Well, I guess someone’s taking Shoup’s death a little hard.
At his motion, Holbrook and I moved to the floral velveteen sofa whose springs creaked as we sat down, while Walters eased himself into a hideous plaid recliner across from us.
“Was Ms. Shoup a tenant for long?” Holbrook asked, withdrawing his notebook and pen from inside his jacket
“About two and a half years.”
“Did she have many visitors? A boyfriend, perhaps?”
“No, no boyfriend. She kept to herself mainly, though she had been entertaining guests recently. I didn’t like the look of some of them to be honest. Looked like rough sorts if you know what I mean.”
“Can you describe these people? Did you catch their names?”
“No names, sorry. I didn’t get a good look at them, they came late in the evening mostly. Two men, both middle aged, and a younger woman. I didn’t like the look of her at all, covered in tattoos with all those ugly rings in her face. It’s not right for a young woman to desecrate her body like that,” he said before taking a big gulp of his coffee.
Showing Walters the picture of Johnson on his phone, Holbrook asked “Was this one of the men?”
“Yes. No. Maybe. I can’t be sure. I’m sorry,” Walters said, pulling his handkerchief from his pocket to mop at his sweaty brow again. “Do you think it was one of them that did this? That they’ll come back?” he asked, growing pale and agitated.
A long draft from his doctored coffee seemed to help steady his nerves a little, but his eyes remained nervous.
“We’ll post a few officers to watch for any suspicious persons who may come around,” Holbrook assured him, rising to his feet. Evidently Walters had been as helpful as he was going to be. “And if you think of anything else please give me a call,” Holbrook added, handing the super a card.
“I will,” he said, fingering the card in one sweaty hand, leaving smudges of grime on the white cardstock.
“Well that was about as helpful as a poke in the eye,” I grumbled once Walters had shut the door behind us.
“I see your impeccable charm worked its usual wonders,” Chrismer said with a saccharine smile, pushing away from the opposite wall to saunter towards us.
“Can I me punch her? Just once?” I asked Holbrook, flashing him the sweetest smile I could muster. “It could be an early Christmas present.”
“Riley,” he warned, though I caught the grin he tried to hide.
“Spoil sport.”
Chrismer brushed past me, jarring me with a none-too gentle bump of her shoulder, and raised a perfectly manicured hand to knock on the super’s door.
“Mr. Walters? I’m Jessica Chrismer from Channel 9,” she purred as soon as the door opened.
“Ms. Chrismer,” Walters breathed, his eyes widening behind his Coke bottle glasses, glossing over with adoration. “Yes, I know who you are.”
Seriously? I thought, indignant irritation flaring hot and choking in my chest.
“I was wondering if I might ask you a few questions about the recently departed Ms. Shoup?”
“Yes, yes, please come in. Such a lovely girl, so polite,” he simpered, stepping back from the door to let Chrismer sidle inside.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said, watching Chrismer’s shapely ass sashay into Walters’s apartment. Turning to close the door behind her she smiled wide, baring brilliant white teeth.
“God, I hate that woman.”
“She does have a particular talent for inciting your wrath,” Holbrook said with a smirk.
“She’s like a persistent infection that just won’t go away. I can’t understand why you tolerate her so much.”
I realized in that moment that I knew very little about Holbrook. Was it possible that Chrismer was an old lover like Alyssa? Was that why he tolerated her presence, why she wasn’t turned away from crime scenes like any other reporter would be?
“It’s not a matter of tolerating her, Riley. I have to show respect to the Shepherd of the City,” he said as we walked towards the door leading back outside.
“What does his Lordship have to do with this?”
“Jessica’s his Day Servant. Didn’t you know that?”
“Fuck me!” I lurched to a stop in the doorway. “No, I didn’t.”
Shepherd of the City. The words sent a thread of icy dread down my spine.
Almost every major city in the U.S. had a leader of the supernatural community, someone who acted as their voice and protector, though sometimes they seemed more like a dictator than anything else. The Shepherd was someone of immense power who commanded the fear, if not respect, of those who lived under his or her protection. They weren’t always a vampire; Cheyenne’s Shepherd was a werewolf, and the Shepherd of Las Vegas was a magi.