San Diego Noir

A small hole, no bigger than a rat, shone with a slick of blood on its edges. No rat caused that blood to end up there. Scent was pure fae. Pure Donny. Poor kid had been so excited about his placement too. The Leaf was so prestigious, its concierge known for excellent matches. Rarely did a Pro ask for reassignment from here. This was an amazing place for someone as new as Donny, but his beauty and abilities had catapulted him to the top of the list, so when the concierge asked to supplement their complement of Pros, Donal ap Dylan had been one of the lucky few. Now, he’d be just another stat, another murder. San Diego had just doubled last year’s murder rate for the Gaslamp—only two last year. Now, with Donny’s death, we were up to four. Three dead Workers added to a fairly standard drunk-and-disorderly-turned-knife-fight from earlier in the year and it wasn’t even September.

Sure, humans didn’t understand how anyone could want to be a prostitute, a Licensed Professional Worker, but for those fae with enhanced sexual abilities, it was a way to earn a living legally and still keep their emotions and magic in balance. When we’d revealed ourselves, thanks to an accidental discovery in Roswell that led to one of those ridiculous alien autopsy videos, we’d weighed the odds. Thousands of us versus billions of humans. Our power, life spans, and sheer chutzpah won out. We didn’t want to be caught up in another Area 51 debacle, nor run the risk of technology catching up to our abilities. It was time to make ourselves known, so we did. All at once, all over the world. Unlike stories of other supernatural species who’ve had to lay low and do this slowly, once all the fae clans were in agreement, it was as easy as putting the memories and knowledge into every human’s head as they slept. Within twenty-four hours, it was as if we’d always been there. Because we had—that shadow in the barn that didn’t belong; the scurrying feet in the attic; the face of the woman in the lake—not that I’d go so far as an arm in white samite, but still, a lot of those “edges of the eye,” seeings were us. All of us, in all our various forms.

Sure, there were several years of bickering and politicking between the groups, but overall we’d just been granted citizenship for wherever we lived. A few countries weren’t as simple, so many of those fae just applied for sanctuary and asylum status in more liberal lands. Canada got a great influx, as did the U.S. All either of those countries wanted to know was that we were able to gainfully support ourselves. Most of us could, in fact, most of us had been doing just that. After things settled, many of the fae leaders simply started taking over certain professions, such as prostitution. They cleaned it up, managed to get a bunch of laws passed, and now, in all states except Utah, prostitution was legal and limited to LPWs—who were all of fae blood. This sat a lot better with the various church groups; after all, we weren’t quite like them. Unfortunately, now I was facing this case and someone who was tearing up young-looking male LPWs.

A flash of headlights signaled the arrival of the official crime scene techs. I nodded to the lead, a sprite who’d taken the unlikely name of Lavender Gray when he realized no human could pronounce his real name. “He’s one of ours, Lav,” I said.

A grunt was the only acknowledgment I got. The techs scurried through the alley in silence, placing markers, picking up near invisible bits and pieces, sealing up evidence bags. Abe and I watched just as silently. Jason trailed behind the team, snapping more photos whenever a technician pointed.

“You think we’re going to—”

“Yes,” I cut off Abe’s words. “We’re going to catch this killer.” I had no intention of letting Abe voice my own unspoken doubts. So far, the trace evidence in each case had been so minuscule, so vague as to implicate pretty much anyone—with or without a motive. In the previous two cases, we’d interviewed the victims’ clients, their team leaders, hotel managers, concierges. Abe had worked all his contacts at hotels, the navy, anyone who’d ever owed him a favor. Still nothing. So far, the only clues we had were that they were all males, all LPWs, and all looked very young. None of them were actually young, not in human terms—Donny had been at least a hundred—but young in fae terms. The other two victims had been in the middle of their second century. Two victims were blond, one a redhead. All had gray eyes. All had both human and fae clientele. Nothing in the victims’ backgrounds indicated anything sleazy, drug-related, or any other criminal behavior. I was at a total loss. The usual motives didn’t seem to apply. Jealousy? Perhaps, but there was no client common to the three of them. Money? Not a factor in Donny’s case, he was only a beginner, making scale. The first victim had just completed his apprenticeship, but his new grade wasn’t anywhere near the kind of money people usually killed for. The second victim’s rate was average for a seasoned apprentice. Nothing seemed to fit. The only thing they had in common was their current choice of profession and their sex—traits shared by hundreds. (At last count, San Diego County licensed 210 male LPWs, 212 female, and just under 100 intersex.) Each had been beautiful, male, and perfectly turned out, skin soft with lotion, nails of feet and hands meticulously manicured. All three of them worked the Gaslamp, but so did many others.

What was so special, so unusual about these three that triggered their killer’s attention?

“They’re done,” Abe’s voice interrupted my thoughts.

The techs were climbing into their van and Jason was packing up his equipment. A coroner’s representative loaded Donny, discreetly wrapped in a body bag and gurney, into his van. I blinked and yawned. “I’m going home.” A quick cuddle with Risa followed by a few hours of sleep sounded perfect to me. “Lab at noon?” I asked Abe. “Then we can come back and talk to the staff.” Beat cops had already handled the initial questions, but now it would be our turn.

“One,” he replied. “I’m doing lunch with Leah.”

I smiled. “Tell her hi for me.” Abe’s daughter was visiting from grad school.

“Yeah,” he said. “Will do.”

I watched as he trudged to his car, every month of his nearly twenty years of service evident in the weary posture. I knew he resented me sometimes. He’d aged, and not too gracefully, muscles losing tone, eyesight deteriorating. He’d never been a poster boy for Sports Illustrated, but Abe had kept fairly fit. Now, after two knee operations, he could barely make it around the block without pain. When we’d pull cases together, I saw the looks he gave me. How could I not? I appeared to be in my mid-twenties. My hair still as glossy brown (or black or red) as it had ever been, my eyes keener than his ever were. He thought we were around the same age, fifty-five going on fifty-six. I’d never told him he could be my grandson. It would have killed whatever was left of his self-esteem.

My stomach growled reminding me I hadn’t eaten today. I checked my watch again. Too early for breakfast at Richard Walker’s, damnit. Sleep called, but hunger’s voice outspoke it right now. Maybe I could cajole Risa into rising early and making me something to eat. For while she was a powerful fae, equally powerful at her job, at home she loved to play at domesticity. I knew it was a phase, but hell, right now it worked for me. I hated domestic activities. My nature lent itself more to fighting and physical strength. Risa was probably as good a fighter as I was, but she loved to cook. I took a deep breath, the lavender scent filling my nostrils. Damn, that stuff lingered. I looked around at the scene, no longer clean, but that would be handled by morning. The brownie city services would take care of that. Another yawn and a stretch. That was it. Time to go home.

No sooner than I’d made up my mind, I heard a squeak of door hinges. The green door creaked open, an eye peering out through the crack. I stared at it for a beat, then two.

“You coming out?” I asked.