The Lycanthrope's Lawyer

by Jason Rose

  “Tell us about the specifics of the contract.”

  Cinnamon’s pale cheeks turn the color of a white zinfandel. “Look, I didn’t even know who the target was! I just knew it was a wolf. If I’d known it was Adrian Varulv—.”

  “You would have turned it down? Right,” interjects Adrian, doubt wrapped all around the comment like tinfoil on a food truck burrito.

  “No . . . I would have asked for more money.”

  Adrian aggressively steps toward Cinnamon, eyes wide, forehead straining, hands squeezed into fists. “How much did they pay you to try and kill me?”

  I calmly—at least on the outside, on the inside my heart is racing a million miles an hour and I am doing everything I can to keep from trembling—step between the large angry man who can turn into an even bigger angrier wolf and the sassy Southern witch who shoots lightning bolts out her yaya. “Adrian, I got this.”

  “I want to know!” growls Adrian.

  I wanted to avoid specific amounts, that’s why I didn’t ask. I don’t think that knowing what someone is willing to pay to kill you really does anyone any good. If it’s a high amount, does that make it okay? What if it’s a low amount? What if the low amount is from a really poor person? What if it’s everything they own? Is that better? Or worse? What if it’s a really high amount, but from a rich person who won’t even miss the money? Is that worse? Or better? Does any of that really make any difference? Any way you slice it, someone hates you enough to pay someone else to kill you. Recognizing that the onions are already on the pizza, and Adrian isn’t likely to see reason or let this go, I ask Cinnamon, “Will you please just tell him, so we can move on?”

  Cinnamon pauses, purses her lips, and after what feels like an eternity, says, “One-million.”

  “You got a million dollars to try and kill me?” Adrian steps closer. I am now holding him back with my fully extended and braced outstretched arm.

  “Adrian, this isn’t productive, please sit down.”

  Adrian’s fiery gaze shifts from Cinnamon to me and then to my palm pressing firmly against his chest. For a split second, my danger radar pings, and I envision a future in which he hurls me across the room like a rag doll, and then rips Cinnamon into bite-size toast crunch pieces; and then the moment passes, the tension releases from his large shoulder muscles, and he steps back. I glance over at Sinn, our eyes meet, and we steal a shared moment of relief. We were one misstep, or errant comment, away from turning this office into a slaughterhouse. Between Arianna, Vanessa, Adrian and his security detail, and my team, there likely would have been more casualties than just Adrian and Cinnamon. I am not even sure which side I would have taken, Adrian’s or Arianna’s? In retrospect, I probably should have questioned Cinnamon without Adrian present; it would have gone a lot smoother. There is no choice now, other than to finish as quickly as I can.

  “No, I didn’t fucking get a million dollars. The money was being held in electronic escrow by a third party until the deed was done. Same deal for him.” Sinn points at me. “Since I failed both contracts, I got nothing to show for my efforts, except for some worthless bank passwords to empty accounts. I got locked in a fridge twice and wasn’t paid a dime. This job hasn’t exactly been the jewel of my career. I think I’ll leave it off my resume’.”

  Some of the anger seems to flow out of Adrian. He seems almost smug. I think he’s gotten some satisfaction from the fact she didn’t get paid at all.

  “As I said, had I known you were the target, I would have demanded more money, half the payment up front, and a more competent team.”

  Wanting to move on from this topic quickly, I swiftly ask, “Where in Canada did you fly into? Where was the meeting location where you met the four wolves and the goat? Was it a house? An apartment? Please describe it.”

  Cinnamon’s defiant gaze lingers on Adrian as she responds, “I flew into Winnipeg. I was supposed to meet my team at an old warehouse. I don’t remember the exact address, it was on Bangor Street, or Bangor Avenue, something like that. I remember the bang part.”

  “I bet you do,” remarks Wilson in what I consider a creepy way, although Cinnamon doesn’t seem to mind—she even shoots him a half-smile. I think I’m going to be sick.

  “The whole place smelled like pot. I think it used to be a grow house; it looked abandoned to me. Maybe it’s the off-season? Does pot have an off-season?”

  Adrian glances over at me. “Mahi territory.”

  “That’s one of the larger packs?”

  “Yes, Kaneonuskatew is the Mahi pack leader. He sits on the Werewolf council.”

  “Kane-on-usk-a-tew?” asks Joycee, trying to be respectful in her pronunciations, while badly butchering the name.

  “It’s Cree, and don’t feel bad, it’s hard to pronounce. I’ve known him since we were pups, so I’ve had time to practice. It means, walks-on-four-claws; at least, that’s what Kane—that’s what he prefers to be called—claims. I don’t speak Cree and Kaneonuskatew isn’t always the most trustworthy person, so I don’t know If that’s a correct translation. For all I know, Kaneonuskatew actually means, big-prick-who-has-small-prick, which would be a much more accurate description of him.”

  Joycee giggles.

  “If he goes by Kane,” I interrupt, “why do you keep calling him by his full name, which I’m not even going to pretend to try and pronounce?”

  “Habit. He hates it when anyone other than his mom uses his full name.”

  “I gotcha. You don’t seem surprised that the Mahi could be involved? Not that it’s conclusive, circumstantial at best; I mean, the mere fact that the staging point for your assassination attempt was in Mahi territory doesn’t necessarily mean they were involved.”

  “I’m not surprised. It makes sense that the Mahi would be involved. Kaneonuskatew is my biggest critic. He’s leading the push to dismantle the council. No matter what I propose, he opposes it. He doesn’t care about the merits of my policies, only that they fail. He and I have been rivals since childhood.”

  “You bully him as a kid?” snarks Wilson between sips of a steaming beverage out of a mug, with a hand giving the middle finger drawn on the bottom. I presume the contents are spiked with some sort of alcohol. I’ve never known Wilson to be much of a tea drinker and it’s the wrong color for coffee. Each time he takes a sip out of the profane mug, he not so subtly angles the bottom of the cup to give Adrian the flying unicorn. “Steal his milk bone?”

  “Growing up, we had a thing for the same girl.”

  “And you got her?”

  “I married her.” A smug look of pride shines through Adrian’s steely demeanor.

  “Looks like you all figured it all out—can I go now?” asks Cinnamon as she presumptively stands up.

  “No!” Adrian and I respond in concert. Adrian then motions towards me, indicating I should proceed.

  “We haven’t figured anything out. We have some suspicions, a theory, nothing more; and I have a few more questions for you. Sit down.”

  Cinnamon crashes back into her seat into a very un-ladylike, Sharon Stone-esque, position. I think we are all thanking god that she’s wearing pants, except for maybe Wilson.

  “You said you weren’t supposed to use your real name? Why not?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t design the job.”

  “Is that a typical contract term in your profession?”

  “Not really. It’s pretty old school. With the internet, social media, cell phones, facial recognition software, and the reality that the hiring pool for the type of work I do is just not that large, it’s pretty hard to hide your identity from people you’re working with, unless, you wear a black robe and refuse to speak.”

  “Like the monk?”

  Cinnamon nods.

  “Did you know any of the wolves on the Canada job?”

  “Nope, never seen them before. Wolves all look the same to me.”

  “Were any of the wolves Mahi?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.�
��

  “Would you be able to identify them in a photo?”

  “I have no idea. Do you have a photo?” Cinnamon smirks—she knows I don’t have a photo; if I had a photo, I would have already shown it to her.

  “What about at the hotel?”

  “What about it?”

  “Did you know any of the wolves at the hotel?”

  Cinnamon hesitates for just a beat, enough to signal she’s having to think about it. “No.”

  “You’re lying.”

  Cinnamon crosses her legs and slowly sits up in the chair. “I’m not a ra—”

  “Tell him the truth,” interrupts Arianna.

  Cinnamon stares at her sister defiantly, clearly conflicted about selling her coworkers out. Although I would never tell her, I’m finding her loyalty to her colleagues refreshing. I would have no respect for her if she just rolled over on them without any sort of fight.

  “Wilson, what was the name of the wolf that jumped through the plate glass window? The parkour action-hero. What did she call him?"

  Cinnamon looks down at the floor, an uncomfortable expression washing away her smug grin.

  “Whiley,” replies Wilson.

  Sometimes during the interrogation, it’s a good idea to ask someone else, a friendly in the room, a question; particularly if it’s something the interrogee might not want to reveal or want you to remember. Doing so accomplishes two goals: First, it demonstrates to the interrogee that you’re on your game and you already have a lot of information; therefore, it’s pointless to lie or to try and hide anything. Second, it allows you to watch the interrogee, study their facial expressions and their body language, at a time when they don’t think they are the focus of your attention. They will be focused on the friendly and you’ll likely gain some information by the interrogee’s reaction to the friendly’s response to your question. Nobody can monitor all of their body language all the time. If the interrogee is going to slip up and reveal something, it’s likely to be when their focus is on something other than their interrogator—like someone else answering a question.

  There are a lot of corollaries between poker and interrogations; both activities involve reading your opponent and making a decision based not only on what your opponent is actively representing, but also based on what they are unintentionally disclosing. A good interrogator frames his question so they learn just as much from a non-answer as an answer. At the end of the day, you can’t trust everything you learn during an interrogation. The interrogee will take some liberties with the truth. An interrogator must separate the truth from those liberties. In order to do that accurately, a good interrogator gathers as much information about their opponent as possible.

  “Whiley, that’s it. Thanks, Wilson. Cinnamon, you seem to know him. The way you yelled at him makes me think this wasn’t the first time you two met. Whiley, I like that name. It’s not the type of name someone makes up. When people use a fake name, they typically use something people won’t remember, like John, Josh, Bob, Tim, Jason, Mike, everyday names that are forgettable. Whiley stands out. It’s the type of name either inherited or bestowed by parents who, after spending months of arguing, decide it’s a unique name that will make their kid stand out. Whiley is his real name, isn’t it? Not a fake one. How did you know him?”

  Cinnamon squirms in her chair, uncrossing and then recrossing her legs. She glances up at her sister before answering. “Yeah, I know him. We worked another job together a few years back.”

  “And,” I prompt.

  “Answer him,” encourages Arianna.

  “And, yes it’s his real name. Whiley MacGee. He lives in D.C., at least he used to.”

  “You slept with him, didn’t you?” Arianna accuses, more than asks, in a disgusted tone.

  Cinnamon shrugs. “So what—he has a sexy accent.”

  “I am going to need the address,” I interject.

  “I don’t remember. I just remember it was a nice loft near Logan Circle.”

  “Would it help if I pulled it up on Google maps?”

  “No. I was there years ago, and I was drunk when I got there, and still drunk when the cab picked me up an hour later. I don’t remember anything about the building except it was brick. An old brick building converted into trendy lofts. Newly renovated.”

  “Why do you remember it was near Logan’s Circle?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a fucking landmark. I passed by it in the cab.”

  Wilson raises his hand enough to signal he has a follow-up question. I nod, letting him know it’s okay to jump in.

  “Did you pass Logan’s Circle on the way to the loft, or when you were leaving the loft?”

  “When I was leaving.”

  “How far from the loft was the Circle?”

  “Half mile at most.”

  “Where did you go after you left his loft?” asks Wilson.

  “Back to my hotel.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one named after a president.”

  Joycee coughs. “Of course, you’d stay there.”

  “Boss,” says Wilson, reclaiming the floor. “The loft is probably west of Logan Circle. I remember what the guy looked like; I bet I can find it and him if he still lives there.”

  I nod and resume questioning Cinnamon. “Anything else you can tell me about Whiley?”

  “He’s a freelancer. Came over from Ireland because the pay is better in the U.S. There’s more work for assassins here. I don’t think he’s affiliated with a pack, he’s kind of a loner. Heavy drinker, bad dancer. That’s all I know. We only worked one job together and only hooked up once. I wasn’t interested in continuing our relationship. The accent was nice, but he was a selfish lover.” Cinnamon says that last bit while staring directly at Wilson.

  “Yuck.” Joycee mockingly covers her ears with her hands while making a grossed-out face.

  “Adrian, you ever heard of this guy?” I ask.

  “No. If he’s a European wolf, he’s supposed to register with the Pack when he steps onto our territory. Since he’s an assassin, I doubt he’s followed Pack law. I’ll have my people check our files.”

  “Okay, Cinnamon, you can go. I don’t have any more questions for you right now. You need to abide by the terms of our deal.”

  For a moment, Adrian looks like he is going to object; then he relents, looks away, and buries himself in his cell phone.

  “Will do. Sis, let’s get out of here.”

  Arianna and her daughter both stand up almost in unison. Those two are eerily in sync. Arianna approaches and hovers at the edge of my personal space. “Mr. Valentine, would you be so kind as to open a gate back to our office for us? I’d rather not have to call a car.”

  Arianna’s closeness is discomforting, and I feel my cheeks turning red. I glance over at Sinn; she’s watching us while wearing a strange expression, one I haven’t seen before. “Sure, no problem.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Tuesday Night

  Sinn carefully studies our surroundings. Her eyes dart across the dimly lit restaurant, past the winter white linens wrapping the tables, across the smoky dark wooden floors, up and around the hand-carved corbels, stopping at the exquisite stained-glass tile mosaic rushing across the ceiling. Her eyes drink in the marvel and wonderment surrounding us. After what feels like hours, but can only have been minutes, during which my eyes never leave her, not even for a moment, she asks, “Colt, what are we doing here?” Her gaze drifts from the paradise above us and embraces mine over the center of our candlelit corner table.

  “Having dinner. Well, I’m having dinner, you’re having dessert.” Although vampires can eat, they try and stick to liquids; their bodies no longer create the digestive juices necessary to break down solid matter. They also have heightened senses and so the digestive process is uncomfortable. When we first met, Sinn explained that she can actually feel the chewed-up food travel the entire length of her esophagus down to her stomach through the small and large intestine on i
ts way out of her body. Although the sensation of solid waste moving through the gastrointestinal tract isn’t necessarily painful for her, it’s unnerving, a little disgusting, and, understandably, she prefers to avoid it. Fortunately, the sensation caused by liquids passing through her system is more bearable and so her diet consists primarily of liquids, and blood.

  Sinn hasn’t allowed her vampiric condition to eradicate her appreciation for food. She still loves the scents, textures, and flavors. In private, when she thinks no one is watching, she sometimes chews food, savoring its flavor, and then spits it out. And on special occasions, she’ll even swallow. I’m hoping this is one of those occasions. I picked this restaurant out especially for her.

  Sinn’s brow furls; she’s fighting the restaurant's intoxicating ambiance. “We have court tomorrow morning; shouldn’t you be preparing?”

  “I almost died twice today; I think I deserve a nice meal. Don’t you?”

  Sinn bites her lower lip and it looks like she wants to say something more. Instead, she picks up her crystal wine glass by its delicate stem and swirls a vibrant strand of red silk around the inside. She raises the glass to her nose, slightly leaning forward to inhale the wine’s rich bouquet. She holds the glass there for a moment, savoring the aroma, and then she takes a small taste. As the liquid washes across the crevices of her tongue, a faint rose color ripples across her cheeks and her eyes light up as if she’s just been told a delightful secret.

  The sommelier aptly described the wine as power and passion, a Tempranillo from Toro, the wine with the horns. Like many Spanish varietal reds, it has contrasting flavors of leather and cherries. The finish is smooth and, unlike the Tempranillos I’ve tried before, the taste of tannins quickly fades. It reminds me a little bit of a Sangiovese, a medium-bodied and yet somehow still airy red, packed with flavor. A delicious wine. I’m typically partial to California wines; I guess you could call me a homer. I generally find that European wines are overrated, too much acid and/or fruit forward; this vintage, however, is something else. I could drink this all day long. Although I doubt very much, that I could afford to do so; at least I couldn’t when I was on a government salary. While I don’t precisely know how much this bottle costs, I’m betting it’s the most expensive bottle they serve here. There are no prices on the menu, and I gave the sommelier the green light to pilfer my pocket when I told him to bring me a bottle of red, something he would drink. If his smile didn’t clue me in that this was going to be expensive, the fact that the bottle he brought up from the wine cellar was covered in decades of dust definitely did. This is the type of restaurant where it's considered rude to ask how much something costs. It’s old world, and the old-world rule—that if you must ask how much it costs, you can’t afford it—is definitely in play. While I’m not the type of guy who needlessly spends money on material things, I have my vices: wine, suits, shoes, wine, that’s pretty much the list. Money has become less of a worry since I became an Advocate. The firm pays for everything; well, Sinn does, with my uncle’s money. He had centuries to amass a fortune and I am a beneficiary of his forethought and financial wherewithal, and, considering what he’s put me through, I deserve it.