have a present for you, Special Agent Davidson.'
'Oh, you shouldn't have,' he said, throwing up his hands in mock astonishment. Then he saw the book's title and the few bookmarks I'd put in it, and his face went solemn. 'Scratch that- you should have.'
I told him about my theories-the potential victims in the book, the good chance that someone else might have the tat, the likelihood that a graphomancer had inked it sometime around the turn of the millennium, and even my fears about Sumner's death itself.
'So much fucking time lost,' he said, staring at the book in his hand. 'We should have been looking for graphomancers from the very beginning-'
'You didn't have a name until yesterday,' I said, hoping it would reassure him.
'We had hints,' he snapped. 'We're supposed to be the ones that follow up on them. We're the ones who're supposed to catch the bad guys based on a torn receipt and a funny smell. At the first clue the tattoos were magical we should have been talking to magical inkers and graphomancers and the whole lot.' He was silent for a moment, glaring off into the distance. 'We-they-those dolts at the Bureau-treated it like a normal serial killer case for two years. Two whole years! And when they finally get wise, we have to pick up the crap-'
'I'm sure you did your best,' I said.
'Not likely,' he snorted. 'We could have found out at least half of what you've told me without knowing Sumner's name. Five minutes listening to you and I feel like I'm caught with my pants down-'
'Well… not yet you're not,' I said.
'Don't you start,' he said, eyes back on me with that same appreciative look he'd had scoping out my tattoos. 'Scratch that- do.'
Oh, Lord. Me and my smart mouth-I hadn't meant to open that can of worms. I already had a werewolf as a secret admirer; I didn't need another suitor. I held up my hands, which made his eyes light on the yin-yang and magic circle tattoos on my palms. 'Agent Davidson,' I began. 'I'll do what I can to help you find the killer-'
And then a horrible thought struck me. All the other tattoos, presumably, had been ripped from someone's body. But this time, we had the tattoo, not the victim 'What?' he said sharply. 'What else have you thought of?'
'You… you don't have a body for the last one, do you?' I said. Davidson scowled, hand clenching on the book, and my stomach churned. 'I mean… at least I hope the victim was dead when they. .. when they took the tattoo.'
There was an ugly pause. He just looked at me. Oh, God.
'I'll talk to my clients, and to the witch,' I said.
'I'll talk to my agents, get them on this,' he said, holding up the book. 'And talk to Nighy about releasing images of the lid, maybe even some of the other tattoos-'
'One more thing,' I said. It had been bugging me the whole time, but still I hesitated a moment; this would reopen that can of worms. But that held me back only a moment.
I reached out and took his glasses off carefully. He twitched, just a little, and I guessed it was more from our eight-inch height difference than the invasion of his space. I waggled the glasses. 'I could see the smile in your eyes even through these. You have wonderful eyes.' I slid the glasses into his pocket. 'You shouldn't hide them, Special Agent Davidson.'
He smiled at me, the same warm, quirky smile he'd given me back at Homicide, given me a few minutes ago, now enhanced by warm, blue-grey eyes.
'It's Philip, Miss Frost.'
'Dakota,' I said, turning and walking away.
I'd just met one of the fabled 'black-helicopter men,' of conspiracy theories and New World Order fame, and he was darned cute.
Talk about having men falling out of the sky.
9. Elegant Gothic Lonta
The Starbucks in Little Five Points is on Moreland, at its farthest northern edge, as if the raw power of LFP's eclectic vortex had repelled the chain's sterile corporate heart and this was as close as it could come. Me, I come for the dark roast-at least Starbucks claims it's made from sustainable beans.
My young witch pored over a book, murmuring, dressed in head to toe in frilly black-ornate petticoat and satin dress, Victorian corset and ruffled jacket, black bonnet and folded-back veil, all outlined here and there in shocking white lace. Elegant Gothic Lolita, the style was called, though you rarely saw it outside of a science fiction convention.
Yet here Skye 'Jinx' Anderson sat, decked out in the middle of the Starbucks, oblivious to the stares of the college boys at the next table as she moved one hand over a spiral-bound book, still murmuring. Whenever she took a sip, raising her coffee to her lips with a delicate hand wrapped in a fingerless black lace glove and jingling charm bracelets, the boys drew in a breath; when she set the cup back down with deliberate grace, they all seemed to sag.
I knew the drill by this point-Jinx already knew I was here, but didn't care to be interrupted. So I waited in line and got some coffee, creamed it, and joined her.
Jinx looked up at me over her black disc sunglasses, and now I drew in a breath. I never failed to be shocked by her eyes: blue, gleaming, the iris inlaid with a milky white ring, like a snowflake embedded into the surface of blue marble. She caught me looking and pushed her glasses up with one delicate gloved hand, at which point I could see the glowing nub of a Bluetooth mike poking out of the lace mesh and curls of dyed, blue-black hair. Beside her book, there was a cute little laptop with raised spider decals. She'd been dictating notes.
'Hi, Jinx.'
'Dakota,' she said, smiling, drawing her fingers over one last line of Braille before closing the book. 'It's been too long. You're normally not so shocked.'
'Actually, I always am, spooky-eyes,' I replied. She scowled, and I said, 'You'd prefer 'Little Miss Anderson'?'
'NO!' she said, throwing her hands to her cheeks in mock horror. 'Shame on you for dredging up high school memories, Miss Frost!'
'Don't you start,' I said. 'I've heard that far too much over the past few days-'
'So,' she said primly, leaning her elbows on the table, folding one hand over the other, and propping her chin atop them, 'Let's see this tattoo you've got for me.'
'Actually,' I said, pulling out the envelope, 'I have two today, and maybe one later-'
'Oh, goody,' she said, clapping her hands together.
'Don't get too excited, I may be taking one of them on spec.'
'Anything for you, Dakota.' She leaned her head against her hands. 'What are they?'
'The one I called you about is a werewolf control charm. Spleen-'
'Feh,' Jinx said. 'He smells.'
'Spleen hooked me up with a were who wants more control over his beast.' I grew uncomfortable, but Jinx kept 'staring' at me from behind her black glasses. 'I think it may be a Nazi design, or something they collected. Frankly it scares me. I'm not comfortable inking it without knowing what it does.'
'As you should be,' she said. 'And the rest?'
'A magical wristwatch.'
'Oh, my,' Jinx said, making gimme, gimme motions with her fingers.
'This one is a… stunt,' I said, holding off. 'I don't know if I'll get paid, but I'll cut you in for ten percent if I win the contest.'
'Dakota,' she said reprovingly. 'Anything for you. But really! A contest. That's so unlike you. What's my cut going to be?'
'One hundred thousand dollars,' I said.
'Mmm. hmm,' she said. I couldn't tell whether she believed me. Or maybe she missed the 'thousand' part? 'Well, anything for you, Dakota. Let's see what you've got.'
