Tempting Danger (3 page)

“Good thinking. It’s worth a try. I’ll roust Mech out of bed and send him to you. In the meantime, handle Turner carefully. Call if by some chance you make an arrest. Otherwise, I’ll expect to see you in my office at nine.” There was a click, followed by the dial tone.

Lily frowned as she jammed the phone into its pocket in her backpack. She didn’t suffer from false modesty. She was a good cop, a good detective—but she wasn’t the only good detective in Homicide. The only sensitive, yes, but the captain could have had the use of her ability without putting her in charge. She’d never been lead on a case this big.

He must think she was up for the challenge. She meant to prove him right.

TWO

THE
mist had thickened. The smallest breath of wind would have chased the tiny droplets together, turning dampness to drizzle, but the air remained still. Blurry halos hung around streetlamps, stoplights, and neon signs.

Like the one Lily was looking up at now. Neon red devils danced at either end of the sign, jabbing tiny pitchforks into the glowing letters that read Club Hell.

“Kitschy,” she murmured. The sign suggested a fifties sort of naughtiness, innocent compared to the real nastiness of the neighborhood. How long had the club been around, anyway? “I wonder if that’s on purpose?”

“Pardon?”

She glanced at the young man who’d spoken—Officer Arturo Gonzales, Phillips’s partner. He was about five inches taller than her and husky in a fit, just-out-of-the-service way, but with the kind of round cheeks old ladies like to pinch. She’d sent him to keep an eye on the club’s entrance until she could get here. “The club must do a pretty good business if they can afford a parking lot and guard. You ever been inside, Officer?”

“No, ma’am.”

A smile tugged at her mouth. “You’re Southern, I take it.”

“No, ma’am. I’m from west Texas.”

“Sounds Southern to me.”

He nodded seriously. “Funny how people who aren’t from Texas think that. I guess it’s like with folks from Los Angeles. They never say they’re from the West Coast or California—just L.A.”

“I guess that says it all. What do you know about Club Hell?”

His lips twisted. “It’s a werewolf hangout. Them and their groupies.”

“Don’t forget adventurous tourists. They like to check it out, too.” She studied him a moment. Lupus sexual mores being what they were, the nightclub was considered seriously depraved. Naturally this made it a popular spot. “Texas was one of the shoot-on-sight states, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am, it was. Till the courts changed things.”

“Well, California wasn’t. So it’s always been legal to be a lupus here, as long as you were registered.” That’s who originally hung out at Club Hell—the registered lupi, the ones who’d been given shots that prevented the Change. The ones people thought were safe.

“Your X-Squads killed them.”

“Only if they violently resisted registration or if a court determined there was a clear and present danger.” That was the theory, at least. Federal law used to call for all lupi to be registered—forcibly, if necessary—and given the shots. But “forcibly” covers a lot of territory when you’re dealing with creatures who can absorb a couple of rounds without slowing down on their way to rip out your throat.

Lupi had been notoriously averse to the registration process.

“I’m going to talk to the people inside now,” Lily said. “Some of them will be lupi. They’re citizens now, entitled to the same rights as other citizens. You okay with that, or do I need to get someone else to assist?”

He thought it over. Lily didn’t know whether to be appalled at how much thought it took, or impressed by his honesty. At last he nodded. “Guess we’re around to enforce the law, not decide on right and wrong.”

“Guess we are.” She started down. The entrance to Club Hell was, appropriately, located below ground level. Wide, shallow steps led underneath the building, down a tunnel faced with stone. It gave the descent a nice dungeon ambiance, she thought, though the cold blue lighting made Gonzales look like the walking dead.

At the bottom was a plain metal door, painted black and leaking music. It swung open easily.

Scent, sound, color—all smacked her in the face at once. Colored lights strobed a cavernous room crowded with tables, people, voices, and music. The ceiling was high and lost in darkness, the music was loud, and she smelled smoke.

Not tobacco or pot. Not woodsmoke, or anything else she could name. More of a scent than actual smoke . . . someone’s idea of brimstone, maybe?

The song crashed to an end. Belatedly she identified it and grinned: “Hotel California.” Management obviously believed in staying true to its theme.

“Welcome to Hell,” a deep bass voice rumbled on her left. “Now you must pay the price for crossing the portal.”

She turned her head. A little man with a big head and burly shoulders sat on a high stool beside a table holding an old-fashioned cash register. His suit could have come straight from an old black-and-white movie, but that wasn’t what made Lily stare. He possessed ugliness the way a few rare souls possess beauty, an ugliness that fascinated.

His nose was long and thin. It stretched toward his mouth like a cartoon witch’s, as if it had melted, then re-formed in mid-drip. He had no hair, not much in the way of chin or lips, and skin the color of mushrooms. His feet were the size of Lily’s hands and dangled well off the ground.

She blinked. “Ah—there’s a door fee?”

“Twenty a head.”

“Not this time. I’m Detective Yu,” she said, taking her shield from a side pocket of the backpack and holding it out. “And you are . . . ?”

“Call me Max.” He squinted at her shield suspiciously. “So what do you want?”

“To speak with some of your customers. I understand Rachel Fuentes and Rule Turner are here.”

“And I should care?”

“You should cooperate. Are they here?”

He shrugged. “I guess.”

“How long has Mr. Turner been in the club?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m a cop and I get to ask questions. Have you been at the door all evening?”

“Since nine.”

“Do you know how long Turner’s been here?”

“Maybe.”

He didn’t add to that, just stared at her. He had a disconcerting stare, unblinking as a reptile’s. Lily’s lips thinned. “Maybe I should speak to the owner or manager.”

“No manager, and I’m the owner.” He sighed. “All right, all right. His Big-Deal Highness arrived at nine-fifteen, nine-thirty, something like that. Fuentes was already here.”

Nine-thirty. That was within her best-guess window for when Fuentes had been killed, but she was hardly an expert. “Where’s your exits?”

“This one and the fire exit at the back.” He sighed heavily. “I hate cops.”

“And I should care?”

“Maybe you aren’t as stupid as you look.” He spoke pessimistically, as if he held out little hope of the possibility. “Nice boobs, though. I like ’em little. Want to fuck?”

Her mouth fell open. Her hands twitched with the urge to strangle the little creep. “Want to spend the next couple weeks locked up in a teensy, tiny cell?”

“Hey, I just asked.”

“Take me to Rachel Fuentes.” Popcorn? Did she smell popcorn? Surely not.

“She’s with Turner.”

“Then take me to Turner.”

“You don’t read the papers? Everyone knows what he looks like.”

“I’ve seen pictures.” The prince of the Nokolai Clan was something of a celebrity, appearing in gossip columns and magazines, getting his picture snapped with actresses, models, and the odd politician or business tycoon. He lobbied Sacramento and Washington for his people and partied with the Hollywood crowd. “I’d still like him pointed out. And Rachel Fuentes.”

“All right, all right. You!” He hopped off his stool as he yelled at a bare-chested young man distributing drinks. “Dip-shit! Come take the door.” He scowled up at Lily. “You coming or not?” And started off.

Lily followed him into the crowded room, Gonzales trailing behind.

Her stomach was starting to hurt. In a few minutes she’d be telling Rachel Fuentes that her husband had been murdered. Maybe the woman had been getting some exotic extramarital nooky. Didn’t mean she’d take news of her husband’s death calmly. Experience had taught Lily that love took many forms, not all of them obvious or even healthy.

At least this time she wouldn’t have to treat the new widow as a murder suspect. Accessory, maybe, but whoever had killed Carlos Fuentes, it hadn’t been his wife. There was no such thing as a female werewolf.

Her short, surly escort had paused to deal with a couple of customers who wanted to know when the floor show would begin. When he started moving, Lily asked again for his name. She’d need it for her report.

“Don’t listen well, do you? Max.”

“You have a last name?”

“Smith.”

Smith? That shrunken blob of malevolence was named Smith?

Gonzales moved closer and whispered, “He looks like a gnome.”

“Too big. Too mean. And who ever heard of a gnome hanging around humans?”

“A crazy gnome, then. On steroids.”

Her lips twitched. “I guess so, in a psycho sort of way. But gnomes can’t own property.” Though that would change, if the Species Citizenship Bill went through.

The place was busy. They threaded their way through a maze of small, black tables and their chattering occupants. The overhead lights had stopped playing rainbows and were stuck on a less-than-hellish rosy pink. A glance overhead told her the lights came from spots fixed on scaffolding that crisscrossed the gloomy upper regions.

Red candles flickered on most of the tables. A circular stage, currently empty, held down the center of the big room, while neon flames climbed the stone walls. So did two circular staircases, fading into darkness after the first story.

She saw a lot of odd hair and look-at-me clothes, but many of the customers looked like club hoppers anywhere. Gonzales’s uniform drew a lot of attention as they reached the dance floor, which was emptying now that the music had stopped.

Through the thinning crowd she saw where Max Smith was taking them. In the farthest right corner of the room three larger tables floated in their own little island of space, set apart from the rest. There were five men at those tables . . . and a lot of women.

All of the men were dark-haired, probably Anglos. One of them looked naked, though the table hid his lower half. Maybe he was one of the servers, who were all young, male, and bare from the belly button up. The women were more of a melting pot. She counted three redheads, two African Americans, three blondes, and four women with brown or black hair.

Lily had reached the edge of the dance floor when two of the women stood. The shorter one looked Hispanic, though it was hard to be sure. The pink lighting was flattering but not very bright. She had butt-length hair and large breasts fighting to escape the bodice of her tight red dress. She bent over the man closest to her, the one in the table’s center. He had one of the redheads snuggled up on his other side.

He turned his head. Lily got a glimpse of his face before the woman’s hair fell forward, curtaining what looked like an enthusiastic kiss.

Rule Turner. Even in the dim light, he was easy to ID.

She’d already guessed that the power at that table rested with the man at its center. Bodies tilted subtly his way. Chairs were arranged so the others could see him. And he was the very picture of elegant debauchery, wasn’t he? Sprawled in his chair so comfortably, loose-limbed, his black shirt unbuttoned nearly to the waist. Kissing one woman while he held on to another.

Lily’s lip curled. “Mr. Smith,” she said. He didn’t pause or acknowledge her, so she took a quick step to catch up and put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

And snatched it back immediately, amazed. The buzz had been strong enough to come through his suit.
I guess some gnomes really are hostile little perverts, and not shy at all. . . .

“What?” he snapped, turning.

“Is that Rachel Fuentes?” She resisted the urge to rub her palm and nodded at the woman who, having finished kissing Turner, was leaving the table with her friend.

“Yeah.”

She turned to Gonzales. “Keep an eye on her. She’s probably headed for the ladies’ room, but we don’t want to take any chances. If she tries to leave, stop her. Don’t tell her why, don’t answer questions. Bring her to me.”

He nodded and moved away.

“The men at those tables—are they all lupi?”

“They’re the draw, aren’t they? Not that I don’t put on a good show, too. Stay around, and you’ll see.” He winked.

“I’m going to need a place to conduct interviews.”

“I won’t have you hassling my customers.”

She considered the unpleasant little man—if that’s what she should call him. Did male gnomes think of themselves as men? “Are we going to argue about every request I make?”

“Probably.” He turned and walked off.

Lily followed, and got her first close-up look at Rule Turner.

Mixed European heritage,
she thought, looking at sculpted cheekbones and a strong, slightly crooked nose.
Great teeth,
she added when he grinned at something said by the man across from him—a man whose hair halfway hid the silvery numbers of a tattoo, indicating he’d once been registered.
Not to mention wicked eyebrows.
Lily noticed eyebrows the way some people paid attention to shoulders or lips, and Turner’s were distinctive—dark slashes that mirrored the angle of his cheekbones.