When the armed officer finally waved me through, he had to shout directions over a loud confrontation at the front door. A multipierced cross-dresser in a skintight purplesequined evening gown--and nothing else--had started screaming about his right to go to the ladies' room, despite the clear evidence of male dangly bits jiggling against the purple dress. Thanks to her--his?--histrionics, I was able to hand off my cell and camera to myself and not set off the metal detector as I scooted through.
Moving fast, feeling a trickle of sweat slide down my backbone, I tucked both items back into my boot, accepted my visitor's badge, and took the stairs to the third floor, as per the shouted directions. I meandered my way to the back of the room, which was done in office boring and smelled of Starbucks; someone had made a run and the paper cups were scattered among the desks. By the time I saw Rick LaFleur, I was cool and relaxed--or at least I looked that way. Rick was sitting in an uncomfortable-looking desk chair, his feet on the desk, crossed at the ankle. The cop had black eyes and black hair, what the locals called a Frenchy look. And he was gorgeous, by far the prettiest man I'd ever known. He also had intricate tattoos of a bobcat and a mountain lion--my animals--hidden beneath his shirt, on one shoulder, and a ring of big-cat claws on the other. And likely a lot of scars since the attack by a sabertooth lion's claws.
We hadn't seen each other since the attack, hadn't even chatted over the phone, except for the one time when I told him what I could about the violent confrontation he'd barely lived through. Now Rick watched me as I crossed the room. He wasn't smiling. He looked cold, aloof, and not particularly friendly.
What was it about my male acquaintances and dour faces? Whatever it was, I wasn't taking it sitting down. That way led to being sidelined and one-upped. Beast had other ideas too, and I could feel her peering through my eyes. Provocative was Beast's middle name. Following her lead, I slapped Rick's feet off the desk and took their place. "Long time no see, Ricky-Bo. You look remarkably healthy for cat food."
He narrowed his eyes and set his feet on the floor. Not that he'd had much choice. His Frye Western boots and ratty jeans had been hanging unsupported in midair until he lowered them. Rick wasn't happy. Until recently, he had been undercover. I had followed him in beast form, and listened in on a conversation or two, including pillow talk. I had also saved his life, though his memories of that event were confused and befuddled. If he remembered the attack clearly, he'd be more appreciative, I assured myself. Of course, he was still on administrative duty. According to Troll, the majordomo at Katie's Ladies and Rick's uncle, he was permanently out of the undercover business now that the vamps in town knew he was a cop. So maybe he wasn't appreciative after all.
I leaned in to him and spoke softly. "Ricky-Bo, I need access to any files or reports about young rogues roaming free, say, in the last few years. NOPD got any vamp files?"
His eyes sharpened and I could see things taking place behind them. I was pretty sure I wouldn't like whatever he came up with. "Maybe. What do you have to trade?"
A negotiation. I should have known. "How about your life? Remember that one? And how about the rogue who killed the cops, your friends and fellow officers. You saw the photographs. You owe me."
Rick's expression closed down, into that mask they all do, cop-face. "Maybe, maybe not. How 'bout you share what you're working on for the vamps? If I like it, we'll see if NOPD has anything you can use."
I let a bit of Beast shine through my eyes and leaned in. Rick didn't run, but his body went still and I smelled adrenaline creep from his pores. I spoke low, so only he would hear, and Beast watched his eyes, evaluating him like a predator. "My contract is to bring down a vamp who's making young rogues and setting them free, uncured, to feast on the populace. I got nothing yet, so sharing is out for now, but the quid pro quo was already satisfied."
I let my eyes drop to his chest and the sabertooth claw scars hidden beneath his shirt. I had a flash of memory. An image of Rick in a pool of blood in the middle of a ruined room. It was as fresh and cutting as that night.
His eyes darkened, as if he was seeing that night too, the memory of the attack. He swore but the words were without heat, his gaze turned inward, a hand on his scarred chest. I wasn't sure what he was thinking, but I didn't like the lost look growing in his eyes. I nudged his knee with mine. "So. You gonna tell me what I need to know? About the vamps?"
With a visible effort, he pulled himself back into the present and his gaze met mine, searching and oddly vulnerable. For a moment, I thought he might reach up and touch my face, but he sighed instead, and the sound had an "I give up" quality about it. "Yeah. I guess you got the QPQ right. I don't know what it is about you, Yellowrock." As I had no idea what he was talking about, I said nothing and after a moment he blew out another breath, this one sounding irritable again but without the resigned note. "Come on." And with that, I was in. Rick LaFleur, former undercover cop, now on administrative duty, led me down several flights of stairs to a room with no name, only a number: 666.