The cop was getting pissed. "Look, my notes say that you claim to have rented a blue pickup in Kentucky. Is that the same vehicle?"
Jo blinked and stared at David. "We were in Kentucky?"
David nodded and then shook his head, trying to clear it. "Fort Knox. Brian wanted to see the old tanks and stuff at the Armor Museum." He flopped a hand at the police sergeant. "Brian was in the British army for years. Officer, Gurkha Scouts, SAS, all that macho stuff. Probably could take out one of those Russian tanks with a pocket knife."
The cop's frown deepened. "British Counsel says those records are . . . confused. There seem to have been three or four different 'Captain Brian Albions' at different times, going back to the Second World War. Some embassy people would like a word or two with him after we get through. You sure you don't know where to find him?"
David thought he smelled the smoke of burning bridges. "Look, are we charged with anything? Do we need a lawyer?"
He almost saw thoughts chasing across the sergeant's forehead: "They've asked for a lawyer. They're drunk and incompetent. There are so many contradictions in this statement, it would be laughed out of court. Whole frigging thing stinks."
The cop shuffled papers in their file. "You've got a citation here, 'Possession of a useable amount of marijuana.' Civil fine. That's it."
Hell. Two joints in his guitar case. Three, and they might have tried to stretch it to "Intent to distribute," a felony. Anyway, another hundred bucks shot to hell.
The cop's chair groaned as he leaned back, his face a study in disgust. "Time was, I could toss both of you into cells for the night, let you sober up. Can't do that any more. Bleeding hearts." He made the phrase sound like cussing. "But it's a slow night, and I don't have anything better to do. We all can just sit here and talk until you decide to tell this numb old cop something close to the truth."
His eyes narrowed, and he squinted first at David and then at Jo. "Now let's start in from the top. What kind of car is Albion driving?"
Jo swayed in her chair, face shiny with sweat. "I don't feel good." She lurched forward and vomited across the desk, drenching papers and the sergeant's lap. He jumped up and swore, inventively and at length, while he rescued their file. The reek of puked alcohol filled the room, and David's stomach churned in sympathy.
The cop stood behind the desk and shook his head, jaw clenched. "I come on duty at 3:00 tomorrow. I want your butts in those chairs when I walk through that door. Clean, sober, and ready to talk. And I want a story we can check. Understand?"
David nodded. The sergeant pulled out a small manila envelope and tossed it to David. "Answering machine tape. Get her out of here. Call her family."
"Can we use the apartment?"
"Hell, go ahead. Just get out of my office!"
The air outside was cold and damp and raw, threatening rain or sleet, stinking of four months of winter filth finally surfacing again. It didn't help him any in fighting back the queasy vodka that surged at his throat. But Jo's timing had been too damn perfect, and she had seemed to aim. Even stone drunk, the Old Blood ruled her.
Shadows lurked away from the streetlights, hiding furtive things with fangs. He shivered, remembering the fear of stepping between the worlds.
Jo lifted her head and glanced around. She grinned up at him. "Did I get anything on you? Those notes he took aren't going to be worth a hell of a lot, once he gets them cleaned up."
She seemed to be cold sober. He wondered just how much she had . . . witched . . . that cop.
* * *
Something shook him hard enough to rattle his brain. It hurt. His eyelids seemed to be stuck shut, and his hands missed their target when he tried to knuckle the glue away.
"Wake up, damn you!" The voice echoed from one ear to the other, across a cavern full of pain.
He pried one eye open. Jo. She had a pitcher of water in her hand, aimed at his face. He ducked, and the sudden move made the room spin around him. He grabbed the sofa to make the cushion hold still. His stomach heaved.
"Never again. No more booze. Done."
"Screw that. We've got problems."
He tried thinking for a moment. It didn't work. "Who cleaned the place up?"
"Maria Mendoza, you idiot. The cops let her come in after they did their thing. Just kept an eye on her while she cleaned."
The neighbor woman. Self-defense, probably could smell the garbage through the walls.
David concentrated on breathing slowly, not rushing his nose and throat and lungs. Jo looked like she'd just walked out of a beauty parlor, bright eyes and every strand of hair in place.
She waved the pitcher again. It rattled. She'd dumped ice-cubes in the fucking water.
He struggled to sit up, holding his head in his hands. He felt like he'd just been on a month-long bender, just like they'd told the cops. She backed off a step.
"Problems? That citation? For the grass? No worse than a parking ticket. And Brian doesn't give a damn about the cops."
"I played that tape from the answering machine."
David forced his eyes to focus. She looked mad. Mad and grim, with a touch of grief. "What's wrong?"
"Mom fell, she's in the hospital. That's why Dad was trying to find us. Fucking fifty years old, and she had a stroke and fell down the stairs. Can't talk, can't move her left arm or leg."
"Shit."
"And I've been fired. No job."
"Shit."
"And Dé hAoine has a new guitar man. They've played four gigs without you."
David staggered to his feet, took the pitcher of ice-water from her, and finger-danced along
