What the hell am I? The hired help? Cordova’s idea of a practical joke? I’m not the next Nancy Drew, that’s for sure.
“...private consultant for the Shepherd of the City,” I said, figuring that it was as close as I could get to the truth without divulging the whole sad tale of how I’d sold my soul to Cordova. Bolstered by the fact that his expression didn’t sour at my mention of the vamp leader, I forged on. “I’ve been asked to look into the attack that happened here, and was hoping you might help shed some light on what happened.”
Calmed by my assurances that I wasn’t with the press, he shook off some of his discomfort, but remained a little green around the gills. I’d have bet twenty bucks that he was there the night Kensington died. “The cops already interviewed everyone.”
“I know, but it’s been a few weeks since the attack. Maybe you’ve remembered something that slipped your mind in the all excitement.”
“I don’t know. Like I said, our manager told us not to talk to anyone...” he hedged, raising a hand to rub the back of his neck.
I was losing him; he’d brush me off entirely if I didn’t bring him around quickly. Glancing at the name badge shaped like a large daisy pinned to his apron, I said, “Can I buy you a coffee, Matt?”
“I... what?” he asked, forgetting his discomfort as confusion swept through him.
“A coffee? Can I get you one?” I asked, tilting my chin towards the bored barista slouching over the counter of the small, in-store café. “We can just be two folks talking over coffee. There’s nothing wrong with that, right?” It was a risky ploy, depending on my non-existent charm, but it was the best shot I had.
I almost sighed aloud in relief when he managed a weak smile and replied, “Umm, I guess so. It’s almost time for my break anyway.”
“Great!”
* * *
I’d have preferred to stay inside the store where it was warm, but it was clear that Matt would be a hell of a lot more open with me if we were away from the prying eyes of his coworkers. Settling on one side of the picnic tables reserved for employees to use during their breaks, I pulled my jacket tight around me and curled my hands around my paper cup, waiting for the warmth to seep through to warm my chilled fingers. In true Colorado fashion, the sun was shining as bright as a mid-summer day, but it was colder than a witch’s tit, especially in the shade.
Bundled up in a big, puffy jacket and a fleece beanie, Matt slid into the seat opposite me, struggling to handle his coffee cup through his thick gloves.
“I don’t really remember much about the night it happened. I... tried to forget as much I could,” Matt said in opening, almost dropping his cup.
Based on his confession and the awkward motion of his hands that I was sure weren’t entirely due to his cumbersome gloves, I asked, “You’re the one who found Kensington, aren’t you?”
The rosiness that had risen in his cheeks from the cold drained away as he nodded in reply.
“Did you know Kensington?” I asked, hoping that steering his thoughts towards the undead version of the vamp, rather than the dead-dead version, would keep him from spilling his breakfast on the picnic table.
Bobbing his head in a brief nod, he took a sip from his cup before answering, “Patrick came in all the time. We were an easy stop on his way home from work. He said we’re the only store around that carried his wife’s favorite syrup. In fact, he’d stopped to get some the night he—” he broke off, tears filling his eyes behind his glasses. “He was a really nice guy. He always took the time to stop and talk with whoever was working when he came in. Who would do something like this? Why? Patrick was so nice, and poor Jean. He was devoted to his grandmother. I don’t understand why someone would want to hurt her.”
“You knew Gabrielle as well?” I asked, my heart racing at the thought that there might be something here after all.
“Not as well as Patrick; it was Jean that usually came in for his grandmother. Well, not really his grandmother. She was his great, great, great, great grandmother, or something like that,” he said, blabbering.
“What about Mr. Singh? Did he shop here?”
“Once or twice. I think Leanne did most of the shopping. She came in with Jean most times,” he said, and for a moment I wondered if there was something more going on between the two Day Servants. Could that be the source of the murders? A simple case of a lover’s triangle? I hadn’t gotten the feeling that they could be capable of something like that, but then, I hadn’t been looking for it either.
“Oh, and Jean’s boyfriend, Michael, too,” Matt added before I had a chance to question the extent of Jean and Quick’s relationship.
Well, that answers
that
question.
After meeting Whitlow, Quick, and Jean, I’d come to understand that many Day Servants shared an emotional bond with their vampire masters rather than just one of blood, but I was still caught off guard by the outpouring of emotion from Matt, who had merely been a casual acquaintance to the victims and their Day Servants. Was it possible that the tofu-eating hippy was more open-minded than I was? I liked to think of myself as a free thinker and a liberal, but if the murders of Cordova’s vamps were teaching me anything, it was that I was still clinging to my mundane prejudices long after I was no longer one of them.
“Are a lot of your customers regulars like Kensington and the others?”
Pausing to wipe the dampness from his eyes, Matt sniffled. “Yeah, we get a bunch of regulars from the surrounding neighborhoods. We carry a lot of stuff they can’t get anywhere else.”
I knew that by “they” he was referring to the supernaturals living close by. Blossom Market advertised themselves as an all-inclusive grocer catering to folks from all walks of life, but I had no doubt that they were making a killing in the supe market.
No pun intended. I hope.
“Were there a lot of customers in the store around the same time as Kensington?”
“No, it’s pretty quiet after 4am until we start getting the morning crowd around six.”
I guess that makes sense
—
the vamps are heading home and the rest of the city hasn’t risen for the day yet.
“It was just Patrick, old Mrs. Fitz, and a couple kids on the tail end of an all-nighter.”
“And there was no one else? No one who came in before or after Kensington who looked out of place?” I asked when none of the others he described sounded remotely threatening.
Matt started to shake his head and then stopped. “There was one guy... he came in a half hour or so before Patrick. I’d completely forgotten about him because he didn’t buy anything.”
“Do you remember what he looked like?” I asked, a flicker of hope daring to take root in the center of my chest.
Before it even had a chance to bloom, my hope withered to dust and faded away as Matt’s expression fell. “He was wearing a dark hoodie, I didn’t get a look at his face. I’m sorry.”
Well, shit.
“It’s okay. You’ve been really helpful.”
Silence fell over the picnic table, broken by the occasional slurp from Matt as he sipped his hot cocoa and I mulled over his words. I had little doubt that the hoodie-wearing non-shopper was my guy, but with no surveillance footage or a description, I didn’t see how it helped the situation at all.
Looks like I’ve hit a dead end. Again.
Trying to keep my disappointment from showing, I looked up at Matt to thank him for his help just in time to see his face grow pale and then flush crimson as he watched something over my shoulder. The sour scent of fear flowed off of him in waves, carrying with it a faint, spicy trace of resentment. Turning in my seat, I squinted against the sunshine glaring off the windshield of a nearby car, and struggled to make out the features of the figure approaching in a waddling walk. A gust of wind brought me the astringent odor of dollar store cologne and the sound of worn dress shoes slapping against the pavement.
My initial impression was one of cheap, but serviceable, clothes and a rounded, doughy face that made me think middle management, but as he came closer I downgraded my assessment to used car salesman.
“There’s a pallet of tomatoes that need to be put out, Matthew. What are you doing sitting around out here?” the newcomer asked in a wheezing voice.
“I’m on my break,” Matt replied, his words hard-edged though his gaze fell to his gloved hands.
“Hi, I’m Riley,” I said as cheerfully as I could, plastering a smile on my face and turning it up to full volume. “I was just enjoying a cup of coffee with my friend, Matt. I hope I’m not getting him into any kind of trouble.”
“He has work to do,” was all I received in reply as he shot the younger man a withering look.
“Surely you can spare him for another minute or two.”
The sour look I received said quite the opposite.
“I’d better go,” Matt muttered, refusing to look either of us in the eye. “Thanks for the cocoa,” he added, saluting me with the paper cup before he rose from the table to toss it in the trash.
“No problem. Thanks for your help. I’ll let you know what I figure out.”
“I’d appreciate that,” he said, raising his gaze just long enough to flash me a weak smile before he hurried inside.
I dropped all pretense of cheeriness as soon as Matt was out of earshot and turned back to the smug man looming over me. “That was very rude...” I trailed off as I leaned it to inspect the small nametag pinned to his tie. “...Jim. I don’t like rude people,” I finished, my voice more growl than human.
“You’re not a customer; I don’t have to give a shit what you like,” he said, affecting a cocky stance with his hands on his hips.
Like many men of a certain age, Jim possessed a gut the size of a watermelon precariously balanced atop a pair of stick thin legs. The front of his dress shirt strained against the swell of his belly while the tensile strength of his belt was put to the ultimate test as it fought to hold up his pants. The crowning glory of his quintessential middle-aged appearance was the abysmal comb over that wouldn’t have fooled a blind man at fifty paces.
“And I’m guessing you’re not a cop either,” he said in a nasal sneer, making a point of passing his eyes over me as if he was looking through my clothes. “My employees have told the police all they can about the incident, and I would appreciate you not traumatizing them further.” From anyone else the sentiment might have seemed genuine, but the condescension that narrowed his already beady eyes, set off a dozen alarm bells in the back of my mind. His indignant anger was clearly a cover up, and I was determined to get to the bottom of it.
“You’re right, I’m not a cop. But even I know you’re hiding something,” I stated boldly, seeing no point in beating around the bush. Either he’d admit it, or he wouldn’t.
“Screw you,” he blustered, cheeks flaming red and sweat beading on his brow. There may as well have been a neon sign flashing above his head, declaring him GUILTY.
Fueled by my instant dislike of the portly man, I let a hint of the wolf bleed through, shifting my eyes from stormy grey to molten gold. It took every ounce of self-control I had not to laugh in his face when his eyes grew large as saucers and his mouth dropped open, making him look eerily similar to the fresh fish packed in ice at the meat counter.
And now for the real gamble...
“You told the police that your surveillance system was down, but I’m gonna go out a limb here and guess that you’re full of shit,” I said, hoping that my nervousness didn’t show. I was taking a huge risk, stabbing blindly in the dark, but something in my gut told me I was on the right track. The color draining from Jim’s pudgy cheeks confirmed my suspicions. “I’m also going assume that there’s something on that footage you didn’t want the cops to see, something that would show the world what a gigantic slime ball you are.”
“Hey! You can’t talk to me like that,” he declared, though the tremor in his lower lip just made him look petulant.
“And who’s gonna stop me?” I asked, the growl making each syllable sound like a rockslide. “You?”
Leaning towards him until there was barely a hand span between us, I let him feel the weight of the predator lurking behind my eyes. Both the wolf and I delighted in the sour smell of fear rolling off of him as he shrank back, almost tripping over his own feet.
“N-no,” he stammered after several seconds of struggling to make his mouth work, the terrified squeak of his voice making my lips spread in a wide grin.
“Good,” I purred as I savored the smell of his fear before easing back to my original position. “Now, show me how your system works, and then get the hell out of my way.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE MANAGER’S OFFICE was a cramped room at the back of the store that would have barely passed for a broom closet and smelled of spilled coffee and sweaty gym socks. Somewhere under the pile of invoices and rejected job applications there was sure to be a desk, but it was impossible to tell through the mountain of paper. Tucked into the far corner of the desk, behind a crumpled fast food sack, was a grainy black and white display for the store’s security system.
Somewhere between the parking lot and his cluttered office, Jim had rediscovered his balls and was trying to show me that he was still in charge when he plopped down into the only chair in the room, making its wheels squeak when they slid on the linoleum. It only took a faint trickle of the wolf’s energy to fill the room with my spicy scent and raise the hairs along the backs of his arms, letting him know just how pathetic and insignificant he was. Almost immediately, his cocky self-assurance faded back beneath the fear that was staining the underarms of his shirt with sweat.