The unidentified person was hard to see, and his position was unlikely at best. The toe of a boot was visible in one of the ballroom’s ceiling-mounted cameras. A booted person had literally hung around in the arched ceilings, unseen, for hours before the party started, and then, when the wolves made their dramatic appearance, had disappeared. No unidentified person had appeared in any other footage, not so far.
Leo seemed to stop several times in the evening, motion arrested as if he smelled something, and look around the room and up in the ceiling, much as he had when he first entered the ballroom. But he never seemed to discover the source of whatever—or whomever—it was he smelled. I was guessing it was the booted person in the arches. The boot and Leo’s scent searches reminded me of Gee, but I kept my suspicions to myself.
The second interesting thing was a little conspiracy brewing. The vamps were passing a little note around, small enough to be cupped into a hand. Every vamp it came into contact with stared at the note for a long moment, looked grim, and passed it on. That footage appeared to interest Leo but was likely unrelated to the murder. When a being is potentially immortal, life has to become terribly boring. What is there to do but suck blood, have sex, and conspire? But Leo had just won a bloody war; he didn’t need another; neither did the city of New Orleans. So Leo followed the activity and note around the ballroom, reviewing the footage several times, taking names and looking dour. I asked for some footage sections to be bookmarked and a list kept so we could find everything easily when needed.
It became apparent that the note originated with Amitee Marchand, formally of the Rochefort clan in France, and her brother Fernand. The fiancée of Leo’s deceased son was plotting behind his back and I bet myself that they were not planning a surprise birthday party for their master. Leo, grimly satisfied, was clearly memorizing all the players in the little conspiracy, whatever it might be. When he rotated his hand in a little go ahead gesture, Angel spun around in his chair, his hands dangling off the chair arms, his posture relaxed and confident. “The next part is Gramma’s,” Angel said.
“Cheeky kid,” the older tech said. “There’s a lot of things that don’t add up, but this one might—or might not—be one of the most important.” She keyed up a final monitor. It showed Tyler, Bruiser’s second in command, talking to two of the weres, Roul and the woman, in a hallway after the fiasco in the ballroom. And there was something in his body language that suggested agitation.
Leo asked, “Where is Tyler now?”
“In the back garden,” Gramma said, “with the leader of the armed children.”
“She means he’s with Derek,” Angel said.
“Miss Yellowrock, please see that Tyler is escorted directly here.” Leo’s voice hadn’t changed, his still-as-death body language hadn’t shifted. But I knew he was ticked off. I could smell anger pheromones coming off him. He added, “By two of your men.”
Two? Oookaaay. I keyed my mike, the action repeated so many times tonight it was second nature. “Derek, please escort Tyler to the security room. One of your men to each side, one behind.” If Leo thought Tyler needed two humans to keep him under control, I figured overkill might be wise.
There was a slight pause while Derek interpreted my words, then said, “Will do.”
Tyler looked like a well-coiffed, twenty-something, disingenuous kid, but he moved like a trained soldier. And he was smart. He knew he hadn’t been summoned for drinks and hors d’oeuvres. As soon as the men pushed through the doors, he took the initiative and said, “What’d I do, boss?”
Leo nodded to a chair, and Tyler took it. “Remove your weapons, please.” Tyler did, like a well-trained soldier, removing the clip from the semiautomatic handgun and ejecting the round in the chamber, lining up two additional clips beside it, and setting two knives beside the weapon. Leo said nothing, just watched and breathed. And I realized he was smelling changes in Tyler’s body chemistry. I took a shallow breath through nose and mouth and caught the smell of sweat, manly, not rank, soap, antiperspirant, beef and mayo. No worry, no fear.“Please observe your actions in the footage and explain.”
Tyler nodded once, faced the monitor, laced his fingers together across his lap, and waited. Angel pointed to the specific camera image and set it in motion. Tyler moved across the screen and I heard a single hard heartbeat from his chest as he watching himself engage the werewolves in conversation. Then Tyler smiled at the monitor. “She looked gorgeous, boss, what I could see of her. And you said to be nice to the guests. I figured that included the uninvited ones. I took the opportunity to see if she was available. Hey,” he placed an open palm on his chest and grinned widely, his eyes twinkling, “I’m just a guy. You can’t fault me talking to a good-looking lady.”
Leo watched him for a long moment, evaluating. Tyler just sat there, relaxed and waiting. “You may go,” Leo said, “but leave your weapons here, and do not leave the compound.”
“Got nowhere else to go, boss.” Tyler stood and left the room.
Leo’s eyes followed him, barren and remote. Softly, he said, “I have never fed from him. Who feeds my second?”
Bruiser said, “Alejandro, boss.”
Leo nodded, his face empty, his eyes distant. “Alejandro has been with me for more than a hundred years. He has my blood.”
It sounded arcane and archaic, a feudal lord claiming one of his own.
CHAPTER 12
Katie Ate Dead Meat
An hour before dawn, Peter Richoux had a preliminary ruling on cause of death and it wasn’t what any of us expected. He entered the security room, where we were going over more digital camera footage, this time from Derek’s low-light cameras, where we were trying to trace the movements of the grindy, who seemed to appear and disappear on different floors like magic. So far as we knew, teleportation wasn’t possible, so that left speed, and the grindy had that in spades. Derek froze the footage and we turned our attention to Peter.
He looked as tired as the rest of us, with dark circles under his eyes and his hair mussed, as if he’d rubbed his hands through his hair and not smoothed it back down. As if to prove the point, he ran one hand from his nape, over his skull, and with the other hand, pinched his temples between thumb and fingers. When he dropped his hands, he leaned forward and placed his fingertips on the table like ten body stabilizers and focused on Jodi. “I’ve done as much as I can here. We’ll move the body to the morgue where I’ll do a full PM, though not until after I’ve had some sleep. For now—”“No,” Kemnebi said. “There will be no postmortem, no desecration of the body. Such is not permitted by my people or by our religion.”
“Sorry, sir, but the police department will require a forensic autopsy to pursue a murder investigation. The Department of State isn’t likely to disagree,” Peter said. “And justice can’t be done without one.” When he spoke, I felt the pull of weak magic. Peter Richoux was not a sorcerer, but he had natural gifts of persuasion that were all his own.
“No,” Kemnebi said, implacable. And then I got it. Scientists had been trying to get their hands on a dead vamp to dissect for years. Marilyn Monroe’s body had mysteriously disappeared prior to hers, and no other research-based autopsy had ever been accomplished. The bodies of supernats always disappear before a single scalpel can be applied.
“Sir,” Peter said respectfully, casting his cousin a hooded glance that I wasn’t able to interpret, “I’ll have to leave that decision between you and DS. For now, I’ve collected a few samples from the bod—the scene, and we’ll get preliminary results back in a few days. Final results when all the tox screens are done. This isn’t TV, so we’re talking a couple of weeks. But I can give you a preliminary, presumptive COD now.”
Jodi pushed a rolling desk chair to him with her foot. He sat hard, and the chair cushion sighed, faster and harder than the matching sigh of exhaustion that Peter gave. “Anyone got coffee? I smell coffee.” Jodi signaled; a guy in technician blues went to a coffeepot in the corner and poured a cup of the three-hour-old brew. It smelled scorched and toxic, but it wasn’t my stomach. I watched as the man poured, something in his obsequious demeanor that drew my attention and repelled it at the same time.
Peter spoke and it pulled my eyes back to him. “The victim took two wounds and each appear to be equally mortal.” He lifted a finger. “One. A single bullet wound to the left front chest, midclavicular, ascending between the third and fourth intercostals. May be a nine mil or .385. The trajectory suggests that she was in the air or her attacker was kneeling. The bullet nicked either the ascending aorta or the subclavian artery. I won’t know until or if I get to open her up,” he glanced at Kemmy and back to Jodi.
“Though there should be an exit wound, there isn’t.” He took a sip of coffee, nodded gratefully to the man who brought the cup. “And so we should be able to get the bullet for comparison.” He lifted a second finger. “Two. Triple parallel wounds—maybe a blade, maybe a claw, severed her carotid arteries, external jugulars, her trachea, and esophagus, delivered from left to right, the killing strike likely delivered with the attacker behind her, though I may change that when I get a better look. It’s also possible that she was on her hands and knees and the attacker was over her.”
I instantly pictured a shape-changer trying to change forms, as if after a nearly mortal wound. Safia, in my imagination, had been shot and was bent over, kneeling on the floor as she tried to force a change to save her life. Kemnebi closed his eyes, his dark face ashen. His breath was slow, uneven; he shouldn’t have to hear this, but I could think of no way to exclude him.
“Barring anything on further analysis,” Peter said, “COD is likely to be from exsanguination from the throat wound. She probably bled out in a matter of seconds. Prior to that, she fought an attacker and displays several premortem defensive wounds and abrasions. Postmortem, she was mauled in what looks like an animal attack, similar to a scavenger. But I’ll have to verify all this back at the morgue. Again assuming I get the chance,” he said. I thought of Katie and the fresh blood that had fallen on her chest. Crap. Katie ate dead meat. Would that make her nutso longer?
