Deadlocked

Page 17

"It's called Two and a Half Men," Dermot was telling his guest.
"I understand," Bellenos said. "Because the two brothers are grown, and the son isn't."
"I think so," Dermot said. "Don't you think the son is useless?"
"The half? Yes. At home, we'd eat him," Bellenos said.
I turned right around, sure I could put the clothes into the dryer myself. "Sookie, did you need us?" Dermot called. I might have known he'd hear me.
"Just tell Bellenos that I'm putting his clothes in the dryer, but he's responsible for getting them out. I think they'll be dry in ..." I made some hasty calculations. "Probably forty-five minutes. I'm going to bed now." Though I'd had the nap, I was beginning to drag.
I barely waited to hear Dermot say, "He'll get them," before I hurried to the back porch to toss the wet clothes into the dryer. Then I went into my bedroom, shut the door, and locked it.
If the rest of the fae were as casual about cannibalism as the elf, Claude couldn't come back soon enough to suit me.
Chapter 7
Cara Ambroselli called me first thing Monday morning, which was not a great way to start the week.
"I need you to come to the station so I can ask a few more questions," she said, and she sounded so brisk and awake that I could easily dislike her.
"I've told you everything I know," I said, trying to sound alert.
"We're going over everything again," she said. "I know you're as anxious as we all are to find out who caused this poor woman's death."
There was only one possible response. "I'll be there in a couple of hours," I said, trying not to sound sullen. "I'll have to ask my boss if I can be late to work."
That really wasn't going to be an issue since I was scheduled to work the later shift, but I was grumpy enough to drag my heels. I did call Jason to tell him where I was going, because I think someone always needs to know where you are if you're going into a police station.
"That's no good, Sis," he said. "You need a lawyer?"
"No, but I'm taking a number with me just in case," I said. I looked at the front of the refrigerator until I spotted the "Osiecki and Hilburn" business card. I made sure my cell phone was charged. Just to cover all kinds of crises, I put the cluviel dor into my purse.
I drove to Shreveport without noticing the blue skies, the shimmering heat, the big mowers, the eighteen-wheelers. I was in a grim mood, and I wondered how career criminals managed. I was not cut out for a life of crime, I decided, though the past few years had held enough mayhem to last me till I was using a walker. I hadn't had anything to do with the death of Kym Rowe, but I'd been involved in sufficient bad stuff to make me nervous when I came under official scrutiny.
Police stations are not happy places at the best of times. If you're a telepath with a guilty conscience, this unhappiness is just about doubled.
The heavy woman on the bench in the waiting room was thinking about her son, who was in a cell in the building. He'd been arrested for rape. It wasn't the first time. The man ahead of me was picking up a police report about an accident he'd been in; his arm was in a sling, and he was in a fair amount of pain. Two men sat silently side by side, their elbows on their knees, their heads hung. Their sons had been arrested for beating another boy to death.
It was a positive treat to see T-Rex come out of a door, apparently leaving the building. He glanced my way, kept moving, but did a double take.
"Sookie, right?" Under the harsh light, his dyed platinum hair looked garish but also cheerful, simply because he was such a vital person.
"Yeah," I said, shaking his hand. Pretty, vamp's girl, from Bon Temps? He was having his own little stream of consciousness about me. "They call you in, too?"
"Yeah, I'm doing my civic duty," he said with a very small smile. "Cherie and Viv already came in."
I tried to smile in a carefree way. I didn't think I was very successful. "I guess we all got to help them find out who killed that girl," I offered.
"We don't have to enjoy it."
I was able to give him a genuine smile. "That's very true. Did they wring a confession out of you?"
"I can't keep secrets," he said. "That's my biggest confession. Seriously, I'd've told them anything after we were here a couple hours the night it happened. T-Rex is not one for secrets."
T-Rex was one for talking about himself in the third person, apparently. But he was so vivid, so full of life, that to my surprise I found I liked him.
"I have to go tell them I'm here," I said apologetically, and took a step toward the window.
"Sure," he said. "Listen, give me a call if you ever want to come to a wrestling match. I get the feeling you ain't been to many, if at all, and you might have a good time. I can get you a ringside seat!"
"That's real nice of you," I said. "I don't know how much time I'll have, between my job and my boyfriend, but I do appreciate the offer."
"I never hung around with vampires before. That Felipe, he's pretty damn funny, and Horst is okay." T-Rex hesitated. "On the other hand, your boyfriend is pretty damn scary."
"He is," I agreed. "But he didn't murder Kym Rowe."
Our conversation ended when Detective Ambroselli called me to her desk.
Cara Ambroselli was a little dynamo. She asked me the same questions she'd asked me Saturday night, and I answered them the same way. She asked me a few new questions. "How long have you been dating Eric?" (He was no longer Mr. Northman, I noticed.) "Did you ever work in a strip club?" (That was an easy one.) "What about the men you live with?"
"What about them?"
"Doesn't Claude Crane own a strip club?"
"Yeah," I said warily. "He does."
"Did Kym Rowe ever work there?"
I was taken aback. "I don't know," I said. "I never thought about that. I guess she might have."
"You call Crane your cousin."
"Yeah, he is."
"We got no record of him being related to you."
It would be interesting to know what records they could possibly have about Claude, since he wasn't human. "He comes from an illegitimate birth," I said. "It's private family business."
No matter how many times she asked questions about Claude, I stuck to my guns. She eventually gave in to my determination, since there was really no way she could link Kym to Claude to me. At least, I hoped that was the case. This was something else I needed to talk to Claude about, when I had the chance.
I'd nodded to Mike Coughlin, who was sitting a few desks away. He'd been doing some paperwork, but now he was talking to a young man who sat with his back to me. It was the guy who'd watched the gate to Eric's community on Saturday night.
Ambroselli had been called away by another police officer, one in uniform, so I felt free to listen. And there was nothing wrong with my hearing.
Evidently, Coughlin had asked-and I had a hard time remembering the name he'd had on his shirt-Vince, that was it. Coughlin had asked Vince why he'd been substituting for Dan Shelley the night of Eric's party.
"Dan was sick," Vince said instantly. I could tell his mind was full of agitation, and I wondered what was so scary. "He asked me to sit in for him. Said it was easy work. I needed the money, so I said sure."
"Did Dan tell you what was wrong with him?" Mike Coughlin was persistent and thorough, if not brilliant.
"Sure, he said he'd had too much to drink. I'd keep that to myself, normally, but we're talking about murder here, and I don't want to get into trouble."
Coughlin gave Vince a level stare. "I'm betting it was you called us to the scene," he said. "Why didn't you own up to it?"
"We're not supposed to call the cops," Vince said. "Dan said the vamp tips him big to keep his mouth shut about his doings. The vamp, that is."
"He's seen other girls in trouble?" There was an ominous undertone to Coughlin's voice.
"No, no! Dan woulda called that in. No, the extra money was just to keep Dan quiet about the goings and the comings from the house. There are reporters and just plain snoopy people who'd pay to know who visits a vampire. This vampire, Eric whatever, he didn't want his girlfriend to catch grief about staying over at his place."
I hadn't known that.
"But when I stood up to stretch, I could see the front of his yard, and I saw the body lying there. I didn't know who it was, but she wasn't moving. That's definitely the kind of thing I need to report to the police." Vince was practically glowing with virtue by the time he finished his account.
The detective was regarding Vince with open skepticism, and Vince's glow of civic virtue diminished with every second of Coughlin's stare. "Yeah, buddy," Coughlin said finally, "I find that real interesting, since you couldn't possibly see the girl's body from the guard shack. Unless you did that big stretch while you were hovering over the ground."
I tried to remember the lay of the land in the little gated community, while Vince goggled at the detective. Coughlin was right: Eric's house was higher than the guard shack, and furthermore, the row of crepe myrtles by the walkway would prevent an easy sight line.
I sure wanted to hold Vince's hand. It would make it so much easier to find out what was going on in his head. I sighed. There was simply no casual way to touch flesh with a virtual stranger. Cara Ambroselli returned, looking impatient.
The interview staggered on for thirty more minutes. I gradually understood that Ambroselli had assembled a lot of facts about each of the people present at the scene, but that all these facts might not add up to anything. She appeared to be homing in on the stripper part of Kym Rowe's life, rather than the desperate-and-reckless part ... or the part-Were part.
I had no idea how to make that add up to clues about why Kym Rowe had shown up at Eric's house, or who'd paid her to do so. But to me, it seemed obvious that the girl had been bribed to do her best to seduce Eric. Who'd paid for this and what they hoped to gain ... I was as far from discovering the guilty party as Ambroselli.
While I worked that night, I went over and over the events of Saturday at Eric's house. I served beers on autopilot. By the time I fell into bed, I found I couldn't remember any of the conversations I'd had with customers and co-workers.
Tuesday was another black hole. Dermot came in and out without saying much. He didn't look happy; in fact, he looked anxious. When I asked him a question or two, he said, "The fae at the club, they're worried. They wonder why Claude left, when he'll return, what will happen to them when he does. They wish they had seen Niall."
"I'm sorry about Niall's attitude," I said hesitantly. I didn't know if I should broach the subject or not. It had to be a painful one for Dermot, Niall's son, to be so pushed aside and disregarded.
Dermot looked at me, his eyes as pathetic as a puppy's.
"What's Faery like?" I asked, in a clumsy attempt to change the subject.
"It's beautiful," he said immediately. "The forests are green, and they stretch for miles and miles. Not as far as they used to ... but still they're green and deep and full of life. The shoreline is stony; no white sand beaches! But the ocean is green and clear...." He stood, lost in dreaming of his homeland. I wanted to ask a thousand questions: How did the fae pass their time? Did creatures like Bellenos mix with the fairies? Did they get married? What was childbirth like? Were there rich and poor?
But when I saw the grief in my great-uncle's face, I kept my curiosity to myself. He shook himself, gave me a bleak look. Then he turned to go upstairs, probably to seek consolation in House Hunters International.
That night was notable only for what didn't happen. Eric didn't call me. I understood that his out-of-town company had the biggest claim on his time, but I felt almost as shoved aside and disregarded as Dermot. As far as I was concerned, the vampires of Shreveport weren't speaking to me, consulting me, or visiting me. Even Bill was conspicuously absent. Mustapha was presumably still searching for Warren. Ambroselli was presumably searching for the killer of Kym Rowe.
Normally, I was a pretty cheerful person. But I wasn't seeing an end to this complicated situation, and I began to think there might never be one.
I made a creditable effort to leap out of bed with enthusiasm the next morning. I was rested, and I had to go to work, no matter what was happening in the supernatural world.
Not a creature was stirring, not even an elf. I ate some yogurt and granola and strawberries, drank some coffee, and put on some extra makeup since I was still feeling unhappy in general. I took a few minutes to paint my fingernails. A girl's gotta have a little color in her life.
At the bustling post office, I used my key to empty the Merlotte's mailbox, which served Sam for both business and personal use. Sam had gotten three envelopes from his duplex tenants. I riffled through the flyers that had been stuffed in the box and saw that the only bill worth worrying about was the electric bill. It soared in the summer, of course, since we had to keep the bar cool. I was almost scared to open it. I bit the bullet and slit the envelope. The total was bad, but not more than I expected.
Terry Bellefleur pushed open the glass door while I was tossing unwanted mail into the trash. He looked good: more alert, not as skinny, maybe. There was a woman with him. When Terry stopped to speak to me, she smiled. She needed some dental work, but it was a good smile.