Pure Blood_ A Nocturne City Novel - Caitlin Kittredge [38]
“What was that?” I asked when she came back, brushing her hands together like she’d dirtied them.
“That was a mistake,” she said shortly.
“This whole night was a mistake,” I said. It’s not every evening that I get beaten up inside a giant cage and find out the only person I’ve cared about in quite some time is shacked up with an Eastern European Were-Playmate. Yeah, this was definitely in the top ten of Luna’s Worst Nights Ever.
“I may have something to cheer you up,” said Shelby tentatively. I twisted my sweaty, tangled hair into a bun and gestured for her to talk. If she was talking I wouldn’t be thinking of eighteen creative ways to kill Dmitri and Irina with my bare hands.
“This club only has one owner of record,” said Shelby. “But if the Blackburn kid worked here and drugs are flowing in and out, maybe we can track the money.”
“Nice thought,” I said, “but somehow I don’t think Narcotics will welcome us onto their turf with open arms.” The guys in Narcotics were a squirrelly bunch. They had access to more federal databases than Homicide, but they were stingy and always acted like they were doing you a favor by letting you peek. And half of them were wannabe DEA agents who screamed if you so much as breathed on something they considered their case.
Shelby flipped a hand. “Who said anything about Narcotics? My uncle Patrick will help us. My family’s corporation can access anything the department can.”
I knew that, as did anyone who occasionally glanced at a newspaper. Patrick O’Halloran was the public face of the O’Halloran Group. He was always showing up on CNN to babble about the stock market. On television, I found him smarmy.
“He’d be happy to do it,” said Shelby. “I’m his favorite niece.”
I just bet she was. Another witch that I’d have to pretend to be polite to and end up owing something.
Then again, he was definitely a notch above a sweaty Narcotics detective wearing too much cologne. “I don’t think he’d be able to do much good without relevant details,” I said. “We can’t tell him we’re investigating drug money. We can’t tell him we’re investigating a drug-related death. Hell, we can’t even tell him it’s a death, period. You know what McAllister would say about leaking details to civilians.” More like, what Mac would yell and throw across the room if he found out.
“He’ll keep it in strictest confidence,” said Shelby, and when I opened my mouth to argue, she continued, “It’s too late—I already called him and made an appointment for us tomorrow.”
I glared at her. “This may not matter to the star of the Vice squad, but I don’t have a lot of room to bend rules lately.”
“You worry too much,” said Shelby. “Go home and get a decent night’s sleep. You look like Courtney Love after a three-night bender.”
“You look like June Cleaver on speed.”
She flashed me an irritatingly perky smile and went to her car. “Eleven o’clock sharp tomorrow! Meet me at the O’Halloran Building.”
I watched her taillights disappear around the corner. A van loaded with patrons arrested inside the club followed her a few minutes later, bound for the Las Rojas County jail. These dead junkies were turning into a full-blown investigation. I could just imagine Matilda Morgan’s eye twitching as she read Shelby’s and my reports.
A cold mist was blowing, stinging my face with tiny droplets of chill, but I didn’t get in the Fairlane and go home like good sense dictated.
I thought if I just waited long enough he’d come out of the alley and wrap his arms around me and explain that it had all been a terrible misunderstanding. But he didn’t, and I was sitting there alone letting the cold sink into me and numb my wounds long after everyone else had left the scene.
Bete Noire’s pink neon sign blinked off as the last patrol officers strung tape over the door and padlocked it. A few lights still gleamed in the apartments