Awakening the Fire

chapter Eight

The Wesley Simpson who appeared at the police station the following morning wasn’t the same cocky guy who’d disrupted Ari’s class. Oh, it was the same face all right, but now his eyes darted around the room and nervous sweat streaked his temples. As Ari pictured Angela’s troubled face during his outburst at the shop, his current state of fear gave her secret satisfaction. Simpson ducked his head when he saw Ari. Too bad.

Ryan didn’t give the suspect a chance to relax but started the interview immediately. The cop whipped through the standard questions and spent the next twenty minutes grilling the subdued boyfriend about his contact with Angela. Simpson stuttered and stammered his way through the two-year relationship.

They’d dated regularly for the first year, then Angela’s behavior changed. She began to hang out with Otherworlders and disappeared for days. Unlike Victor, Simpson had demanded an explanation. She’d refused to give one and often covered her activities with lies. He began following her, and at least twice when she said she was spending the evening at home, he’d seen her cruising the vampire clubs.

“Did you confront her about that?” Ryan asked.

Simpson hesitated. “Not until I heard she was sleeping with one of the fang guys. I told her I was leaving. She bawled like a baby, like I was the one who’d done something wrong. She promised she’d end it. And I guess I wanted to believe her, so I stuck around. But lately, she didn’t seem to care what I thought.” Simpson squirmed in his chair. “So, yeah, we fought a lot. I hated her cheating.” He looked up again, his nose crinkled. “How could she do it with one of them?”

“That’s pretty tough, Wes.” Ryan voice was non-judgmental. “It’s hard when your girl’s screwing around. Hard to keep things under control. When did the fights turn physical?”

Simpson stiffened. “Never. I never hit her. Not once. Just a lot of yelling.”

“She had a black eye.”

“Yeah, I saw it, but I didn’t do it.” Simpson’s face flushed, agitated. “Figured that was a present from fang boy.”

Fifteen minutes later Ari didn’t like Simpson any better, but she was convinced he wasn’t the killer. He didn’t have the stomach for it. And in some weird fashion, he had been more of a friend to Angela than anyone else. But that didn’t necessarily make him a nice guy.

“So what was your problem when you came charging into Basil and Sage?” Ari asked.

Simpson had the grace to look uncomfortable. “I didn’t know you were the Guardian. Just that you were a witch. A bad one, I thought.” He swallowed hard when Ari scowled. “Angie and me'd been fighting, about everything. But mostly how weird she'd been. When I saw a pamphlet on your class, I thought she was into the occult.”

“You said she changed long before that.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t know this was her first class. I figured she’d been going there every week for months.” He hunched his shoulders. “I’d eliminated all the other explanations.”

“Like what?”

“Drugs. I found some blue pills on her dresser. That Fantasy stuff. She gave me the old story about holding them for a friend. Yeah, like I believed that. I figured she’d been experimenting, but I never saw them again. And she never acted strung out, like she was using.”

“Maybe she kept them hidden after that.” Ryan had been listening quietly until Simpson mentioned the drugs. Now he was on point.

“I searched. Several times. Nothing.”

What a creepy boyfriend, Ari thought. Follows her around, searches her apartment. She couldn’t decide whether he was a misguided friend or a stalker.

“So go on,” Ryan encouraged. “You must have had other suspicions.”

“Only one, really. This vamp dude, I thought he might of bespelled her. But she laughed when I asked. And those people act like zombies, don’t they? Or robots?” He glanced at Ari for confirmation. When she said nothing, he looked away. “Anyway, that’s when I found the candles and some crystals.”

“That’s how you made the leap to black magic? Candles and crystals?” Ari’s voice rose.

“Let’s go back to the drugs.” Ryan intervened to keep them on course. “Maybe you never saw drugs because Angela was quickly passing them on. A go-between. Did you see money? I haven’t heard anything about a job. How’d she pay her bills?”

“I don’t know,” Simpson admitted. “She quit her waitress job almost a year ago.”

The rest of the interview was pretty ho-hum. The morning of Ari’s class was the last time he admitted seeing Angela. On the night of her death, he said he went to a movie by himself and might still have the ticket stub at home. He’d look. Not much of an alibi, but Ari didn’t think it mattered. Given Angela’s injuries, he’d never been a likely suspect.

Simpson left, and Ryan leaned back in his chair, stretching out his long legs. “Well, that was a waste of time. At least as far as identifying a decent suspect. The drug bit was interesting, but I’m not sure it’s helpful. I’ll follow up with the narcotics squad. But it looks to me like we’re out of suspects.”

Ari looked at him and shrugged. They’d have to start over, somehow develop new suspects. A knock on the door was a welcome interruption.

A harried-looking, twenty-something male, one of the couriers employed by the city, popped in long enough to drop a packet on Ryan’s desk, the lab results from the crime scene. Ryan read the report aloud without much enthusiasm. As expected, it was unremarkable, until he reached the last item of evidence: twenty-six canine hairs.

Ari sat up straighter. Dog or werewolf? Angela didn’t own a dog. And given Andreas’s description of the woman at the club, werewolves suddenly seemed a real possibility. She knew DNA tests wouldn’t hold the answer. Wolf and dog hairs were too similar to be distinguished without the follicles: an interesting fact Ari’s forensics instructor would be surprised she remembered. He’d always complained her frequent looks out the window meant she wasn’t paying attention.

“It doesn’t have to be a wolf,” she cautioned. “Maybe our victim had a dog in the past. Or she has a friend with a dog. Simpson would know.”

Ryan made the call. Before he disconnected, he’d already given her the thumbs-up. “No dog. Not allowed in the building. I think we have a solid lead. Now what the hell do we do with it? How do we find a werewolf, Ari?”

“Let me work on that while you follow the drugs.”

“Works for me. This Fantasy has been popping up all over the city. Heard it creates the illusion of anything you desire. Kind of like an internal virtual reality. Want to experience being a rock star? Want to know what it’s like to date Angelina Jolie? You got it. Anything you can imagine.”

“Angelina Jolie? Is she what you’d want?” Ari teased. “Your dream date?”

“What sane guy would turn her down? Hey, if I was into the drug scene, it might tempt me.”

Ari laughed. “You’re full of surprises. Just think of all those other secret fantasies out there. That translates into cash for the dealers, uber profits. Maybe Angela got in over her head. Or she ripped off a supplier.”

“That’d get her killed, all right. I’ll dig around. In the meantime,” Ryan said, getting to his feet, “let’s search her apartment again. Before we release the scene, I’d like another shot at finding drugs or drug money. Maybe we missed something.”

They’d been in Angela’s stuffy apartment for almost an hour with little to show for their efforts except a lot of dust bunnies under the bed.

“She sure had a bunch of face junk.” Ryan was going through Angela’s vanity. “What does this contraption do?” He held up an eyelash curler for Ari’s inspection.

She pantomimed its use. “Don’t you have sisters?”

“Nope. Three brothers. None of this girlie paraphernalia.”

“More used to jock straps and smelly socks, huh? And Playboy mags under the mattress.”

“What makes you think they’re under the mattress?”

“Younger brother. You think sisters don’t know these things?” Ari opened another drawer. “She liked expensive lingerie.” She held up a red, lacy gown, tucked it back in, and gave the drawer a shove. It stuck. She yanked it out, and tried again. And again it stuck. This time she took the drawer out and looked in the back. Something was hanging from the top.

“Now what’s this?” she said, catching Ryan’s attention. She reached in, pulled off two strips of masking tape, and retrieved a solid bundle. No lacy stuff this time. It was a roll of hundred dollar bills.

Ryan counted twelve hundred. Quite a stash for a girl to keep in her undies drawer, but if she was selling drugs, shouldn’t there be more? Thousands more. And where were the drugs?

As they talked it over, their elation faded. Finding the roll of cash hadn’t gotten them any closer to a suspect. It raised more unanswered questions. Without anybody left to question, where did they go for the answers?