Dead Waters - Anton Strout [13]
“Wow,” I said, spitting my words out in his face. “An idle threat.”
“Simon,” the Inspectre interrupted. There was a warning in his tone. “That is conduct unbecoming a member of the Department, not to mention one from the Fraternal Order of Goodness.”
I felt my anger twist into embarrassment, wishing it wasn’t all happening in front of Jane. She must have sensed it because she squeezed my hand and gave me a thin smile. “Sorry, sir,” I said.
Davidson looked around the group of us like he was king of the hill. “May I continue?”
“By all means,” the Inspectre said.
Davidson jerked his thumb toward Jane and looked at Inspectre Quimbley. “You mind if I grab her as well?” I felt a weird flare of jealousy, and tried to damp it down. I still couldn’t shake Cassie’s feelings.
“Jane?” the Inspectre asked, his eyebrows rising. “Whatever for?”
Davidson ran his eyes up and down her. Despite his usual politician’s polish, he almost looked lascivious when he did it, or at least that was what the twinge of jealousy I felt from the tattooist was telling me. I pushed it down.
“We could use a woman’s touch on this case,” Davidson said.
Jane squeezed my hand. Hard. “Wow,” Jane said. “Sexist much?”
“No kidding,” I said. I put myself between the two of them, as protective jealousy rose up in me. “And why’s that exactly?”
Davidson held his arms up, hands open and empty. “Easy, Mr. Canderous,” he said. “I’m just saying we might need someone with her particular assets.”
I turned to the Inspectre. “Sir?”
The Inspectre hesitated, and then gave a slow, stern nod.
“You want to tell us what’s up?” Connor said, still seated.
Davidson’s smile faltered. “I’m not really sure yet,” he said. “We’ve got a crime scene. The regular cops who showed up on the scene wouldn’t say. They just called it in to my department and left it at that. Whatever it is, though, they want nothing to do with it and when a call comes in on something like that, well. . . it’s usually something in your realm of expertise. We’ve got a dead teacher on our hands.” Davidson pulled out a small notebook and flipped it open. “A Professor Mason Redfield.”
“Mason?” the Inspectre asked. The color drained from his face as if he was seeing a ghost. “A gentleman around my age?”
“I’d say so,” Davidson said. “Not nearly as lively as you, clearly. You know him?”
The Inspectre stared off across the room, lost in thought, and gave a slight nod. “I did,” he said. “Long ago.”
“So, I can have a few of your people?” he asked.
The Inspectre nodded again, his face sad and distracted. “Take whoever you need,” the Inspectre said, and then turned to me. “You take point on this.”
I looked over at Connor, but he didn’t seem to mind. “Are you sure, Inspectre?” I asked.
“Very,” he said, his face dead serious now.
“Great,” Davidson said, trying to speed things along. He gestured toward the exit. “I think Simon, Connor, and Jane should cover it. Shall we?”
My eyes stayed on the Inspectre. I had never seen him so unnerved before.
“Go,” the Inspectre said, closing the folders in his hands. “I’ll let Director Wesker know that Jane went with you. He won’t be too pleased that I allocated one of his people to Davidson, but there are some perks to being the senior ranking officer around here, I suppose.”
“I’ll try to return them in one piece,” Davidson said, the sparkle returning to his smile. “Promise. I have a police van waiting outside. It will spare you having to cab it back uptown. I know how tight you folks are for cash around here.”
Connor stood up and brushed past Davidson, heading for the front door of the café. “Don’t get too toothy there, smiley,” he said to me. “I call shotgun.” Davidson started after him.
“Dammit!” I said. “I wanted shotgun.”
“Fine by me,” Jane said. She took my hand and ran off after them, practically dragging me. “I call flamethrower.”
4
Davidson drove while the rest of us rode in the back of the police van in silence. Jane leaned her head