Claws Bared Page 3

  “And the crime scene is...”

  “The nightclub.”

  “Of course.” I resisted the urge to test the door and see if it was locked.

  We turned off onto a side street. A second and third turn put us in an industrial area with warehouses and short, squat buildings lining the road.

  “Not that close to town.”

  The chief nodded. “When the owners came into town a year ago and proposed the idea half the town was up in arms. The other half saw it as a great money-maker. Compromise was to put it out in the industrial parks so that you had to work to get there and kids could be kept away.”

  “Has it worked?

  “As best as could be expected.” He whistled through his teeth. “It’s brought in money for the town. And plenty of employment for locals.”

  “Hansa a local?”

  Carson shook his head. “None of the dancers are locals. Management figured it’d be good to outsource, get people who you weren’t likely to have dated or gone to school with.”

  “Not a bad idea,” I replied. “Could make it awkward to see your former teacher shaking it up on the stage.”

  “I don’t know.” Carson gave me a wide grin. “I wouldn’t mind seeing some of my old teachers up there.”

  “And Hansa?” I brought the conversation back down to reality. “Where did he come from?”

  “Hansa moved in three months ago. Came over from Columbus, Ohio.”

  “Who found the body?”

  “Karl Rice. Veteran patrolman, was doing the usual nightly sweep of the area.” He shifted in his seat. “He’s not family. He radioed in an animal attack, called the ambulance, and I came running. You know the rest.”

  I nodded, keeping my thoughts to myself. If it hadn’t been a human finding the body Mike Hansa might have become one of the missing, disappearing into the woodwork without a trace.

  The family kept secrets, no matter the consequences.

  We drove into a parking lot next to a large warehouse. The garish blue and yellow neon cartoon cat’s face winked at us. Flowing letters spelled out Cat’s Meow in the same color scheme.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” I got out of the car and stared at the flashing lights. It was just dark enough for the bold colors to wash over us in a never-ending flash dance.

  “Sort of an inside joke. Owner’s not even Felis. She came up with that on her own. No one tried to stop her.” Carson stepped around the vehicle. “It’s closed tonight, sort of a memorial to Hansa.”

  “I’m touched.” There was a pink teddy bear sitting against the locked red double doors and a handful of burnt-out candles with melted white wax cementing them to the ground. “Where did it happen?”

  “Out back by the Dumpster.” He pulled the large flashlight from his belt and pointed it at the ground. A jab of his thumb sent the light disc skittering along the gravel. “Just ’round the corner.”

  I followed him to a green metal Dumpster tucked just behind one corner of the renovated warehouse. The worn metal cube balanced precariously on warped wheels.

  “Story is that the bear came to scrounge through the garbage.” Carson tapped the edge of the Dumpster with his flashlight. “Leave the lid open and lots of wild things come a-calling.”

  I frowned. “Where’s the...” I gestured wildly, trying to find the right word.

  “Yellow tape? Fingerprint dust?” Carson shook his head. “It was a bear attack. Ain’t no crime scene for a bear attack.”

  I rolled my eyes. Any evidence here had probably been compromised to the point of uselessness. Bitten again by the need for secrecy.

  “We found him about here.” Carson stepped over to the edge of the curb where the concrete ran out and the short grass began. “You can see a bit of the blood there.”

  I knelt down where a few puddles of dried blood stained the grass. The dirt was saturated, the few strands of untouched grass pleading for relief.

  “We figure the bear came out of the woods to scrounge in the Dumpster and ran into Hansa out here for a smoke break between shifts,” Carson said, his voice a bit too loud for casual conversation.

  I caught the human scent when the wind changed.

  “That’s too bad.” I looked up to see the two women walking toward us, swaying as one on matching delicate stilettos.

  “Police Chief Carson.” The first woman offered her hand. She was an older woman in her late forties, wearing a dark blue power suit. “I called the station and they said you were at the airport meeting someone important.” Her dark eyes narrowed as she zeroed in on Carson. “Then I drive by here and see your car in the parking lot.”

  “Mayor Langstrom.” Carson straightened up. It wasn’t quite a snap-to-attention but it was evident who topped whom.

  “Hello, I’m Dale Langstrom.” She ignored Carson and offered me her hand. I stood up, reflexively wiping my hands on the leather coat.

  “Rebecca Desjardin.” It was a replay of the handshake at the airport. Except she wasn’t Felis and seemed to have bigger balls.

  “And you are...” She tilted her head to one side and leaned in.

  “Insurance investigator.” I pointed at the club. “Mr. Hansa had a life insurance policy.”

  Her forehead furrowed. “You investigate bear attacks?”

  “Oh, yes. I mean, it’s obviously an accidental death but we always like to check these things out in person, especially when it’s something so unusual.” I smiled, putting on my best bored and blank expression. “It’s just a matter of paperwork. We’re curious as to whether Mr. Hansa had any part in his death.”

  “Like rubbing raw meat all over himself?” The second woman stepped forward, glaring at me.

  I chuckled. “Not quite. If he was drunk or under the influence of illegal drugs and taunted the bear or something along those lines it would go into my report.”

  “And you wouldn’t pay out to the recipient?” Langstrom asked.

  “Oh, no. We’ll be paying regardless. A man has died, after all.” I held up my hand, stalling another question. “It’s just the paper pushers who like their statistics. How many die each year from this sort of thing, what were they doing and all that. Helps out when they do up the yearly reports for the shareholders to have as many variables covered as possible.”

  I studied the second stranger. She was a shade taller than me, rocking back and forth on ankle-breakers, hands stuffed in the front pockets of her jeans. I didn’t immediately dislike her but I knew she’d be trouble. “And you are?”

  “Cassie Prosser.” She didn’t offer her hand. “I run the local paper. Editor-in-chief, top reporter, whatever you want to call it.” She jerked her head toward Langstrom. “Came by and saw her pull into the parking lot beside the police car. Figured there might be a story here.” Her upper lip twitched. “Other than a bear attack.”

  “Ah.” I didn’t have to be Felis to feel the hatred rolling off her in waves. She didn’t like me and she didn’t like Carson. She barely tolerated the mayor. “Did either of you know Mr. Hansa?”

  Langstrom drew back. “No.” The words worked their way out through clenched teeth. “I never come here and don’t plan to start.”

  “What company did you say you worked for?” Prosser snapped at me.

  “I didn’t.” I looked at Carson. There wasn’t anything to be gained by pissing too many people off the first few hours in town. “I think I’m done here.” I nodded to the pair. “Ladies.”

  The police chief didn’t say anything as I headed for the parking lot, leaving him behind.

  I leaned on the hood of the cop car for a few minutes, listening to the bickering around the corner. There were times when having extra-sensitive hearing sucked, especially when living in a big noisy city.

  This wasn’t one of those times.

  “Who is she?” Langstrom hissed.

  “She told you,” Carson answered.

  “Bullshit. Did you check her credentials? The last thing we need is some goddamn ta
bloid reporter sneaking around looking for some gossip. We’ve worked too hard to have this screwed up by some trashy exposé looking for small-town smut.”

  I couldn’t help smiling at the irony, given that I’d met Bran when he was working for the Toronto Inquisitor, a rag that put the “oy” in tabloid. My skin tingled, eager for his touch. I gave myself a shake and kept listening.

  “I checked. She’s legit.” Carson held his ground. “She’s only going to file a report and get the paperwork done for the family to collect the money.”

  I heard Langstrom grinding her teeth. “I didn’t want this business here in the first place and I sure as hell don’t need any trouble. She gets in, she gets her information and she gets out of town. I’m holding you responsible for this.”

  Prosser interrupted the mayor’s rant. “Are we sure it was a bear attack? If she says different it’s going to be big news.” There was a hopeful lilt in her voice as if she wanted me to find otherwise.

  I filed Cassie Prosser away under “trouble” in my mental cabinet. If she suspected there was more to Hansa’s death, I might have a war on two fronts. Maybe Carson’s Pride hadn’t been as secretive as they thought they were.

  Carson’s low, calm drawl was like pouring honey on panicked ants. “She’s nothing to worry about. No one cares about a bear attack and it’s all going away in a few days. Won’t be reflecting negatively on the town.”

  “It better not.” The click-click of Langstrom’s expensive shoes stung my ears. “I’m trying to save this town. I won’t have some rag printing stuff about dead strippers and killing even more investment opportunities. This damned club...”

  She came around the corner, ignoring me as she headed for her car. A second later Prosser followed, climbing into her own dark red jeep.

  The dark sedan spun out of the parking lot. The jeep followed, spewing gravel at us as it fishtailed back onto the paved road.

  Carson strolled toward me. He shook his head and spat on the ground.

  I jerked a thumb at the disappearing vehicles. “Small-town love.”

  “Yep.” He pushed back his uniform cap. “Dale’s pissed ’cause the club brings in money to the area but it’s not a respectable business. Cassie’s pissed ’cause she put the paper against the club and lost. Hansa’s death is the worst possible thing right now to hit this town—animal attack or not, it’s going to make news and there’s no way to spin it good.”

  “Neither one of them are family.”

  He tilted his head to one side with a sly grin. “Nope.”

  “Could have surprised me.” I got inside the car. “Got enough claws and fangs.”

  Carson pulled out onto the empty street. “Nice one about the investigation.”

  I shrugged. “I’ve done some insurance work so it’s not a total lie. They can check me out and it’ll stick.”

  It was getting dark. And by dark I don’t mean different shades of grey. I mean pitch-black, grab-the-cute-guy-next-to-you-for-support black, deep mine shaft black. If I took my eyes off the road illuminated by the car’s headlights, it was like looking into a black hole.

  “Next?” Carson asked.

  “How about the morgue.” I squinted into the wilderness, waiting for my night vision to kick in. “Still open?”

  “They never close.” Carson laughed at his own joke. He plucked his cell phone from his pocket. “Henry? Hey, yeah. Listen, I’ve got the PI here and she’d like to see the body now.” He paused a minute. “Cool. We’ll be there in a few.”

  A scattering of streetlights led us to the hospital, a small three-story building I would have mistaken for another warehouse if not for the large H signs all over the place. A helipad circle on the front lawn convinced me we were in the right place.

  It was a radical shift from the busy downtown hospitals I was used to. No screaming ambulances, no hysterical hookers screaming for their pimps, no strung-out addicts looking for a fast hit.

  It was like going from a hundred miles an hour to zero without an airbag.

  “This way.” He pulled into the single handicapped spot in front of the sliding double doors. “We’ll go through the emergency. They lock all the other doors after sunset.”

  The receptionist looked up from her newspaper as we walked through the empty waiting room and toward the elevator. She nodded at Carson and gave me a quick once-over.

  “She’s with me.” Carson stabbed the button. “Going to see Henry.”

  “Have a good night.” The elderly woman picked up a pencil and began working on the math puzzle.

  The elevator doors opened and we got in. I couldn’t help smiling—the surreal atmosphere was killing me.

  “Quiet town,” I said, stifling the urge to giggle.

  The elevator lurched as we began to descend.

  “Yep.” He took off his uniform cap and ran his hand over his bald pate. “The worst we get is DUIs when the local university starts up. Murder isn’t exactly our forte.”

  The doors shuddered open. We walked out onto cold concrete floors that hadn’t seen paint in the past decade. The grey scabs followed us down the corridor, dodging in and out with bare cement.

  “Henry’s the coroner and one of us. So don’t be afraid to ask the tough questions,” Carson said as we approached a set of double doors.

  “Good.” The last thing I needed right now was to worry about parsing my words.

  Henry turned out to be a senior who could have been my grandfather. A small crown of white hair hovered over bright blue eyes that screamed elderly wisdom. He clucked his tongue as he led us to the examination table, hands tucked into the pristine white hospital coat.

  “Soon as I heard you was coming down I pulled him out of the freezer. Didn’t cut him up or anything, wanted you to see him as good as the pictures. As soon as you’re done I’ll do the official autopsy.” A yank brought the white sheet flying off, bunching at the corpse’s feet. “He’s a bit cold so don’t mistake the skin color.”

  I blinked. I’d been in morgues before, seen dead bodies, but this one...this one made me glad I’d eaten before leaving Toronto. The Montreal smoked meat sandwich seemed a long, long way away right now.

  “Healthy as a horse. Dead as a doorknob.” He winked at me. “Enough metaphors for you?”

  “Maybe.” I looked down at the naked man. Chewing on my bottom lip helped hold back my combination of curiosity and dismay as my eyes headed south of his waist, seeking some area of unmarked skin to steady myself away from the mutilated torso.

  He was amply qualified for the position of exotic dancer. Maybe even overqualified.

  I swallowed back a giggle, glad it wasn’t the smoked meat sandwich returning. “Let me guess the cause of death.”

  Henry raised an eyebrow as I pointed at the deep gouges across the body, still gaping open. “You’re a smart one.”

  “That’s why they pay me the big bucks.” I steeled myself, leaned in and took a sniff. Carson was right. More scents than I had fingers. I could identify Carson and the coroner, but that wasn’t surprising considering they’d both had to handle the body.

  There were also a scattering of human traces, both male and female, but they didn’t concern me.

  Mr. Hansa had been a busy, busy little boy.

  “If you asked me to say which cut was the lethal one, I couldn’t tell you.” Henry shook his head. “The throat might have been the first or the last. Either way he bled out quickly enough once the cut was made.” His long slender fingers hovered over the destroyed skin. “It was a clumsy attack, this first one. Maybe in the heat of passion or anger. Sloppy. Just enough to start the blood flowing but not much weight behind it.”

  “Then she picked up the pace and hit him again, deeper and harder,” I murmured. “Bloodlust or panic, passion or fear.” I studied the wounds again. “Was it a fast death?” I envisioned the man falling to his knees, trying to stem the flow of blood as it gushed out between his numbing fingers.

  Henry frowned, his tongue r
olling over his bottom lip with a low whistle. “Couldn’t say. It’d take a few minutes but I can’t say he was conscious or not. There’s a nasty smack on the back of his head from when he hit the ground; could have knocked him out before he knew what happened.” He pressed his lips together before continuing. “I only hope he was out before she started on his belly. Doesn’t get more painful than that.”

  “Can you roll him over, please?” I didn’t touch the body.

  Henry took hold of the man’s hip and shoulder, expertly rolling him halfway.

  There were no bruises or footprints on Hansa’s back. It was pure bronzed skin, unmarred and pristine. I knew it was a long shot to hope he’d have a specific shoe-size imprint on his back or the tattooed name of his Felis lover, but stranger things had happened.

  “No tats. Guy kept himself in shape,” I murmured. “Probably hit the tanning salon three times a week.” I resisted the urge to reach out and stroke the smooth skin.

  “Except for that dying thing he’s in great condition,” Henry quipped. We shared a quick grin.

  Henry glanced over to the side where Carson stood. “Okay to clean him up now? His family’s not going to want him looking like this. Sew him up, make him respectable and all that.”

  Carson looked at me.

  “Give me one more look.” I winced as we turned the body back over, the stiff flesh falling back on the cold metal table.

  I studied the deep gouges and gashes in his flesh, the discolored edges starting to turn grey. He’d been sliced to pieces, no doubt about that.

  Now I just needed to find the claws that did it.

  I stretched out my hand, imagining the Felis claws jutting out from between my knuckles. Long, sharp nails much like your average house cat, like Jazz sitting back in my house and demanding treats from her obedient house slave Brandon.

  The deep incisions didn’t match exactly but they were close enough. An angry attack, as well. Nothing clean about this, nothing planned. Emotional, savage and intense.

  I nodded. “Go ahead—I’ve got the photos in his file. Thanks for holding him on ice.”

  Henry’s attention went from me to Carson and back again. He cleared his throat, pulling my attention away from the body.