We sat through forty minutes of digital security footage, twelve screens running simultaneously. The room we were in was near the kitchen, cramped, with poor ventilation; it would have caused panic attacks in a claustrophobe, but was suitable for our needs. It had three chairs in a space built for one, a small table, and the monitor. I got refills on my breakfast—a rasher of bacon and crepes filled with some vanilla-flavored whipped cream stuff that was to die for. Gee got some fancy French wine he wanted, and Wrassler had biscuits and sausage. Good breakfast. Better footage. Midway through, the footage from an outdoor camera caught my eye. I said, “Stop screen number eight. Back it up. Stop. Right there. Play.”
On the screen, a man in dark clothing had been filmed walking along the perimeter of the outer wall. When a woman appeared, as if by magic, he stopped. They chatted. Then they both disappeared. Neither of my companions said anything, but the room seemed to grow warmer and the air heavier. “Again,” I said. When it finished the replay, I said, “Again. Slower. Half time.” And on the fourth go round, I said, “Quarter time. And when the girl appears, I want you to back up frame-by-frame until we see her appear, then a frame-by-frame forward progression.” No one argued.
The digital footage progressed at quarter time. “Now,” I said, sitting forward in my seat, hands laced, food forgotten. The camera shot was of an outer wall, a side street running along vamp HQ. The man walked. The girl appeared. It was Safia. Frame by frame, we watched as the digital footage was backed up. She had seemed to appear out of thin air, but actually stepped from a doorway in the outer brick wall, a section of the wall that slid open and closed faster than a human eye could follow. Only a supe could have made it through the opening in the time it was ajar. Anyone else would have been chopped in two when it closed, or at least trapped in the crack and squeezed. Safia had exited a hidden entrance in the vamp council house’s outer wall, and when the couple disappeared, they went back through it, the man pulled along at warp speed. According to the time stamp on the footage, that man had been with Safia after she disappeared, but before she was killed. The progression was stopped on one frame that displayed both faces.
Safia. And Rick LaFleur.
Gee hummed a soft note. Wrassler said, “Maybe we just found catwoman’s killer.”
I stood and left the room. I said nothing on the way out. My mind was in some strange sort of stasis, not really aware of what I was doing, but moving by rote. I left the compound, strode into the sunlight, and found my bike. There was an envelope on the seat and I tucked it into the saddlebag unopened, uninspected, which was stupid but I didn’t care. I kicked on the bike, and roared out of vamp HQ.
I rode by instinct, the scorching, wet wind in my face. All I could think was, Rick is missing. I smelled his scent on Safia’s face and mouth when I bent over her in the morgue. As of now, he was the last person known to be with Safia, which makes him a person of interest in her death. And I have no idea what is going on.
I drove back to my house, found it silent and empty, went inside, and stripped; dressed in capris and a tee. And stopped. My fingers were tingling, my breath coming short and shallowly. Feeling strange and lost in my freebie house. I had dropped my lease on my mountain apartment. Packed up my stuff. Brought it to New Orleans with me. Not just because I had extended my contract with Leo. No. But because I was sleeping with a guy I really liked and I hoped, deep down, that there was something special between us. I had chosen him over Bruiser because he was human, and because he might put me first, while George Dumas was, now and always, Leo’s creature.
Rick, however, was undercover, sent to watch the weres, at the beck and call of the NOPD. And if he had to sleep with a girl or two to keep his cover, he would. He had before. I’d once listened in on pillow talk from a hotel balcony, heard and smelled and imagined the scene in the room beside me.
Rick hadn’t bothered to warn me. Much like Leo owned Bruiser, NOPD owned Ricky Bo. Who had disappeared off the radar, and might now be in trouble with his own people. The cops had a copy of this footage. They would see it eventually and would recognize Rick—who was missing and in trouble.
I had to find him. No matter what happened later with us.
I went to the kitchen, stakes in my hair, a vamp-killer strapped to my thigh over my capris, and a 9 mil over the tee in a shoulder holster that was starting to chafe at the unaccustomed hours of wear. I set the gun on the table. I always feel better with weapons close at hand.
I had brought in the envelope that had been propped on my bike. While water heated for tea, I sniffed the paper, found nothing fresh on the envelope except a faint smell of chemical, like latex or nitrile gloves, and opened it. Inside were more photos and papers. Usually I had to drag clues out of people, and now someone was just itching to give them to me, which made everything they gave me suspect. Evidence handed to me would surely point only in one direction, when there were multiple sides to this investigation.