Page 11 of Tested
Chapter Four
Connor
Once the homicide team takes over, I step back. I manage to get a photo of the victim’s face, and I send it along with a description of the crime scene to a contact in LA’s office of the Securitas. A murdered kitsune isn’t a big enough event to bring on the full force of their authority, but giving them a warning seems prudent.
On my way out, Smith reiterates his promise to keep me in the loop.
“Thanks, man. I’ll message you if I get an ID on the vic.” I give him a quick salute and head for my rental car. It’s a Ford Taurus and I’ve managed to keep it hidden from David because I’m afraid he’ll die laughing. Literally. I hit the rental’s keyfob and it chirps at me. David’s got his heart set on a Tesla. For me.
Not in my lifetime.
Parking the Taurus a block away from the house and fibbing when David asks what I rented is getting tiresome, though. I’ll have to come clean at some point.
Before I put the car in drive, I shoot a text to Sheena. She’s been around this town as long as Trajan has, and since I’m out, I may as well run the photo past her to see if she recognizes the murdered woman.
Because that was the other detail I gleaned from the crime scene. As if finding a half-shifted kitsune in the closet of a vacant storefront wasn’t suspicious enough, the victim had ligature marks around her neck and a vicious stab wound in the center of her chest. Definitely not self-inflicted, even with a knife half-covered by her body.
Sheena responds from The Club, on a break between clients, and she can talk if I can get there in the next thirty minutes.
Is it possible to get anywhere in LA in less than thirty minutes?
I’m not sure but I give it a try.
The Club is in the Fashion District, exactly thirty-five minutes from the WeHo storefront. I manage to talk my way through the front door without flashing my badge – which is now a paper PI license – and find Sheena seated at the bar. The room’s black and red color scheme is a little obvious for my taste, but Sheena in Domme attire fits right in.
Despite a black leather dress that’s more skin than fabric, she’s the one spot of true beauty in the scene, but Sheena’s an Amazon, which means she’s lethal. She’s about three inches taller than I am, which puts her at 6’ 5” and when our gazes connect, her expression shifts fromhostess with the mostesttoI might have to kill this man someday. Trajan may have forgiven me for faking my own death, but Sheena has not.
For that matter, I haven’t forgiven myself, and I’m not likely to any time soon.
And the more time we spend together, the more likely I am to give her a reason to kill me, so I’ve got my phone out before I hit the bar. The bartender’s busy with a trio of waitresses at the other end, and the seat next to Sheena is empty. I stay standing, although she’s unlikely to be intimidated by such a lame attempt at control. “How’s business?”
She gazes at me through eyelids heavy with kohl. “Busy night.” She gives me a quick once-over. “You looking for a spanking?”
“Nah,” I chuckle. “I just came from a crime scene.”
“Look at you.” She applauds, but it’s mocking. “The cops already calling on our junior private eye.”
I take a practiced inhale. She’s trying to get under my skin, and I don’t blame her. Still, I’m not going to react. “Actually, Trajan went to check out a restaurant space he’s interested in leasing, and he and the agent found a body in a storage closet.”
Sheena’s aura shifts from glossy green to red with concern, her loyalty to Trajan undeniable. “Damn it. I hope the cops aren’t blaming him for it.” She nudges the barstool next to her in my direction, as close as she’ll come to an invitation to sit.
I stand. “Not at all. The victim was a kitsune, we think. She half-shifted when she died, and none of her injuries are consistent with a vampire attack.”
“That’s good. Shit. Hang on.” She taps the bartop with a long fingernail. “That came out wrong. I’m glad he’s okay, but I’m sorry for the woman who was killed. Do the cops know who she was?”
Now I do climb onto the bar stool. “That’s actually why I’m here. I don’t want to upset you, but I took a photo of the victim and I’m wondering if you would take a look, see if you can ID her.”
“What time is it?” she asks the bartender. He’s hovering as if he wants to talk to Sheena but is afraid of interrupting.
He looks out over the room. “Your next client is in the lobby.”
“Shit.” She turns to me. “Can you text it to me?”
I could, but if the picture starts making the rounds before the family is notified, that would be bad. “Can I meet you later?”
“I’ll come by the house after I get off.” She shoos the bartender with a flap of her hand.
She stands, and so do I.
