Shift Work (Carus #4) (18 page)

“No idea, but I wouldn’t count on it happening any time soon.”

She bobbed her head and turned to shuffle some papers on her desk.

I let myself out, hopped in the car, and drove home. The stale smell of my empty apartment greeted me. Only one way to make it better. I put on a pot of coffee and got out my laptop. Time to investigate Loretta’s employer—Tancher Pharmaceuticals.

I checked the VPD database with my remote access. Nothing.

I checked the SRD database with my remote access, and thanked the inefficiency of my former employer. They hadn’t denied my access yet. Someone in IT missed the memo, but the access did me little good. Still nothing.

I checked the Tancher website. Founded by a rich American by the name of Tancher Isis, the pharmaceutical company was one of North America’s most prominent and successful companies for research and prescription drug production. They had a bunch of fancy badges on their website and declarations of their integrity from customers and industry experts.

I didn’t buy it.

A drug dealer with the same or similar tattoo to a drug company? The same drug company Loretta worked for, the same dealer of the drug found with Loretta’s body? Too coincidental for me to ignore. But I was missing the pieces for the whole centre of a puzzle.

First, I needed to confirm Aahil’s tattoo was the same as the logo.

I needed to hit the streets to do that.

****

When I walked into the sixth tattoo parlour of the day, the smells of green soap, A&D ointment, and cleaning supplies rushed my nose like an angry mob. On a flattened chair, a muscular man in his late twenties lay on his side with his arm draped over his face. He successfully hid his expression, but wafts of hot metal and canned ham gave away his pain. A female artist hunched over his ribs, dreadlocks held back with a bandanna and what looked like macramé rope.

On another chair, a young woman sat back with her earbuds in, humming along to a song, while another artist with shaggy hair and a dense brown beard worked on her full sleeve. Mesmerized by the colours, I stepped closer. The piece depicted an ocean scene with swirls of blues ranging from shallow water to deep angry ocean. Seagulls glided in bands of wind while the Sleeping Beauty mountain range from up north sat behind mist to watch it all.

Beautiful.

Before I discovered my inherent Shifter skills, I’d dreamed with my high school girlfriends of potential tattoos, coming up with different ideas of what we wanted to get once we came of age.

After discovering I was a Shifter, my tattoo dreams faded. Ink didn’t stick around when shifting from one form to another. After any transformation, all that remained was clear, clean, unblemished skin and a distant memory of how awesome the tattoo looked. Even my bullet scars would fade over time until they disappeared.

If I’d been tattooed prior to bonding with my feras, I might’ve kept the permanent ink.

Now standing in a tattoo parlour and gazing on the beautifully intricate design, I wished again I’d acted on those dreams and rebelled against my parents all those years ago.

Then again, maybe not. One of my not-so-great ideas had been to get a stamp tattoo on my ass that read, “Canadian Grade-A Beef.”

Hah! Dodged a bullet there. Still, I loved tattoos.

I got one once to go undercover, and if I wasn’t a Shifter, I’d probably be covered in them. But the voices of my feras calling me into the woods when I turned fourteen changed a lot of things for me, not just my dreams of inked skin.

“Can I help you?” the receptionist asked.

I turned to the young woman I’d noted when I entered the shop. She had thick, jet black hair, cut into a blunt bob with straight bangs, and styled like a pin-up girl. Her dark, penciled-in eyebrows rose almost theatrically in an arch over her black-brown eyes. Powdered white skin made her brightly-painted red lips stand out. She looked like the slutty version of Snow White. Maybe the troubled younger sibling.

“Yeah, you can help me,” I said. “Can I talk to one of the artists?”

Her dark lined eyes narrowed and a hand went to her well-rounded hip. “You looking to get some ink?”

Her voice conveyed skepticism.

What the hell?

Maybe I should’ve worn something different, but all sorts of people got tattoos nowadays. Sure, I wasn’t trying to go deep undercover, but what made me so unbelievable?

“Yes,” I said.

She snorted. “You look like a cop.”

Well, fuck me sideways.
I’d lost my game. I’d never been pegged faster in my entire career with the SRD. Then again, Tristan read me like a naughty tabloid magazine. My friend Mel sometimes knew my thoughts before I did, and even Stan and Ben picked up on some of my facial cues now. Were readable expressions some kind of nasty side effect of regaining my humanity? Of becoming more open to relationships? Well, crap. Opening up to my friends and Tristan was one thing, but strangers? Heck no. Not happening.

Now aware of my deteriorating
condition
, I’d have to readjust.

With a blank expression, I replied to the receptionist. “No, actually, not a cop.” Not yet anyway. “But I am helping them with an investigation.” Truth. The paperwork still hadn’t gone through, and although I wasn’t working pro-bono, payment as a consultant was significantly lower than working as an officer. Go figure.

Her full lips twitched, twisting her expression into something so smug I wanted to punch it off her face.

The beast rumbled her approval, but I shook away the idea of punching her. She read me once, she wouldn’t read me again. Without moving, I loosened control on my animal magnetism. Even with it tightly coiled, it leached out and attracted norms, but sometimes I purposely let go to get my way. It made things go a lot faster.

The receptionist’s eyes softened and her body lost its stiff posture. “Ken and Barbie are both busy right now. They don’t like to be interrupted.” She lifted her chin toward the two artists I’d already noticed.

Ken and Barbie? Really? How’d she say that line without cracking up?

“But…” She licked her lips. “Butch is taking his lunch right now. Had a no show. Let me go ask him.”

I nodded and waited as she sashayed down the hallway at the back of the main room. She turned the corner, and I followed the conversation from the short distance with my heightened Shifter hearing.

Butch.
The receptionist’s voice turned from hard and sarcastic to sweet honey. My back straightened at the abrupt change, and I took a few steps forward to hear better, errantly flipping through some workbooks.

Back for more?
Butch asked. His voice came off deep and growly. Kind of like a masculine version of Baloo, my bear fera.
I would’ve thought after I bent you over my drawing table earlier, you’d had enough.

The receptionist made the same “mmmm” sound I did when I saw specialty cupcakes. If only my hearing had an “off” button, or volume control. Not sure I wanted to hear how this conversation slipped into the gutter, but they might reveal something—

No, but I’m getting hot just thinking about it.
She continued describing just how
hot
she got.

Err…Gross. Off! Ears, turn off!

Then what do you want?
Butch asked.

Besides your thick…

I quickly turned away and walked to the small sitting area to look outside. Eavesdropping sometimes went in unexpected directions. It didn’t mean I’d tune out, it just meant my ears would burn.

…some woman wants to talk to you.

To me?
His tone turned skeptical.

Well,
she purred,
she wants to talk to a tattoo artist. Says she’s with the police.

Fuck that.

She has a nice rack. Maybe we could, you know…invite her join us. You said I could pick the next one.

Butch growled and what followed was wet and sloppy.

Join them? Not likely. Not ever. Images of my Sid-induced dream spiraled into my memory, and I squeezed my eyes shut. I needed to run away with Tristan to a tropical beach with whiskey.

The receptionist sauntered back ten minutes later with a satisfied grin on her face. Her lipstick bright, shiny, and re-applied. “Butch agreed to answer your questions. Please follow me.”

I nodded and followed her into the back room where a large, over-muscled man waited. The receptionist’s perfume coated his skin along with other, less pleasant, smells. He perched with his butt on the edge of his drawing table, arms crossed. A black T-shirt hugged his body-builder frame, accentuating his lack of a neck, and biceps that could probably twist off beer caps. His bald head shone under the fluorescent lights and every inch of exposed skin had ink, with the exception of his face and head.

His eyebrows bunched together, and his lips turned down when he first took me in. Confusion flittered across his face.

Probably wondering what the receptionist saw in me.

The instant my animal magnetism hit him, his eyes widened and his mouth twisted into a smile.

“How can I help you?” he asked, his tone pleasant with a side of flirty.

“I wanted to ask you about a tattoo.”

He nodded and pushed off the table to close the distance between us. “Okay.”

“Your website said this tattoo shop specializes in hieroglyphics, among other things. Do all the artists here do them, or is there one in particular I should speak to?”

“Ken specializes in fine-line black and gray and photorealism, and Barbie does a lot of Japanese and colour. You’re talking to the hieroglyphics guy. I also do traditional and tribal.”

“You must have a real steady hand.” I groaned on the inside. My game had seriously deteriorated. A steady hand? Really? That wouldn’t exactly have the man swooning at my feet and offering up all his information.

Butch’s eyes shuttered, and his lips twitched. “I’m very good with my hands.”

The receptionist let out a little moan behind me.

Then again, maybe it didn’t matter what I said. I had my beast mojo on my side. Relief washed through my body. “If I showed you a hieroglyph, would you recognize the tattoo and remember who got it?”

“Maybe. Depends. Some are very unique and intricate, some are super common. Some are off the wall.” He jerked his chin toward the wall plastered with pictures of generic tattoos.

I nodded and pulled out the letterhead from Loretta’s shredded files. When I flipped it around, Butch’s expression closed instantly. His eyes narrowed, and his posture stiffened.

“You need to leave.” Butch’s voice deepened and developed a cold edge.

“Excuse me?”

“Leave,” he demanded.

“You can’t tell me who you tattooed this on?”

Butch’s shoulders rounded, and he took a step forward. I sensed, more than saw, the receptionist close in behind me. I could easily take out both of them. Fear didn’t grip my heart. Annoyance did. The room developed a honeyed vanilla scent.

They’d been spelled.

I could gyrate on this guy’s face or shove a million dollars at him, and I still wouldn’t get any answers—not from him or anyone else in the shop.

But I didn’t need to.

Their silence and spelled behaviour answered for me.

The logo matched the tattoo. And not just anyone’s, someone scary and rich enough to hire a Witch to spell the artists.

Aahil was linked to Tancher Pharmaceuticals, and I’d bet my entire stash of chocolate Easter eggs, Aahil was connected to Loretta’s death.

B-i-n-g-o.

Chapter Twenty-Two

“If you’re going through hell, keep going.”

~Winston Churchill

The tattoo parlour left me feeling dirty. Although I held another piece to the puzzle, I lacked solid evidence. My beast growled for me to tear into something, or someone; my mountain lion paced and whined for Tristan like some wanton harlot with nothing better to do; and my falcon kept sending images of the moon-lit night sky with a gentle breeze. If things kept going downhill, one of my feras would get her wish.

I had money on the falcon.

As the sun set and the world grayed under the dusk lighting, I stalked down Granville Street, and passed a familiar bar.

And stopped.

Why the hell not?
Invisible grime already coated my skin. Maybe the man sitting at the bar could tell me more than Wick. I squared my shoulders, pivoted and walked into the establishment. Hopefully, Aahil and his gang wouldn’t be here. If they popped by, I’d have to get out quickly.

No thugs greeted me on entry, and after surveying the area, I deemed it safe enough to seek out Clint. The human servant’s familiar frame stood out amongst the other patrons, and I headed straight for him.

Broad shoulders hunched over the bar and presumably a stiff drink. A redhead with a killer body and giant knockers sat to his right, leaning into him. She batted her eyelashes and murmured in his ear. Absolute smut. She probably didn’t intend for others to hear, but with Shifter senses, I couldn’t help it. Yowzers, the rumours were true, redheads were feisty. I’d never again look at a jar of petroleum jelly and a papaya the same way.

I walked up to Clint and sat down on the seat beside him without saying a word.

His glass was empty.

The red-head leaned forward and speared me with a green-eyed death stare.

“You’re wasting your time, honey,” I said, moving my fingers in a circle in front of me and Clint to signal the bartender. He straightened, and I held up two fingers.

“Excuse me?” Jessica Rabbit sneered, using the opportunity to press her ample boobs into Clint’s arm.

“He prefers blondes.”

Clint snorted and accepted the new drink from the bartender when he slid it to him. Clint lifted the amber fluid in a silent salute to me. I returned the gesture with my own drink before sliding a fifty on the counter for the bartender.

Jessica’s mouth gaped open, and her beautiful face contorted into something ugly.

Clint turned to her. “She’s right. But if you want a pity screw later, I’ll take you up on it.”

She gasped before slapping Clint across the face. The angle was weird and her form terrible, but Clint took it without a word. She paused to see if she’d get a reaction and when she didn’t, she grabbed her pink martini and stalked off.