behind. Then she took the splattered towel and held it against the broken window.
The wolf felt her magic and backed away. Not frightened, just cautious. When she pulled the towel away, it was clean of my blood and the window was intact.
“Waste not, want not,” she said. “I thought I’d have to supply some of my own to finish it up—but your blood is potent.”
I took her arm. “Let’s go before he breaks loose,” I said, though I didn’t think he’d really break loose. The suggestions she’d planted might fade. But she’d broken him, and my instincts said that was permanent.
That’s the problem with witches; they don’t really care about anyone except themselves. Their power comes from pain, blood, and sacrifice—
The wolf could respect a predator like that, but neither of us were entirely comfortable with it. What she’d just done to the doctor was wrong: it would have been kinder to kill him.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly as I drove back across the river into her part of Richland.
“What for?” I asked. “Saving my life?”
“You didn’t like it that I stole his will,” she said. “I admit I could have been more careful. But he’d shot you, and I used that, used your pain. It gave me a little more power than I’m used to. He’ll be all right.”
If she wanted to believe that, who was I to tell her differently? Maybe I was wrong, but I didn’t think so.
“So,” she said softly, “are you finished with this? Did you find out what you needed to know with Dr. Sullivan? Is it solved, then?”
I opened my mouth, thought a bit more, and said, “Yes, I suppose I am finished.”
We didn’t talk much more, but when she hopped out of the truck when I stopped in her driveway, she said without looking at me, “Maybe we could see each other again? I make a mean cherry pie.”
I smiled. “Maybe so.”
She relaxed, gave me a rare grin, and kissed her fingertips, and blew the kiss my way before she ran into her house, looking about sixteen.
KYLE AND I ATE DINNER AT A MEXICAN RESTAURANT KITTY-CORNER FROM Kyle’s offices. The music was loud enough that human ears wouldn’t hear private conversations—one of the reasons I liked to eat at this place.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Kyle said. “Find something?”
I looked at him. He looked tired. “Yes.”
“Are you going to tell me?”
I looked down at my food. “Yes. But not tonight. I have a few more things to check out—a couple of things to do.”
“Illegal?”
I gave him a half grin. “Like I’d tell you ahead of time.”
“You’ll just make me an accessory afterward,” he grumbled.
“I’ve a little justice to serve,” I told him.
He thought about it while he ate a few bites of his fish tostada. “Toni McFetters deserves justice,” he said. “Are you sure you can’t go about it legally?”
“I plan on using proper channels for some of it,” I said. “But there’s some of it that it’s not possible to do that with.”
Kyle believed in the court system—one of the few traces of optimism in his cynical worldview. However—as his blackmail of Sullivan proved—he understood its limitations.
“All right,” he said. “I can live with justice. Will I see you at home tonight?”
“I’ll be in later,” I said. “Maybe very late.”
He looked at me seriously. “Don’t get caught. Don’t get hurt. Don’t think I didn’t notice that you’re wearing a different shirt than you put on this morning and aren’t using your right arm to eat with.”
“I won’t,” I said earnestly. “I’ll try not to. I would never try to get something like that by you.”
He laughed, stood up and leaned across the narrow table, and kissed me, oblivious to the stares we got. The Tri-Cities is a pretty uptight town, and two men kissing in public is not a common sight.
A girl in the next table gave a wolf whistle and said, “Can I kiss the cowboy next?”
Okay, so maybe everyone wasn’t that uptight.
Kyle gave her a cheeky grin. “Sorry. He’s my cowboy, you’ll have to find your own.”
She sighed. “I have one. But he doesn’t look like that when he blushes.”
“Maybe if I kissed him, he would?” Kyle arched an eyebrow.
She laughed. And if some of the people might have made an offended scene about the kiss, she’d taken the edge off. I kissed her cheek in appreciation as I passed her table on the way out. Her cowboy might not blush, but she did.
FROM THE OFFICE, I CALLED BEN. A FELLOW PACK MEMBER, BEN WAS ALSO a computer geek. I can get by on the computer, but Ben makes me look like a complete Luddite. It took him the better part of an hour to run down the information I’d asked him for—it would have taken me a week or more. I put the hour to good use, pulling out the clues my instincts told me were there, running off some photocopies of sensitive files, and calling a few more people. After Ben called me back, I called George and then went out to do a little private detecting.
GEORGE, IN ADDITION TO BEING A WEREWOLF, WAS ALSO A PASCO POLICE officer. He was my link to the “proper channels” I’d promised Kyle.
George met me at a fast-food place a few blocks from Sean Nyelund’s house in West Pasco. He drove his own car and came dressed casually, but he was on the job despite the late hour. We both ordered something to drink and sat down. It was nearly closing time and it wasn’t tough to find a place where no one would overhear us.
“You said you have something on Nyelund.” His tone was eager. In addition to being a police officer, he was into the BDSM scene—which kept a very low profile around here. During Nyelund’s divorce, Nyelund admitted that he was into BDSM, and that tidbit made the news. George and his friends didn’t appreciate that one bit. Nyelund wasn’t a BDSM dom. He was a psychopathic, sadistic bastard who enjoyed breaking people.
“Right,” I told George. “He’s got another victim.” I gave him the name of Nyelund’s receptionist. “These files you don’t have,” I told him, giving him copies I’d made in the office. “Confidential lawyer/client/doctor stuff. They’ll show you what to look for—but I promised the victim they would be for your eyes only.”
I waited while he paged through Nyelund’s first wife’s medical files and transcripts of her therapy sessions. She’d given them to Kyle and then told him he couldn’t use them. I’d called her and told her about Nyelund’s little receptionist. It had taken me most of that hour I’d waited for Ben to talk her into it. She’d told me I could show George, but no one else.
He whistled through his teeth. “Poor kid,” he said. But he wasn’t surprised. He’d known what the case was about, but Nyelund’s ex-wife’s refusal to bring charges against him had tied his hands. It was the details that were new to him.
“He’s got a bunker, a secret room,” he said, sounding like a kid in a candy store. Secret rooms were pretty easily sniffed out if the one looking happened to have a wolf’s sense of smell. “And he likes to film things. Illegal things. How helpful of him.”
“Is it useful?”
“I need a reason for the search warrant.”
I gave him a thumb drive. Nyelund thought his guard dogs would keep people from taking photos through his window. Guard dogs don’t bark at me if I don’t want them to, and Nyelund had been too occupied to notice me. His lights had been on, so I hadn’t even had to use a flash. My camera had helpfully recorded the time and date.
I tapped the drive. “You’ll find the photos on that good for probable cause. You can even give my name as the photographer. I’m a private detective and I was sent out to take photos of this guy’s wife, only I got the address
