Hunted (Riley Cray) (37 page)

As always, she was a vision of polished perfection. Her tailored, blood red skirt suit hugged her curves and emphasized the narrowness of her tiny waist in a way nothing I owned ever would. Her blonde tresses were swept up in a complicated knot that looked like it had taken at least three people to accomplish, and her makeup was flawless. I gave a brief thought to my sloppy appearance, but ultimately decided that I just didn’t have the energy to care.

“So, where’s your
Special
Agent?”

Bristling at her tone, I opened my mouth to retort but Holbrook emerged from the apartment a second later, his hair mussed from his habit of running his hands through it whenever he was stressed. Judging from the especially tousled look of his hair at that moment, I guessed he was on the verge of punching someone.

“Ah, Ms. Chrismer. A delight as always,” he said, forcing a smile that didn’t come close to reaching his eyes.

“Agent Holbrook. Would you like to comment on the recently deceased Ms. Shoup?” she asked, producing a microphone as if by magic.

How does she find out this stuff?

“I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation. You know that.”

Trudging on as if he hadn’t replied, she continued to wave her microphone at him as though it was a magic wand that would somehow loosen his lips. “Is it true she is linked to Agent Johnson, who is currently missing and accused of kidnapping and attempted murder?”

Holbrook’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together as he clenched his hands into fists.

“Don’t push it, Jessica,” he warned, something dangerous flashing in his eyes.

The EMTs saved me from having to wipe Chrismer’s smug grin off her face with my fist when they wheeled out a gurney, Shoup’s body secured inside a black bag looking like some kind of gruesome burrito.

A slight, balding man wearing a pair of Coke bottle glasses hurried down the hallway, the overhead lights gleaming on his shiny pate, highlighting the beads of sweat that were beginning to track down his temples. His eyes grew wide behind the thick lenses of his glasses as the EMTs approached, pushing along their grisly package. He sprang back, plastering himself against the wall to put as much distance as possible between himself and Shoup’s body. It wasn’t until the EMTs had disappeared into the elevator that he peeled himself away from the wall and continued to bustle towards us. As if his scampering waddle wasn’t laughable enough on its own, the fact that he had to pull up his pants every third step made me bite my tongue to keep from laughing.

Drawing up beside us he pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his oversized pants to mop up the sheen of sweat, puffing out breaths that smelled of menthol lozenges.

“You’re the Super?” Holbrook asked.

“Yes,” he replied in a nasal wheeze. “Oh, what a tragedy this is! She was such a nice girl, always paid her rent on time, never made a fuss. She never had a mean thing to say when we passed in the lobby.”

That’s because you’re human
, I thought sourly. Holbrook’s sharp glance told me that my expression had telegraphed my bitter thoughts.

“I’m Special Agent Holbrook with the FBI. Would you be able to answer some questions, Mr. ...” Holbrook said, flashing his badge.

“Walters, Jeff Walters,” the Superintendent stammered.

“Do you have somewhere private where we can talk, Mr. Walters?”

“Ah y-yes. I live in the building, my apartment is downstairs. Oh, this is just so terrible!”

* * *

Stepping into Walters’s apartment was like being transported back in time to the 1970’s. Tangerine orange shag carpet was just the first of a multitude of eye-searing throwbacks from the disco era that filled the small apartment that smelled of burnt coffee and moth balls.

“Can I fetch you some coffee? Water?” Walters asked, disappearing into the kitchen before either of us could answer.

“No, thank you,” Holbrook called out, looking over the cluttered living room.

It wasn’t cluttered in the way that Shoup’s apartment had been, full of trash and cheap furniture. Instead, it was filled with the things collected over a lonely life – old issues of
National Geographic
were stacked randomly about the room, a low set of shelves under the window groaned under the weight of an overabundance of VHS tapes, the hand written labels peeling and curling, and in the corner beside a TV that looked older than I was, sat a wooden side table with a collection of model classic cars.

Walters waddled back into the room with a steaming cup of coffee that gave off the distinct odor of whiskey, and waved us towards the sofa.

Well, I guess someone’s taking Shoup’s death a little hard.

At his motion, Holbrook and I moved to the floral velveteen sofa whose springs creaked as we sat down, while Walters eased himself into a hideous plaid recliner across from us.

“Was Ms. Shoup a tenant for long?” Holbrook asked, withdrawing his notebook and pen from inside his jacket

“About two and a half years.”

“Did she have many visitors? A boyfriend, perhaps?”

“No, no boyfriend. She kept to herself mainly, though she had been entertaining guests recently. I didn’t like the look of some of them to be honest. Looked like rough sorts if you know what I mean.”

“Can you describe these people? Did you catch their names?”

“No names, sorry. I didn’t get a good look at them, they came late in the evening mostly. Two men, both middle aged, and a younger woman. I didn’t like the look of her at all, covered in tattoos with all those ugly rings in her face. It’s not right for a young woman to desecrate her body like that,” he said before taking a big gulp of his coffee.

Showing Walters the picture of Johnson on his phone, Holbrook asked “Was this one of the men?”

“Yes. No. Maybe. I can’t be sure. I’m sorry,” Walters said, pulling his handkerchief from his pocket to mop at his sweaty brow again. “Do you think it was one of them that did this? That they’ll come back?” he asked, growing pale and agitated.

A long draft from his doctored coffee seemed to help steady his nerves a little, but his eyes remained bright and nervous.

“We’ll post a few officers to watch for any suspicious persons who may come around,” Holbrook assured him, rising to his feet. Evidently Walters had been as helpful as he was going to be. “And if you think of anything else please give us a call,” Holbrook added, handing the Super a card.

“I will,” he said, fingering the card in one sweaty hand, leaving smudges of grime on the white cardstock.

“Well that was about as helpful as a poke in the eye,” I grumbled once Walters had shut the door behind us.

“I see your impeccable charm worked its usual wonders,” Chrismer said with a saccharine smile, pushing away from the opposite wall to saunter towards us.

“Let me punch her, just once?” I asked Holbrook, flashing him the sweetest smile I could muster. “It could be an early Christmas present.”

“Riley,” he warned, though I caught the grin he tried to hide.

“Spoil sport.”

Chrismer brushed past me, jarring me with a non-too gentle bump of her shoulder, and raised a perfectly manicured hand to knock on the Super’s door. “Mr. Walters? I’m Jessica Chrismer from Channel 9,” she purred as soon as the door opened.

“Ms. Chrismer,” Walters breathed, his eyes widening behind his Coke bottle glasses, glossing over with adoration. “Yes, I know who you are.”

Seriously?
I thought, indignant irritation flaring hot and choking in my chest.

“I was wondering if I might ask you a few questions about the recently departed Ms. Shoup?”

“Yes, yes, please come in. Such a lovely girl, so polite,” he simpered, stepping back from the door to let Chrismer sidle inside.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said, watching Chrismer’s shapely ass sashay into Walters’s apartment. Turning to close the door behind her she smiled wide, baring brilliant white teeth.

“God, I hate that woman.”

“She does have a particular talent for inciting your wrath,” Holbrook said with a smirk.

“She’s like a persistent infection that just won’t go away. I can’t understand why you tolerate her so much.”

I realized in that moment that I knew very little about Holbrook. Was it possible that Chrismer was an old lover like Alyssa? Was that why he tolerated her presence, why she wasn’t turned away from crime scenes like any other reporter would be?

“It’s not a matter of tolerating her, Riley. I have to show respect to the Shepherd of the City,” he said as we walked towards the door leading back outside.

“What does his
Lordship
have to do with this?”

“Jessica’s his Day Servant. Didn’t you know that?”

“Fuck me!” I lurched to a stop in the doorway. “No, I didn’t.”

Shepherd of the City. The words sent a thread of icy dread down my spine.

Almost every major city in the U.S. had a leader of the supernatural community, someone who acted as their voice and protector, though sometimes they seemed more like a dictator than anything else. The Shepherd was someone of immense power who commanded the fear, if not respect, of those who lived under his, or her, protection. They weren’t always a vampire; Cheyenne’s Shepherd was a werewolf, and the Shepherd of Las Vegas was a magi.

Denver’s Shepherd was Alexei Cordova. He’d been a relative unknown until he had arrived in Denver five years ago, and quickly made a name for himself as a ruthless, but talented, businessman. In just a few years he’d risen through Denver’s political circles, somehow ingratiating himself to the movers and shakers of the city.

There had been no short supply of rumors when his predecessor, a magi named Gregori Voronkov had died unexpectedly, and he had assumed the role of Shepherd with the full support of the Mayor and Governor. The circumstances of his rise to power left many questions unanswered. Seeing as I didn’t want to end up as another unanswered question, I knew without a doubt that he was not someone I wanted to cross.

“Why didn’t you tell me? You’ve been letting me bad mouth her for days.”

“Would you have stopped if I told you?” he asked with a questioning tilt of his brow, clearly doubting that I’d be able to control my tongue either way.

“Probably not,” I admitted. “But that’s not the point. You’re supposed to tell me these things.”

“I’ll keep that in mind next time you look like you’re in the mood to piss off one of the most powerful supernaturals in Denver,” he replied with a grin before turning and heading down the hallway.

“Crap on a cracker,” I sighed, following him out into the cold.

CHAPTER THIRTY

“SO, WHAT DO we do now?” I asked, jogging along to keep up with Holbrook’s longer strides, trying to dodge patches of glittering ice.

“Now
I
take
you
home.”

“Aren’t we going to look for Johnson? Figure out where he’s holed up?”

Stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, he turned to face me, the cold already turning the end of his nose and tips of his ears pink.

“I’m supposed to be protecting you from Samson, remember?”

“Yes, I remember,” I ground out. Anger bubbled up from the depths to form a burning lump in the center of my chest at his suggestion that I had forgotten about the axe blade hanging over my head.

“Are you sure?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest as much as my injuries would allow.

“I just wonder if maybe you’re using all this stuff with Johnson as a distraction from everything else that’s happening.”

“This
stuff
with Johnson? You mean the fact that he drugged, kidnapped, and tried to kill me? The fact that he’s still out there and could decide to finish the job at any minute?” My breaths were coming hard and fast by the time I finished, and judging from the alarmed looks of the few other people out on the street I might have been yelling. “This
stuff
is the shit storm that my life has become,” I said a little quieter but with no less anger.

“I know you’re angry, and you have every right to be, but we can’t forget the real reason we’re here. Samson is still out there, and no matter how much of a threat Harry may be, my job is to protect you from Reed.”

“And what if Johnson comes after me again?”

“I’ll do whatever I have to to stop him.”

Seeing the tightness in Holbrook’s face, the sadness and betrayal in his eyes, some of my anger drained away, carried off on the wind.

We rode back to Holbrook’s house in silence, the sun sliding down to kiss the mountains as we drove across town, casting out golden shafts of light over the city. It was a beautiful sight, the trees and buildings gilded in gold, and for a fleeting moment I could almost forget that I was in mortal danger. Propping my elbow on the edge of the door I cradled my chin in my hand and watched the world slip by, imagining that I was unaware of the monsters lurking in the shadows.