Dark Currents: Agent of Hel Page 3

  “Who got to him first?” I asked softly. “You or the fire department?”

  He shot me a look. “I did.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  A muscle in his chiseled jaw twitched. “I’m sorry I didn’t get there sooner.”

  Pemkowet’s police station is small. We parked the victim’s friends in the front office under the supervision of the night clerk, while Cody ducked into the rear office to change into a spare uniform, summoning me to join him.

  “Listen.” Unbuttoning his shirt, he stripped it off to reveal a lean, muscular torso. A flicker of inappropriate lust stirred in me at the sight of those washboard abs. Apparently even death couldn’t deter the Seven Deadlies in a hell-spawn. And Cody Fairfax had a treasure trail leading from his belly button to parts south. Great, now I’d have that image stuck in my brain. He shook himself all over like a dog, water spraying. “This is serious business, okay? So for now, just keep your mouth shut and take notes.”

  “Okay,” I said mildly. “I’m not an idiot.”

  Cody ran his hands over his damp hair, smoothing it. There was a hot, feral gleam in his topaz eyes. “This could be really, really bad for the community, you understand?” he said in a low voice. “All it takes is one incident to set off a lynch-mob mentality. It’s happened before in other places.”

  “Is that why you’re so . . . private?” I asked.

  He grimaced. “I come from a long line of people who like their privacy.”

  Right, along with hunting illegally in the county woods and game preserves during the full moon. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll do whatever you say. Just don’t mess around with Jen Cassopolis.” I paused. “Unless you really do like her, enough to be honest with her. I mean totally honest. Then it’s none of my business.”

  He shrugged into a dry uniform shirt. “Deal. Now get out of here while I change my pants.”

  We interviewed the victim’s friends separately, hoping to catch them up in any discrepancies; which is to say that Cody interviewed them while I recorded their statements on the department’s only working laptop.

  Mike Huizenga was the first interviewee, a hulking defensive tackle at nearby Van Buren College. He had a broad, doughy face and a shell-shocked look.

  “Just walk me through your evening,” Cody said gently to him. “You said you were barhopping. Where did you start?”

  He rubbed his nose with one fisted hand. “Um . . . well, we did some front-loading, you know? Pounded a couple of six-packs.”

  “Was that at the victim’s parents’ house?” Cody checked himself. “I’m sorry. At Thad Vanderhei’s house?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “The frat house.”

  “Triton House?”

  “Yeah.”

  I knew it by reputation as the base of a hard-partying local fraternity with notoriously dangerous hazing rituals. Even in the summer, Triton House was party central. All three were members, and the kind of guys who were one of the reasons I never went to college.

  According to Mike Huizenga, the three amigos got loaded on cheap beer, then drove down to Pemkowet to pick up drunken tourist chicks. They hit happy hour at the Shoals, where they downed a few more beers, then worked their way around town in a circuit, doing tequila shots at every establishment. No fights among them, no quarrels, just a night that ended in a bad idea and a tragic outcome.

  The second interviewee, Kyle Middleton, told the same story, only the bars were in a different order. He was a skinny, jumpy little guy, someone used to being comic relief, now in over his head. I felt a bit sorry for him, but only a bit. Something was definitely wrong with their stories.

  Cody borrowed the laptop and consulted my notes. “So you ended up at Bazooka Joe’s?”

  “Yeah, I think. That’s what it’s called, right?”

  “And you struck out.”

  “Yeah.” Kyle shrugged. “We struck out.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Not,” I muttered.

  Cody shot me another look, and I shut my mouth. “See, here’s the thing that confuses me, Kyle. Last call’s at two a.m. It was three twenty-four a.m. when you called nine-one-one. What were you guys doing for over an hour?”

  “Oh . . .” Kyle squirmed. “Just screwing around, you know? Thad had a bottle of scotch he took from his parents’ bar. Like a ten-year-old single-malt. Really good stuff. It was his idea to go drink in the gazebo until sunrise. He heard sometimes you can see those, whaddya call ’em, river nymphos at dawn. We got bored waiting. That stupid bet was his idea!” His voice rose and tightened. “It was his idea, okay? I never wanted anyone to get hurt!”

  My tail twitched.

  “Who got hurt, Kyle?” I asked.

  He shut down.

  “Kyle?” Cody asked in a soft voice. “Were you talking about Thad? Or someone else?”

  He looked away. “Can I go home?”

  Cody and I exchanged a glance. “One last question,” he said. “Did you and Mike and Thad go to the Wheelhouse tonight?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?” He held up a plastic evidence bag with a sodden matchbook with the Wheelhouse’s logo on it. “Thad had this in his pocket.”

  Kyle’s eyelids flickered rapidly. “I don’t know anything about it.”

  “Huh.” Cody contemplated the evidence bag. “There’s a phone number written on it. Was there someone in particular Thad was trying to hook up with tonight?”

  “No. I don’t know.” He shrugged. “He must have gotten some girl’s digits in one of the bars.”

  “Why wasn’t he carrying his phone?”

  “I don’t know.” His voice was taut again. “It must have fallen out of his pocket in the river.”

  “He jumped into the river with his phone?” Cody sounded skeptical.

  “I guess. I don’t know! We were drunk, okay?”

  “Can I see your phone?”

  Kyle handed it over. I watched his expression while Cody examined the phone, just as I’d watched Mike Huizenga’s when Cody had gone over the same line of questioning with him. Whatever they were hiding, it wasn’t on their phones.

  “Okay.” Cody returned the phone. “Look, I’m sorry to put you through this, but we have to treat any death very seriously, you understand?”

  There were tears in the kid’s eyes. “It was an accident!”

  “It certainly seems that way.” Cody tapped the evidence bag. “But things aren’t always what they seem in Pemkowet. Isn’t that right, Daisy?”

  A twenty-one-year-old kid had died tonight, and his friends were covering up the truth. It wasn’t hard to access a well of simmering anger. I held Kyle’s gaze, feeling the air pressure in the room change. “It certainly is.”

  “Don’t worry.” Cody rose. “Whatever happened, we’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  Four

  Since Kyle’s parents lived out of state, Mike Huizenga’s parents drove down from Appeldoorn to retrieve both witnesses. They were stalwart descendants of Dutch settlers, rightfully horrified at the death of their son’s friend, wrongfully furious that Mike and Kyle had been detained for questioning.

  “It’s standard procedure, Mr. Huizenga,” Cody said patiently. “We’re very sorry for the Vanderheis’ loss. I’m sure they’d want us to do everything by the book.”

  “Do you think Jim and Sue Vanderhei will take comfort in knowing their son died in this ungodly den of iniquity?” Mrs. Huizenga shouted at him, her chin quivering. “And your response was to harass his grieving friends? I want to file a complaint!”

  “They ought to raze this place to the ground,” her husband muttered.

  Did I mention that Appeldoorn is a highly conservative community that enjoys an extremely uneasy relationship with Pemkowet? Well, it is.

  Unseen by the good Dutch folk, a hint of phosphorescent green flashed in Cody’s eyes. It gave me a private thrill to see him struggle with his temper, and, strangely, I found it calming. Perverse, but true.

&nbs
p; “I’m so very sorry, Mrs. Huizenga,” I said in my most soothing voice. “If you’d like to file a complaint, I’d be happy to help you. I’m sure Chief Bryant would be glad to call you and discuss your concerns in person. But it’s late, and your son and his friend have had a terrible night. I can’t imagine how they’re feeling right now.” I gave them a sympathetic smile. “Maybe it would be best for everyone if you just went home and prayed on it.”

  She hesitated.

  “She has a point.” The husband put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “Let’s get the boys home.”

  The boys nodded with guilt-and-grief-stricken agreement.

  It was a relief to see them go, although I had a bad feeling that we hadn’t heard the last from the parents.

  Cody slumped back into his chair, heaving an exhausted sigh. “Go home and pray on it. That’s rich, coming from you.”

  I perched on a corner of his desk. “You think I can’t talk the talk? You think the words are going to turn into poison in my mouth?”

  There were tired shadows smudged under his eyes, and his bronze-colored hair had dried rumpled, reminding me of the boy on the bus he had once been. “Apparently not.”

  I swung one leg. “I didn’t choose to be what I am any more than you did. It’s what we do with it that matters, right? That’s what my mom always said. Isn’t that why you stood up for me all those years ago?”

  He shook his head. “I hate bullies.”

  Oh.

  “Is that why you became a cop?” I was still curious.

  “In part.” Cody yawned. “Listen, I need you to pull some photos of those kids so I can ask around, see if their story checks out.”

  “Do you think it will?”

  “No. Do you?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “I think they’re lying, but I don’t have the slightest idea why. Do you think they got in a fight or something?”

  “No.” He rubbed his chin, which glinted with stubble. I thought about his treasure trail, and put that thought out of my mind. “We’ll have to wait for the autopsy report to be sure, but I didn’t see any obvious signs of a fight on the body or on the witnesses. No bruised knuckles, no black eyes, no knots or lumps.” He fought to suppress another yawn. “Thing is, I think they were telling the truth about it being an accident. It’s what kind of accident it was that they’re lying about.”

  “You think it could have been a water sprite that drowned him?” I asked slowly.

  “I don’t know.” Cody met my eyes. “It’s the most obvious possibility. Sirens used to lure sailors to their deaths, didn’t they?”

  “At sea, yeah, but we don’t have sirens here. Not in freshwater.” A memory from Mr. Leary’s myth and literature class struck me. “There is one drowning-by-naiad incident on record.”

  “Check it out,” he said decisively. “Have you got an in with them?”

  I made a face. “Not exactly. But I know how to summon them.” Rising and parting the blinds, I peered out the window. “It’s too late today already. Sun’s already rising. Those kids were on the right track; it has to be done at dawn.”

  “What about sunset?”

  “Not here,” I said. “Too many tourists on the river that time of evening. Cody, if it was a drowning-by-naiad, why lie about it?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “What about the number on the matchbook?” I asked.

  His mouth quirked ruefully. “Illegible, all but the first five digits. Water damage. I was hoping to find a partial match in the call log on one of their phones.”

  “No luck?”

  “Nope.” He paused. “Do you have to report this to, ah, the powers that be?”

  “Good question.” I shivered a little. I might be Hel’s liaison, but let’s face it, she’s scary. “I’d rather wait until we know more.”

  Cody nodded. “Your call. Any chance that the chief’s magical watch made a mistake?”

  “It never has before. But for all we know, it’s picking up on the fact that some bogle or puck stole the kid’s phone, and his friends are lying for totally unrelated reasons.”

  An odd look crossed his face. “What would a bogle or puck want with a cell phone?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. For a werewolf cop, he really was surprisingly naive. “They just like messing with mortals. Hell, for all I know, maybe they wanted to hack his Facebook profile.”

  “Huh. Okay.” He pointed at the laptop. “Go ahead and file their statements, and get me those photos from the DMV. I’ll finish up the report. We’ll get a few hours of sleep and start canvassing as soon as the bars open.”

  “We?” It surprised me.

  Cody shrugged. “Chief wants us to work together, and it doesn’t hurt to have a pretty girl on hand when you’re questioning bartenders. They’re going to be paranoid, afraid we’re after them for overserving those kids.”

  “Maybe we should be.”

  “Maybe.” He rasped one hand over his stubbled chin. “But we did find an empty bottle of Macallan at the scene, so that part of their story checks out. They kept drinking after last call.”

  “Yeah, but did the bottle come from the Vanderheis’ bar?” I asked.

  “Good question.” Cody gave me an approving look, which faded quickly. “Not one I look forward to asking the bereaved parents.”

  “No,” I murmured. “I wouldn’t think so.”

  After that exchange, we worked together in silence. I took the opportunity to write up a quick report on the milkweed fairy encounter for the Pemkowet X-Files, which is where I keep records of incidents that are eldritch in nature and don’t exactly fit into the mundane criminal-justice code. That one already seemed as if it had taken place ages ago. By the time we had finished, it was nearly seven in the morning. The rumor mill was in motion and the phone had begun to ring. I felt sorry for the night clerk, and even sorrier for Patty Rogan, the day clerk coming in to replace him in an hour. It was going to be a long, unpleasant day.

  At seven o’clock sharp, the chief lumbered in to conference with us and draft an official statement for the press. He looked haggard and drawn, and I felt sorry for him, too. I wished we had something concrete to tell him, but we didn’t.

  Not yet, anyway.

  It was broad daylight when I left the station. I was tired and my eyes felt gritty. I walked the four blocks to my apartment. Most of the retail shops were still closed, but the bakery was already open, a buzz of speculation spilling through the screen door.

  Speaking of buzzing, my phone was doing just that. As soon as I closed my apartment door behind me, I fished it out of my purse. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Daisy, baby!” Her voice was strained. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Mrs. Browne said you ran out of the apartment at four in the morning.”

  I managed a tired smile. “Do you have her keeping tabs on me?”

  “She cares about you.” A gently chiding note. “A lot of people in the community do. Is this about what happened?”

  “What’s that?”

  Mom lowered her voice. “Sandra Sweddon told me a boy drowned in the river last night.”

  Thad Vanderhei’s lifeless face flashed behind my eyes, his skin blue-gray and mottled. “I can’t talk about it. But I’m fine; I promise. I just need a little sleep.”

  That made her solicitous. “Be careful, sweetheart. Take care of yourself.”

  Have I mentioned that my mom is a totally awesome person, despite having made one really bad life choice? One of the awesome parts is that she never, ever makes me feel that she regrets it.

  “I will.”

  “Come see me when you can. I’ll read the cards for you.”

  I nodded, too tired to remember she couldn’t see me. “I will. That’s a good idea, thanks.”

  “Anytime,” she said before hanging up, blowing kisses into the phone. “Love you always, Daisy, baby.”

  “Me, too.”

  I set my alarm and slept.r />
  Five

  Two hours later, my clock radio blared to life, shouting out tunes from a classic rock station. Not my usual choice of music, but it does the trick. I jolted into wakefulness and slapped it off, then dragged myself into the shower. The hot water invigorated me. I stood naked beneath the spray, twitching my tail back and forth in a luxuriant manner, letting the water wash me clean.

  Okay.

  Fresh jeans and a scoop-necked T-shirt, check. Cereal for breakfast, check. Call in vain for Mogwai and fill his bowl, check.

  I was meeting Cody at the station at eleven o’clock a.m. That gave me twenty minutes to run an errand.

  Plenty of time. Or, at least, it would have been if Casimir had what I needed.

  The Fabulous Casimir—I think he’d trademarked the name—was our resident head witch and the proprietor of Sisters of Selene, Pemkowet’s local occult store. He was as shrewd as he was flamboyant, and his affinity for cross-dressing had roots in a number of shamanic traditions; although, truth be told, I think he probably would have done it anyway. I’d done business with him a number of times. In fact, the watch I’d bought the chief came from his shop. He greeted me effusively when I entered, the chimes on the door ringing. “Daisy, dahling! It’s too horrible for words! Tell me, is it true?”

  I blinked, still a bit sleep-deprived. “Is what?”

  Blinking back at me with long artificial lashes, he lowered his voice. “The Vanderheis’ oldest son?” He drew one manicured forefinger across his throat. “Last night? He went glug-glug?”

  Anger rose in me, setting the door chimes to shivering faintly. “For God’s sake, Cas! It’s not a joke!”

  He looked contrite. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it was. So it is true?”

  I sighed. “Yes. And I need a strand of freshwater pearls.”

  Casimir shook his turbaned head. “Don’t keep them in stock, dahling. Sorry. Try the bead shop down the street. They’re damn near putting me out of business. Stupid mundanes, don’t know quality from crapola.”

  “Will they work?” I asked him. “For a summoning?”