“That’s all I ask,” Hayes said, sipping his coffee again.
Chapter Five
After lunch at the diner, we headed back to the police station. Hayes handed me a Styrofoam cup filled with horrible coffee, drank his down in one gulp, and told me to hold steady.
“I’m going to go grab our files from downstairs. Can I get you another cup?” He gestured toward my still-f cup, and I wagged my head, forced a small gulp just to be polite. When he left I dropped the greasy mess into the trash can and shuddered.
I was making myself comfortable in a cracked pleather chair in the police department conference room when Hayes came in, carrying a groaning cardboard box packed with file folders.
“This is all we’ve got on the case so far,” he said, dropping the box with a thud.
“Looks like a lot.”
“Looks like a haystack.” Hayes nudged the box. “It’s our job to go through here and figure out what’s pertinent and what’s not, what’s part of the case, what’s helpful, etcetera, etcetera. But”—he reached into the box and extracted a grease-soaked white pastry bag—“I did bring dessert.” He shook the bag with a grin.
I smiled. A man with a heartbeat, a chiseled chest, and a penchant for sweets? Sophie Lawson hits the jackpot.
“Well, aren’t you the gentleman?” I said in my best attempt at sultry.
“I am. But the jelly-filled one is mine.”
Hayes reached into the bag, extracted a sticky, glazed concoction, and stuffed the entire donut into his mouth, chomping down. I quickly shoved the file box aside, just in time to avoid a splat of blueberry jam as it dribbled from his chin and dropped onto the table.
“Be still my heart,” I said, feeling instantly sticky.
Hayes sat down next to me. “Try your best not to fall in love with me.” He pushed the bag toward me as he chewed. “Donut?”
I picked out a pink-sprinkled one and tried my best to nibble daintily.
“Pink sprinkles. I totally had you pegged,” Hayes said, smiling down at the table.
I rolled my eyes, shoved the rest of the donut into my mouth, and dug into the file box.
“Interesting,” was the only thing I could think of to say as I sifted through the first overstuffed folder. I pulled out a few yellowed newspaper clippings, some crime-scene photos, a Starbucks receipt, and a GO WITH GAVIN bumper sticker. “Don’t you guys have any organizational system?”
“Yeah,” Hayes said, gesturing toward the ragged box. “Put. In. Box.” He dipped his pincher fingers into the pastry bag. “Do you mind if I have another?”
I shook my head. “It’s no wonder you can’t find this guy,” I said, wrinkling my nose as I pulled out a folder covered in grease and coffee stains.
I’d struck a nerve. “Look, lady, we do the best we can. It’s not like we’ve got people lounging around the office, just waiting to file the latest. We’ve got a community to protect. A very large metropolitan community. What have you got? A couple of witches? The bogeyman? A vampire here and there?”
I pushed a neatly organized stack of UDA files toward Hayes and fished a few more out of my shoulder bag.
“I have just over twelve thousand actives. Twelve thousand and seventy-one, to be exact. Demons, vampires, witches, goblins …” I couldn’t help but feel a little smug as Hayes’s eyes went wide at the orderly stack I presented.
“Don’t worry; I didn’t bring in all our files. I’m pretty sure whatever is out there”—I suppressed the smallest shudder—“isn’t the work of any centaur, gargoyle, or troll. Those are generally our less volatile groups.”
“Wow,” he said, wiping donut grease on a nearby file. “You guys really are organized. That’s impressive.”
“Forms up the wazoo,” I said, shrugging. I eyed the stack, then picked out all the ones marked with a bright red flag. “These ones are the active vamps. Everything we need should be there—original birth dates, sires, crossovers—”
“Crossovers?” Hayes’s dark brows rose a millimeter.
“When a breather goes vamp,” I explained.
“Vampires remember that kind of stuff?”
“Initially, yeah. Five hundred years into their afterlife, the ‘rebirth’ details can get a little foggy. But at first it’s pretty easily traceable. You wake up one morning with no breath and bellbottoms on? You were crossed over in the seventies. Ditto if you’ve got go-go boots or love beads.”
“I see.”
“There is information on current residences, jobs, skill sets, languages spoken, etcetera. Everything should be listed in the file.”
Hayes swallowed thickly. “They work up here?”
I shrugged. “They work everywhere. The short order cook over at Fog City is a werevamp.”
Hayes’s eyes bulged. “Tiny? I thought he was a drag queen.”
“He’s that, too.”
Hayes paled a little bit, and I blew out a long sigh and cocked my head, eyeing him. “Listen,” I said, “there are a lot more magically inclined people out there than you think.”
“Oh no,” Hayes started. “I’ve seen a lot of weird things in this city—Elvis, the Easter Bunny on the Fulton 5, Mrs. Claus walking down the Haight with Santa in a dog collar in the middle of July. Even with that veil thing, I don’t think I would miss seeing a vampire on Market. Or a troll.”
“And what would you think if you did?”
“I’d think that I’ve definitely been working too hard.”
I smiled. “Well, there you go. You’re not expecting to see them, so you don’t see them. That’s how the veils work for the most part. It’s not really that big of a deal.”
I didn’t think it was possible, but Hayes’s complexion went a few shades lighter. I rested my hand on his. “They’re just like you and me.”
He opened his mouth to protest, and I held up one silencing finger. “Okay, maybe not
just
like. But the people of the Underworld want to live their afterlives just like anybody else—steady job, comfortable den with a white picket fence, minivan …”
“And two-point-five demonic kids?”
I ignored him. “The majority really doesn’t want any trouble.”
“Except for the small minority that wants to rip out people’s throats, gobble up their eyeballs, and suck out all their blood.”
I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “Kind of like the small minority of the human population, right?”
“Touché. Okay,” Hayes said, a little bit of the color returning to his chiseled cheeks. “Where do we start, then?”
“Here,” I said, handing him a thick stack of files. “Red flags are vampires. Yellow, zombies; blue, hobgoblins; green, witches; pink, other. We’re not too sure what we’re looking for, so I brought the most likely candidates. Vampires, obviously. But the zombies and hobgoblins can cause similar destruction and the witches—well, you generally want to stay on their good sides.”
Hayes licked his lips and grinned. “What about mermaids? Do mermaids exist?”
I raised one annoyed eyebrow. “Why don’t you jump into the ocean and find out?”
Hayes stifled a grin, taking the files. “Note to self,” he said under his breath, “Lawson is anti-mermaid.”
I shifted my eyes to Hayes, who ignored me. He was shuffling through the first set of documents. “I can’t believe that demons adhere to this kind of structure.”
“Well, vampires are very rule oriented,” I said, rolling my hair into a loose bun.
Hayes looked skeptical. “I find that hard to believe. Soulless bloodsuckers, rule oriented?”
“Soulless bloodsuckers who won’t come into your home unless invited. They are also compulsive counters, obsessively neat, and very polite.” I rearranged my files, feeling a heat creep up the back of my neck as Hayes’s knee brushed mine. “That kind of adherence to etiquette is quite endearing.”
Hayes didn’t look at me. “I suppose,” he muttered.
I frowned at the UDA files. “If we don’t find what we’re looking for in here, I can send out a satellite request for files from the other offices.”
Hayes blinked. “There are other UDA offices?”
“Of course. UDA is worldwide. You should see our Transylvania office.”
“And are all the other offices”—Hayes’s eyes shifted—“underground?”
“No. The one in Spokane is in the back of a Wal-Mart.” I grinned when Hayes raised his dark brows. “Most of the offices are underground. It just makes our clientele feel more … comfortable. More able to be themselves, I guess. They don’t have to worry about keeping up veils or shielding when they’re underground. Not a lot of breather counterparts stumbling into the underground offices, asking to use the restroom.” I offered a reassuring look.
Hayes shook his head. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand the Underworld.”
I picked at another donut, popping a bit of pink frosting into my mouth. “You know all you need to. Demons exist in every aspect of your daily life—”
“And I should stay away from fairies.” He grinned.
“Everyone,” I said, breaking off another piece of donut, “should stay away from fairies.” I smiled back at Hayes, my resolve softening as I studied the warm, pale blue flecks of color in his eyes.
Our moment was broken when there was the sound of shuffling papers, then a chirp from Hayes’s cell phone, and then Chief Oliver was standing in the doorway, his lips set in a hard, thin line. He knocked on the door frame and looked in at us.
“There’s been another murder,” the chief said solemnly.
My mouth went dry and my palms started to sweat. Hayes stood up and grabbed his coat. He glanced over his shoulder at me while I began collecting my files.
“We don’t have time for that,” he said. “Come on.”
“Don’t worry. I don’t have to be down at work for the rest of the day so I can stay around and clean up—”
Hayes cut me off. “You
are
at work. This is our case.” He took my elbow, and I stood, numbly beginning to follow him.
“We’re going to the crime scene,” he told me.
“Crime scene?” I mumbled. “You mean, the scene of the crime?” My stomach dropped into my knees.
Hayes roughly put his arm across my shoulders and pulled me toward him, a hint of a smile on his moist lips. “Lawson, you’re a natural.”
My hands were gripping the seat as Hayes squealed the squad car out of his parking space and roared out of the lot.
“Shouldn’t you put your sirens on?” I asked, trying to keep my voice an octave below hysterical.
“The guy’s dead. He’s not going anywhere.”
I must have paled considerably—or gone completely green—because Hayes blew out a resigned sigh and clicked on the lights and sirens. Then he sunk the accelerator to the floor and we jerked through an intersection, cars screeching around us, action-movie style.
“He’s dead, remember? Not going anywhere? This is not a chase scene from Cops!”
“If only,” Hayes muttered as we reached the commute gridlock on Market Street. I saw heads swinging in our direction, tourists hugging their GAP purchases to their chests, civilian cars peeling to the sides to let us through as our police sirens howled.
I started to feel Hayes’s adrenaline, and as we sliced through town, I tried to hold back a grin.
“Can I get a set of these lights and sirens for my Honda?” I asked, poking at the ceiling. “It would seriously cut my commute time in half.”
Hayes chuckled and took a corner at record speed and I rolled into him, my seat belt cutting off my circulation, my head thumping against his chest. His firm, soap-smelling chest. I breathed deeply, hoping my olfactory ogling wasn’t completely obvious.
“You women are always turned on by danger,” he said, staring down at me with a seductive grin.
I struggled to sit up, to keep myself from getting too comfortable, nestled against his chest. “As if,” I managed to mutter, letting my heartbeat slow to a normal rate.
After a few minutes, Hayes slowed the car down and pulled into the driveway of a swanky Pacific Heights Victorian. As he pushed the gearshift into park I noticed the crime-scene tape, the swarm of cops and onlookers, and then it hit me: there’s probably a dead person inside that house. I clamped my mouth shut, feeling my teeth begin to chatter. My heart started to speed up again.
He killed the engine, pulling the key out of the ignition. Hayes kicked open the car door and stepped out, then dipped his head back inside and looked at me. My feet were bolted to the floor, my eyes boring through the windshield at the one-car garage door in front of me. My palms were damp, and I held them firm against my thighs.
“You coming, Lawson?”
I tried to lick my lips, but I had no saliva. I prayed to God, Buddha, Oprah—whoever might be listening—then forced my lips to move. “Is it still in there?” My voice came out raspy and low.
Hayes’s dark eyebrows shot up, almost lost in the soft brown curls that tousled against his forehead. “It? You mean the perp? No, he’s not still inside.”
Hayes sat down again in the driver’s seat and looked at me, his blue eyes warm and concerned. “The place was clean when the guys got in here. From what I hear, the vic may have been dead awhile.” He reached out and touched my arm softly, his fingertips soft and trailing up my forearm.
“You’re fine. You’ve got practically every cop in the area looking out for you.” He grinned. “Plus one very adequate detective.”
My stomach flip-flopped, but not in the delighted, hot-guy-touching-me sort of way. It was just that I had never seen a dead person who was actually … dead.
“The body,” I whispered, “will it still be in there?”
Hayes looked confused, his dark eyebrows knitting together. “Of course. This is a crime scene. They won’t have moved anything—or anyone—until we go through. Is that what you’re afraid of? Seeing the body?”
I bit my lip. “Um, no.” I forced a nonchalant lilt into my voice, not wanting to appear the meek, freaked-out little girly girl that I actually was. “I was just checking.”
Hayes blinked, a small smile playing on his lips. His voice went soft and I was touched by the kind warmth in it. “It’s never easy walking into a crime scene, Lawson, but we really need you here to help with this. You’ll be okay, I promise.”
I nodded, certain that if I opened my mouth to answer properly, my thundering heart would fall out onto the car floor.
Stepping out of the car, I followed behind Hayes, who stopped to talk to an officer guarding the door.