Gentleman Takes a Chance (26 page)

There was a baring of teeth. "I am investigating," he said, slowly. "You know what they say about police work. Most of it is boring and painstakingly slow. I'm going over reports of the case in the local paper. I am looking at the site. I'm making my own determinations." He stood up. From his pocket, he removed the amount of money for the coffee, and carefully laid it on the counter. "I will try to keep shifters from being hurt," he said.

And then he was gone, gliding towards the door, or perhaps teleporting towards it, with a grace so quick and irrevocable that they couldn't have stopped him had they tried.

Tom, on the tip of whose tongue it had been to ask exactly what had happened to the alligator shifter, exactly what this monster might have done to the old friend—the old dependent—that Tom was in the habit of feeding and looking after, was forced to be quiet.

Forced to be quiet, standing there at the counter, looking at his hands slowly clenching into fists. He wanted to scream, or pound the counter. He wanted to shift. And what, with one thing and another, he hadn't taken the time to eat any protein. He hadn't done anything to recover from his last shift. And it didn't seem to matter. He could feel his hands trying to elongate into claws. He could see his fingernails growing.

He stumbled, like one drunk or blind, towards the back door, and outside, stepped into the cold air of the parking lot, suddenly startled that darkness had fallen and that it was snowing again—a steady snowfall, with large flakes. The surprising coldness of the air stopped his fury—or at least acted like a slap in the face, making him take long breaths, and pace a little, stomping his feet, trying to calm down.

He wasn't going to shift. He wasn't going to. As he passed the stove, Keith had called out to him that he needed to go. Tom couldn't leave Keith stuck with this. And while he could, possibly, call Anthony in, if it was snowing again Anthony might be reluctant to come.

He stomped his feet again. There were no windows looking over the parking lot, and the only light came from the two street lamps, which shone, in a spiral of light as though the light were a fracture in the glass of the night, a crack through which something human shone.

There was nothing,
Tom thought, blankly.
Only the beast and the night. They resent humans for their light, for their bringing light into the night hours. For their science, for their thought. They resent us. I am human. I might be something else as well, but I'm not one of those. I'm not like them. I am not owned. I don't care if I was born of them. I don't care what unnameable offenses they think they suffered at the hands of those they call ephemerals.

He stomped his feet again, and walked out to the parking lot, then back again, the snow falling on his head and, he hoped, cooling it.
Shifters are dangerous. Any humans who tried to defend themselves against my kind probably had good reason to. We are dangerous. It's not like we are a harmless and persecuted minority. Oh, there are plenty of those in the world, and the crimes imagined against them are numberless. But no one has to imagine crimes against shifters. No one needs to create grand conspiracy theories to think we control the world or the markets, or even the arts. No. Our crimes are obvious and brutal.

He put his arms around himself, as he realized he was out without a jacket and that the bitter snow-laden wind was cutting through his sweat shirt to freeze the beaded sweat of anger on his body.
I have met less than twenty adult shifters in my life and half of those were murderers. I cannot, I will not, believe it is wrong for people like Keith to suspect us of intending ill to the rest of them. Clearly this Dire creature intends plenty of ill to normal humans. Clearly. And the others . . . 
He shook his head.

"Tom?" Kyrie's voice said, hesitant, from the doorway of the diner. "Tom?"

Rafiel knew a thundercloud when he saw one. He knew that Tom was leaving to deal with anger. He'd been around Tom enough to recognize the signs—as well as the signs that the man was fighting hard not to shift in front of all his customers.

Rafiel could also understand, from the tightening of Kyrie's jaw and the way she looked as if she'd like to bite something in two, as she watched Tom head out the back door, that there might be a storm brewing there.

Had he been an uninterested observer, he might very well have stayed around and convinced both of his friends to act like civilized, mature human beings. He might point out to Kyrie that killing Tom might seem like a really good idea, except that if she should succeed she would spend days not eating and moping about wishing she had him back—and that miracles rarely happened twice. He might point out to Tom that if he wanted a woman with an actual spine he had to allow her to think with her own mind, even if at times her actions seemed strange or ill-advised to him.

But Rafiel wasn't an uninterested observer, and inserting himself into his friends' possible argument seemed to him the worst possible way to bring about a reconciliation. They were all too aware—as he was—that he'd wanted Kyrie for himself. So he would leave them alone and hope they cooled off.

As for Rafiel, he must go interview the people who had signed the guest book at the aquarium the week before the first bones were found. It was probably a quixotic endeavor and a foolish one, to try to find the shifters by following up on the people who had been at the aquarium at one time or another. Surely, it was stupid. He wouldn't have signed that visitors' book, so why should anyone else? Particularly anyone else who was a shifter, who had something to hide and who didn't want to be confronted with the evidence of where he'd been and what he'd been up to.

He wasn't supposed to conduct interviews this late, but then, it was just on five o'clock, the early darkness an artifact of the season, the proximity to the mountains and the impending snowstorm. And these interviews were not, strictly speaking, procedure. In fact, he still wasn't absolutely sure how to justify them to his superiors.

While in his car, heading for the first address listed in the guest book, he dialed his partner at the station. "McKnight?" he said.

"Yeah? Where have you been? We have—"

"Later. I'm following an idea of my own. I was just wondering if you'd do me a favor, and check on the aquarium again. Did anyone do a thorough sweep of that platform above the shark tank?"

"We looked at dirt and prints on the railing and that, yeah," McKnight said. "Well, except the railing seemed to have been cleaned up, but we looked at the floor and all, for all the good it did us. The thing is, you know, it couldn't be just accidental falling in. There's normally a cover there, and it's quite sturdy enough to withstand the weight of an adult falling in. It's only removed to allow the cleaners to get in the tank. At this point, frankly, we're wondering if it's not so much murders as a body disposal system. The coroner hasn't looked at the body yet, so I can't tell you if our boy drowned or was otherwise killed. We might not be able to find out, anyway. Among the things not present seem to be his lungs."

"Yeah," Rafiel said, mostly to stem the flow of words. McKnight was new, and Rafiel was supposed to train him. An endeavor only slightly impaired by the fact that McKnight had just come out of college, with a degree in law enforcement. He was, therefore, to his own personal satisfaction, the highest authority possible on how to solve murders. Rafiel's own training and years of experience were dwarfed by McKnight's learning of the
latest techniques,
the
latest research,
the
latest ways to go about it.

Which in the end boiled down to McKnight's opinions, nothing else. "This is something different," Rafiel said. "I talked to one of the aquarium employees." Let McKnight think that he had in fact spent the entire day in pursuit of that all-important interview. And let McKnight not guess that he'd been doing double duty as waiter at The George. Though given that he'd interviewed Lei while there, Rafiel thought he could convincingly—if falsely—make a case for having spent his day hiding, in disguise, while he waited for Lei to come in. "And she said not only were the door locks easy to open, but that male aquarium employees were in the habit of bringing dates there. She said that often there were used prophylactics in the planters around that small platform. I don't suppose those have been swept for clues."

McKnight was silent for a moment, which had to count as a miracle in several religions, Rafiel thought. When he came back, it was with less than his normal, self-assured verve. "I don't know about that," he said sullenly. "That platform is actually fairly broad, and the planters are pretty far away from the place where the vic fell or was pushed into the aquarium. So, there's no telling what people might or might not have looked at, that far away."

Rafiel, who had become skilled in the doublespeak employed by McKnight and other young hires, knew what that meant. What it meant, simply put, was that McKnight had been the one in charge of looking all around the area for clues and had decided—from his naturally superior knowledge—that there was no point in looking through the planters. That they were too far away from the area of the crime and that he was, therefore, safe in ignoring them. "I would appreciate it if you'd go over with someone and do a thorough looking over at that area. I don't need to tell you the possibilities it opens, including that of a romantic spat."

"Uh . . . both the vics were male."

"Yes, indeed," Rafiel said, tartly. "And of course, we only know of the male employees using the area as a love nest. However, my information was given to me by a female, and she might not have wished to implicate female employees, don't you think?" He didn't even wish to go into other possibilities with McKnight. "Just go and see what there is to find and how easy the area might be to get into after the place is locked down." And when one hasn't taken the trouble to procure copies of the keys, of course. "I will talk to you again in the morning."

Before he could hang up, McKnight's voice came through, high, upset, "Now? You want me to go now?"

"No time like the present, and you know how it is in these investigations. It might all be hanging on some little fact."

"But . . . but the weather channel says it's going to snow," McKnight said. "They say it's going to snow a lot. Another big blizzard headed our way in fact. I don't want to go out there in a blizzard."

"Well, then," Rafiel said, reasonably. "I would go out there now, before the snow becomes a blizzard."

From the other end of the phone there was something very much like an inarticulate exclamation of protest that, should it be more closely listened to, might translate into a profanity.

Rafiel chose not to listen to it any closer. Instead, deliberately, he pressed the off button of his phone, and turned his attention to navigating the maze of small neighborhoods, the opposite side of Fairfax from the one Tom and Kyrie lived on.

The neighborhoods weren't very different, though. In the early twentieth century, they might have been colonized by Irishmen or Poles, instead of the Greeks that had colonized the area north of them. Yet the houses all looked very much alike. Less brick here, and more the sort of elaborate, architecturally detailed Victorian houses that looked like mansions shrunk down to pint size. These houses often had three floors, but the floors would each contain no more than one room and a landing for the stair leading to the next floor.

They had, at one time, housed the laborers—many of them highly skilled—imported from Europe to build the elaborate mansions of the gold rush millionaires. The men and women enticed over to work for the newly rich had stayed and built their own dollhouse version of the boss's manor. And when the gold had evaporated and the silver lost its value they had stayed behind and added far more solid wealth to Colorado than mere metal could ever bring it.

Now in the beginning of the twenty-first century, the houses were mostly occupied by another kind of skilled laborer. While the neighborhood where Tom and Kyrie rented had never decayed appreciably, it had also never been exactly rehabilitated. Instead, the original Greek settlers had stayed, and the power of family and community supervision had kept the area, as the saying went, poor but honest. And now, when the younger generations were more likely to go to Denver to study, and then out of the state to work, it was mostly the realm of retirees, with no life and immaculate lawns.

The neighborhoods on the other side of Fairfax had been more ethnically diverse, and when the wealth of gold had rushed away from Goldport, there had been nothing there to keep people behind—no family, no weight of tradition. So instead they had moved on, restless, probably to Denver, where there were still mansions to build and money to be made.

In their absence, and with Colorado University right there, a few blocks away, another type of person had moved in. In the sixties, that type of person had often lived fifteen to a two-bedroom Victorian, and grown weed in the basement and generally destroyed the neighborhoods.

And then, recently, the sort of people who liked to buy destroyed properties and improve on them had moved in. Intellectuals, artists, a good number of childless couples with nothing but time on their hands to work on the houses. The houses looked pretty and almost newly built, though after coming across two of them painted in purple and accented with pink, Rafiel wished that these people had never heard the term
painted lady
or that they might have procured a translation of the term
good taste
before engaging in wanton remodeling.

He consulted his planner, and found that all three of the people he meant to see lived in this crisscrossing of pathways, shaded by century-old trees. The first one was on Meadoway, and he turned sharply onto it, admiring the faux-Victorian street light fixtures, and wondering if they were paid for by the neighborhood association or if anyone in the area had friends in city hall.

The first house he was looking for turned out to be one of the smaller ones—a two-floor Victorian with steeply descending eaves and a sort of look of being a Swiss chalet treasonously transported to the middle of Goldport, painted a weak aqua accented with green, and still feeling a little shell-shocked about the whole thing.