Marked Fur Murder (15 page)

Ben was shot with an arrow. He's okay, but I need you to search the area and see if you pick up any familiar scents. The arrow came in through the front window, so start across the street.

[Are you all right?]

I'm fine. Go!

Tango trotted up as Whiskey took off, looking much more casual but sounding just as stressed inside my head.

Just hang on. I have to talk to the cops first.

“Your dog is going to be okay?” Officer Forrester said. His black dreadlocks looked even more out of place against the blue of a police uniform. “He seems a little spooked.”

I did my best not to smile. “He's just a little high-strung. I'm kind of surprised to see you out on patrol, though—aren't you a detective?”

“Hartville isn't big enough to support a full-time detective. Mostly I'm in a radio car—though if you keep this up I'll be full-time plainclothes in a week. An electrocution
and
a shooting, Foxtrot? With a bow and arrow, no less?”

“It's pretty weird, I know. But ZZ attracts a weird crowd; sometimes that leads to—well—”

“Weirdness?”

“You can't be in here, kitty,” one of the ambulance attendants said. “Come on, shoo.”

“Hey, kitty,” Ben said. The painkillers they'd given him had started working; his voice was slow and peaceful. “M'okay. Look, I had a cat toy permanently installed in m'chest. C'mon, get the feathers. Get th' feathers.”

She meowed pitifully, then hissed as a paramedic tried to grab her.

“M'fine. Why's everbuddy askin' me that? Hey, you wanna see a trick?” he asked the paramedic. “Betcha ten bucks I can make it snow in here.”

“I'll get her,” I said quickly. I stepped over and scooped Tango up, then whispered to Ben, “And you—behave, okay? Leave the nice weather
alone
!”

He muttered something incomprehensible and passed out.

“He'll be okay,” said the paramedic, a young blond guy with a bushy mustache. “Doesn't look like the arrow hit any major arteries.”

I kept Tango in my arms; I could feel how upset she was as well as hear it. “Take good care of him,” I said. “His boss will cover any and all expenses.”

The paramedic nodded and shut the door. The ambulance sped off.

“Tell me exactly what happened,” Officer Forrester said.

So I did. I left out the part about Ben's duet and just said we were looking out the window at the strange weather when the arrow smashed through the glass and into Ben's chest.

“Yeah, the weather,” Forrester said. “That was odd. Almost as odd as getting shot with an arrow while standing at a window.” He was studying me intently, but apparently he couldn't bring himself to actually say out loud what he was thinking.

He asked me a few more questions, but there wasn't much to tell. Forrester went across the street to see if he could figure out where the arrow had been fired from, by which time Whiskey had already finished investigating the area. [No luck, I'm afraid. It must have been fired from a vehicle that then drove off. Impossible to track.]

Whiskey, Tango, and I went back into the house. The pool of blood on the floor was bigger than I'd thought it would be, and just looking at it made me a little dizzy. I went in to the kitchen, put on some hot water for tea, then got some paper towels.

I didn't cry as I mopped up my boyfriend's blood. Not because I'm tough, but because I was too busy thinking. Thinking and planning. I'm good at those things.

And I was very, very angry.

[What are we going to do?] Whiskey asked as I worked.

Tango spat.

I didn't say a word. I just scrubbed harder.

[Foxtrot?]

“Tango's got the right idea,” I said grimly. “But her approach is all wrong. This isn't a one-on-one fight.”

“It's not a fight at all, Tango. If it were, we'd lose.” I gathered up all the blood-soaked towels and began stuffing them into a plastic bag. “No. When my kind sets out to kill something bigger and stronger than we are, we use a different term. Like I said, this isn't a fight.”

I tied the top of the bag into a tight plastic knot, then marched into the kitchen and dropped it into the garbage can. “This is now a
hunt
.”

*   *   *

Whenever possible, prepare
.

I have many mantras, but that one's the most important. Even though I often have to improvise on the fly, what gives me the ability to do so is having as many resources on hand to call on as possible. I'd carry a fully loaded backpack at all times if I could get away with it, but I made do with less tangible but just-as-vital assets and tried to keep them close by at all times.

I made some phone calls. I got in my car and visited a friend. I told Whiskey and Tango what I had in mind. I checked in at the hospital. I
prepared
.

And then I went back home and went to bed.

Soldiers sleep whenever they can, because they never know when they'll get the chance again. It might seem like the last thing you'd be ready to do on the eve of battle, but it made good sense. It was a good allocation of available resources.

That didn't mean it was easy.

Tango had no problem going to sleep, of course; she just curled up on my hip and was snoring away in seconds. Whiskey, on the other hand, was on guard duty downstairs. He didn't need sleep.

I lay awake in the dark, thinking. I was used to dealing with problems, not going to war. Strangely enough, it didn't seem all that hard—just a different set of problems to solve, really.

The anger helped.

In the morning I stuck to my routine. I showered, had breakfast, walked Whiskey. Then all three of us got into the car and drove to the hospital, where I was told Ben was doing fine but asleep. They'd removed the arrow last night and it was now in possession of the police.

“It wasn't actually an arrow,” the doctor who did the procedure told me. “It was a crossbow bolt. They're shorter, but the device that launches them can be very powerful. If it hadn't hit his breastbone it would have punched right through the other side.”

I thanked him and told him I'd be back later. Then I drove to work.

My first order of business was to reassure everyone that Ben was going to be fine. I'd already lined up a replacement chef for the next few days, and Ben's doctor had assured me Ben would be out of the hospital soon.

The last person I talked to was Shondra, ZZ's head of security. She wasn't happy, and as soon as her office door closed behind us she let me know.

“What the hell happened, Foxtrot?” From her tone of voice you'd think I was the one who'd skewered our cook.

I chose my next words very carefully. “Something crazy. Something random. My best guess is teenagers from the city, out in the 'burbs and looking for trouble.”

“So they shoot someone with an arrow?”

I shrugged. “Don't ask me to explain it. Sure, New York is tourist-friendly again, but all the dangerous lunatics had to go somewhere.”

“That sounded like an explanation. Not a very good one, though.”

“You have something better?”

She had her hands behind her back and her feet slightly spread, a military posture she sometimes dropped into out of habit. “Two members of the same family killed or injured within twenty-four hours?
Random
isn't the word that comes to mind.”

“Maybe not. That's why I had a talk with security at the hospital.”

“Good. You have any idea who would want to hurt him or his sister?”

I did, but I couldn't explain that to Shondra. In fact, I wanted her out of the way while I dealt with things. “I think you should speak to Ben about that. He was awake when I left him—still groggy, but able to talk.” A little white lie, but I needed her off the estate. “I'd appreciate it if you'd pay him a visit.”

She nodded sharply. “I'll do that.” She strode over to the door, and I jumped to my feet quickly to follow her. Once Shondra's made a decision, she doesn't hesitate.

She did pause, though, one hand on the doorknob, and gave me a curious look. “Where's your sidekick this morning? Usually he sticks closer than your shadow.”

“Even shadows have to pee,” I said, which was untrue for both shadows and ghost dogs. “He's smart—when he wants in he barks at the back door.”

Once Shondra was gone, I went to my own office and got ready.

My weapon of choice was a cell phone. I used it to call Rustam Gorshkov, first.

“Hello, Mr. Gorshkov? It's Foxtrot. Some of the guests were talking about Kaci and wondered if you could demonstrate what she could do. I was hoping you could do it out by the pool, say in half an hour or so? I can have a nice buffet set up in the cabana for afterward. You could? That's terrific. We just got some excellent caviar in, I know you'll appreciate it. Okay, thanks. Bye.”

I called Fimsby next, and then Keene. Both of them agreed that a chance to see Mr. Gorshkov's painting canine wasn't to be passed up, and a nice brunch would go very well with the event.

Then I called Teresa Firstcharger.

“Hello, Foxtrot. I missed you at dinner, last night. But my conversation with your boyfriend more than made up for it.”

“Yes, he's fascinating to listen to, isn't he? It's too bad your talk was cut short.”

She chuckled. “I thought you might have had something to do with that. Well, Ben and I can always chat later. I didn't see him this morning, though—did you keep the poor dear up late?”

“It's his day off. But you and I should really talk.”

“Isn't that what we're doing?”

“Face-to-face would be better. Do you know where the library is?”

“I think I can find it. When?”

“Five minutes?”

“See you then.” She hung up.

Whiskey was waiting for me when I got there. “Everything ready?” I asked.

[Affirmative.]

I took a deep breath, then sat down in an overstuffed chair facing the window. “Then we're good to go.”

I was calmer than I expected. I can do confrontation—in my kind of job it's a requirement—but I don't have that much experience in ones where my life is actually in danger. Okay, yes, I have been threatened with all sorts of things by all sorts of people, but none of them has actually tried to carry those threats out.

Teresa Firstcharger was different. She might actually kill me.

Not that she looked like a killer when she strode through the door. She looked like a million bucks, back when a million bucks was a lot of money: elegantly styled long black hair, spilling down the back of a clingy crimson dress so fashionable it had probably time-traveled a few weeks from the future. The smile on her face made me want to throw something at her.

I smiled back. “Hi. I hope you slept well.”

She stopped a few steps into the room and glanced around. Nothing to see but walls of books and sunlight streaming through the windows. She had good instincts, though. What a surprise.

“I always sleep well,” she said. “How about you?”

“Not really. I don't respond all that well when someone tries to kill my boyfriend.”

Teresa's smile widened. “Please. A little snow never hurt anyone. Or was he driving at the time? I suppose I do tend to be something of a distraction, especially for men—”

“Someone shot him. Right in the middle of your little ‘distraction.'”

That stopped her. Total, screeching, come-to-a-halt stop. All the playfulness went out of her eyes, leaving only cold calculation. “It wasn't me.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because you said ‘tried.' I wouldn't have screwed it up.”

I deliberately looked away from her, focusing on the view out the window. “Nobody's perfect. Maybe you chose an accomplice with bad aim.”

If there was one thing an egotist like Teresa couldn't stand, it was being ignored. She stalked forward a few more paces, putting her right into the middle of my field of vision once more.

Perfect—almost.

“I'm telling you, it wasn't me,” she said. “Yes, I was trying to get Ben's attention. But not to—”

Whiskey? She needs to back off a little, wouldn't you say?

[I would. And I'd say it like
this.
]

Whiskey sprang to his feet. His ears went back and his lips curled up. He snarled at Teresa and lunged forward.

I don't care how cool you are, having an enraged Australian cattle dog charge at you will make you step back. That's exactly what Firstcharger did, putting her hands up defensively and yelling, “No!” as she stumbled backward.

Now,
I thought.

A thick black tentacle of pure shadow shot through the bookshelf, snaking around Firstcharger's waist. It tightened, yanking her back against the shelves and knocking a few books to the ground.

She gasped, looking down at what had grabbed her. Then her eyes narrowed and she snarled, “
Big
mistake, Fox.”

Lightning crackled over her entire body, sparking from her eyes, her fingertips, her teeth. It played along the length of the shadowy cable that had her ensnared, channeling who-knows-how-much voltage into her captor.

To absolutely no effect.

“Yeah, that's not going to work,” I said. “And before you think about trying it on me, you should know that Topsy can crush your rib cage to powder in the blink of an eye. Which is exactly what she'll do if you toss a thunderbolt anywhere near me.”