Chapter 7

Ch. 7: Dane

Julian picks up on the tension through our bond, and halfway to the station, he breaks the silence that's fallen between us on the drive.

"How does a body disappear?" he asks.

I glance over at him, then back at the road. "Given that Coleridge wants to talk to us about it, I'm guessing not one of the more usual ways. The more important questions are who made it happen, and why."

"Hm," Julian muses. "Well, even in this town, I doubt he got up and walked away on his own."

At the station, I park in a visitor spot and spend half a minute staring at the front of the building, momentarily lost in time. I hadn't worked here all that long; but while I had, I'd spent more time here than at the tiny apartment I'd called home. It's weird seeing it from this side, and I have no idea what kind of reception we'll get.

The answer is, not much of one.

A bored-looking woman I don't recognize hands us a pair of visitor badges after verifying our IDs, and we take the elevator up to the second floor. The doors open to reveal a large space lined with about a dozen cubicles, with a wide aisle down the center. The whole place is in commotion, with people talking, phones ringing, paper fluttering, keyboards clacking, and printers whirring. No one pays any attention as we navigate the chaos.

At the opposite end of the aisle, an open door leads to a glass-fronted private office in which Coleridge sits behind a forward-facing desk working on a computer. Her usually crisp appearance is frayed around the edges, and the takeout boxes in the trash tell me she hasn't left the office in a while. She looks up and beckons as we approach.

"Shut the door and have a seat," she says, gesturing at two chairs before her desk.

We obey, and Coleridge finishes typing something before she turns her full attention to us.

"I've got a shit-show on my hands and about a dozen fires to put out, so I'll keep this brief," she says. "Lagrange's body was picked up from the morgue this morning. The autopsy had yet to be performed, and I've just had word it's been destroyed."

"Destroyed?" Julian echoes.

"Cremated," Coleridge clarifies, "as per the deceased wishes—wishes that were not to be fulfilled until after the medical examiner had finished her exams."

"A mix-up?" I suggest.

Coleridge nods. "Apparently. But 'mix-ups' like this just don't happen. It's not as if the toe-tags got switched and Lagrange starred in some other poor schmuck's funeral. All the paperwork is in order. It's as if a series of perfect miscommunications led to the perfect mistake. No one is directly at fault. It's almost like..."

"A conspiracy," I say.

"A word I like to avoid, but yes," Coleridge agrees, leaning back in her chair with her hands clasped.

"All right. So, what's it got to do with us?" Julian asks.

She regards him for a moment without answering, looking tense as a gambler about to make a risky bet. Then she takes a breath and leans forward, all in.

"Look—weird shit happens in this town," she says. "And yeah, weird shit happens in every town, but the shit here is different. I used to be as skeptical as they come, but I can't just dismiss things out of hand anymore, and my instinct tells me this case is the kind of weird shit the two of you are best equipped to deal with."

She looks at each of us in turn.

"You've proven your abilities often enough, Hart. And I don't know what your deal is, Hunter, but I know there's more to you than meets the eye. I don't know what happened last year, and I won't ask; but dedicated, seasoned detectives don't just take a six-month leave of absence and then retire for no reason. My gut tells me you don't just see the weird shit; you're part of it."

She pauses for breath, and I watch her warily.

"So, you tell me." She spreads her hands in a gesture of supplication. "Do I have a simple case of widespread incompetence here, or is there something more at play? Do I have nothing to worry about, or do I introduce you to the team? Just remember—" She holds up a finger. "I will take whatever you tell me as the truth, because I trust you—both of you."

Julian and I share a look. I sense curiosity, courage, and a slight sense of challenge through our bond. He's as unsure as Coleridge if I'll take the case.

I raise a brow at him, pull the ticket Erickson had written me from my pocket, unfold it carefully, and slide it across the desk.

"Take care of this, and we're in," I say.

Coleridge picks it up, brows cinched, and takes her time reading it. Finally, she raises her eyes, a deadly serious expression on her face.

"Consider it done," she says. "Monica Vasquez and Rian Halloran are the leads on this one. Vasquez, you know; Halloran joined us a few weeks ago. They're out at the moment, but they'll be at Lagrange's service on Sunday. I'll tell them to expect you there. In the meantime, welcome aboard."

***

"What changed your mind?" Julian asks, as we drive home once more.

Coleridge had briefed us on the case, given us what information she could share, and introduced us to the rest of the department. About half of the faces I'd recognized; the other half were new. Somewhere along the way, Coleridge had also revealed this wasn't the first time she'd asked me to join the team, and I'd sensed surprise and annoyance from Julian.

"What do you mean?" I return, playing for time.

"You obviously didn't want to take this case," he says. "So, what changed?"

"Besides the fact Coleridge made it hard to say no... duty."

"Duty? To what? You're not a—"

"I know I'm not a cop anymore," I say, with a little more bite than I intend, and consciously soften my tone. "I'm not a cop, but I'm still a Wolf, and I'm still an alpha."

Julian sighs. "What does that mean?"

"It means that if I take Spring Lakes as my territory, it's my duty to protect the land and those who live here from non-human threats—things like rogue wolves and other hostile Shifters."

"I thought this was your territory?"

I shake my head. "Not officially. Not yet. But... it will be if I claim it."

Rubbing the spot between his brows, Julian says, "Okay. How do you 'claim' territory? You just stick your 'Wolf flag' in the ground and say it's yours?"

This isn't how I'd envision this conversation happening. In my version, there was dinner and maybe a drink or two involved, and I take a breath to think about my answer before I speak.

"No. We don't 'own' it or take it away from anyone else. We... bond with it. The land grants the alpha greater strength and power, and in return, the alpha protects the land—with his life. And unless I gave it up, I wouldn't be able to leave the land for long periods. As my mate, you'd be bound here, too."

"And I'm only hearing about this now because...?"

I chew my bottom lip. "I was afraid you'd say no; that you wouldn't understand."

He sighs. "You're right. I don't understand. I'll never completely understand what it means to be a Wolf. But I don't need to—just like you don't need to completely understand what it's like to be Fae. That's okay, Dane. We don't need to completely understand each other to love and support each other."

I reach across the seat for his hand, but he withdraws it.

"You're right about my answer, too," he says. "It's no—for now. Ask me again when you trust me enough to know my answer's changed."

I don't completely understand this riddle, but as Julian said, that's all right; and for the moment, I let it lie.

A few minutes later, I break the silence again. "You remember what I told you about Wolves and other Shifters having networks? People at different levels and in different professions, who protect the community at large?"

He nods. "Yeah?"

"What happened with Lagrange's body has all the hallmarks of that. Someone didn't want his body autopsied and made sure it wasn't. People with the right power, in the right positions, can make things like that happen—governments, organized crime. But my money's on Shifters."

"Wait—you think Lagrange was a Shifter?" His voice rises half an octave with surprise. "And wouldn't Chloe know?"

"Maybe. Shifter clans are much more loosely organized than Wolf packs. A clan leader is like a mayor: most people in town know who the mayor is, but the mayor doesn't know everyone in town. Still, we'll ask; if she doesn't know, she'll know who might."

***

Chloe is the accidental head of the local Shifter clan. She'd grown up with no clue she had such connections, and had come to Spring Lakes in search of a father she'd never met. Through no fault of her own, the reunion had sent her father, Henry Foley, on a killing spree, with Julian as the ultimate target. After Henry's death, Chloe inherited a sizeable chunk of land and a boatload of strange responsibilities.

She'd proven adaptable and resilient, and despite her quiet nature, was a strong and level-headed leader; so when Julian, Ingrid and I join her and her girlfriend, Grace, for dinner the next day, I tell her about our disappearing body problem.

"Any chance there's a Shifter involved?" I ask, helping myself to more chili and another corn muffin.

"It certainly sounds that way," Chloe says, blinking wide, blue eyes at me. Like the rest of her family, she has bright red hair and freckles. "I didn't know Lagrange, but I can ask around. And Grace can check the database."

"Database?" Julian asks.

Grace, his longtime best friend, grins. She has short black hair, dark brown skin, and a movie-star face. She's not a Shifter or anything unusual, herself, but she is a librarian.

"I'm building it," she says. "Maybe in the old days, clan leaders could keep all the information in their heads—who's who, and who's what, and so on—but the population's too big now. We need modern solutions to modern problems."

"Isn't that dangerous?" Ingrid asks. "What if someone hacked it?"

Grace shrugs. "It's double encrypted, password protected, and stored on a hard-drive on a computer that isn't connected to the Internet. It's safer than your bank account, and probably safer than information stored in your own head—the computer won't forget or recall things incorrectly. Here—I'll show you."

Grace rises and beckons, and the rest of us follow her from the dining area and through the living room of the large farmhouse she shares with Chloe. She leads us down the hall to a home office and game room. Grabbing a laptop from a shelf by her desk, she plops down in the center of the old couch before a TV and game console, and lifts the lid.

"First level of protection," she says, and enters a lengthy password to sign in. When the desktop loads, she clicks an icon and enters another password in a pop-up box. "And second."

A window opens, revealing a bare-bones database interface, with a search box and a few options for parameters.

"Alright. Lagrange..." Grace types in the name and hits the enter key. "No results. What else should I try?"

We run through a few variations and the names of the other shop owners, but turn up nothing.

"Oh, well," Grace sighs. "It's still a work-in-progress."

"I doubt that's the problem," I say. "Even the police hardly turned up more."

Chloe nods. "You can only collect information if it's available. It's tradition for Shifters to make themselves known to the clan leader, but not all abide by tradition."

Grace gives her girlfriend an encouraging smile. "We'll keep working on it," she promises. "We'll let you know what we find."

***

The morning of Lagrange's funeral dawns bright and clear. The publicly posted notice included an open invitation to anyone who knew him and wished to pay respects, so Julian and I dress up in black and drive across town to the cemetery with the hope we'll find some new leads among the other attendees.

As we walk up the sloping grass towards the small gathering of mourners, two approaching figures move to intercept.

One I recognize as Monica Vasquez—a level-headed detective I'd worked with a few times in the past. The other I assume is Rian Halloran.

"Vasquez. It's been a minute," I say, extending my hand.

She takes it in a firm grip, and a warm, genuine grin lights her face. "Hunter—I've missed you in the gym. No one else can keep up with my sets."

I laugh, remembering how we used to team up and spot one another on the weights. Monica lifts competitively, and it shows. Short and stocky, with long black hair she wears in a braided bun, she has high cheekbones, sparkling black eyes, bronze-toned skin, and a wide, white smile.

She turns this on Julian next, eyes lit with good-natured humor.

"And Hart. How's the psychic business?"

Julian doesn't answer, and when I glance over at him, I see he's staring at Vasquez's companion with an expression of ill-concealed shock. I look the man over again, wondering if I've missed something, but I don't recognize him. He's blandly handsome, with blue eyes, dark hair, fair skin, and a more expensive style than a detective's salary typically allows. Other than that, though, he's unremarkable.

"Rian Halloran," he says, extending a strong, well-manicured hand towards Julian with a sparkling smile. "A pleasure."