Hard Bitten - Chloe Neill [77]
At my grandfather’s gesture, I took a seat. The door opened just as he took the chair beside me. A man—tall, dark-skinned, and wearing a pin-striped suit—walked inside and closed the door. He had a yellow notepad and a pen in hand, and he wore his badge on a chain around his neck.
“Arthur,” my grandfather said, but Arthur held out a hand before my grandfather could stand up in greeting.
“Don’t bother on my account, Mr. Merit,” Arthur said, exchanging a handshake with my grandfather. Then he looked at me, a little more suspicion in his eyes. “Caroline Merit?”
Caroline was my given name, but not the name I used. “Call me Merit, please.”
“Detective Jacobs has been in the vice division for fifteen years,” my grandfather explained. “He’s a good man, a trustworthy man, and someone I consider a friend.”
That was undoubtedly true given the respectful glances they shared, but Detective Jacobs clearly hadn’t made up his mind about me. Of course, I wasn’t here to impress anyone. I was only here to tell the truth. So that’s what I tried to do.
We reviewed what I’d seen at the rave, what I’d learned from Sarah, and what I’d seen tonight. I didn’t offer analysis or suspicions—just facts. There was no need, no reason that I could imagine, to insert Celina or GP drama into events that were already dramatic enough.
Detective Jacobs asked questions along the way. He rarely made eye contact as we talked, instead keeping his eyes on his paper as he scribbled notes. Much like his suit, his handwriting was neat and tidy.
I’m not sure he was any less suspicious by the end of my spiel, but I felt better for having told him. He might have been human, but he was also careful, analytical, and focused on details. I didn’t get the sense this was a witch hunt, but rather his earnest attempt to solve a problem that just happened to involve vampires.
Unfortunately, he didn’t have any information about V or where it might be coming from. Like Catcher had said, as the third-biggest city in the country, Chicago wasn’t exactly immune from drug problems.
Detective Jacobs also didn’t share any strategies with me, so if he had plans to do his own infiltrating, I wasn’t aware of it. But he did give me a card and asked me to call him if I discovered anything else, or if I had anything I thought he could help with.
I doubted Ethan would want me involving veteran CPD vice detectives in the investigation of our drug problem.
But that’s why I’d been named Sentinel, I thought, tucking the card into my pocket.
Ethan sat in a plastic chair in the hallway. He was bent over, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. He tapped his thumbs together, his blond hair tucked behind his ears. It was the kind of pose you’d have seen on a family member in a hospital waiting room—tired, tense, anticipating the worst.
His head lifted at the sound of my boots on the tile floor. He stood up immediately, then moved toward me. “You’re all right?”
I nodded. “I’m fine. My grandfather thought it would be better to get the story from me.”
“It seemed like the fairest decision,” said a voice behind me.
I glanced back to see my grandfather moving down the hall toward us. Ethan extended his hand. “Mr. Merit. Thank you for your help.”
My grandfather shook his hand, but he also shook his head. “Thank your Sentinel. She’s a fine representative of your House.”
Ethan looked at me, pride—and love?—in his eyes. “We’re in agreement there.”
“I’m tired,” I said, “and I don’t have a car. Could we go back to the House?”
“Absolutely.” Ethan’s gaze shifted to my grandfather. “Did you need anything else from us?”
“No. We’re done for now. Enjoy the rest of your night—to the extent possible.”
“Unlikely,” I said, patting his arm. “But we’ll do the best we can.”
But before we could take a step toward the exit, the doors at the end of the hallway pushed open. Tate walked through, followed by a squadron of suit-clad assistants. They looked drowsy, and I sympathized; it was a crappy job that required hangers-on to wear suits at five fifteen in the morning.
Tate strode