Banshee Charmer (Files from the Otherworlder Enforcement Agency, #1), Page 2

  I raised my eyebrows. The Otherworlder Enforcement Agency was similar to the FBI in that they were selective in what they investigated. Generally, they took on paranormal-related crimes that crossed state lines or OW cases that needed resources outside of what a standard police department could pull together.

  “So this perp has killed in other jurisdictions?”

  “We think so.”

  “Show me some ID.” I lowered my gun a few more inches and approached him carefully. “Please,” I added, belatedly remembering that being polite to the jerk who broke into my house wouldn’t kill me—but pissing off the OWEA might be the death of my career.

  Raising one empty hand in the air, he leaned forward, reached into his back pocket with the other hand, and pulled out a leather badge and ID holder. He flipped it open and turned it so I could see.

  I took the wallet from his hands and scanned its contents. The dark badge glinted in the low light, and beneath it, nestled in a reflective piece of plastic, was an ID badge. The man’s face grinned at me from behind the plastic, his dark hair and startling eyes clearly visible, even in the crappy ID photo. I shoved my gun into its holster and handed the wallet back to him. Fighting embarrassment, I grabbed the steamy romance novel he’d taken from the stack on the table, and shoved it onto the pile where it belonged.

  “Okay, Agent Byrne, why did you think you needed to break into my house to talk to me about this case? OWEA running on hard times? Can’t afford to supply agents with cell phones anymore?”

  He put his badge away. “I wanted to talk to you tonight. We’re strictly looking at this one on an unofficial basis.” His easy smile disappeared and he shifted on the chair. “In fact, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention the agency’s involvement to anyone just yet.”

  I gave him my best cop stare. “Why come to me? Amanda’s the senior investigator on this.”

  His grin returned. “She wasn’t home yet.”

  Nothing like being the second-best choice. “You’ve got my attention. What are we looking for?”

  “Wish I knew. What we do know is that it has been killing women all over the country for the last two years, at least.”

  I started. How many people had this sicko murdered? “Only women?” I pulled out my notepad and pen and sat down.

  “Yes.”

  “How many?”

  “Twelve that we know of.”

  I whistled under my breath. “Jesus. All…human?”

  “No. Not all.”

  A chill ran down my spine and I looked up from my notepad. “It’s killing otherworlders, too? What kinds?”

  “A selkie and…”

  “And?”

  “A psychic. Not exactly an otherworlder, but close enough. One we’d consulted as a part of our investigation.”

  I set my pen down and leaned across the corner of the table separating us. “You think she was targeted because you talked to her?”

  “Could be the killer thought she knew something. Maybe.”

  “Just the selkie and the psychic?” I picked my pen back up and struggled not to chew on it. A killer targeting otherworlders got under my skin. Not all of us were as powerful as vampires or Covenant witches, but most of us could take care of ourselves pretty well. A killer powerful enough to target OWs wasn’t good.

  “That we know of.”

  “Do you have the files?”

  “I can’t share those with you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m sorry. Look. I would if I could, but I’ll have to get an okay from my boss before I can do that.”

  His smooth, placating tone rubbed me the wrong way, but I didn’t know him well enough to argue with him, even if he was lying. Besides, the OWEA had more bureaucracy in place than the city police.

  “Well, get your permissions quickly. Jurisdictional bull isn’t going to help us bring down this killer before it finds another victim.” I thought about what Agent Byrne had said while a minute or two ticked by on the clock that hung from my dining room wall. Surprisingly he didn’t interrupt.

  “So a killer who targets humans and otherworlders who are as weak as humans. I’d like to see the fucker go after someone who can actually defend herself,” I said, finally.

  “Like a banshee?” His face hardened. “It’s not a good idea to wish for things like that, Kiera.”

  I took a quick breath. So what if he knew about my half-banshee status? It might not be common knowledge, but it was hardly a secret. “Everyone calls me Mac.”

  “I prefer Kiera.” He stared at me until I felt uncomfortable, and looked down. “We don’t even know if they were targeted on purpose. The selkie, anyway. Neither was open about what they were.”

  “Not even the selkie?”

  “She was trying to mainstream. A college student.” He leaned forward and I resisted the urge to move in toward him. “Look. This guy is bad news. At the very least we have a serial killer. One who can kill without leaving a mark. You’re not going to find any poison in your new victim, no other indicators beyond what you saw at the crime scene.”

  “This guy? Do you know something I don’t?”

  He shrugged. “Just going with the odds.”

  I raised an eyebrow. He was probably right. I considered telling him that Amanda was working her mojo on the victim’s hair, but dismissed the idea. No way was I going to share every detail of my investigation with him while he kept his files to himself. “So no marks, no poison. Almost certainly some kind of freak.”

  He grimaced at the normally derogatory term for otherworlders and I realized that he was probably a freak himself. Most OWEA agents were. It gave them a better chance of survival, and normals tended to congregate toward the FBI or other less OW-centric organizations.

  “It’s the only thing that makes sense,” he said.

  “Were they all raped?”

  “We couldn’t confirm rape, but they all had sex shortly before they died.”

  “Confirmation enough for me.”

  …

  I parked in the only free space left adjoining the Medical Examiner’s building. I pulled my jacket tighter, and walked to the front door. Aidan leaned against the gray building. Dark glasses adorned his face, despite the overcast skies. At my approach, he pushed off the wall and flashed me a grin.

  I almost tripped.

  I recovered my footing, and then frowned at him. “What are you doing here?”

  “Helping you investigate, of course. Agencies working together.” He waved his hand around. “All that jazz.”

  “Fine. But you’ll let me do the talking.”

  He gave a mocking bow and gestured for me to go ahead of him into the building.

  The stark decor in Dr. Martinson’s office fit his profession. Gray floors and white walls combined with an old metal desk and black chairs to create an ambiance appropriate for visiting the Medical Examiner. It suited my mood after the embarrassing evening I’d had. There had been no way to recover after Aidan found my romance novel collection. His slight grin reminded me until he left, as if mocking my tough-cop disguise. But it wasn’t a persona, dammit. I’d show him I was more than capable.

  “Doc, surprised to find you in your office,” I said.

  In his mid-fifties, handsome and silver-haired, he looked every bit the distinguished doctor he was and not at all like what most would expect from a man whose job required him to examine the dead.

  He gestured to the chairs in front of his desk and we sat. I pushed down the temptation to glance at Aidan. Something about the man drew my gaze and made me very aware of how much time had passed since my last date.

  Dr. Martinson looked up from the folder he’d been reading and said, “I’m afraid my job is more paperwork than actual work these days. Who’s your fr
iend?”

  “He’s with me. Tagging along.” Not exactly a lie.

  The doctor gave Aidan a quick nod and turned his attention back to me. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

  “Woman brought in last night, Rebecca Anderson. No obvious marks on the body other than bruising.”

  “Coffee?” He gestured toward his door. I’d seen the coffee pot on our way in. It sat on a table in the hallway between the Medical Examiner’s office and the morgue.

  I shook my head. Morgue coffee? No thanks.

  He grabbed a file from the top of his desk and flipped it open. “Anderson. Twenty-three years old. No immediate indicators of cause of death. Initial exam shows sexual activity shortly before she died, bruising on her thighs and wrists.”

  “When’s the autopsy?”

  “Probably get to her tonight or first thing tomorrow morning.”

  I wanted to grumble, but managed to control myself. Pissing off the Medical Examiner, especially in front of an audience, wasn’t a good idea considering how often I had to deal with him. He could make my job a lot harder than it needed to be. I glanced at Aidan, half expecting him to comment. His eyes were on me, intense and focused. My breath caught in my throat. I swallowed and looked down at my hands.

  “Had another death, couple of weeks back. Lot of similarities. Got anything on that one?” I asked, relieved to have a distraction from the intensity of Aidan’s gaze.

  “Name?”

  “Claire Simons.”

  Dr. Martinson pushed his rolling office chair back from his desk and slid over to a filing cabinet. “A couple of weeks, you said?”

  I flipped out my notepad. “Yeah, on the twelfth.”

  “Should still have her paperwork then.” He flipped through the cabinet and then pulled out a file.

  I frowned at the size. I risked a quick glance at Aidan, but his attention was focused on the doctor.

  Dr. Martinson slid back to his desk and opened her folder. He slipped on a pair of reading glasses, and never lifted his eyes from the file. “Got the blood work on her. An autopsy was conducted.”

  “Who was the main on the case?”

  “Joe Agrusa.”

  I snorted. No wonder he’d called us in on the new case. He’d seen it before. “Okay, any highlights?”

  “Twenty-six. Some bruising. Sexual intercourse not long before her death, but no fluids present—he used a condom. No indication of force. Tox reports showed only a small amount of alcohol in her system, no other drugs.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “Unknown.”

  “That’s it? Unknown?”

  “That’s it. We didn’t find anything that indicated cause of death.”

  I sighed. “Great. How about oh-dubs? Any odd energies on the body?”

  “OW procedures weren’t run,” he said, carefully pronouncing each letter of the acronym for otherworlder measures as if the words left a bad taste on his tongue. “There were no indicators of an otherworlder being involved. Her parents said she was fully human and had no involvement with any…OWs.”

  Freaks. Why not say what you mean, doctor? “Okay so there’s no clear COD, but why wouldn’t you run OW procedures?” I copied the doctor’s precise pronunciation, unable to keep the irritation I felt out of my tone. I shot Aidan a glance, but he remained silent, his face as close to expressionless as I’d seen it. A lot of help he was.

  “We don’t run them if we don’t have a reason to. Psychics, sensitives, witches…they’re expensive. Nothing about this body indicated a reason.”

  “Except for the fact she was dead! And not even thirty years old! Jesus, Doc.” I drew up my arm, but managed to stop myself from slamming my fist down on his desk.

  Dr. Martinson whipped the file closed. “I don’t make the rules, Detective. I just follow them.”

  “I’m going to need a copy of that report.”

  Dr. Martinson nodded curtly. He frowned at me and left the office, presumably to find someone to make a copy. So much for not pissing him off.

  As soon as the door clicked shut behind the doctor I turned to Aidan. “What the hell? When did you turn into the strong, silent type?”

  “Didn’t you tell me to let you do the talking?” White teeth flashed as his grin returned. “You seemed to be doing fine on your own. Besides, we learned what we needed.”

  “Oh yeah, what’s that?”

  “That your killer has the same M.O. as mine.” He leaned forward in his chair and swiped a tuft of lint from my jacket.

  I drew in a quick breath and searched my mind for something clever to say. Failing that, I pulled my cell phone from my jacket pocket. Then I tapped my foot. Finally, after the forth ring, Amanda’s voice mail picked up.

  “Hey it’s me.” I glanced at Aidan. “Did you find that thing you needed?” I considered mentioning the OWEA, but decided against it. Some things were better discussed in person, and preferably not in front of Aidan. “Meet me for lunch? Normal spot, noon. Call me if you can’t make it.”

  …

  The doctor returned with the file, a sour expression on his face as he passed it to me. Without looking at the paperwork, I got up from the chair and then nodded at the doctor. Aidan and I stepped out of his dreary office. Halfway down the hall, a woman faced away from us toward the morgue. Great, just what I needed. Given Amanda’s opinion that a succubus could be involved, this woman was almost definitely there for me.

  I looked back at Aidan. His eyes were locked on the woman as well. I started to tell him to close his damned mouth, and then decided against it. Guys couldn’t help staring at this particular woman.

  “I’ll see you later. Errands to run,” Aidan said, surprising me. I’d half expected him to ask about the woman his eyes were still glued to.

  “Whatever,” I murmured to his back. Pivoting, I headed for the morgue.

  I would have recognized the frame of the succubus leaning against the wall anywhere. Marisol Whitfield was nearly as tall as Amanda, maybe five feet nine, and closer to six feet in her conservatively heeled shoes. Despite their similar heights, her well-endowed chest and curvy frame distinguished her from the rest of the police officers on the freak squad, especially Amanda. Where Amanda was hard, Marisol was soft.

  I frowned at her, and she gave me a smug grin.

  “Here to see the doc?” I asked.

  “Nope. Here to see you.” She flipped a long blond lock behind her shoulder with practiced ease and fluttered her sparkling blue eyes at me. She couldn’t help the succubus sex appeal that always draped her, but it irritated me anyway. “Well, here to see a body with you, to be more precise.”

  “Want to get some coffee to go?” I waved at the pot sitting near us in the hallway that led to the morgue.

  Marisol blanched, and the horrified look that briefly crossed her face made me realize I wasn’t the only one who considered morgue coffee to be the most disgusting idea ever. Her expression almost made an errand that was probably a waste of my time worthwhile.

  “Vasquez sent you?”

  She gave me a short nod and her superior grin faded. “I’m to accompany you to the morgue to look at the body. Guess he thinks I can offer a unique point of view.”

  I grimaced, covering my expression with a wave of the folder the doctor had given me with the copies I’d requested. Leave it to Lieutenant Vasquez to send someone to consult just because she happened to be a member of a species who could pull off the murder. Somehow, even after years of working in the paranormal unit, Vasquez couldn’t get the idea out of his head that all of us freaks knew each other. He also seemed convinced we had some sort of extra preternatural sense that allowed us to solve a murder without normal necessities, like evidence.

  We reached the morgue and I wondered if Amanda had filled in the lieu
tenant. It almost certainly hadn’t been Aggie. He talked to the paranormal cops more than the average normal detective, but that didn’t mean he went out of his way to do it. Did Lieutenant Vasquez know everything? Probably, except for the spell Amanda intended to cast using the victim’s hair. Amanda was pretty conscious of keeping every i dotted and t crossed, and that included keeping her boss in the loop.

  Claire Simons’s body had been released to her family, but Rebecca Anderson still rested in the morgue. A somber-faced young man wearing light blue scrubs met us at the entryway. “She’s ready for you. Set up straight through there.”

  I glanced at Marisol, a look she pointedly ignored, and followed her into the room. Rebecca appeared a little worse than she had the night before, even with most of her body covered by a sheet. Her pale skin seemed grayer, and the fluorescent lights dimmed her bright red hair.

  “Guess this is where you use your succubus super sense to figure out if it was one of your kind who did this, huh?”

  The laugh that bubbled out of her chest seemed to surprise her more than it did me, and she went silent after only a few seconds. Her plump, brightly colored lips turned up. A bit less smugness remained than she usually wore when she glanced at me before turning her attention back to Rebecca.

  “Vasquez wants me to look, so that’s what I’m going to do.” She shrugged and placed her hands on the table, and then bent down to examine Rebecca’s face. She tugged the fabric away and moved her eyes across the body, gaze slowing over the bruises on Rebecca’s wrists.

  I felt a momentary pang for Marisol. Vasquez’s lack of knowledge about otherworlders astounded me, considering the fact that he ran the unit responsible for investigating OW-related crimes in the entire Chicago area. Succubi weren’t sensitives and Marisol couldn’t sense anything different than a normal cop examining the victim would, even if a succubus had killed the woman. Succubi, to my knowledge, had two powers. They exuded a sexual vibe—some more subtly than others—and they could pull power from a person they were having sex with. Enough to kill someone, perhaps. Someone like our victims. But they were as sensitive to psychic energy as I was—meaning not at all.

  Her lack of concern over touching the body with her manicured nails surprised me. I crossed my arms and examined the succubus as she examined the victim. I shouldn’t have expected her to be queasy around the dead—she was a cop, after all. The succubus was a detective who had been at the rank longer than I had, though she couldn’t be more than a year or two my senior.