Crash Morph: Gate Shifter Book Two (34 page)

The penciled eyebrow arched again.

“Setting you up?” Ms. Culare said.

The way she said it told me she wondered if I was being melodramatic.

She leaned back in her chair as I thought it, steeping her fingers above her desk, which she’d used to prop up her elbows. When I didn’t respond to her implied question, she sighed.

“Setting you up in what way, Ms. Reyes?” she said.

Hesitating, I opted for a half-truth.
 

“I went to a bar today,” I explained. “...With one of my associates. Chasing down a lead I pulled indirectly from your files.”

Taking another breath, I walked deeper into the room. Only then did it occur to me that I’d been standing by her office door all that time. It probably looked like I’d intended to bolt out of there the instant I got the information I wanted.

Which hadn’t been far from the truth, honestly.
 

Reaching into the inside pocket of my leather jacket, I pulled out the flyer I’d grabbed off the bar of Misty’s Boom-Boom Room. Once I was close enough, I plopped the flyer on her desk, but Ms. Culare didn’t make any attempt to reach for it.

She looked down at the neon pink paper, instead, her eyes flickering over its image of drunk girls in wet T-shirts with a distasteful curl on her lipsticked mouth.

“...You probably don’t recognize this bunch,” I added. “They hid the money pretty good. But a lot of the talent shows you’ve been invited to here in the Northwest have been sponsored by the same group that owns this place.” I continued to watch her face as I spoke, although for what, I couldn’t be certain. A reaction, maybe. Some flicker of understanding. “I saw someone in there today who’s got a grudge against me. A big one. It struck me as a pretty weird coincidence, you know? A little too weird, if you catch my drift.”

Seeing Ms. Culare’s eyebrows go up again, I waved off the question I saw forming there.
 

“I doubt you’d know him,” I said. “Well,” I amended, thinking aloud. “...Not unless you were in on it in some way.” Seeing Ms. Culare’s eyebrows shoot up higher, I went on without waiting. “He’s just some guy related to an old case,” I added. “The details aren’t important. But it struck me as more than a coincidence, like I said. It also made me wonder if I was being set up. My naturally suspicious nature wonders if he deliberately got me mixed up in this case, and used you to do it. So now I want to know where you got your information about me.”

When Ms. Culare’s lips only firmed, I asked the question again.

“Who told you to call me, Ms. Culare?” I said, my voice still patient, but blunt. “Who gave you Gantry’s name, as a means of reaching me? If you don’t tell me, I’ll find out in some other way. Some way you might like a lot less.”

My last comment seemed to confuse her.
 

It also seemed to snap her out of her trance.

She frowned, but I didn’t get any real resistance on her, or avoidance really. Instead, my words, or maybe the questions I’d asked, seemed to make her go briefly blank. Then she shrugged, throwing her fingers up from their steepled position.

“A work colleague,” she said then. “An employee of mine, really.”

“Who?”

“Raphael.” Her eyes met mine. “His name is Raphael Flores. He does hair. Make-up, too.”

“Is he here? Today, I mean.”

She nodded, once, her expression still faintly surprised. “Yes.”

Hesitating only an instant more, she leaned over her desk, touching the button for the intercom delicately with a manicured nail.

“Clarice?” She didn’t wait for a reply. “...Clarice, bring Mr. Flores in here, if you please.” As if expecting an argument, she cut it off before it could begin. “Tell him it shouldn’t take more than a few moments...and that it’s important. Do not let him say no, Clarice. I do not care what he’s doing. I really don’t. Bring him here. Now.”

I didn’t hear the assistant reply, but it’s possible Ms. Culare took her finger off the button before she could.

Scarcely a minute later, a light knock came at the door. Ms. Culare summoned the person standing there and the door opened briskly and without a pause.
 

A man walked in with an audible, “Hmmmph!”
 

Raphael Flores was tall, but on the thin side, wearing a shirt open down to his navel. The shirt was a bright, baby blue sailor-type thing that might have been made for male on male porn movies. He also wore bright red pants. I didn’t see a single hair on his chest.

He gave me a scathing up and down glance, dismissed me in the same look, then turned his icy glare on the woman who was, presumably, his boss.

“I am in the middle of a highlight treatment,” he enunciated with feeling.

“This will be quick, Raphael.”

“Lovely,” Raphael said, not missing a beat. “If her locks fray to the consistency of a cat’s
asshair,
then you can just whine about it to someone else...”

Ms. Culare, to her credit, didn’t even roll her eyes.

“I understand,” she said neutrally. Holding out a hand, palm flat, towards me, without rising from her leather chair, she kept the same, even tone when she added, “This is Ms. Dakota Reyes, Raphael. As you might remember, she works for me temporarily.”

Again, the scathing once-over, but more critical that time.

“I don’t do fixer-uppers,” he pronounced, pursing his lips. “Tell her to visit a salon, and then I’ll have a look at those gorgeous cheekbones again...and they really are gorgeous, darling, but I simply can’t make an exception, I’m sorry.”

Ms. Culare let a small smile touch her lips that time.

“Liar,” she said, sitting back in the chair and looking up at Raphael almost fondly. “You’re practically salivating to get your hands on her, my darling...I know that look all too well. But sadly for you, that’s not why she’s here.”

“Oh?” Raphael looked between me and Ms. Culare sharply. In watching his face, I realized with some surprise that Ms. Culare had been right.
 

Raphael looked almost comically disappointed.
 

“Then what am I doing in here, pray tell?” he said, folding his also-hairless arms. “Or are you girls planning a party?”

“No party, dearest,” Ms. Culare said, sighing a bit. She leaned over her desk, clasping her hands into a tighter knot. “Don’t you recognize her name, Raphael?” she said, her voice more pointed. “You remember the flyer you showed me? And the discussion we had? Ms.
Dakota
Reyes...private detective. The one specializing in ‘hard to prosecute’ cases.”

Raphael gave me another look.

That one held a lot more overt scrutiny.

I couldn’t help noticing he really was kind of beautiful, if in a very feminine way for a guy. He had gorgeous brown eyes, full lips that looked always to be smiling, even when they jutted in their current near-pout. Looking at me, his eyebrows shot up and the smile slid wider over his face, making me smile back, almost involuntarily.

“Dakota Reyes,” he muttered. I watched his brown eyes change again as the light bulb in his mind blinked brighter. “This is her? Batgirl?”

I snorted a laugh at that; I couldn’t help it.
 

When he looked at me directly, meeting my gaze, I folded my arms, mirroring his pose and his stare, but not hiding my humor, either.

Raphael finally smiled back, as if conceding defeat.

“She’s darling!” he said. “Are you going to sign her on? You must. We could use some color around here...and I’m not talking about that lovely skin of hers, either. In fact, I insist! I may quit if I don’t get my way. We could design a whole new campaign around her...call it ‘Dangerous Women,’ dress her up as catwoman––”

“No,” Ms. Culare cut in, exhaling in some impatience that time. “No...Raphael, focus. I need you to tell me who it was that gave you Ms. Reyes’ name.
You
were the one who first told me about her, remember? You told me about Ms. Reyes and her services. And the name of that other man. Her colleague, Mister...Mister...”
 

Ms. Culare looked to me for help.

“Javier Gantry,” I supplied.

“Oh! I see. This is relevant somehow...interesting. And very exciting!”
 

“Yes, dear,” Ms. Culare said. “Could you be a dear and help us? Where did you first hear about her? It wasn’t from one of your bad boys, was it?”

Raphael went into a very staged-looking thinking pose, tapping his lips with one long forefinger while he jutted the corresponding hip. Then his brown eyes lit up again. For some reason, I was finding him utterly charming, despite his unnecessary delays and foot-dragging and in spite of his theatrics...or, okay, maybe partly because of them.
 

The last thing, anyway.

For all of his diva posturing, the guy simply radiated good humor.

“I remember now,” Raphael said, even as I thought it. “It was that adorable politician man I was speaking to. Or maybe it was his manager...I forget who mentioned it first. Anyway, the
manager
was a little creepy, as I recall...but I do so love a man in a suit who wants to help. And Mr. Politico was just soooo wanting to be helpful.”

“What was his name?” I said.

I felt a sinking sensation in my gut, even as I said it, just from Raphael’s few words.
 

Off the top of my head, I could think of at least one inter-dimensional politician type shape-shifter who could be extremely charming when he wanted to be, and was definitely good-looking enough to charm the socks off someone like Raphael. In human form at least, Razmun was quite the hottie. I remembered likening him to the cute guy at school, like the football star or the homecoming king, even when I first met him in Nik’s home dimension.

When Raphael’s face scrunched into another thinking expression, I asked, “Would you recognize a picture of either of them? The politician or his manager?”

“Oh, sure I would, darling,” Raphael said, that smile once more lighting up his face. “I never forget a beautiful man...much less two of them standing right next to one another.”
 

I motioned for Ms. Culare’s tablet, asking if I could borrow it.

She handed it over without a word.

Ignoring her questioning look, I did a quick search, pulling up the newscast from a however-many nights back that was, where Razmun gave several statements to reporters abut the bombing. Scrolling through the video, I found Razmun himself and showed the screen shot to Raphael.

“Oh, yes!” the stylist said, smiling. He practically clapped his hands. “That’s our young politician! I’d never forget those eyes...how remarkable! You knew him, knew exactly who I was talking about just from those few things I said?”

Biting my lip, I pulled the tablet back, that time doing a search for Michael Evers.
 

I almost wasn’t asking the question when I slid the tablet under Raphael’s nose that time.

“His campaign manager?” I said dryly.

“Oh, that’s him, darling...that’s him.” Raphael pushed playfully at my arm, beaming down at me. “You. Are. Good. Little Miss. You really are! I’m completely impressed,” he gushed.
 

Clutching my arm, he only let go when Ms. Culare motioned him off.

“Thank you, Raphael,” Ms. Culare said evenly. “You may go back to your highlights now.”

Raphael hesitated, looking between me and his boss.

I could see the curiosity burning in those brown, puppy dog eyes of his.

Despite all of his previous complaints, now Raphael didn’t want to go. He looked between me and Ms. Culare, as if trying to think of a good reason to stay. Clearly, he was now positive he’d be missing out on something juicy if he left. Further, his eyes burned into me with a deeper curiosity, as well––personally, I mean––enough that I could tell I really had impressed him with my search engine magic, despite how playfully he’d said it.

He must not have been able to come up with a good excuse to stay, though, given what he’d said before about ruining some model’s hair.

Eventually, his own self-importance as head stylist won out. He turned on his heel, aiming his feet for the office door with a somewhat overly-done purpose to his steps.