Human Nature (world of the lupi) Read online

  “We traditionally bequeath the clan its drei.”

  “I thought the drei was like an income tax.”

  “It’s more of a tithe, but it also means any percentage of our personal wealth given to the clan. With an estate, it can be anything from ten percent to one hundred percent.”

  “But that isn’t mentioned in the will.”

  “Traditionally, no. For centuries we’ve been careful not to leave a trail to our Rho in public records, and wills are public documents. Most lupi leave their estates to a clan member—a family member, if possible. Someone who will follow their private wishes, which they register with their Rho. Steve left his estate to Jason, but Jason won’t retain all of it. Half will go to Nokolai.”

  By Nokolai, he meant his father. A clan’s Rho owned all the clan’s common property. As far as human law was concerned, Isen Turner was a very wealthy man. “I thought Steve lived publicly as a lupus.”

  “He did.” Rule smiled. “When I made my public bow as Nokolai heir, Steve announced himself, too. That was his way of saying he stood by me. We weren’t as close as we’d once been, but he stood by me.”

  “If he was known to be lupus, why the secret arrangements with his Rho?”

  “Habit. Tradition. A disinclination to mess with the paperwork involved.”

  “As far as the local police are concerned, then, Jason Chance inherits everything.”

  His lip curled with scorn. “We don’t kill for money.”

  “The local cops won’t accept that as a given, and lupi do kill for other reasons. You seem pretty sure Chance didn’t do it. How do you know?”

  Rule shrugged. “How do we know anything about anyone? This would be wildly out of character for him. Jason’s a calm soul, a beta with little interest in status. He’d be moved to violence only if there was an immediate threat. But to be sure, I’ll ask him.”

  He meant that. He would ask Chance if he’d killed Hilliard, and if Chance denied it, Rule would believe him. That wasn’t some bullshit belief in Chance’s honesty. Rule claimed that no clan member could successfully lie to his Lu Nuncio.

  “Earlier,” Rule said, “you took my hand even though you were angry with me.”

  “I was pissed at you, not Nokolai. Wouldn’t be good for the clan if you freaked out on an airplane.”

  He smiled slowly. Fully. “What color are they?”

  “They?”

  He stroked his thumb along the skin between her thumb and finger. “I didn’t watch you dress this morning. What color are they?”

  Oh. She smiled. “Leopard.”

  3

  MORGUES in California are as chilly as those in other parts of the country. Lily was glad for her jacket—the one she hadn’t gotten blood on yesterday—as she studied the pale body of a man who looked about thirty.

  Caucasian, brown and blond, weight maybe one-eighty carried on a five-foot ten-inch frame. Steve Hilliard had been built like a fullback, with streaky blond hair and the sort of face that gets called all-American…if you think of Americans in terms of an all-white, Andy Griffith Show cast.

  He was clean-shaven, which was typical for a lupus; Rule’s father was the only one she could think of offhand who wore a full beard. No visible scars. Also typical, since lupi heal without producing scar tissue…unless the injury comes from a demon’s poisoned claws. But demons were—thank God—rare, especially the ones with poison. Rule was the only lupus with a scar.

  A quick visual told Lily that Steve Hilliard had no obvious physical flaws. Aside from the large one in his throat, that is. And as long as you didn’t consider tattoos a flaw.

  He didn’t have a lot of dried blood on him, either. And that was odd.

  “Look just like us, don’t they?” the morgue attendant said.

  Lily glanced at him. Morton Wright was over forty, reed-thin, with geek glasses and acne scars—not exactly Steve Hilliard’s twin. But she liked the sentiment. “Lupi, you mean? Yes, they do. Some people have a problem with that.”

  He shrugged. “In this job, you get philosophical. Used to be, some folks got churned up about skin color. Now they worry about people turning furry or whatever. But they’re all dead by the time I get to know them. Way I see it, black or white, part-time furry or not, dead is dead.”

  Lily didn’t think everyone had gotten over the skin color thing, but she let that pass. “They do call it the great equalizer. Was Hilliard cleaned up before you got him?”

  “Hell, no.” Wright was offended. “We may be a Podunk little town, but we’ve got professionals here. We don’t clean up a body before the autopsy.”

  “Sorry. I needed to ask. Not much blood on him, is there?”

  Wright switched back to agreeable. “Not what you’d expect, huh? Not from a wound like that. You open up a guy’s jugular that way, you’d expect blood to go everywhere.”

  “Yeah, I would.” She hadn’t seen the police reports yet, didn’t know anything about the site where the body was found except the general location—higher up in the mountains, according to the newspaper.

  It should have been a county case, dammit. Lily knew some of the county law enforcement people. But Del Cielo had drawn its city boundaries with great optimism, and they included the neglected hiking trail where Hilliard’s body had been found.

  A body that would be taken to the county morgue tomorrow to await autopsy. Del Cielo didn’t have the facilities for that; this morgue was in the basement of their small hospital. “I’m going to get a few pictures of that tattoo.”

  She’d fastened her phone to her jacket pocket earlier, so unclipped it now and bent to study the tattoos ringing Hilliard’s neck. The design went all the way around, like a wide, lacy choker interrupted by the gaping wound across the front of his throat. The tattoo was intricate and nonpictorial—no images of flowers or daggers or whatever. No words or recognizable symbols.

  Recognizable to her, anyway. Briefly, fiercely, she wished for Cynna, whose body was covered in tattoos rather like this one. Tattoos that were actually spells.

  But Cynna was in another realm…alive, Lily reminded herself. Alive and doing okay, according to the optimism she’d promised herself for another three months. She raised her phone and took pictures of the tattoo from various angles, then had the attendant roll the body on its side so she could get the rest of the pattern, which went all the way around.

  Finally she put her phone away. “I’ll need to scrub before I do the rest.”

  Wright nodded amiably. “Sure. You explained about that. Sink’s to your left.”

  Lily scrubbed thoroughly. The body hadn’t been autopsied yet, and though it was unlikely the lab results would be useful—body fluids from those of the Blood tended to screw up lab results, even after death—she’d do this by the book. “Did you know Jason Chance?” she asked casually.

  “Sure. The chief’s wrong there,” Wright said. “So were the jefes. Jason’s a good guy. Shouldn’t’ve fired him.”

  Jason Chance was the lupus the police had locked up pending formal charges. He was also a nurse. It was not the profession where Lily expected to find a part-time wolf, and it made her curious about him in a nonprofessional way.

  She returned to the body. “Did Jason come see you when he visited Hilliard?”

  “Naw. Not this time, anyway. Last time he was in town he did.”

  Lily nodded. Then she laid her bare fingertips on the edges of the wound.

  Cold, flaccid skin. A few flakes of dried blood. Nothing else. She probed gently inside the wound. Still nothing.

  One more place to check. She touched an intact part of the tattoo on the side of Hilliard’s neck. The tingle of magic was faint—too faint for her to identify the type. But it was, by God, present. “Mr. Wright—”

  “What the hell are you doing?” demanded a tenor voice that did not belong to the morgue attendant.

  Lily straightened and turned. The man who’d just entered was fat and freckled with thick, gingery red hair. Very Auld So
d. He wore a khaki uniform and badge, a hip holster, and a scowl.

  The voice went with the scowl. “Morton, you’d better have a good explanation for letting this—”

  Lily interrupted coolly. “He does. Would you be Chief Daly?”

  “I am. Who the hell are you?”

  “Special Agent Lily Yu, FBI. I left several messages for you.”

  “And just what are you doing here, messing with evidence?”

  Lily raised her eyebrows. “Obviously you don’t respond to your messages. Do you not listen to them, either?”

  He waved that away. “I got your goddamned message. You want to stick your nose into my murder case. That doesn’t give you the right to go messing with the victim’s body, messing up evidence. You don’t even have goddamned gloves on.”

  “Which is why I scrubbed first. I’m a touch sensitive. I can’t gather information with gloves on.”

  “You’re what?”

  “A sensitive,” Wright said helpfully. “You know, one of those folks who can feel magic when they touch it. Like on that old show, Touching Fire—you remember it? With Michelle Pfeiffer and that guy—I can’t remember his name, but he played in—”

  “Jesus Christ, Morton, spare me. I know what a sensitive is. I don’t know what Agent Yu here hopes to prove by feeling up a dead werewolf.”

  Oh, yeah. Working with this red-headed ape was going to be fun. “Since you’ve torn yourself away from your other duties to speak with me, Chief Daly, perhaps we could take this discussion somewhere less chilly.”

  “Not much to discuss. You’re butting out.”

  “No. I’m not. I need to wash up.” She didn’t wait for a response, heading back to the sink she’d used before. “I understand the body was found by a hiker.”

  “That’s right. He was found within city limits, which makes this my case. Nothing to do with you.”

  She turned, drying her hands. “No? Where’s the blood?”

  “You think I don’t know your type?” One thick finger jabbed in her general direction. “Publicity hound. Gets you plenty of attention, doesn’t it, swooping in here and stirring things up, calling the press to feed them whatever crap you think will get you a headline.”

  “You don’t know me, Chief. I have not and will not contact the press, and I sincerely hope no one else does, either. I need to see the reports you have on this case.”

  “Yeah, well, I need a vacation. Doesn’t mean it’ll happen.”

  “I have the authority to require your cooperation.” She returned to her purse, extracted the little folder with her badge, and showed it to him.

  Lily was with Unit 12 of the Magical Crimes Division of the FBI. Prior to the Turning, people knew about MCD, but the Unit had been a well-kept secret. Almost all its agents were Gifted, and the Gifted were not trusted. After the Turning, Congress flip-flopped, giving the Unit rather broad powers. Too broad, according to some. Lily was careful not to abuse her authority…however tempting it might be at times like this.

  Daly pulled a small notebook out of his shirt pocket and wrote down her badge number. “I’ll check this out.”

  “Of course.” Lily slipped the badge back in her purse. “Why don’t you call now? I’d like to see those reports as soon as possible.”

  “I said I’d check. Don’t you try to throw your weight around.”

  Morton Wright chuckled. Both of them looked at him.

  “Hey,” he said, holding up both hands. “Don’t shoot me. Just thought it was funny, that’s all, Pete, you warning that bitty little thing not to throw her weight around. She doesn’t have much of it to throw.”

  That brought a smile, however reluctant, to Daly’s freckled face. “Guess not. Listen, Yu…damn, that’s awkward. Your name, I mean.”

  She smiled wryly. “I know. But it provides amusement for so many people—‘Hey, Yu! This is me—is this Yu?’”

  He snorted. “Bet you’ve heard ’em all. I guess I came down a little hard.”

  “Not a problem.” At least she hoped it wouldn’t be. They were connecting better now. “At the moment, Chief, I don’t know if this is my case or not, but it could be. Magic was used on that tattoo.”

  “Well, shit, I guess it would have to be, wouldn’t it? Can’t tattoo a werewolf without magic to make it stick. But the slice to his throat wasn’t magic.”

  “No, but if magic incapacitated him, or prevented that slice from healing—”

  “Is that possible?” He frowned heavily, then glanced at his watch. “I’m supposed to meet with one of my detectives in ten minutes. Going to be late.”

  “I’ll walk out with you. Mr. Wright—”

  “Morton,” he said amiably.

  “Morton, it was good to meet you. I like your philosophy. Chief,” she said as she headed with him toward the door, “what’s your theory about the lack of blood on the body?”

  “Don’t have one, but I’ll be asking my people to account for it. My people.” He snorted again and shoved the door, which opened into a small anteroom almost as cheerless as the morgue itself—cement walls and floor, battered file cabinets, a single desk for Morton Wright. “Don’t mean to make it sound like I’ve got dozens on this case. I don’t have dozens in the whole damned department. I meant the Medical Examiner and the detective who’s got the case. She’s county, of course—the ME—not one of mine, but we’ve worked together a long time now. She’s solid.”

  He’d sure mellowed. “That would be Alicia Chavez, and I agree—she’s solid. She’s got good people under her, too. Do you have an idea when Hilliard was killed?”

  “Tuesday night, probably between eleven and three a.m. That’s unofficial, but it fits with when Hilliard was last seen.”

  “Who saw him last?”

  “Other than the killer, that would be Amos McPherson, over at the Stop-N-Shop. You know Dr. Chavez? I’m taking the stairs,” he added, headed that way. There was an elevator, of course, for the gurneys that carried the bodies to the morgue. It was painfully slow, so she didn’t blame him for avoiding it. “I spend too damned much time at my desk. Need to move when I get the chance. Doctor doesn’t like my blood pressure.”

  “Stairs are fine.” She started up them behind him. “I used to work homicide in San Diego, so I’ve worked with Dr. Chavez and her staff.”

  “So you weren’t always a Fibbie.”

  “No, that’s a fairly recent change.”

  “What did you call Dr. Chavez about?” By the time the chief reached the top of the stairs, he was breathing heavily

  “I needed to let her know to check for gado.”

  He pushed the door open. “Gado?”

  “It’s a possibility. I told her she could send the samples to our lab. No need for the town or the county to cover that expense.”

  “That’s…” He stiffened, his voice trailing off.

  His bulk completely blocked her view. “What is it?”

  He spun around, his face distorted by fury. “You—you—I knew I’d heard your name someplace! Trying to make out like you’re so professional—well, that won’t work now!”

  His face was so red the freckles had disappeared. “Maybe you should calm down. That can’t be good for your blood pressure.”

  She thought he’d explode. “You—”

  Rule’s voice, smooth as silk, came from the other side of the furious man. “Congratulations on that promotion, Pete. Lily’s right. You want to watch your blood pressure. I’d recommend anger management therapy.”

  Daly pulled himself together, but the color stayed high in his face. He didn’t say a word. His hands were fisted at his sides as he marched off down the short hall.

  Rule watched him, a small smile on his mouth, his hands shoved casually in the pockets of his jacket. His eyes were snake-cold.

  The hall they were in seemed to be part of the administrative section. Lily could hear voices from an open doorway at one end; three closed doors studded the hall in the direction Daly took. He marched t
o a door at that end, jerked it open, and let it slam behind him.

  “Oh, geez,” Lily muttered. “Why didn’t you warn me the two of you had a history? I had him ready to cooperate. Then he saw you.”

  “I said that the cops here weren’t trustworthy. You didn’t ask how I knew.” Rule was still watching the door Daly had used. Slowly his gaze shifted to her. “Five years ago, Pete Daly—he was a detective at the time—tried to beat Steve to death. A difficult task, considering how fast we heal, but he did his best.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Well, he’s a bastard, then, and a disgrace to the uniform, but what did you do to him? Because that isn’t the way a man reacts to someone he despises. Despises would mean he won, and he didn’t. He’s scared shitless of you.”

  “Ah.” Now Rule looked at her, and his smile turned genuine. “Very insightful. To answer your question, I did nothing to Pete. How could I? He was an officer of the law. I was newly and publicly revealed as a lupus. I did nothing to him…over and over and over.”

  She studied him a moment. He was truly relaxed now. Before he’d faked it, posing to look at ease in the presence of his enemy, announcing how little he considered Daly a threat.

  Dominance games. He was good at them. “You stalked him,” she announced.

  His smile widened. “I do love your twisty mind. How did—” A door opened in the short hall and a middle-aged woman glanced at them as she emerged from the office. “Perhaps we should discuss this elsewhere,” Rule murmured and took Lily’s hand.

  “Quit that.” She pulled her hand free. “I can’t wander around holding hands when I’m investigating. You ever see a cop holding hands on duty? Or an FBI agent,” she remembered to add. The woman click-clicked her four-inch heels down the hall toward the door Daly had used. “Come on. Explain while we head to the car. You can start by telling me why you were here waiting for me. Or for Chief Daly?”

  “That’s simple enough. I spoke with Jason’s former supervisor, as I told you I planned to do, but she’s on shift and couldn’t give me much time.”

  “That wasn’t exactly what I asked. I suppose you heard Daly talking to me on the stairs and that gave you time to pose for him. What did you learn from Chance’s former supervisor? Was he or she responsible for him getting fired?”