“Detective Kilkenny, Detective Bolton,” said the guy behind the wheel. Kilkenny was as Irish as his name sounded, with red hair and skin that looked like it would scorch under a lightbulb, while Bolton was a mountain of muscle that would have stopped me in my tracks even fully phased.
“It’s your warrant, boys,” I said. “I’m just here to help.”
Bolton jacked himself out of the passenger seat, running a hand over his shaved head. “Freak squad here to help. Sure.”
“Look,” I told him. “I’m very useful. I can dazzle the suspect with my feminine wiles and kick down doors and all sorts of skills normally reserved for the cop shows on TV.”
Kilkenny snorted a smile. “Salazko. This guy connected?”
“Likes to play that he is,” I said. “Probably has a gun.”
Kilkenny heaved a sigh. “Great.” They went into the lobby and started up the stairs, and Lane and I followed them, guns drawn. Bolton pounded on the door.
“Ivan Salazko. We have a warrant.”
The door opened a crack, and Salazko stuck one bleary eye to the space. “You have the wrong apartment. Go away.”
“That’s him,” I said.
I had to give Bolton and Kilkenny credit—for guys who spent most of their time chasing identity theft and white-collar scams, they were a well-oiled machine. Bolton kicked the door in and Kilkenny made a hard entry, shoving Salazko backward onto his ass and covering the room. Bolton covered him, hauling him to his feet.
Johnny was in boxers, an Orthodox cross studded with diamonds hanging in his mat of chest hair. “What the hell is this? You can’t just bust in here! This isn’t Stalin’s Russia.”
“Funny you should mention that,” I said, hauling him to his feet and pulling out my cuffs. I snapped them on his wrists. “I met one of your countrywomen earlier today.”
Salazko met my eyes. “I know you. You were at the OK…”
I hit him in the stomach, the soft spot just below the bone that makes all of your air rush out. He doubled over, and I held him there by the back of the neck, leaning close to his ear. “That girl is sixteen, Ivan. Strung out on pills. She was totally helpless when you beat her.”
I drew back my knee and drove it in again, same spot. “Let’s hope your cellmate will be a little bit nicer.”
“Hey,” Bolton said. “What the hell?”
I stepped back from Salazko, spreading my hands. “He just fell over. Maybe he has an inner ear problem.”
Bolton smirked at me. “Right.”
“You can return the cuffs at the SCS office,” I said. “Pleasure doing business with you Fraud gents.”
“Likewise,” Bolton said. “Take it easy, freak squad.”
I turned to Lane. “We can go back to work now. My good deed for the day is done.”
When we were in the car, Lane kept looking at me, a small smile on her face. I’d call it smug, if I were being uncharitable. Hex that—it was smug. “What?” I finally demanded.
“You pretend that you don’t have a heart,” said Lane. “That you’re all grit and instinct with that werewolf thing. But you do have a heart—a big one, and you’re trying to make sure it doesn’t get broken.”
“Thank you, Dr. Phil,” I said. “Is it time for my free car yet?”
“That’s Oprah,” Lane said.
“I am disturbed that we’re even having this conversation,” I said.
“Fine, deflect,” Lane said. “But it’s true. You keep this hard shell around your heart so you don’t feel the pain of the people around you. That’s why you may be a decent cop instead of just a burnout.”
“Gee, Lane,” I said as we pulled into Justice Plaza. “Any more of this and I’m gonna start to think you like me.”
She chuckled under her breath. “Don’t get any ideas.”
Lane went to her desk, and I said, impulsively, “We could use one more for our stakeout tonight. You like bad coffee and sitting in a small van in close proximity to a few smelly cops?”
“It’s what I live for,” Lane said, her expression completely serious.
“Great. We’re leaving as soon as it gets dark.”
I thought about Ivan Salazko while I waited for the shift to end and the sun to set. I was sure someone in the crew he sold to had killed Lily. Which one of them was the question. The bills of lading were still in my pocket. Whatever had gotten Lily’s heart cut out was waiting for me at Pier 33.
Surveillance can be as simple or as complicated as you make it. In this case, there were five of us parked in a van, with a microphone. A box of take-out sandwiches sat pressed against Bryson’s knees, and Lane ran the recording equipment while Will manned the listening device and I peered through the windshield with binoculars at the pier. Which was completely deserted.
Excitement, Nocturne City–style.
“Nothing,” Lane yawned. “It’s 3:30 A.M. We should call it a night before I have to get up for work.”
“Not yet,” I said. “This is our one shot before the feds swoop in.”
“I’m so tired I think I may legally be a zombie,” Will declared. “And these headphones chafe.”
“Suck it up for another few hours and if nothing happens, we can shut down,” I said. I wasn’t inclined to give my compatriots much sympathy—if we didn’t catch Lily’s killer tonight, I was as good as Hexed.
Batista let out a soft snore, and I reached back and clipped him on the shoulder. “Stay awake!”
He grunted, and glared at me. “Tonight was my date night with Marisol. Last one before the baby comes, most likely. Thanks a lot, LT.”
“Your sex life is not really my concern, Javier,” I said. “But thanks for sharing, all the same.”
“Hey, shut it,” Bryson said, peering out the back windows of the van. “Someone’s coming.”
A silver Jaguar pulled up to the pier, dislodging four guys in various stages of no-neck disease and one tall gent with a goatee and a bald pate that gleamed under the sodium lights.
I dropped the binoculars and grabbed the surveillance
