“He Russian mob?” Bryson asked. I blinked.
“I don’t know. Why would you say that?”
Bryson jerked a thumb at my closed door. “Because the FBI is in your office.”
Through my blinds, I saw the shadows of two large, male figures. “Shit,” I muttered. “How long have they been waiting in there?”
“Long enough to become a huge pain in the ass,” Bryson said, turning back to his computer. “And Norris told me to tell you that you have a bunch of voicemails from the Dubois family and that they sounded, quote, ‘less than thrilled.’”
“Real quick—are the End Times also upon us? Because that would make the day pretty much perfect.”
“Not yet, but I’ll buzz you if a guy with a flaming sword shows up,” Bryson said.
I took a breath and then pushed open the door. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
The agents were both men, both white, both wholly unremarkable in that dead-eyed federal way. They even had the same color tie. “Are you Lieutenant Wilder?” said the slightly taller one, with the better haircut.
“Dang, you got me,” I said. “She’s on vacation and I’m just using this office to impress my dates. It drives the ladies wild.”
Not a flicker of humor from either of them, so I sat down at my desk. “I’m Luna Wilder. What can I do for you?”
They closed in, Fed and Fedder. One drew out a small, neat picture. Ivan’s mug shot, wallet-sized. “What is your department’s interest in Mr. Salazko?” the tall one asked.
“I’m sorry, Agent…?”
“Senior Special Agent Hart. This is Special Agent White.”
I cocked an eyebrow at White. “You’re kidding me, right?”
He grimaced, as if to say it wasn’t his fault. “You’ve been talking to Ivan Salazko. One of our surveillance teams spotted you last night at the club. Nice outfit, by the way.”
“Yeah,” I said. “J. Edgar would have been all kinds of jealous. What’s the point of you coming in here and looming over my desk?”
“Salazko is our boy,” said Hart. “He’s involved in an ongoing investigation by the OCTF—that’s Organized Crime Task Force.”
I returned his smirk. “I’ve seen Goodfellas just like you, Agent.”
“We need you to back off,” Hart continued. “We don’t want him spooked.”
“Salazko is a homicide suspect,” I said. “Whatever your little Mafia squad has going, he’s being investigated in the death of a fourteen-year-old girl.”
“Tragic,” said Hart. “However, you understand that a federal case takes priority.”
“I understand that you’re telling me some scumbag mobster who is going to make a deal and disappear into Witness Protection is more important than the girl he killed,” I said, standing up and glaring at them both. “I’d expect nothing less from the Feebs.”
“We understand that you’re upset…” Hart started, in his poor-little-woman tone.
“Don’t even start with me,” I said, holding up a hand. “Just get out. I’m going to nail Salazko for this murder and you’re going to stay the fuck out of my way or I am going to come down to the federal building and scream my head off to your agent in charge.”
Hart’s mouth crimped. “That, I’d like to see.” He opened the door into the bullpen. “We’ll expect all of your case notes and any evidence you may have collected from Mr. Salazko’s apartment by the end of business tomorrow. Have a nice day, Miss Wilder.”
Miss. What a Hexed charmer this guy was.
White gave me a regretful look once Hart was out of hearing. “My advice? You want to do something about this, do it before you have to turn over your evidence. Salazko has skated before.”
“Not going to happen,” I said. “Thanks for your advice all the same.”
“Can’t say I didn’t try,” White said, and scurried after his partner. I heaved a sigh. Between the Duboises and the FBI, who else was going to come through my door and screw with my case?
I needed real advice, not the bullshit White was handing out. I forwarded my calls to my cell phone and went back to my car, driving up to Highland Park, to the 24th Precinct that was my old stomping ground.
Parking on the street, I pushed through the front doors and nodded to Shelley, the day sergeant. “Is he in?”
“In his office,” Shelley said, turning a page in her magazine. I walked through the bullpen and knocked on the glass door labeled Troy McAllister—Lieutenant.
“Luna,” he said in surprise when I opened the door. “What brings you from the hallowed halls of the Plaza? They slash your budget? You need to steal office supplies and stale donuts?”
I slumped into the chair opposite Mac’s desk. He’d been my lieutenant in Homicide, and he was my cousin Sunny’s boyfriend now. I trusted him as much as I trusted anyone. “The FBI is trying to fuck with one of my murder cases, the victim’s parents are pack leaders who are going to tear me into little tiny pieces if I don’t close it—and I’m not being hyperbolic there—and everything is just a mess.”
Mac pulled a cigarette out of his desk drawer and lit it. I cocked my eyebrow. “Thought you gave that up for true lurve with my cousin.”
“You stress me out, Luna. I can blame it on you,” Mac said. “Besides, I have breath mints in the car.”
“This asshole senior agent, Hart, says that I have to turn over my case notes by the end of the day tomorrow or the OCTF is going to come down on me.”
“What, is this suspect mob?” Mac said. “Jesus, Luna, let the feds have him. You investigate supernatural crimes. There hasn’t been a were Mafia in Nocturne City since Frank and Dino were playing at the Sands.”
“No, that’d be the parents of the vic,” I said. “They’re champing at the bit for pack justice, and if I don’t deliver, I’m sure it will end in a lot of snarling and posturing and possibly bloodshed.” On the bright side, maybe they’d eat Special Agent Hart.
Mac laced his fingers behind his head. “Give it to them.”
I blinked. “What?”
“You can’t fight
