The thought hurt, but I pushed it away. I could hurt later, after I saved Rick.
Our theory was more a leap of faith than logic, but it made sense. “Let’s go over the security tapes, starting when the were-cats entered the compound. Maybe we’ll spot something.”
Wrassler picked up the house phone, dialed a number, gave instructions and hung up. “Come on, Legs. We got us a movie date.”
Near dawn, Wrassler and I were so stoked on caffeine and stuffed with an early breakfast, we were shaky with the overload. But we had our proof—video of the two were-females meeting in the street outside the hidden door to Leo’s office and going inside together. It was clearly a planned meeting, between two people who were acquainted. “Roll footage number two again.” I watched as the were-bitch let the wolves in, and later footage as Rick was carried out the hidden door, bleeding, over Fire Truck’s shoulder, well after dawn on day two, the were-bitch urging him to speed, her hands on his back, her pack behind her. “If Leo had told us about the passageways we would have found Rick days ago,” I said, hearing my misery. “The wolves had known the talks were taking place, just like the cops had. Seems like I was the only person in the city who didn’t,” I said.
“I didn’t know,” Wrassler said. But somehow that didn’t help. He went on. “The female weres met, maybe at the hotel, liked one another, planned on some serious girl time, maybe, like I said, Safia thought the wolves deserved to be part of the negotiations. We might never know.”
“The wolf-bitch gets in, lets her guys in later—not over the wall like we thought—using the secret passageways to get set up. And it all went to hell in a handbasket,” I said, the words like ashes in my mouth. “Safia died. Rick ended up with the wolf-bitch.” Hurt. Likely bitten by two different were species.
“It’s complicated, but it works, especially if the cop knew the wolves were in town too, and was chatting up both females. If we hadn’t concentrated on the party footage and had expanded the search criteria by twelve hours both ways, we’d a put it together days ago,” he said, sounding disgruntled.
I pulled my phone and dialed Sloan Rosen. When he answered, I said, “One question. Was Rick introduced to the wolf-bitch by Safia? Before he disappeared?” I put emphasis on the last word, to tell him that I was working a hunch.
After a long moment Sloan said, “Yes.” And ended the connection.
I figured that was all I was going to get out of my pals at NOPD. I cursed, short and sweet and swallowed down tears.
“Stacked deck, Legs. No blame to you—Wait. Stop,” he said. “Who’s that? That guy there?” Wrassler froze the feed on the shadowed form of a short man. Familiar, lean, ordinary-looking in every way.
Except I recognized him. Excitement shot through me like lightning. “Well, well, well. It’s Booger, from Booger’s Scoot. I wonder what ol’ Booger knows about the wolves’ den. You watch more footage. See if you can update our timeline of who was where and when. Make sure we’re right in our thinking. Make sure we don’t trip up anywhere. Then make a montage and send a linear timeline and the footage to Jodi Richoux. Tell her it’s with Leo’s compliments.”
“Not yours?”
I shrugged. Jodi had kept me out of the loop, and now Rick might be dead. I hoped she choked on the evidence. I left the building into the gray dawn and powered up Bitsa for a trip back across the river to Booger’s Scoot, hoping Booger could be persuaded to give me some info about Rick.
I motored past the biker bar in the dim light. Reconnoitering. And I discovered the weres. It was too dang easy.
They had come back here to lick their wounds. The were-bitch was up, standing in the fenced area, buck naked, under an outdoor shower, her face to the spray, her body, which I had thought deeply tanned, glistening in the pearly light, proving she was mixed race, that wonderful café au lait shade of so many mixed-race people. Her hair was black, falling below her shoulders, hugging her body like a wet veil. The smell of fresh sweat and recent sex floated to me on the wind, sickness and the reek of old blood and . . . My hands tightened on the handlebars. And I caught the scent of Rick.
He was alive. Fierce joy and fury slammed into me. Caught me up in killing claws. I broke into a hot sweat as adrenaline flooded my system. I could smell him on the woman’s body as she washed away the sweat of the night. Mine, Beast hissed.
The woman turned, water sluicing down her form. And I finally got an unobstructed view of her face. “Magnolia Sweets,” I whispered inside my helmet’s faceplate. Terrance’s mother. Leo’s former prime blood-servant, whose son was sent to the Rochefort clan in the south of France when she disappeared. France, where Tyler Sullivan had come from, as part of the security detail for Amitee Marchand, who had been a blood-servant to the Rochefort clan. Old blood-servant loyalties ran deep. Deep enough to plot long and hard against Leo, and to use whatever people and resources she could find. Like Tyler, who lost his mother, position, power, and clan all in one day.
The last piece fell into place with an almost audible click in my mind. The familiar-looking child captured in the photograph was known to me. Tyler Sullivan was Terrance Sweets. Tyler had been trying to avenge himself and his mother—whom he thought was dead—on Leo and Bruiser for decades. Tyler was behind half of everything; Magnolia, insane from were-taint, and Safia were responsible for the other half. No wonder nothing had made sense. It was a two-pronged attack—or two threads weaving one tapestry, just as I had said.