Ari sat up straighter. Dog or werewolf? Angela didn’t own a dog. And given Andreas’s description of the woman at the club, werewolves suddenly seemed a real possibility. She knew DNA tests wouldn’t hold the answer. Wolf and dog hairs were too similar to be distinguished without the follicles: an interesting fact Ari’s forensics instructor would be surprised she remembered. He’d always complained her frequent looks out the window meant she wasn’t paying attention.
“It doesn’t have to be a wolf,” she cautioned. “Maybe our victim had a dog in the past. Or she has a friend with a dog. Simpson would know.”
Ryan made the call. Before he disconnected, he’d already given her the thumbs-up. “No dog. Not allowed in the building. I think we have a solid lead. Now what the hell do we do with it? How do we find a werewolf, Ari?”
“Let me work on that while you follow the drugs.”
“Works for me. This Fantasy has been popping up all over the city. Heard it creates the illusion of anything you desire. Kind of like an internal virtual reality. Want to experience being a rock star? Want to know what it’s like to date Angelina Jolie? You got it. Anything you can imagine.”
“Angelina Jolie? Is she what you’d want?” Ari teased. “Your dream date?”
“What sane guy would turn her down? Hey, if I was into the drug scene, it might tempt me.”
Ari laughed. “You’re full of surprises. Just think of all those other secret fantasies out there. That translates into cash for the dealers, uber profits. Maybe Angela got in over her head. Or she ripped off a supplier.”
“That’d get her killed, all right. I’ll dig around. In the meantime,” Ryan said, getting to his feet, “let’s search her apartment again. Before we release the scene, I’d like another shot at finding drugs or drug money. Maybe we missed something.”
They’d been in Angela’s stuffy apartment for almost an hour with little to show for their efforts except a lot of dust bunnies under the bed.
“She sure had a bunch of face junk.” Ryan was going through Angela’s vanity. “What does this contraption do?” He held up an eyelash curler for Ari’s inspection.
She pantomimed its use. “Don’t you have sisters?”
“Nope. Three brothers. None of this girlie paraphernalia.”
“More used to jock straps and smelly socks, huh? And Playboy mags under the mattress.”
“What makes you think they’re under the mattress?”
“Younger brother. You think sisters don’t know these things?” Ari opened another drawer. “She liked expensive lingerie.” She held up a red, lacy gown, tucked it back in, and gave the drawer a shove. It stuck. She yanked it out, and tried again. And again it stuck. This time she took the drawer out and looked in the back. Something was hanging from the top.
“Now what’s this?” she said, catching Ryan’s attention. She reached in, pulled off two strips of masking tape, and retrieved a solid bundle. No lacy stuff this time. It was a roll of hundred dollar bills.
Ryan counted twelve hundred. Quite a stash for a girl to keep in her undies drawer, but if she was selling drugs, shouldn’t there be more? Thousands more. And where were the drugs?
As they talked it over, their elation faded. Finding the roll of cash hadn’t gotten them any closer to a suspect. It raised more unanswered questions. Without anybody left to question, where did they go for the answers?
Chapter Nine
Sunday morning broke gray and cloudy, foreshadowing the storm about to crack open over their heads. Ari’s first thought was to roll over and catch another hour. But Great-Gran’s words to a sleepy child still played in her head, “Late in bed, early dead.” Not exactly a suitable childhood rhyme, unless you were a Guardian in training.
As she woke her muscles with a brisk run through the park, Ari mulled over the leads they had, focusing on the two she needed to follow: contact Victor to see what, if anything, he knew about the money or drugs, and find the thirty-something woman who came to Club Dintero with Angela. If Andreas was right about the woman’s species, and Ari had no reason to doubt him, Steffan, the werewolf representative on the Magic Council, topped the list of people to see.
As frequently happened, the werewolf’s name brought a grin to her face. Steffan. Wolf. A word play too obvious to miss. Ari chuckled and lengthened her stride to match the tune now running through her head.
By mid-afternoon she’d cleared up some routine matters for the Council and left a message for Victor to call. Since the vampires wouldn’t be awake for hours, she moved to her next task. Finding Steffan was easy.
Ari parked her Mini Cooper in front of Steffan’s suburban home. When she heard laughter from the back yard, she found him sweating it out in a volleyball game with a mixed company of friends, including half a dozen shirtless guys. Her day was looking up already. A beer keg stood at the far end of the net. Judging by the level of laughter, the missed shots, and werewolves’ great tolerance for alcohol, she assumed they’d been at this a long time.
“Hey! How could you have a party without me?” she called.
Steffan, one of the shirtless guys, turned at the sound of her voice. “Ari! Come join us!”
“Love to, but I’m a working girl today,” she yelled back.
He tossed the ball to a buddy, grabbed a T-shirt from the ground, and pulled it over his head as he sauntered toward her. The casual observer would never guess Steffan was a werewolf. He was a cool, jazzy, redhead with burnished copper locks and beautiful long eyelashes. His sociable personality made him a people magnet. Women longed to marry him, or at least take him to bed, and guys sought him as a friend. A party person, a bender of rules, and the last guy you would picture involved with the serious business of the Magic Council. It seemed equally unlikely you’d find him howling at the moon.
Steffan wasn’t a natural born. During college, he’d fallen in love with a werewolf. She also had a wolf lover who resented the competition; he attacked Steffan and left him bleeding in the woods. The girlfriend found Steffan in time to save his life, but he was infected with lycanthropy. Ironically, their relationship didn’t survive his transformation, and the girlfriend returned to her original lover.
Somehow, Steffan hadn’t turned bitter. He embraced his new strength, his self-healing, the pack life and even the monthly run in the woods. He’d quickly risen through the ranks of his pack and was elected to represent them on the Magic Council. Ari and Steffan met shortly after that and had now been friends for six years. He was one of the Council’s hardest working members. He chaired two committees and was the chosen go-to guy for unusual or complicated problems that involved any of the lycanthrope families.
Ari and Steffan greeted each other with a hug of mutual affection. They hadn’t had a chance to talk for five or six months except at Council meetings, so it took a few minutes to catch up. Finally Ari got down to business and asked about new wolves in town.
“French-speaking women,” she specified.
“Well, that does narrow the field.” Steffan pursed his lips. “Interesting you should ask. We’ve got our eyes on a possible pack right now. Canadians. Strangers pass through the area all the time. When they settle in but shun the rest of us, I get worried.” He waved a hand toward the keg. “How about a beer while we talk? At the house. Where it’s more private.”
Ari waited on the wooden deck while he collected their drinks. She leaned on the rail, watching the wolves’ festivities, a pack party to celebrate a member’s promotion in his day job. Ari felt a brief pang of envy at their easy camaraderie. Someone always at your back. A Guardian’s life was so often solitary.
Steffan returned and handed her a beer. Cold and bitter, just the way she liked it.
He leaned one arm on the deck rail. “About four months ago a pack, maybe ten or twelve men and women, moved in from Canada. They’re staying in an old house at 13th and Vine. Leader’s name is Louie Molyneux. Tough-looking thug. Pack’s not friendly, at least not with us, but so far no trouble either. No visible employment. At night they hang out at the vamp clubs. It’s off behavior but not necessarily bad.”
“So why are you watching them?”
Steffan slowly shook his head. “Beats me. But I’m not the only one feeling uneasy. My pack mates are talking about it, asking questions. No one has seen this group on night runs or in furry form. Almost like they want to hide the fact they’re werewolves. Can people in Canada be so naive they don’t recognize a wolf?” He rubbed his nose and grinned. “It smells wrong. I’ve even wondered if the missing red wolf from Goshen Park isn’t part of the pack. Anyway, I’d bet money that’s where you’ll find your French-speaking woman.” He downed the rest of his beer in one long swallow.
Ari’s interest sparked when he mentioned Goshen Park. This was a pack she’d like to visit. “Any suggestions on how to approach them?”
“Don’t go alone. Can’t your police buddies call the she-wolf down to the station?”
“How? They have all these legal rules. And we don’t even have a name. Besides, I’m beginning to think I need to get a look at the entire pack.”
He shrugged. “Then some of us will go to the house with you.”
Ari thought about it. She might get a foot in the door, but she’d sure spook the Canadians. She’d hate to have them run before she knew if they were guilty of anything. “Thanks, but it feels too early for a showdown. Now that I think about it, I’d rather not do this on their turf at all. Not if I can think of another way. I’ll stay in touch.” She reacted to his quick frown. “Don’t worry, Steffan, I’ll figure it out. But thanks. And thanks for the beer. Sorry I interrupted your game.”
“We’ve got all night. Yard lights. Come back later when you’re not on the job.”
“I’ll try.”