He had to get the rest of the cops off his back. Off her.
“I didn’t do anything.” Her voice was still soft, but more anger cracked through the words. “I don’t know who your witnesses think they saw, but it wasn’t me.”
At her words, he blinked, stunned.
Tanner remembered the very first lesson he’d learned about her kind. Angels can’t lie.
Even angels who’d fallen were still bound to tell the truth. Sure, they could twist facts to suit them—they were real good at twisting—but they couldn’t tell a straight-out lie.
He caught her shoulders and pulled her even closer to him. Her hands were still bound behind her back, and her chin notched up as she faced him.
“Two members of Brandt’s pack are dead. Their bodies were found in an alley, without so much as a scratch on them.” No scratches, but there’d been plenty of terror to see on the frozen faces of Michael LaRue and Beau Stokes.
While there might be plenty of paranormals lurking in the shadows of New Orleans, there weren’t very many who could kill with a touch.
Even fewer who looked like her.
He thought her face paled as she stared at him, but Marna told him flatly, “I swear to you, it wasn’t me.”
Then someone sure wanted him to think it had been.
Footsteps tapped outside. Jonathan, hurrying back. Tanner leaned forward and unlocked her cuffs. Her breath sighed out as her hands were freed. “Thank you.” The words whispered from her.
Her scent, fresh flowers, teased his nose. “Don’t be thanking me yet.” Because they weren’t even close to being out of this mess.
But he owed her, and he couldn’t just leave her to twist in the wind.
Innocent or not.
“Trust me.” That was all he had time to say. The door swung open, and Jonathan came sauntering back in, with two cups of coffee cradled in the elbow of one arm.
Marna didn’t respond to Tanner’s words, but that wasn’t particularly surprising. Trust? From her? Like that would happen any time soon. His angel wasn’t the trusting sort.
Since her fall, hell, he wasn’t even sure what she’d become.
Dangerous.
With a light touch on her shoulder, Tanner pushed her down into the wooden chair once more. They’d have to play the interrogation game, for a while.
“Here you go, ma’am,” Jonathan said as he slid a Styrofoam cup toward her. Marna didn’t take the drink. He shrugged and took a seat on the opposite side of the table. Sipping his own drink, Jonathan reached for a manila file that had been waiting on the table. “You don’t look like the killing type.”
The ass**le hadn’t brought him any coffee. Jonathan offered him a smug smile, one that vanished as the human flipped open the file and stared back down at the crime scene photos. “I just don’t know how you did it.”
Marna glanced down at the photos. Because he was watching so closely, Tanner saw the faint widening of her eyes.
Surprise.
“No physical signs of attack. No internal injuries,” Jonathan rattled off the death details. “Their hearts simply . . . stopped.”
Marna shrugged. “Then maybe those men had heart attacks.”
Jonathan put his cup down on the table. “They were both in their prime, barely mid-thirties. Two guys like that, what? They just both magically had heart attacks? Is that what you want me to believe?”
“A lot of things magically happen in this city,” Marna murmured.
Tanner stalked around the table. Didn’t sit. Just crossed his arms over his chest, leaned against the two-way mirror, and stared at her. She didn’t look nervous. No nervous twitches or gestures. Too calm. Too cool.
“Bullshit.” Jonathan leaned toward her. “A lot of things happen because there are just some twisted f**ks on the streets.” He glanced down at the crime scene photos and then back at her. “I’ve seen kills like this before. It looks like nothing happened to them, but when we get the tox screen back, are we gonna see something different? ’Cause I’m bettin’ we will.”
Because Tanner didn’t want to interrogate Marna, he let the human keep going with his questions. The guy was blundering in the dark, so Tanner wasn’t particularly worried about him stumbling onto the truth.
Unless Marna decided to overshare. She’d better not.
“I’m bettin’ that you took a needle and shoved it into those poor bastards.” Jonathan’s fingertips tapped on the photos. “You jammed ’em up with something, some drug, and killed them, and just because the ME can’t find the injection site yet doesn’t mean—”