“I’m fifty-six years old,” Leo said. “I can’t see making my life count for much of anything now.”
“You can stay in the city and help us.” I ignored the strangled sound Wyatt made from somewhere behind me. “I can use all the allies I can get.”
Leo shook his head, the lines around his mouth deepening in a frown. “No, I don’t think I can do that. I’ve accepted what you’ve both told me about the things in this city, but I don’t want any part of it.”
I guess he still wasn’t over shooting a jaguar that had morphed into a naked man. I had mental images of him ending up drunk in a gutter, dead of alcohol poisoning, gnawed on by stray animals. I wanted more for him than I’d been able to do for his son.
“Your motel is paid up for another couple of days,” Wyatt said.
Leo nodded. “I appreciate that, but—”
“Someone’s coming,” Wyatt said. He’d twisted his head around to look behind him. From the direction of the cemetery’s narrow road, a man strode toward us. He was lean, of average height and looks, with a narrow nose and wild, curly hair sporting more gray than brown. Older, in his mid-forties by the looks of him, he walked with the tired gait of someone who’d seen too much. Probably a cop.
“I’m on your right, Leo,” I said softly. I maintained proximity while staying out of his way if he turned suddenly. I didn’t want to try to explain Leo’s elbowing an invisible obstacle, or the splat in the grass I’d make if I fell.
The stranger smiled pleasantly as he approached, both hands tucked into the pockets of his khaki trousers. He wore a blue collared shirt without a jacket, sleeves rolled up in the day’s heat. Wyatt tensed and took up a defensive position between the stranger and Leo, hands loose at his sides.
“Mr. Leo Forrester?” the man asked, looking right past Wyatt. His voice was pleasant enough, nondescript and polite.
“Yeah,” Leo said. “Why?”
The stranger’s already gentle expression softened further, as though Leo’s gruffness demanded he pour on the honey, only it didn’t seem to be an act. “I’m truly sorry for your loss, Mr. Forrester.”
Leo grunted. I smiled and could almost hear Wyatt’s internal monologue—wondering who had the potential to be ruder, me or Leo.
“And you are?” Wyatt said, asking the question on all our minds.
“Apologies,” the man said. “My name’s James Reilly. I’m a private investigator, Mister …?”
“Truman.”
“Mr. Truman.” Reilly offered his hand, the same affable smile firmly in place.
Wyatt observed Reilly’s hand. I couldn’t see his face, but the tilt of Wyatt’s head hinted at what was probably his own special brand of distrust mixed with interest. “A P.I., huh?” he said, giving Reilly’s hand a brief, loose shake. “What are you investigating, Mr. Reilly?”
“Real estate, mostly.”
“Looking into a plot of your own?”
“Oh no, not that sort of real estate. I’m more interested in apartment buildings.”
And he’d come here on the day of Alex’s funeral. Alarms clanged in my head. This guy had to be investigating the building where Alex had “officially” died. The fire that had consumed the entire fifth floor of a low-rent apartment building had been ruled an accident, or so all the official reports said. But that never squelched speculation. Especially when the fire had actually been set by a were-osprey intent on revenge for his slaughtered Clan, and Alex had been long dead by the time the blaze began.
“I haven’t got one to sell you,” Leo snapped. He stepped forward, across the marker, and stood shoulder to shoulder with Wyatt. “If you don’t mind, I just buried my son.”
“I realize this is bad timing, Mr. Forrester, and I apologize,” Reilly said. The words were scripted, but the delivery was genuine. Annoying. “But police were called to your son’s own apartment three times in the last nine days, with one of those calls coming a day after he died. I’m sure you agree that those facts are a bit strange— especially the third call.”
“He had a roo—”
I kicked Leo in the calf before he could blurt out the word “roommate.” His right leg buckled, and he stumbled a bit before catching himself. Reilly’s eyebrows arched into twin peaks.
“Are you all right, Mr. Forrester?” he asked.
“Leg cramp is all. Old injury, it’s nothing.”
“You were saying he had a what?”
Leo stayed silent. He was smart enough to recognize when discretion was needed, but not a good enough actor to come up with a better lie on the spot. He chose a blank stare.
“Do you have to ask your questions now?” Wyatt asked, affecting a nice snarl. It was almost protective.
“Again, I do apologize for the venue,” Reilly said, “but Mr. Forrester is a difficult man to find.”
“Side effect of being homeless,” Leo said.
Reilly’s genuine sympathy and nice-guy attitude were starting to grate on my nerves. People just weren’t that kind. “I’ll be brief, I promise,” he said. “You see, I spoke to the leasing agent at your son’s building, and the very helpful Ms. Young said she was sure that two names were on the lease. However, computer records only showed Alexander’s name, and the hard copy was missing several pages. The ones with the signatures on them, as a matter of fact.”
Leo didn’t have to fake his confusion. “So? Maybe this mysterious second name moved out?”
“Perhaps. But, you see, I also spoke with the young couple next door in 505. They’d been neighbors the entire two years Alexander lived in the apartment, and Mrs. Gates told me he lived there with a pretty brunette named Chalice.”
“Probably his girlfriend,” Wyatt said.
“Mrs. Gates didn’t think so. Her daughter, Angie, claimed to be good friends with Chalice Frost. She said they shared secrets.”
Angie was the little girl I’d met in the elevator. The inquisitive child had given me a spare key and let me into a strange woman’s apartment on my first day of resurrection. A meeting that was coming back around to bite us in the ass, and I was helpless to direct the conversation.
“What sort of secrets does a child have?” Leo asked.
“You know, I asked Angie the same question in slightly different words. She said girl secrets.”
“Fascinating,” Wyatt drawled.
“Yes, it was, actually,” Reilly said, completely missing Wyatt’s sarcasm. He was either doing it on purpose or was denser than he looked. My money was on the former. “I asked Angie when was the last time she spoke to Chalice, and she said Tuesday last week, around dinnertime. She said Chalice was wearing funny clothes and had forgotten her keys somewhere, so Angie gave her a spare.”
“A lot of things can explain a woman coming home wearing strange clothes.”
“Yes, they can.” Reilly seemed pleased with himself, and I realized Wyatt’s verbal flub. “It also seems to confirm that Chalice did indeed live there with Alexander, which is why I’m here. I’m trying to find Chalice, so I can ask her a few questions.”
“Have you tried the phone book?”
“I have, but the apartment number was listed under Forrester. And as I said, computer searches bring up nothing. Mrs. Gates wasn’t sure where Chalice worked, so I dead-ended there.”
“Why don’t you ask one of your cop friends to let you into the apartment to sniff around?”
Wyatt and I both knew the answer to that one. The Triads had gone in not long after the were-cats attacked me and Leo there and cleaned house. Removed belongings, furniture, carpet, scrubbed the place down, and done it efficiently to remove all traces of what had happened. Nothing remained for Reilly to find.
He gave an answer, though, that I didn’t expect. “I would have, Mr. Truman, but I’m new to the city. I’m still making connections here.”
Someone from the outside brought in to investigate the fire?
Terrific.
Reilly switched his attention to Leo. “Is there anything you can tell me about Chalice, Mr. Forrester? Anything your son might have mentioned?”
Leo paused—a perfect tell for anyone who knew how to spot them. And Reilly struck me as much brighter
