Gentleman Takes a Chance (41 page)

Which was why Rafiel was loathe to think of what he'd said about Lei as meaning anything at all. For all he knew, Lei had simply made that sort of prissy comment about John Wagner being sexist, and John had it in for her. Oh, not consciously. He didn't seem like the sort of guy who—fully aware of what he was doing—would be either vengeful or petty. But he might very well view casting doubt on her credentials and sending the police to look into her background as just a bit of fun and mischief. "No," he said, speaking to Lei. "That isn't it, you know. I didn't think you were particularly paranoid about John Wagner. I met him while we were processing the scene. He said he dropped by to see if we needed any help." Which, of course, was also the typical behavior of mass murderers, as Rafiel well knew. "He seems like a nice guy. Ebullient. But . . . but he didn't threaten me with the drool."

He was rewarded with a ladylike giggle and a small headshake. "I'm sure he only does that to his friends or people he works with and knows. I'm wondering if it was him . . . I mean, by the pool."

"No," Rafiel said decisively. "It couldn't be any of the men at the aquarium."

"Why not?" she asked. "I mean, did you—?"

"DNA test them? No. The semen in the condoms belonged to the last two victims, so you see, it couldn't be—"

"But, Officer!" she said and seemed within a breath of pointing out to him that they, after all, lived in the twenty-first century.

"No," he said, cutting her off. "You see, the outside of the condom had vaginal secretions." Now she looked surprised, staring at him. "And something else. Our analyst says that the outside of the condom also had minute fragments of sharkskin."

"Shark?" she asked, now looking truly surprised. "How do they know it's shark and not some other fish? I mean, I know there are preparations"—she blushed—"people use, to facilitate sex or heighten pleasure or . . ."

"No," Rafiel said.
Curiouser and curiouser. What does she know that requires this much enthusiasm to hide?
"This was shark. There is something in sharkskin called denticles. Our examiner says that they were on the outside of this condom. And please, don't ask me how. I wouldn't begin to be able to explain it." Which was true, he thought.
Not because I can't begin to explain, but because I wouldn't. If these shark particles are like the bits of hair and fluff I find on my bed after a shifted night, or the scales that Tom is forever shaking out of his stuff, then it would indicate that the shark itself is a shifter. Herself, presumably, given the vaginal secretions. But how would a small woman get her victim in before she shifted?

"Uh," Lei said. She unzipped her ski jacket to reveal that underneath she wore a semitransparent white blouse. Not semitransparent in a way that would necessarily look racy or provocative, but just as though a nice business blouse had been made out of too thin a material and therefore allowed a vague translucence to let forth the golden hues of her skin, the whiter tones of her bra, and a pinkish spot in the middle, between her breasts which was probably one of those rosettes with which bra manufacturers adorned bras, for reasons Rafiel—who usually concerned himself far more with the removal of their product than its purchase—couldn't understand. He glanced sideways and into her black eyes, as she said, "I think it is possible, isn't it, that they could have . . ." She shifted uncomfortably in the seat. "You know . . . put stuff on the condom to throw people off?"

Rafiel shrugged. He wasn't going to laugh the hypothesis off. Mostly because once you got shifters involved in a crime scene, the improbable was not only, often enough, possible, but it was, strangely, often the most likely solution. After all, if you started with the impossibility of someone changing shapes into an animal, then wouldn't it follow that every other impossibility would be true?
My disbelief was suspended from the neck until dead,
he thought. But still, he spoke as if he were a normal policeman, and as if he didn't very well know that all this involved shifters. "If that were the case," he said, "wouldn't it have made much more sense to have tossed the condoms away, out of the vicinity of the aquarium? And which of the . . . stuff, do you suggest they put on the condom? The vaginal secretions or the sharkskin?"

She seemed surprised, and squirmed some more, as he pulled into a parking spot at the aquarium—which was still closed to visitors and whose parking lot therefore remained empty. "I . . . I guess both?" she said, at last, hesitantly.

"Um . . . okay. I could grant you both, at least if there were no woman involved . . ." He neglected to say that unless it was manual sex there would have been other traces. "Throwing in vaginal secretions might change our perception of the crime. But why the sharkskin? They can't have meant to throw suspicion on a shark. Unless," he said, as an idea occurred to him, "some woman at the aquarium is a craftswoman specializing in sword and knife handles made of sharkskin. They do those, don't they? I don't remember what they call it . . . Oh, yes, I do. Shagreen, isn't it?"

She shook her head. "I don't know," she said. "There are so many ways in which humans exploit the beautiful creatures." And then, as though catching sight of his shocked expression, she added, "Well, they are, you know, truly. Though my professor at college said that the natural historian always identifies with their subjects. Or at least, there is no other way to account for otherwise rational beings suddenly becoming misty-eyed over monitor lizards."

It might be true. "So, you went to college in Hawaii?" Or perhaps her lover was a were shark and she fed him . . . who knew? Perhaps all that stuff about John Wagner was because they were accomplices?

"University of Hawaii," she said. "Easiest thing, you know . . . I mean . . . it was my native state."

"You were born there?"

She laughed lightly. "Born and raised. I don't know when my first ancestors came to the isle. But since I'm a bit of a mix, I guess they all came at various times, over the course of history."

"Well . . ." he said, wondering if he too would get tagged with sexual harassment. "It's a very pleasant mix." There was something wrong here, something off to Lei's approaching him like this. What game
was
she playing? In these circumstances Rafiel often found it useful to give someone enough rope.

She seemed startled and blushed. "Thank you."

"Go and deal with your paperwork, or whatever you're going to do," Rafiel said. "I have to look at some things here on the grounds." The "some things" mostly applied to Old Joe. But he didn't want to tell her that. He doubted he could get much of rational value out of Old Joe. If anyone could do that, it would be Tom, and Tom was, alas, not around just now. But Rafiel was hoping to get . . . something. "I'll come and see if you're ready afterwards."

He was sure Lei was up to something too. It would be easier to play along till he found what it was. He could check on old Joe, then drop in on Lei, suddenly. Perhaps he would catch her kissing a shark or something. He repressed a chuckle at the idea.

First, he hoped Old Joe could give him some inkling of whether Dire was likely to be afraid of anyone. And second, some idea of whether Old Joe knew the crab shifter at the aquarium. For neither of those conversations did he wish to have the curvaceous Lei around, particularly since Old Joe was probably going to be in his shifted form.

He knew his colleagues on the force had locked and sealed the shark chamber the night before after it became obvious that they were in fact dealing with murder. She wouldn't have the key to that, surely. McKnight was supposed to come in with the employees later on and supervise them while they fed the sharks and the other fish, so that no fish in those rooms would starve. But he didn't see anything wrong with letting Lei go and do whatever paperwork she needed to do. At least not if he could drop in on her unannounced.

He watched her go towards the aquarium and only as he saw her go in, did it occur to him that she'd never told him she had a key. Did she have a key? Surely interns wouldn't. Or did someone come to open the restaurant or aquarium at a designated time? Well, he'd find out. If she couldn't get in, she couldn't do much.

Getting out of the car, he ambled down to the stream. But it was flowing now, the water gurgling amid the remaining ice floes. Rafiel thought he saw what might have been a pair of alligator eyes and the snout of an alligator peeking from beneath the water, but he couldn't really tell.

"Come on," he said, speaking to the still air and wondering if he'd gone nuts. Surely anyone who heard him would think he had. "Come on, now, Old Joe? I need to talk to you. Tom's safety might be at stake."

Was that swishing sound an alligator's tail churning the stream? Or was it just the normal gurgling of the water augmented by his hopes?

He waited. But no snout broke the water, no alligator came towards him. No, it would not be this simple, Rafiel thought. No one was about to hand him the solution. He'd have to figure it out himself.

Kyrie waited till there was a lull early in the afternoon, when the diner was almost empty. Tom busied himself with those things he did when his cooking expertise was not needed—scrubbing the cooking surfaces, marinating meat, bringing out frozen dough and setting bread to rise. The bread was one of the few things Tom didn't make himself, from scratch. The woman, Laura, who had applied here some days ago, had offered baking skills, which, of course, would be a great help. Kyrie hoped she would show up for an interview as soon as the weather permitted it. For one, with the addition of Conan and the seeming disappearance of the unreliable waitress Beth, she was now the only woman on staff. For another, she wasn't sure how much longer Keith would want to continue working for them.

He had only ever been a part-time employee, because of his studies, but since he'd discovered Summer had taken pictures of Tom and Conan, he hadn't been back at all. Kyrie didn't know if he was upset with them, or if it had just finally been borne upon him how difficult and dangerous their position was. Probably both. She would have left them and herself far behind, by now, if she could. At least . . . she couldn't leave Tom. Any more than she could walk away from herself. But she would have left their shifter condition far behind.

As she walked towards the annex, she found herself daydreaming of a life in which neither she nor Tom were shifters. How peaceful the days would be and how devoid of unusual events.

Of course, she knew in her heart of hearts that the daydream was great foolishness. Because, if Tom hadn't been a shifter, he'd be living somewhere in New York City. Or perhaps he would have been sent to those Ivy League colleges where the wildest behavior is excused if the family pays enough. At any rate, he would never have crossed paths with her.

And besides, things were the way they were, so she must do what she must do. She felt a twinge of fear at the idea of exactly what she must do. Tom would disapprove. In fact, Tom would be very, very upset. If he ever found out. She didn't want to keep secrets from him. But sometimes people had to be kept in the dark for their own good. And in this case, Tom had to be kept in the dark for the continued ability to call his soul his own.

She approached Conan as he finished wiping a table, and spoke in an undertone, her ears listening for any sounds of approaching footsteps, which might be Tom coming to check on them. "Conan, do you have a way to contact the representatives of the dragon triad, here in town?"

She'd obviously been so careful that Conan himself had not heard her approach. He dropped the tray he'd been holding, and bent to retrieve it, his gaze fixed on her, his eyes big as saucers.

Seeing him open his mouth, and very much fearing how much noise he might make, she put her finger in front of her lips. He nodded and it seemed to her he looked a little pale, but when he straightened up, he whispered back, "Well, you know that Himself can take over my mind and . . . and listen in, but . . ."

"I don't mean like that," she said. "I mean, do you have a phone number to call or something? I presume that I could still approach them outside the Three Luck Dragon?" she asked.

"Inside," he said. "The owner. Yes."

"Then would you call whatever number you need to call and tell them I come in peace, but I want to talk to their leader?"

Conan gave her a long and analyzing stare, before giving her a very curt nod. "When?"

"After Tom goes back to the bed-and-breakfast to sleep," she said, "which I figure will be around six, because that's when Anthony will come in again."

"Oh," Conan said and then, "you haven't slept at all yourself."

Kyrie shrugged. "No. I can go twenty-four hours without sleeping. It just makes me more susceptible to shifting, but . . ."

He nodded. "I assume you . . . have a plan? And that you want our—the dragons' help with it?"

"Yes. Well . . . I want their help. I don't have a plan yet, but I'm sure one will emerge. Only, I must find out if they can help me, and then I must do what I can . . . I mean . . . I'm sure we can't fight this fight alone. And Tom won't ask for help." She saw him nod. "And Tom must never know of this."

Conan shrugged. "He won't learn it from me," he said. "Of course, the other dragons have their own . . . approach to honesty and promises."

"Meaning you can't promise me anything?" Kyrie asked, with alarm but not really surprised. She'd already once met the Great Sky Dragon's idea of morality. She wasn't sure he cared even for shifters that weren't his own kind.

After Anthony had come in, and Tom had gone back to the bed-and-breakfast to sleep, she went outside and—with trembling fingers—dialed the number Conan had given her. A heavily accented woman's voice answered, "Three Luck Dragon! How may I help you?"

Momentarily mute, Kyrie wondered if there was a polite way to say, May I speak to the boss dragon? Instead, she cleared her throat and said, "May I speak to the proprietor?"

The woman rattled something off, very fast, that appeared to be some Cantonese dialect, and Kyrie said, "Conan Lung told me to call. He said that the owner of the restaurant would speak to me."