“What’s the word?” Fagin said, forkful of steak poised halfway to his mouth.
“Homicide down at the port,” I said. “Batista wants me at the scene.”
Will shrugged. “It happens. Don’t take all night, doll.” He leaned across the table and kissed my cheek, then turned around and called for our check. One of the benefits of having a man who has the same job you do—he may not like it, but he can’t very well complain about the odd hours and the rushing off and the constant low background noise of the job in your everyday life.
I was already jogging out of the restaurant when he pulled out his credit card to pay. I got my 1971 Chevy Nova out of hock from the valet, who looked at the car like it personally offended him when it rumbled up at the curb. He did not receive a tip. My baby might not be pretty, but it had a decent amount of power under the hood and a roomy, boxy interior that I favored for things like changing out of a couture dress into jeans and a blouse in the front seat.
I pulled around the corner into the alley, wriggled into a pair of battered jeans that had seen more than one washing to take blood, fingerprint ink or plain grime out of them already and a plain black blouse. I was a lieutenant now—torn T-shirts and leather jackets were a thing of the past. Sadly. I kicked off my Chanel pumps—vintage, like most designer clothes worth wearing—and slipped on a pair of motorcycle boots that I kept on the passenger seat. Another thing you learn fast as a cop—have a change of clothes handy. You never know what will get spattered on you at a crime scene. Wardrobe change accomplished, I put the Nova in gear and drove.
The Port of Nocturne is a sagging, rusting collection of warehouses, piers and cargo containers stacked like a dystopian labyrinth along the broad main avenue that stretches like a skeletal finger into the dark water of Siren Bay.
I rumbled up to the gate, flashing my bronze shield at the gatehouse guard. He waved me on. “Your people are down at Pier 16. Hell of thing.”
Well, wasn’t he a ray of sunshine. I drove through the stacks of cargo containers, the sodium lights spitting in the light mist rolling off Siren Bay. It was mid-March, that dank, chill time when even sunny California hunkers down and hibernates until spring. Nocturne City, poking out into the Pacific, felt the chill more than most.
Batista’s unmarked car and a pair of patrol units were at the entrance to the pier, and a small cluster of officers milled around, staring at something in the water.
I reached over and grabbed my tub of VapoRub out of the glove compartment. As a werewolf, I have the heightened sense of smell to go with the temper, the strength and the once-a-month bloodlust, and floaters never smell all that great even if you’re a plain human.
“LT,” Batista called to me, waving me over. I met him at the edge of the pier. Batista looked tired, rings under his eyes and his normally tanned and healthy face sallow. “It’s a bad one. My wife is gonna kill me when I don’t come home at six.”
“How’s Marisol?” I asked. His wife was the reason he was working nights.
“Pregnant, as is usual these past few months,” he said. “Morning sickness, and I’m still pulling double shifts to pay for the kid’s nursery, and his college fund, and God knows what else.”
I patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll make sure you clock out on time, Javier.”
“I appreciate it, jefe.” He gestured to the water. “She’s caught up against the pilings. I called the ME and he’s en route, but it’s definitely a homicide.”
“And the SCS caught this how?”
“One of the first responders, Natchez, says he recognizes her. Says she’s a were.”
Freaking fantastic. “All right,” I said, taking out my penlight and walking to the edge. The water was black and oil-slick, the weak lighting catching the detritus and spills floating on the surface.
The girl’s face floated up at me on the gentle swell of the waves, caught just below the surface of the water. She had pale hair that drifted in the current like sea life, wide staring eyes and an open mouth, everything pale and bleached by her time underwater.
I saw a gaping stab wound in her sternum, dark against the translucent skin. It was ugly and broad, nothing clean or surgical about it. The girl was wearing a black miniskirt, mesh top and bra. Club clothes. She’d been having a good time somewhere, and ended up here, suspended in the filthy water of the port.
“Call the rest of the team, will you, Javier?” I said, standing up from my crouch. “Once we get her out of the bay, I want this wrapped up quick.”
“Sure thing, LT,” he said, pulling out his cell phone. The rest of the detectives in the SCS wouldn’t be happy about getting rousted out of bed, but a dead were girl warranted it. Were packs are territorial and hostile on a good day, and when one of their number is killed, they close ranks faster than a bunch of bad cops facing an Internal Affairs investigation.
I walked over to the knot of uniforms and found Officer Natchez, tall as a beanpole and curly-haired. “You told Detective Batista you recognized the victim?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I worked private security before I joined the force and her family hired me for a few events.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “This is pretty awful. She was a nice kid.”
“And this nice kid’s name would be?”
“The family is Dubois. The girl was named … Lila or Lisa or something. I’m sorry, ma’am. I can’t recall.”
Dubois didn’t ring
