Hidden Crimes (4 page)

That didn’t seem fair to Nate. Tony’s parents
were the best cooks in the pack, and they spoiled their youngest
child horribly—more so since he’d come out and made them worry for
his future. His fridge wouldn’t run out of anything.

What Nate had told Adam notwithstanding,
sleep was the furthest thing from his mind. He grabbed the keys to
his personal vehicle: a forest green Goblinati, fifty years old—the
golden age of goblin automotive design. The sports car had two
doors, was low slung, and could go six hundred miles on a single
charge. Nate’s mileage was more like four, but that was because he
reveled in exceeding the speed limit. To his mind, cruising flat
out down an empty road was a pleasure no car lover should miss out
on.

He’d have his chance to indulge tonight. His
favorite place to buy provisions was way the hell out in the
cornstalks. The Poughkip Holy Foods was Resurrection’s only
all-organic, all-blessed grocer. The twenty-four-hour superstore
was a notorious pick-up joint—which didn’t make him think less of
it. He’d enjoyed many a hot encounter following his forays there.
His culinary skills weren’t on the level of the Lupones, but women
tended to like when he cooked for them. Getting them into bed on
the first date and not the third seemed preferable to him.

All too often, he’d lost interest by then.
Cutting straight to the chase was more efficient.

He and the car flew along Route 50, the hot
August wind blowing back his hair. The rush of that
almost
blotted out the image of the sad little shoe he’d found.

~

Evina Mohajit was no stranger to compromise.
As the fire department’s youngest-ever station chief, not to
mention a single mother of two healthy rambunctious cubs, she’d
learned balancing work and home meant you couldn’t do either
perfectly.

Just in case she’d forgotten, her
six-year-old daughter Abby issued a reminder the instant Evina
shoved their sticky townhouse door open. Abby stood at the top of
the inside stairs, her puppy-decorated cotton pajamas an
acknowledgement of the fact that it was past her bedtime.

“Mo-omm,” she wailed from her spying post.
“You forgot Rafi’s cakes for school!”

Evina glanced at the large canvas tote she’d
slung over her left shoulder—in case two dozen chocolate and
vanilla cupcakes wanted magically to appear. They didn’t, and her
daughter huffed like she was forty. “Mom, Rafi’s going to be the
only one without them
again
.”

Evina knew why she’d forgotten. There’d been
a three-alarm blaze at an apartment building, and her crew had been
called to it. Though a weretiger like herself, her senior man had
been injured in a flashover, a dangerous increase in heat that
ignited the smoke blanketing the ceiling above his head. Evina had
been watching the fire in her astral projected form. She’d warned
him the flare was developing, but he’d pressed forward anyway. He’d
heard two kids were trapped in a unit, and he’d wanted to get them
out. Christophe had succeeded, but at the cost of wrenching off his
fire retardant coat and wrapping them in it. He was in the hospital
now, being treated for serious burns. According to his physician,
the pain and shock he was in prevented him from changing.

None of which was appropriate to explain to a
six-year-old.

“Maybe I could bake Rafi’s cupcakes myself,”
she said, trying to sound hopeful.

“Mom,” Abby scolded, her beautiful little
moon face once again looking too mature for her years. “You
know
that’s not a good idea.”

Evina did know, and exhaled wearily. Her luck
was no better than fifty-fifty when it came to following recipes.
She pushed the front door with her hip to get it closed again. She
lived in a tiger enclave on the edge of the downtown core. They had
more land here than in the city, but of course feline neighbors had
sharp ears. She’d just as soon hers didn’t hear what a screw-up she
was currently being. “Where’s Gran?” she asked her daughter.

“In the den, watching
Downton Abbey
on
the DVR.”

Evina’s mother was obsessed with the imported
Outsider show, probably due to idolizing Maggie Smith’s
sharp-clawed dowager countess. Suspecting her own hide was about to
be flayed for asking her mother to stay with the kids longer, Evina
trudged up the stairs. Because Abby was still young enough to like
it, she hugged and nuzzled her daughter.

“Off to bed with you,” she ordered, swatting
her small bottom. Thankfully, Abby giggled and ran.

The den was downstairs, along with their
kitchen and living room, so Evina retraced her tracks. Weretigers
didn’t need the full moon to change. She found her son curled up on
the sofa in his cub form, his furry head in her mother’s lap, his
striped tail slowly waving with pleasure. Though he was Abby’s
twin, Rafiq was much shyer. Turning tiger was his security blanket,
something the rules at the mixed-race school he attended forbid him
from doing there. Because he didn’t focus as well as Abby, he was
in a different class, a separation Evina knew made him
self-conscious. Sensitive to this, her mother was gently stroking
his ruff and ears, far more tender with her grandchildren than
Evina remembered her being when she was a girl. Despite the
resentment she might have felt, Evina treasured her for it.

The tigress in her agreed. Nothing could be
more important than a mother you could count on to love your
kids.

Her mother flicked off the TV and turned as
Evina reached the den’s doorway. Rita Mohajit was eighty—just
entering her prime, as she liked to say. Evina couldn’t deny she
remained gorgeous, her figure trim, her striking face scarcely more
lined than it had been in her twenties. Thick auburn hair formed a
cloud of curls around her shoulders. Limber as ever, she’d tucked
her feet under her. When she saw her daughter, her mouth pinched in
sympathy. “Hard shift?”

Not expecting the kindness, Evina’s throat
tightened. She nodded. “I forgot to buy Rafi’s cupcakes for school.
Can you watch them a little longer while I run to the store?”

“You’ll have to drive to the Holy Foods.
Everything else is closed at this hour.”

“I’ll be fast,” Evina promised.

“Be
careful
,” her mother corrected.
“And maybe pick up some wine for yourself. You’ve been working too
hard.”

Evina crossed to the sofa and kissed both her
mom and son. Rafi greeted her with a baby’s mewl, half asleep and
somehow still smelling of little boy. She loved him so much she
wished there were two of her, the only way she saw to guarantee she
wouldn’t let him down again. Her little boy
felt
everything
so deeply, more than anyone in the family.

“It’s okay, baby,” Rita crooned, her hand
falling to pet her daughter. “Rafi isn’t as fragile as you
think.”

If Evina’s eyes grew teary at hearing that,
it was easy to hide in her son’s soft fur.

~

As long as Evina had driven all this way, she
decided to grab a cart and shop. She was leaving the butcher’s
counter with her neatly wrapped packages of red meat when she
recognized the man she thought of as the Holy Foods Romeo.

He was a character: sex on a shish kabob, as
her sometimes bawdy mom liked to say. She’d watched him for weeks
before he noticed her, seducing the single ladies and charming the
cashiers. He knew how to tell one herb from another and would
happily recommend a wine to complement whatever a pretty female had
in her cart. He sauntered the aisles like the Emperor of Seduction,
the bounce of confidence in his step better than any dance. Evina
had observed he was good-natured when turned down, dazzling when
accepted, and downright knee-weakening when he was on the prowl.
Hearts fluttered at his approach . . . even hearts that knew
better.

The first time he spoke to her she was
flattered in spite of herself. He was smart and amusing, as quick
with his tongue as he was to hop in bed. Maybe she was kidding
herself, but he seemed to like that she could match wits with him.
When he realized she was a tigress, his chagrin had struck her as
genuine. He still talked to her after that, but they both knew he
was just flirting for flirting’s sake.

Historically speaking, cats and dogs didn’t
mix that way.

Though tigers and wolves couldn’t have
children, them hooking up wasn’t a biological impossibility—more a
cultural one. Tigers and wolves were rivals, no less so because
both gravitated toward protecting citizens. If the RPD was a wolf
domain, the R
F
D belonged to tigers. Wolves enforced the law.
Tigers rescued people from disasters. Evina doubted any cop,
werewolf or otherwise, liked the fact that firemen were more
popular.

The two departments’ annual soccer match was
legendary for fur flying.

A tiger dating a wolf was almost unheard of.
This, of course, didn’t prevent Evina from occasionally daydreaming
about a fling.

Oddly, her Romeo didn’t appear in the mood
for a fling tonight. His snazzy boots were rooted to the floor in
the bakery section, and he was staring at a stacked display of
boxes like they held the answer to life’s meaning. His body was—as
ever—truly admirable, turning snug black jeans and a dark silk
shirt into a fashion ad. His brow was furrowed and his teeth gnawed
his lower lip, something she couldn’t recall seeing him do before.
The sleek black ponytail that usually contained his hair was
disheveled.

The mother in her couldn’t help wondering
what was wrong.

Oh what the hell
, she thought, parking
her cart by the tuna. She walked over to him, stopping arm to arm
at his side so she could stare with him. Though he didn’t look at
her, she knew he knew who it was.

“I came for the cherry pie,” he said
casually, “but now that I’m here, suddenly I’m not excited.”

Amused, Evina shot him a sidelong glance. “I
could make a joke about that.”

“Could you?” His lips were curving at the
corners.

“Maybe you need some cherry pie Viagra.”

He turned and smiled down at her. At 5’6”
Evina was a good six inches shorter than he was. The wolf’s smile
was ordinary, no naughty sex-god-on-the-make in it. Evina thought
the expression looked nice on him. Her grocery store Romeo had an
interesting mouth, neither full nor thin but quirkily eye-catching.
The peaks of his upper lip were so sharp she found it hard not to
flush when she stared at them. His lower lip twisted to one side, a
lack of symmetry that made him look as if he’d been born not taking
anything seriously.

“Maybe,” he said slowly, as if working out
the mystery then and there, “I didn’t come here for pie. Maybe I
came here to talk to you.”

“Watch out, Nate,” she said, because they’d
traded names and basic facts. “That sounded like it wasn’t a
line.”

“How could a woman as rare and fine as you
inspire anything but sincerity?”

Evina knew this was nonsense but enjoyed it
all the same. In the process of trading quips, they’d turned to
face each other. Other shoppers rolled their carts past them
unseeing. Because it was the middle of the night, and even
responsible single mothers sometimes felt reckless, she let herself
stare into his eyes. They were dark and a little sad, which seemed
extra dangerous to her. His lean cheekbones were dramatic, his
clean-shaven jaw a symphony of straight lines. His high-bridged
blade of a nose was slightly too long for beauty, but it added
character.

Without that slight imperfection, he might
have intimidated a forty-something tigress who’d had two kids.

“What are
you
here for?” he
murmured.

Her brain took at least two seconds to supply
the answer. “Oh,” she said. “Cupcakes. Once a month, my son’s class
at school celebrates whichever kids have a birthday. They take
turns bringing in the sweets, and Rafiq was up this time.” She
wrinkled her nose. “My daughter had to remind me that I
forgot.”

“Rough day at work?” he asked, like her
mother had.

“Yes,” she answered as simply as she
could.

He touched her hand—or barely, his index
finger brushing the side of it. Like all weres, his skin was warm.
Tiny nerves trilled along her arm.

“Me too,” he said huskily.

She wanted to kiss him, to cup his face and
lay her lips over his. She wondered if he’d taste like his voice
sounded, like hot black coffee or nice merlot.

“E-vi-na,” he said, lingering on the
syllables.

Neither of them moved, just stood there
staring into each other’s eyes. Nate finally broke the moment with
a wag of his head.
Don’t go there
, she could almost hear him
thinking.

“Can I ask you something?” he said in a less
seductive tone.

“Sure.” She tried to sound more everyday
herself.

“Most weretigers are psychic, right?”

“Some of us have gifts that fall underneath
that term.”

“But you run your own station. You’re the
alpha of your work pride. I read you won a competition when you
were fifteen for how good your astral projections were.”

Evina’s brows shot up toward her hairline.
“You Oogled me,” she said, referring to a popular Elfnet search
engine.

“I was curious.” The faint darkening of
Nate’s cheeks suggested he was embarrassed at being caught. He
seemed not to like this, because his interesting mouth pressed
flat. “My question is, if you were in your out-of-body form, could
you read a room’s vibrations?”

“Possibly. It would depend on how strongly
they were imprinted.” She squinted at him. His expression was so
worried he hardly seemed like the same person. “Don’t the police
have people on staff for that?”

“Usually, but the spirit infestation at the
East End high rise has them tied up. I stumbled across a place
today . . . I think it might have been a crime scene, and I—” He
swallowed. “I think it might be important to know for sure
quickly.”