fists. And I get the sense he’s trying to resist punching me as hard as he can in the gut. (Which I wouldn’t blame him for at this point, honestly.)
But he doesn’t resort to violence.
He does much worse.
He says, “You’re going to die if you keep acting like this. Plain and simple. You’re going to die, for a stupid reason, and then other people will die because you won’t be there to save them.”
A final, resolute pause. And then:
“Dead heroes can’t save anyone, Cal. Least of all themselves.”
Chapter Eight
The ride to Slate’s townhouse is quiet. Ella is driving, so her focus is on the roads, the asphalt now covered in ever-deepening snowdrifts. Amy, in the front passenger seat, stares out the window, contemplative, a finger twisting a lock of her chin-length black hair. Liam Calvary, who’s across from me, separated from his team, has a gaze aimed at his lap, posture stiff, shoulders hunched, as if he’s not sure how to navigate the DSI world outside of Delarosa’s circle. And me? I’m reeling the whole way there, Cooper’s words haunting my shadow.
That shy little guy knows how to pack a punch when he needs to. Damn.
And he was right on the money too. I made promises regarding this déjà vu business, and I’ve broken them because my pride won’t let me quit this case. I should come clean to Riker about my close call this morning and let him dole out what punishments he sees fit. If he takes me off the case, then…I sigh inwardly. I’ll tell him first thing when I get back to the office. Come what may.
I glance out the window, watching the flakes whip by in the air as we turn onto Cranston Street
. Slate’s house sits midway down the block, with an apartment complex on one side and a second townhouse on the other. The façade makes it look like a period piece, old, worn brick and carefully sculpted wooden detailing. Ornate curtains are drawn in front of the windows, blocking out the bleakness of the day. A short chimney is perched on the roof, probably fake, as most of the original fireplaces were replaced with electric duplicates when the government restored the crumbling architecture in old Aurora several years ago. And finally—there’s an aging Lexus parked on the street-side space out front.
Now there’s a clue: Slate didn’t drive himself to Jameson’s. And it’s too far to walk from here. So either someone picked him up—one of the other victims, maybe—or he took the bus. Maybe he didn’t want his car spotted near the bar and grill. Or maybe he knew the other two victims well enough to hitch a friendly ride from one of them. Although, as far as I know, the teams we have scouting the area around Jameson’s haven’t found any vehicles belonging to the other two victims yet either.
Maybe they all took the bus?
Or maybe they got a ride from someone else.
Hm.
Ella pulls our SUV up behind Slate’s Lexus and cuts the engine. She unclips her seatbelt and twists her body so she can address everyone at once. “Amy, you take a thorough look at Slate’s car before you head inside, okay? The prelim guys we sent earlier peeked in real quick and didn’t spot anything, but it was locked, and the keys were missing, and they didn’t want to bust it open without us here. If you need help smashing windows or anything, our guys are stationed on the corners of the block and in the yard behind the house.”
Amy lifts her chin. “You got it, sister.” She bends over and opens the glove compartment, pulling out an evidence kit. “I’ll put anything I find in the storage bins in the back here and meet you inside when I’m done.”
Shade Chaser (City of Crows 2) Page 6