Wolf at the Door

chapter Forty-five



“This is awkward,” Detective Nicholas Berry said, “but you’re not a serial killer, are you? Or know any?”

“Not since the operation,” Rachael replied. She had liked the homicide detective (Interest. Curiosity. Lust.) at once. She didn’t hold the frisson of sexual attraction against him. Whether you were Pack or human or undead (or not), you couldn’t help it if you were attracted to someone. She never blamed people for that . . . only for how they acted on it.

“What is that, your punch line?” Betsy asked. “You trotted that one out the other day, too. Also not funny, I hesitate to point out, and yet must for the sake of our continued good time.”

“Which part wasn’t funny, the line, or the fact that she might be a serial killer?”

“Both,” the queen admitted. She turned to the detective, a handsome blond man with swimmer’s shoulders and a tan jacket from Armani. They must pay cops way more in St. Paul than they do in Boston. They were clearly good friends, judging by the ease in their body language and how they spoke to each other. “What’s on your so-called mind, Beriberi?”

“Another nickname, Betsy? Wouldn’t it just be easier to get everyone’s actual name right? ‘Hello, my name is Detective Berry, nice to meet you.’ Like that? How hard is that?”

“You do not command me, mortal law enforcer,” Betsy had replied with dead-on arrogance, done well enough to make them all snicker. “Go search yourself, Beriberi.” Then, to Rachael: “I shouldn’t be teasing. Those poor people! And not even killed for something they did. They’re just . . . decoration. Killed only because their killer needs something noticed, something that has nothing to do with them or the lives they led.”

In that moment, Rachael liked the vampire queen more than she could have imagined. She had assumed a vampire queen would have the standard arsenal of charisma and charm. She hadn’t expected that respect would follow so quickly on the heels of liking.

“What are you talking about?” Edward was looking at both of them. “Did you find something out?”

“You could say that,” Detective Berry said. “DNA.”

“No shit! Then you’ve got him, right?”

The detective smiled at Edward, but it was a nice smile, and there wasn’t a trace of condescension in his voice when he replied, “It’s not quite as simple as Law and Order makes it out to be.”

“Those bastards lied to us again?” Jessica yelped. “Oh, Detectives Stabler and Benson, say it ain’t so.”

“Oh, God, don’t start on those two,” Edward groaned. “My roommate—one of my roommates—lives for that show. He’s got a huge crush on Mariska Hargitay. He went to see an episode of The Martha Stewart Show because she was the guest star and Martha taught her how to make doilies, or something.”

Rachael had noticed the other vampire—not the queen—had flinched at oh, God. That was good to know. That was very good to know.

“Well, anyway, the murders aren’t in our jurisdiction, but Betsy’s boss man, there, made a few phone calls.”

“Eric Sinclair is not my boss man,” the queen said, every word a knife.

“Easy, whoa there, big fella,” Jessica said. “Take it easy, Betsy. Your pills?”

“Well, he’s not.”

“The DNA didn’t hit.”

“So it wasn’t any good?” Rachael asked. She was privately wondering if there was any way she or Mrs. Cain could get to a crime scene and give it a sniff.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t any good. I said it didn’t hit. Lucky for you, huh, Rachael?”

She blinked. They were all looking at her, even Edward. “What?” Concern. Fear. Worry. Concern. Resignation. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s your DNA, Rachael.”