shadows of salem 01 - shadow born (7 page)

I mean, really, if they’d wanted to kill me, the guard that had hauled me out there could have done that easily enough. He could have snapped my neck between his thumb and forefinger, and there wouldn’t have been a damn thing I could do about it. There was no need for that hocus pocus…unless they were trying to put some kind of spell on me instead.

Maybe they just wanted to make me forget what I saw,
I mused. That theory certainly made sense. Take the human out back, wiggle your fingers at her until she sees stars in her eyes, then send her on her way with a slight case of amnesia. Easy enough.

The only problem was, I wasn’t human. Or at least not a regular human anyway. I had a feeling that even if the guards and Mr. Trash Can didn’t know that, Lord Tremaine did. The look in his eyes when he’d caught sight of me, coupled with what he’d said, was more than enough to suggest that he’d met me before.

Thing was, I was one-hundred percent sure
I
had never met
him
.

So how did he know me then?

I rose from the couch to collect my Chinese food. Now that some of the anger had worn off, my stomach was making its needs known. I cracked open my box of chicken lo mein and shoveled a few bites into my mouth using chopsticks.

Maybe he met you as a kid.

I chewed on a snow pea from my lo mein as I considered that. It was entirely plausible that he’d met me as a kid and I just didn’t remember, as my life before Uncle Oscar was pretty fuzzy on the details. But what would I have done as a child that would have pissed him off so much that he’d thrown me out of his club without a second thought?

“I dinnae know why ye’ve come back again, but I wilna let you sink yer meddling claws into my affairs anymore.”

His thick, Scottish burr echoed in my head as I swallowed. Come back
again
? Meddling in his affairs? No. My childhood memory might not be crystal clear, but I’d remember if I’d come to Salem at six years old and stuck my nose into Maddock’s business.

Then again, he might not have been living in Salem when I was six years old. He’d only owned the club for the last five years. There was no way he and I had crossed paths when I was a kid, but the idea did make me wonder exactly what Mr. Tremaine
had
meant by his comment.

I set my box of half-eaten lo mein on the counter, then sat on the couch with my laptop again and Googled Maddock Tremaine’s name.

A website for Tremaine Enterprises popped up, and next to it was a strange golden logo that at first glance looked like a badly drawn Nazi symbol. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was actually three arms bent at the elbows and connected at the shoulder joint. A quick search through images showed that symbol was actually part of the Tremaine family crest.

I opened up the website and had a look around. Tremaine Enterprises seemed to have its fingers in a lot of pies, everywhere from real estate to solar power to the automotive industry. That was a lot of ground to cover, and while I could spend plenty of time doing that, I didn’t think I was going to find what I needed to know from his outside investments.

No, what I wanted to know was why a man—or whatever he was—with so many holdings spread across the planet was investing his time in running a supernatural club in small-town Salem. Too bad I couldn’t Google
that
.

Instead, I navigated to the company bio, hoping to find something useful. According to the summary, Tremaine Enterprises had been around for the last two hundred years, and had been founded by Dougall Tremaine on the family’s ancestral lands in Scotland. A small paragraph about Maddock himself told me that he’d inherited the company in full about ten years ago but had been working in it almost his whole life, already a savvy investor by the age of sixteen.

I wonder just how much of this bio is complete and utter bullshit.

I stared at the small photograph of Maddock Tremaine that took up a portion of my laptop screen. I mean, it all sounded good on paper, and I had no reason on the surface to think that any of it wasn’t true. But I’d stared into Maddock’s ancient eyes myself, and even though I didn’t know much about supernaturals, I was willing to bet good money that it had been a very, very long time since Maddock Tremaine had been sixteen years old.

Sighing, I closed my laptop, then cleaned up my takeout and headed back to my bedroom. I was going to have to rummage through the precinct’s database to see if I could glean any helpful information about Maddock. At the very least, I could dig out an address and see what my chances were that he actually lived at it.

Yeah, and while you’re at it, you’d better have a good cover story for why you’ve lost your gun, and hope that they’re willing to loan you one.

I groaned at the very thought, then froze as I caught sight of something resting on my pillow while reaching to turn out my light.

Something that looked very much like my S&W .40.

“Holy shit,” I muttered as I approached the gun. It was sitting, along with a small bouquet of white roses, on top of a card the color of yellow custard. As I carefully lifted the gun out of the way, I saw that the center of the stationary was stamped with a relief of the Tremaine Enterprise logo.

My fingers itched to open it, but before I did that, I sat down and took the gun apart, making sure that it hadn’t been tampered with in any way. It seemed fine, all parts accounted for, not even a single round missing from the magazine. So I put it back together, carefully returned it to my hip holster, and then reached for the card.

Welcome to Salem,
the card read.
Stay out of my business, stay out of my club, and if you’re lucky, you just might stay alive.

CHAPTER 7

I
’m not even remotely ashamed to admit that I spent an hour inspecting every nook and cranny of my apartment before going to bed, or that I jumped and twitched at every creak and whisper of wind I heard for another hour as I lay in bed trying to sleep. You would too, if someone had broken into your place and left a gun and a note on your bed without a single trace of other evidence to indicate that they’d been there.

It took me two more cups of coffee than usual to muster up the energy to walk into the precinct without a cloud of grumpiness hanging over my head, and even then, it was a near thing. But I smiled and greeted everyone I met, then braced myself for a scolding from my partner or the Captain for ditching him in the middle of an arrest.

Strangely, I got no complaints from either man. I wondered if someone upstairs was looking out for me…or if Maddock’s orders for his guard to “take care of it” had anything to do with the distinct lack of consequences.

Unsettled, I went to knock on Captain Randall’s door. Maybe I could coax some answers out of him that would help me determine whether he’d been bribed or magicked in any way.

“What is it, Chandler?” the Captain asked after he’d given me permission to enter. Annoyance rang clear in his tone as he looked up from the report he was reading. “I don’t have time to hold your hand today.”

It took great effort not to react to the barb. “I’m not here for hand-holding,” I said, folding my hands behind my back as I came to stand in front of his desk. “I just came to check in on that drug-dealing case that Detective Baxter and I caught yesterday.”

Captain Randall frowned. “The perpetrator was sent to booking last night and is currently awaiting arraignment. You don’t need to concern yourself further.”

I straightened my shoulders. “I appreciate that, Captain, but after the amount of time Detective Baxter and I put into the case, I’d like to know what happened. We hadn’t even had a chance to question Remy Vox, so I don’t have a lot to—”

“This sounds a lot like hand-holding, Chandler,” Captain Randall interrupted. “And I’m not interested in hand-holding. If you want to know about the particulars, look it up in the database.”

“I tried,” I said as calmly as I could. “But the case file was locked.”

Captain Randall arched an eyebrow. “Is that so? Well, then, I imagine that means it’s above your clearance level.”

Heat flushed my cheeks, and my hands tightened into fists behind my back. The bastard was hiding something; I just
knew
it. His expression was hard as ever, but there was just the slightest hint of smugness in his eyes. I didn’t know why, but Captain Randall was playing with me. And it was really pissing me off.

“I realize that, Captain,” I said tightly. “But I don’t understand why
a simple drug-dealing case that I was assigned to
yesterday
is suddenly too high above my clearance level now.”

Captain Randall’s face turned ugly. “It’s not your job to understand, Detective Chandler. Your job is to work on open cases, and right now, it sounds a lot like you’re pestering me about a case that’s already been closed. Does the Chicago PD usually pay you to work on closed cases??”

“No, but—”

“Then stop worrying about it.” The Captain slammed an open palm on his desk, and if I were a lesser detective, I would have flinched. His dark eyes glittered with barely restrained fury. “I feel like we’re having the same conversation we had yesterday, Detective, and that’s not a good sign. You told me that you’re an excellent detective, and I expect my detectives to understand the pecking order around here. This precinct doesn’t have the manpower or the resources for me to allow detectives to pick at and fuss over cases that have already been closed. If you can’t understand that, then you’d better hop onto a plane back to Chicago because I’m not interested in helping you if you’re going to waste my time. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” I said through gritted teeth, and I really did. It meant that Captain Randall didn’t want me poking around closed cases because he didn’t want me to expose whatever he was trying to cover up.

But if I couldn’t tackle him head on about this matter, I was just going to have to dig around behind his back until I exposed the truth.

The rest of the morning proved just as frustrating as my conversation with Captain Randall. He’d given me Tom’s file, but it was full of dead-ends. There were notes on witnesses who had been spoken to, all of whom had claimed to see nothing, and I spent the morning making phone calls.

Since Tom had died at a motel, all of the people who’d been interviewed were long gone, and I was stuck trying to squeeze information out of them by phone. By the time lunch rolled around, I’d gotten absolutely nowhere and was so antsy for progress that it was all I could do not to jump out of my chair and race for the exit.

“Hey,” Baxter said as I shrugged on my jacket. “You wanna go grab a bite? The Lobster Shanty serves some pretty great clam chowder.” He pronounced the word ‘chowdah’, in true New England fashion. Just like Tom would have done.

My stomach perked up at the idea, and I told it to pipe down. “Thanks, but maybe next time. I’m still settling in at my apartment, and I thought I’d use my lunch break to catch up on things.”

“All right.” Baxter shrugged, but there was a hint of disappointment in his voice that made me frown. I couldn’t imagine that the stalwart detective actually
wanted
to hang out with me—he was all business and no pleasure as far as I could see. Besides, I didn’t trust him enough to have anything beyond a professional relationship with him, and even that was pushing it. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

“Yep.” I slung my purse over my shoulder, then headed out to where I’d parked my jeep. I’d opted not to walk today, not because I was lazy, but because I planned on using my lunch break for some more investigative work.

I munched on the turkey sandwich I’d packed this morning as I drove to the Black Bear Inn. It had been a few weeks since Tom had reportedly burned to death there, but I was hoping I might still be able to find something of use amongst the ruins that could tell me more about how he’d died. And if not, maybe the staff could tell me something.

I pulled up in front of the inn, which didn’t sound nearly as impressive as it was. It was a single story building a few blocks from Derby Road that wrapped around the lot in a boxy U-shape, with parking spots in front of each room. A small building stood in the center of the lot, with a service window that likely served as the check-in counter.

I parked my car next to the little shack, then approached the window. A fat man in a white button-up shirt sat there, his large thumbs a blur over his phone’s screen. Either he was having a texting marathon, or he was playing some kind of video game, but whatever it was, he was so riveted that he didn’t even glance up.

Annoyed, I rapped on the window with my knuckles. “Hello?”

He jumped, and the fat rolls beneath his shirt rippled as he nearly fell off his chair.

“Jesus!” he cried, grabbing onto the counter for support. His eyes went wide as they took me in. “Couldn’t you give a man a little warning?”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Good afternoon, Mister…” I leaned in to read his name tag. “Jenkins. I’m Detective Brooke Chandler. I’m here following up on the death of Thomas Garrison.” My throat tightened a little, but I forced myself to remain coolly professional. I was here as a detective, not as a grieving fiancée.