Pure Blood_ A Nocturne City Novel - Caitlin Kittredge [44]
I let my hand be pumped in a carefully calculated not-too-hard grip. Patrick exuded more wattage than a spotlight, although up close I could see the lines of his tan and crow’s feet gathering around his eyes and mouth. He wasn’t as perfect as the cameras would have us all believe.
“We couldn’t be more proud of Shelby,” he said. “And she’s told us some impressive things about you.”
“Uncle Patrick, you can stop selling,” said Shelby. “Luna’s not gonna buy it.”
Patrick laughed, his teeth so white they could have been used as a beacon for small aircraft. “No, I guess you’re right, sweetheart,” he said. To me, “She’s sharp, isn’t she?”
“Oh yes,” I said politely. “Shelby’s been a fine partner.” If fine stood here for irritating and prissy as hell.
“We need you to look at the financial history of a nightclub,” said Shelby. “I can’t tell you why, I’m afraid.”
Patrick held up his hand. “Say no more. Anything you need, kiddo—you know that.”
Shelby shifted uncomfortably standing in front of his desk. I was playing very hard at being relaxed, hands in my jacket pockets, hip cocked. If I had been any cooler I would have whipped out a comb and said “Eeyyyy!”
It was decent cover for the fact that I found Patrick O’Halloran really creepy. He was like a Ken doll, saying the right things at the right time, with the well-cut suits and the silk tie and the gentle handshake.
“The name of the place is Bete Noire,” said Shelby, giving him the address. Patrick pulled up an FTC database window and typed quickly, generating a number. He pressed the intercom button on his phone.
“Vera, can you generate a report for this tax ID, please?”
She burbled something back and he clicked off, lacing his hands behind his head. “It’ll just be a minute. Sit, please. Tell me how things are going at your new assignment.”
“Very well,” said Shelby, subdued. The more Patrick turned up his voltage, the more Shelby retreated. Not that I wasn’t enjoying the quiet.
“How about you, Luna?” said Patrick. “I remember seeing your name in the papers last spring. How are you holding up after having to kill that man?”
I felt a violent twist inside me, and searched Patrick’s eyes for any hint of malicious intent. His plastic sincerity never slipped.
“Well, Patrick,” I said. “I still have nightmares more often than not of seeing a friend get her throat cut and someone I loved nearly die. I wake up screaming, soaked in sweat, tasting Alistair Duncan’s blood. How does it sound like I’m holding up?” I held his pale blue eyes and, just for a second, something flickered there—a short-circuit of the smile and the pat banter that came with being the public face of his family.
“It sounds like you were lucky to get my little niece here to watch your back,” he said finally, the walking-talking-wets-his-pants Ken doll again.
“Lucky isn’t the word I’d use,” I muttered, ignoring Shelby’s mildly horrified expression. The witch had given us what we needed—I didn’t have to pretend to be on my best behavior anymore.
Vera swished through the door, long black pencil skirt and see-through blouse hugging her skeletal frame in all the right places. If I had been a necrophiliac I might have found her quite sexy.
“Thank you, dear,” said Patrick as he took the report, paged through it, and then handed the top sheet to Shelby. I leaned over to face tightly packed columns of information, mostly useless to us, unless we were going to pull an Elliot Ness and bust the owners of Bete Noire for delinquent taxes, of which there were many.
“Primary name on the deed to the property and the business records is the guy we already knew about,” she said. “He didn’t provide any of the personal information that the state requires, so that’s a wash. But here, someone else co-signed a loan five years ago from my uncle’s bank.”
The name was Benny Joubert. The loan officer at the bank had attached a copy of a driver’s license and the