Dead Sexy (13 page)

“All. My. Girls. Are. Licensed.” Riley stared at his badge for a long time. “A. Biter. Cop.” She sniffed. “Now. I’ve. Seen. Everything.”

“You’re a small business owner,” he countered. “I’m sure you agree  Biters shouldn’t be limited by their undead status.”

“Some. Should.” Riley’s gaze flicked to me. “You’re. Not. Dead.”

“Gemma Sinclair.” I held out a hand, more out of habit than anything else. When she shook, her manicured fingers were cool to the touch. “I work over at Sinclair Death Services. I’m helping D.S. Conroy with his investigation. I’m an outside contractor—.”

“A. Hunter.” Riley’s gaze narrowed. Her grip tightened on my hand, and I was suddenly all too aware of the strength lying dormant beneath her silky exterior. “You. Got. A. Card?”

A card. Right. I took my hand back and began to pat through my pockets until I came up with a business card. I handed the slip of paper over, watching curiously as the dead woman examined the creamy stock and block printing. “You’ve got a need for a Hunter?”

“You’d. Be. Surprised.” She nodded at D.S. “Can. I. Get. Your. Number?”

Riley was staring at the male Biter with naked interest on her face.

I wanted to reach out and take his hand—to let her know I already had dibs—but I waited. Whatever two Biters wanted to do in the privacy of a fetish brothel was their own business. It had nothing to do with me.

“Sorry.” D.S. shook his head. “It’s unlisted.”

“Pity.” Riley considered us for a long moment. One long leg trailed out from under her gown, trailing across the satin couch. The pose was decadent, sexy, and completely contrived. I flushed and looked over at D.S. He was looking at me.

“My. Girls. Are. Legal,” Riley said. “It’s. A. Specialty. Business. And. They. Make. Good. Money.” There was a slight pause. “I. Don’t. Need. Illegal. Workers. No. Matter. Who’s? Offering.”

“Who was offering?” D.S. asked.

“He. Didn’t. Have. A. Card. Either.” Riley sat up straight, suddenly all business. “He. Came. Twice. For. My. Girls.” Her fingers drummed against the couch as she recalled the specifics. “Liked. It. Rough. Paid. Cash. No. Name.”

“Any distinguishing characteristics?”

“Good. Looking.” She gave D.S. a flirtatious smile. “Not. As. Good. Looking. As. You.”

That didn’t do a whole lot to narrow it down. I couldn’t imagine a whole lot of men better looking than D.S., who weren’t underwear models.

“Hair color?” I asked. “Eye color?” Riley’s expression was blank. “Was there anything memorable about him at all?”

“His. Smell,” the madam said after a moment’s long consideration. “He. Smelled. Like. Death.” There was another short pause and then she stood up. The business card I’d given her disappeared into her cleavage, and she reached up to finger fluff her hair. When her head turned, a heart shaped tattoo was visible on her collarbone.

Her lips twisted into the same hard grimace she’d used to signal the bartender a few minutes earlier.

Clearly the conversation was over.

I turned and walked down the stairs. I didn’t stop walking until I was outside on the pavement under the sun’s antiseptic glare. I sucked in one deep breath after another. Underground clubs and drug dealers who hired Biter muscle were one thing, but the brothel made my skin crawl.

What kind of person would frequent such a place?

The door to the bar scraped open behind me, and D.S. stepped out. His handsome face was perfectly calm and passive. Like he hadn’t just been inside a zombie whorehouse.

Men are disgusting,” I said.

“Not all men.”

“Any man who could think like that.” I shuddered in the fading light. I felt unclean. “Why would anyone come to a place like this?”

“At least this way no one gets hurt.” He shrugged. “It’s not such a bad deal.”

It was gross. I forced myself to take a deep breath.

A horrible thought struck me. “That’s not what you’re interested in—.”

“Trust me. I like a woman to enjoy herself.” He reached out to thread his fingers through mine. After the oppressive sexuality of the brothel the motion was comforting and familiar, just enough skin to skin contact to heighten my awareness of him without making me want to puke all over his shoes. His thumb skimmed against my palm. “With you I’d take things slow.”

“Vanilla.” Just because I want to have sex before I die doesn’t mean I’m into pain. Fuck the pain. I wanted to enjoy myself.

“Vanilla.” D.S. was looking straight down at me. His white teeth flashed against his golden skin as his kissable lips tipped up into a wild grin. His eyes were so damn green, like Belle Isle grass on a summer day. “To start.” His head dipped slightly, and he kissed me. His mouth was soft against my lips, setting an easy pace.

He tasted like spicy food and cheap coffee.

I let out a quiet moan.

The sensation was cleansing and pleasurable. For a brief moment, I lost myself in his presence. Kissing a Biter was a bad idea. It was dangerous. What if he nicked my tongue with his teeth? What if he liked the taste and didn’t let go?

He was the one who finally pulled away. “We should go back to the police station. I need to check in with the other teams.”

“Right.” With the taste of him still thick on my lips, it took me a moment to catch up with him. “Figure out if they found anything more useful than ‘he smelled like death.’” I stepped up to the truck and yanked open the passenger side door. “Do you think she meant a Biter?”

“No,” D.S. said. “I don’t. That worries me.”

19.

After four days knocking on every door in Detroit, I was almost ready to go back to Riley’s to ask her exactly what she’d meant by ‘smelled like death.’ My feet hurt, my truck had a few hundred extra miles on it, and my mother  made me buy my own pair of black slacks. Sure, it meant a reason to run out to the super schmancy mall in Troy—the one with the concierge service and purses that cost more than my car—but it was still a pain in the ass.

We’d busted drug dealers, climbed through sewers, and talked with factory owners. It was exhausting. To finish the job we’d called in all the backup we could find, the county sheriff, the FBI, and another field team of DUA agents.

None of it helped.

Not that the police seemed particularly motivated to look. Detroit’s a big city. Missing Biters might be important to the Department of Undead Americans and the federal government, but it’s not exactly a high priority in a city with a limited law enforcement budget. After a few days, most of them had gone back to solving the ordinary, mundane crimes that filled the streets: murder, theft, and arson. Brody had been called away to help search for a scrapper stealing copper pipes and metal fire hydrants from Boston-Edison.

At least the police thought to call me when a body showed up at the morgue. A man in his mid-forties with thinning gray hair, cataracts in his eyes, and a toe tag that said his name was Harold Mathers. He was dead—really dead—with a bullet straight through his skull.

“You never called me back,” Hick said, tugging a clean white sheet away from the body to give us a better look. “I’ve been trying to schedule a second date.”

“Right, I’ve been busy. Haven’t even checked my voice messages.” A second date was never going to happen. Hick was a great guy—cute, employed, and alive—but he didn’t exactly light a fire in my belly.

Not like D.S.

I gave the Biter a quick glance, trying to judge his expression. He was back in his ‘Trusty Biter Sidekick’ disguise, complete with wrap-around sunglasses and a frozen expression on his face.

“Why don’t you tell me about this guy?” I nodded towards the guy on the table. “You’re sure he’s one of the Biters on my list?”

“Sure,” Hick said. There was a slight pause. “You told me you were running down some paperwork irregularities. I thought it was just for Sinclair Death Services. This guy was processed through a place in Dearborn.”

“It’s a team effort,” I lied. “Between the mortuary association and the police department. I’m just the low man on the totem pole who got stuck doing the field work.”

Hick stared at me for a long moment before nodding. “This is Harold Mathers. He lived and died in Detroit. He worked on Belle Isle and was laid to rest in Dearborn last year.”

“His body looks awfully nice for a guy who’s been underground for a year.”

“I can’t explain that.” Hick shrugged. “According to my paperwork, the police pulled him out of a dumpster by the river last night. They ran his fingerprints—must be a new protocol—and his name popped.” There was a slight pause. “He must have been dug up by some kids playing a prank.”

I nodded slowly. “Have you looked at his cell decay? Was he a Biter?”

“I know there’s been a screw up—somewhere—but Biters don’t get buried. It was just kids, like I said.”

“You mind doing me a favor? Running a sample through your fancy equipment?”

There was a slight pause. “I don’t know, Gemma.” Hick’s jaw was tight. His shoulders were rigid. “I’ve got a lot of other work to do. That kind of thing takes time. I can’t take time out of my work just because the mortuary association can’t get their fax machines to work.”

Great, I was going to end up owing him another night out on the town. Next time I was wearing blue jeans and running shoes. “Don’t think of it as a favor for the mortuary association,” I said. “Think of it as a favor for me, as a friend. I’ll be grateful… truly grateful.”

Hick’s gaze settled on the dip where my pink blouse met the curve of my breasts.

“I’m always happy to help a
friend
.” He took a sample from the body on the table—cutting off a small piece of the man’s palm and placing it carefully on an aluminum tray—and started for the door. “The fancy equipment’s in a restricted area. You can stay here,” there was a hard edge to his tone. “Don’t touch anything.”

I waited until he was gone before turning back to D.S. The Biter hadn’t moved an inch. He looked more like a sculpture than a man; a piece of art hewn from natural rock and supernatural anger.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“Stop. Flirting. With. Him.”

The man must have been really angry to revert to Biter speak. I took a deep breath, forcing down the worry in my gut. “We need someone to run the tests—unless you have a secret lab in your pants.”

“I’d. Be. Happy. To show you what I have in my pants.”

The comment was quick and flirtatious, it made my skin tingle. It was the first sexy thing he’d said since kissing me in front of Riley’s. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to focus. “We need to know where Mathers has been for the last twelve months. Underground, or—.”

“He was aboveground,” D.S. interrupted. “I can smell it.”

“You can smell it?” Some of the oldest Biters had started to regain their sense of smell, but I didn’t know who could scent out cell decay.

“The man was a Biter,” D.S. said. “Right up until someone shot him in the head. This guy…” His muscles twitched a visible sign of his emotion. “Stealing Biters—killing people—he’s pissing me off.”

“There’s nothing you can do about it.

“I can stop him,” D.S. said. “I can find the Biters. Bring them back to Detroit. To their families.” He turned towards me, and his green eyes were dark with emotion. “This guy’s evil. Scum. Taking advantage of Biters just because they’re dead. Now, he’s getting rid of the evidence. That’s what the Department of Undead Americans was designed to prevent.

This was important to him. I couldn’t just laugh it off, and—to be honest—he had a point. Just because I hunt zombies for a living doesn’t mean they’re animals. Okay, some of them are animals. The ones who are so far gone their skin is melting off their bones.

But Biters like D.S.? Like Donny?

I nodded slowly. “He’s getting rid of the Biters. Something must have changed for him.

“We’re looking for him,” D.S. said. “There are police crawling all over the city. It makes sense that he’d get rid of the evidence.”

“Not all the evidence though. Two Biters out of a bunch?” I shrugged. “There’s something off. He must be keeping them somewhere. Doing something with them.”

Where the hell hadn’t we searched? I rocked back onto my heels thoughtfully. Detroit’s a big city, but between the burnt out husks and the empty lots, I felt like we’d been everywhere from Ferndale in the north to the riverbank on the south side. The only place we hadn’t looked was Canada.

Canada. I sucked in a breath. Windsor was a ten-minute ride away by car or city bus. Looking out across the Detroit River at its squat buildings and gleaming casino, it was more like a suburb than another country. Still, every time I’d visited I’d had to go through customs. They’d made me empty out my coat pockets, rifled through my bag, and asked me some questions that were more personal than they had any right to be.

Then they’d made me use a Breathalyzer.

The Canadian Border Control wasn’t checking to make sure I was sober. They were looking for signs of life using the first of the sure fire tests to tell the living from the dead: breath pressure, blood pressure, and brain waves. Word on the street is that California Border Enforcement makes people use all three, and if a person fails they get a bullet to the head.

Canada just ships you back across the border.

The government says it’s a matter of public health—they want to protect their citizens from the “Zombie Plague” outbreak—but the truth is that it’s economic as much as anything else. The more zombies they have, the less willing factory owners, will be to pay humans a living wage.

“Canada,” I said. “Mr. Bad Guy is taking them to Canada. Think about it; he’s not keeping them in Detroit, but they’re definitely close by; he’s not using them as muscle—“I paused. The man on the table had worked on Belle Isle. “What did he do?”

It took D.S. a moment to find the paperwork. “He worked at the boat house.”

“So, he’d have known the Coast Guard’s schedule.” It was all falling into place. “He would have known how to get a boat across the river without being seen.” The dead body on the table was becoming more interesting by the minute. Mr. Bad Guy wasn’t just taking any old dead bodies.