Blood of the Pride (5 page)

I almost reached across the table to strangle him right there, damn the good feelings I’d had a few seconds before. As it was, I flexed my fingers, wishing I had kept my nails as long as some of the women back on the farm did. A good scratching was almost acceptable in polite society, if I recalled correctly.

“Look, I don’t think you understand me.” I pulled in a deep breath and tried to center myself, find a Zen place and stay there. “If I were going after the killer, and I’m not confirming that I am, I’m hunting a man who killed an innocent woman. I’m not looking for street cred or some version of a Pulitzer Prize for crappy rags. This isn’t some reality show where you get to dash around and play the hero and drag me along for the ride.”

“I get that.” His face went sad and solemn, the silence falling over us blocking out the rising noise from the bar. “I’ve been there, done that. I know what you want. All I’m asking is to come along for the ride.” He snatched up the bottle and drained the foam out of the bottom. “Besides, you need me to get started.” His previous joviality returned. I wanted to smack him.

“Okay.” An overpowering rush of perfume hit my nose, sending a shock through my system. Some woman was just aching to have me dunk her in the nearest body of water, even if it happened to be a toilet bowl. “This is how it’s going to work. First, you’re going to take me back to your place.”

Bran’s eyebrows shot up as he grinned. “Really?”

“Yes, you are. Do you still have that envelope the photo arrived in? Or the actual photo?”

“Of course not.” He finished off the remaining dumplings in a rush. “I handed it off to the editor and trashed the envelope.”

“You never wondered who took the picture or why it ended up on your table?” My fingernails dug under the paper label on the beer bottle, pulling it off in small strips.

“Honey, where do you think the majority of my stories come from?” He exhaled a mouthful of wasabi, causing my nose to curl up. “People drop off this, that and the other thing at my desk at the
Inquisitor
all the time. You should see the crap hitting my email box with pics changed around to justify Bigfoot or the 9/11 conspiracy silliness or whatever’s the hot thing online right now.” His fork impaled the last dumpling. “I was surprised as all hell to see an actual paper document showing up under my door. Took me back to the old days, it did.”

My blood pressure started rising. “And you gave the original over to your editor?”

“Like I wasn’t going to?” Bran put the fork down with a loud clink. “I had no reason to keep it at my place.”

“So you sold the picture and wrote the story to go with it.”

“Right.” He rapped the table with his knuckles. “I did exactly what I get paid for and what the public wants.” Bran smiled. “And now you’ve got me just curious enough to keep following this story much further than I would have taken it if you hadn’t shown up. The fact that her family’s pissed enough to call you in makes it much more interesting. So let’s scratch each other’s back and work out a deal.” He pressed an index finger against his right nostril with a wide grin. “That’s what reporters go on, honey.”

“Right.” I pulled my wallet out and tossed a few bills onto the table. “We’re out of here.”

Bran’s eyebrows rose again as he looked at me for a minute before sliding off the chair. “I must admit, you’re pretty easy.”

“Don’t bet on it.”

We flagged down a cab right outside the bar. It was well into rush hour by this point and I had chosen wisely to not try to bring my car into this mess.

As the taxi began to maneuver in and out of the traffic on Queen Street, Bran turned to me, a curious look on his face. “So what got you into this business? Seems to me like a girl like you deserves better.”

I couldn’t hold back the laughter. Chuckling, I glanced out the window to make sure I knew where we were going. The smell of old cigarette ash was almost overpowering. The cab was obviously one of the last to switch over to non-smoking as the decal on the window attested.

“Gee, haven’t heard that pickup line before.” I rubbed the tip of my nose and saw a bit of the playfulness disappear from his face. “Let’s just say that I fell into working security and then just expanded into the private arena.” The traffic slowed to a crawl around us. “So how does a reporter like you end up working for a rag like the
Inquisitor
?”

“The fickle follies of life.” He lifted his hands in a melodramatic display. “Either way, we’re here now and that’s what’s going on.”

“Thanks for the update.” The vehicle pulled up at the entrance to a small apartment complex down near Yonge and King— one of the hot-up and coming spots for the youthful businessman in the downtown core. These condominiums cost more than a million dollars. Not what I expected from a cheap hack.

The doorman nodded to both of us as we walked through the lobby, his eyes scanning me as a security professional would. I had no doubts if a cop came by later he’d be able to give a pretty darned good description of me with the exact moment my foot crossed that threshold. This was a pricy place that didn’t hire kids looking to find a place to sleep or study on the night shift.

We stepped into the elevator, a gaudy trip of mirrored walls and gold-plated buttons screaming upper class.

Bran was silent on the trip up, bouncing back and forth on the toes of his black running shoes as if he was preparing for a marathon, quiet until we hit the seventeenth floor and walked out into the hallway.

“So, what do you think?” He fumbled in his slacks for the keys, finally hitting the lock on the third try.

“Aren’t you supposed to ask that after I see the interior of your apartment?” I joked, trying to figure out who this guy was.

“I guess asking if it was good for you too should wait, then.” He grinned and stepped inside, flicking a set of light switches to his right.

The condo was larger than if you had dragged my house’s second story down onto the first floor. A variety of shelves stood here and there, scattered across the open space and splitting it into rooms. Off to one side I spotted the largest large-screen television I had ever seen outside of stadiums and rock concerts.

“Want a drink?” He took off his leather coat and hung it on a series of wooden knobs set into the wall, not offering to take mine. Good thing, because I hate awkward goodbyes. Bran walked into the spacious kitchen, gesturing at a number of appliances laid out on the marble counters. “Cappuccino? Espresso? Whiskey? SoCo?”

“How about just coffee?” I moved toward the kitchen, my feet light on the hardwood floors. They had been polished to a bright sheen and just screamed for a sock dance. “I think we’ve both had enough to drink tonight.”

He shrugged and pulled out a machine that had more buttons than a space shuttle. “Whatever.” After punching in codes to probably set off nuclear missiles toward Cuba, he set two matching mugs into the small recesses. “Milk? Cream? Half and half?”

I turned back from where I had been unabashedly staring at the oversized computer monitor and the top-of-the-line machine artfully hidden in a dark redwood desk. “Half and half, if you have it.” My stomach began to hum in anticipation of the creamy delight.

“Make yourself at home.” I didn’t need to be told twice. While he mucked about in the kitchen I inspected the rest of the apartment including the double bed discreetly tucked at the far end behind a set of tall black oak shelves. He was neat and tidy, and obviously had a bigger pocketbook than I’d expected.

“Pretty good for a hack, eh?” Bran appeared, a mug in each hand. Gesturing to the black leather couch, he sat down opposite me, placing the cups on two of the small round stone coasters spread across the glass table.

“The
Inquisitor
’s paying more than I thought.” The cups were black ceramic, immaculate and beautiful. He had good taste. “So, about that envelope.”

“I told you I trashed it.” He took a sip. “Special Columbian blend. Can’t get it at Starbucks. Delivered by private courier once a month.” One edge of his mouth curled up in a teasing smile. “I only go for the best.”

I tried not to smirk. The verbal jousting was perfectly timed like our foreplay in the bar. He was hitting all the right buttons and playing it out like he should. Reporter trying to protect his source and investigator trying to get information. It was a finely-timed dance we’d both done before.

“Then I need to see your garbage.” I put on my best smile. “’Cause I’m going to drag it all across this sweet hardwood floor and make sure you didn’t keep it by mistake.”

The right side of his mouth curved upward, just a fraction. Bingo.

The mug went back on the coaster. “I think you used that nice fancy scanner over there to scan in the shot and send it to your editor that way so the computer geeks could add more fur and blur her face. So that envelope is here, along with the original picture.” I glanced around the apartment again. “One man doesn’t make a lot of mess, so…” I stood up and walked to the kitchen, opening random bottom cabinets. “Why, lookie here. A garbage pail.”

Bran stood up, his hands in his pockets again and a sheepish grin on his face. “Damn, you’re good.”

I beamed back at him with an even wider grin. “You’ll never know.” I pulled the white garbage bag out of the plastic bucket and turned it over, dumping the contents onto the floor. Old coffee grounds were mixed with limp shredded carrots and a dash of sirloin steak tips just beginning to get ripe. My nose wrinkled at the different scents trying to overwhelm each other. There, at the bottom, lay a single manila envelope.

I plucked it free and brushed off a handful of coffee grounds, waving it in the air. “Why, look what I found.”

He chuckled, looking at the floor. “Guess I didn’t empty my garbage as often as I thought I did.”

“So there’s the envelope.” I tossed it onto the table. “You’ve got three minutes to produce the original before I move this garbage bag across your entire clean apartment to search for it.”

“What makes you think I kept the photo?” Bran shuffled over toward me, an angelic expression on his face.

“Because I can smell it.” I tapped the tip of my nose. “You don’t get rid of anything you can recycle. That photo’s something you’re saving for the ‘best of’ volume in your scrapbook.”

He let out a low whistle, crossing to the computer desk. He opened a drawer and pulled out a thin file folder. “You ever play poker?” He walked over and placed it on the marble island between us, opening it to face me. “I think you’d be deadly.”

I shook my head. “Not good at bluffing.” Nudging the cold-water faucet with my elbow to get the water flowing took a second. I washed my hands quickly and wiped them on the pristine dishtowel hanging from the bar set on the refrigerator side.

The shot was the same as in the tabloid but this one was untouched. Janey’s blank eyes stared up at me, the slightest tufts of orange hair breaking free across her face.

Attached to the photo was a printed note, the blocky letters on generic lined paper. “What is she?” in fat capital letters.

I couldn’t hold back a gasp at seeing the unmarked photograph. I’d seen dead bodies before but this was personal, this was family. It was almost a voyeuristic shot, catching her in mid-Change.

“You knew her.” It wasn’t as much a question as a statement, his words low and soft. I started, suddenly aware of him standing way too much inside my personal space. The thin hairs on the back of my neck began to tingle. I had never been a big fan of letting anyone get close to me, physically or mentally.

“We didn’t know each other directly. Family friend.” At this distance I could smell the beer mixed with sweat and his personal musk. Dang, it was seductive. It’d been a long time since I had gotten involved with anyone. When you’ve had your entire life ripped away you learn not to trust anyone, not let anyone in too quickly. Some scars you just can’t hide.

I reached out and touched the dead woman’s face, stroking the glossy fur.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, still too close for comfort. I shook my head and spun around, breaking the contact while I washed my hands again.

“Yeah, well. Everyone dies. For most of us the timing sucks.” We were back on professional ground and I was glad of it. I wiped my hands and then flipped my ponytail back over one shoulder. “Not a chance of getting prints.” I leaned in toward the photograph, inhaling deeply. Scent tracking might not be standard procedure for most investigators and wasn’t admissible in court, but it worked for me.

“I’d think not.” Bran scratched the back of his head. “Mine are definitely on there and I doubt he’d have been stupid enough to leave his own.”

I nodded, closing my eyes. Damn it. It was faint, so faint I could barely catch it, but it was there. Felis scent. I turned my attention to the envelope. The inside might have a stronger smell. But I couldn’t start sniffing it like a bloodhound with Bran watching. Instead I went for the safer, more common types of detection.

The envelope was blank on all sides, the flap torn open where the owner had taped it shut. “No chance of getting saliva from here.” I shook my head. “He’s a smart one.”

“It’d take you weeks to get a DNA match anyway.” Bran leaned forward again. “That sort of fast response only happens on television. And with you not being a cop, well…” He chuckled. “I don’t think you’re willing to wait that long.”

“I still don’t understand why you didn’t turn this in to the authorities.” I traced the black-and-white image with one finger.

“Because they’d haul my ass in and I couldn’t tell them anything more than I’ve told you.” He snorted and shook his head. “They’ve got the crime scene. They’ve got way more information than this scrap could give them with no prints and no way to track it back to the owner.”

I couldn’t dispute his logic. If the police were running cold it was unlikely a photograph would blow the case wide open.

Unless they could scent it like I had just done.

“So how does an old hack working for a tabloid rag afford this?” I raised one eyebrow. “Working under the table, maybe? Criminal attachments, maybe?”

“Inherited old money, maybe?” Bran walked away from me and sat down on the couch, spreading his arms across the long, leather back. “My parents were pretty well off.”

“Did they approve of your work?” I picked up both photograph and envelope and returned to my seat, placing the two items on the glass table between us. It was better to keep my distance and my senses clear.

“They died quite a few years ago so it’s a moot point.” He avoided my eyes, focusing instead on the accusing photograph forming a wall between us. “So, what next?”

“Tell me what sort of people bring you their garbage and think that it’s fit to print.”

He grinned. “Well, aren’t you the snob?” He shrugged, the blue shirt riding up and down across his broad shoulders. “I get the same sort of ‘deliveries’ as everyone else in the business—some very honest, hardworking people seeking to have their story told—and more than my fair share of wackos looking for their moment in the sun. They’ve got the 9/11 tapes, the Bigfoot photographs, the reason why the oil prices are so high and the air car conspiracy. All wrapped up, usually, in a brown paper bag smelling of booze and old vomit tied with twine and a handwritten letter declaring that I’ll be saving the world if I just print this.” His head rolled back and he stared at the exposed wooden beams of the ceiling. “Those are just the ones I can stand to remember.”

“Delivered to your front door?” I jerked a thumb behind us at the entrance. “How did they get past your doorman, who seems to be ex-military?”

He frowned while he kept looking at the ceiling. “Good point there. Dan only allows private couriers to my door and that’s with an escort. Everything else stays down at the front desk until I check in.”

“And this guy slunk in, trotted up to your front door and slipped this under without getting caught.” I leaned forward, cupping the now warm coffee mug in both hands. “He really wanted you to get it. Didn’t trust Dan to hold it for you or send it to your office. Wanted you to focus on it, make it a priority.”

“Why?” Now it was his turn to lean forward. “What’s so special about this woman?” His fingers, long and slender, pulled the photograph closer to his side of the table. “Who was she?” His eyes went to the handwritten note. “What was she?”

“Janey Winters was a teacher, nothing else.” The cup of coffee grew colder in my hands, along with my tone. I’d pointed him at the rabbit hole and the bastard was curious enough to fall in, damn it. “She was in the wrong place at the wrong time and someone wanted to make a spectacle out of her death, which you provided when you sent this to your editor and it got published in that piece of crap you call a newspaper.” A growl began to grow in the back of my throat, threatening to break free. “You shouldn’t have published that photo.”

“Hey, back off.” Bran pointed his index finger at me. “First, all I knew was that there was a funky picture of a cat woman slipped under my door and that’s a story. I didn’t print her name or anything and we blurred the important points, so don’t get your knickers in a knot more than you’ve already done.” His stare returned to the ceiling, inspecting every knothole. “Now all you need to do is tell me about her skin condition. It would be a great follow-up column.”

“I think not.” I got up from the table and snatched up the picture, stuffing it into the torn envelope. “I’ve got what I came here for. I’ll leave you to your trash reporting and malicious rumor mongering.”