I closed the cell. I had me a new best pal cop. Oh, goody.
I braked my bike as I turned into the circular drive, moving slowly through the gathered limos, all black and sleek, some sitting heavily, an indication of armor. Each driver looked me over as I rode past, eyes following me the way professional muscle would, a look that was half assessment, half threat. If I hadn’t been so tired, I’d have reacted, but I just didn’t have the energy to care. Let ’em look.
At the front door, I pulled to the curb and cut the engine, lowered the kickstand, and unhelmeted, letting my hair fall in a single long black wave. I was wearing jeans and boots, a T-shirt, and the gold nugget necklace, my weapons at home on the kitchen table; I was carrying nothing to pose a threat to the council. To carry a weapon into the council chambers was tantamount to taking a weapon into a foreign embassy or a federal courtroom. A good way to get jumped on and locked away, if not killed. Of course that left me in danger if I did need to protect myself, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it except not show.
Bruiser had called me at two a.m. with info, orders for me to talk to the council, directions and details. He sounded weak, but in control and alive, if not exactly healthy. He’d informed me that going before the council meant formal wear, but my only little black dress was more suited to cocktail parties than ambassadorial and embassy functions, and my other clothes were all wet. Boots and jeans were the best I could do on short notice.
Inside, they patted me down, very thoroughly, and sent me to a small waiting room with wood-paneled walls, two couches, a small refrigerator stocked with bottled water, a TV set high on the wall, and one table. No windows. A human blood-servant stood guard at the door.
Jodi, when she joined me in the small waiting room, was in cop dress blues. She looked pretty spiffy and she raised an eyebrow at my casual attire when they showed her in. I shrugged. There wasn’t much I could do about my wardrobe at four in the morning.
“The chief wanted to come in my place,” she said by way of greeting. Her eyes were sparkling, and there was an air of repressed excitement about her, maybe nervousness. “But George Dumas specified me when he called HQ with the invitation. Thanks.”
“Your boss ever been before a council?”
“Nope.” She smiled slightly. “I think he’s ticked off with me.”
“It’s good for a cop’s career to get an invitation?”
“Don’t know.” She smoothed down her skirt with anxious hands. “This is a first. The boss just gets a phone call with instructions.”
“Ah.” I hid my smile. Jodi would soon be moving up in the world. “Where’s Herbert?”
“Beats me.” She glanced at me from the corner of her eye. “You like Jim? Want me to set you up on a date?”
It took a second to realize she was razzing me. “Cute. No way, no thanks.” I stretched out on the couch, feeling the hours, the constant shifts, and the burn in every muscle, nerve, and skin cell. I wanted to close my burning eyes but I was afraid I’d fall asleep, so instead I spent a half hour in small talk with Jodi, which wasn’t as painful as it might seem. She was okay when she was nervous, even invited me to go shooting with her, which made me wonder about the twins, if they were alive or dead. If they had survived the liver-eater, maybe they’d like to . . . not double date, exactly.
The thought was somehow unsettling, but before I could figure out why, Bruiser walked in, wearing a formal-looking black suit, black tie, and a white shirt—average business attire, if the average businessman spent four thousand bucks on a suit. His clothes had obviously been tailored specifically for him. The man himself was pale as paper and wore a bandage around his neck. When he sat down beside me, it was with a sigh that sounded like a cessation of pain. “Long night,” he said, looking at me. His flesh was unnaturally warm, feverish; I could feel it across the two inches that separated us. The heat made me want to move over, but I held my place. “Nice outfit,” he added.
I couldn’t think of an appropriate reply or welcome, so I said, “Looks like you lived.” What an inane comment. I wanted to slap myself, but he just smiled.
“Yeah. It was a near thing. Leo . . . Leo’s not doing so well.”
“Oh?” Jodi said, a cop tone in her voice.
“His son died tonight, Detective.” Bruiser touched his bandage with uncertain fingers. “He’s in mourning.”
“His son died a long time ago,” I said.