“I said I’d check. Don’t you try to throw your weight around.”
Morton Wright chuckled. Both of them looked at him.
“Hey,” he said, holding up both hands. “Don’t shoot me. Just thought it was funny, that’s all, Pete, you warning that bitty little thing not to throw her weight around. She doesn’t have much of it to throw.”
That brought a smile, however reluctant, to Daly’s freckled face. “Guess not. Listen, Yu…damn, that’s awkward. Your name, I mean.”
She smiled wryly. “I know. But it provides amusement for so many people—‘Hey, Yu! This is me—is this Yu?’”
He snorted. “Bet you’ve heard ’em all. I guess I came down a little hard.”
“Not a problem.” At least she hoped it wouldn’t be. They were connecting better now. “At the moment, Chief, I don’t know if this is my case or not, but it could be. Magic was used on that tattoo.”
“Well, shit, I guess it would have to be, wouldn’t it? Can’t tattoo a werewolf without magic to make it stick. But the slice to his throat wasn’t magic.”
“No, but if magic incapacitated him, or prevented that slice from healing—”
“Is that possible?” He frowned heavily, then glanced at his watch. “I’m supposed to meet with one of my detectives in ten minutes. Going to be late.”
“I’ll walk out with you. Mr. Wright—”
“Morton,” he said amiably.
“Morton, it was good to meet you. I like your philosophy. Chief,” she said as she headed with him toward the door, “what’s your theory about the lack of blood on the body?”
“Don’t have one, but I’ll be asking my people to account for it. My people.” He snorted again and shoved the door, which opened into a small anteroom almost as cheerless as the morgue itself—cement walls and floor, battered file cabinets, a single desk for Morton Wright. “Don’t mean to make it sound like I’ve got dozens on this case. I don’t have dozens in the whole damned department. I meant the Medical Examiner and the detective who’s got the case. She’s county, of course—the ME—not one of mine, but we’ve worked together a long time now. She’s solid.”
He’d sure mellowed. “That would be Alicia Chavez, and I agree—she’s solid. She’s got good people under her, too. Do you have an idea when Hilliard was killed?”
“Tuesday night, probably between eleven and three a.m. That’s unofficial, but it fits with when Hilliard was last seen.”
“Who saw him last?”
“Other than the killer, that would be Amos McPherson, over at the Stop-N-Shop. You know Dr. Chavez? I’m taking the stairs,” he added, headed that way. There was an elevator, of course, for the gurneys that carried the bodies to the morgue. It was painfully slow, so she didn’t blame him for avoiding it. “I spend too damned much time at my desk. Need to move when I get the chance. Doctor doesn’t like my blood pressure.”
“Stairs are fine.” She started up them behind him. “I used to work homicide in San Diego, so I’ve worked with Dr. Chavez and her staff.”
“So you weren’t always a Fibbie.”
“No, that’s a fairly recent change.”
“What did you call Dr. Chavez about?” By the time the chief reached the top of the stairs, he was breathing heavily
“I needed to let her know to check for gado.”
He pushed the door open. “Gado?”
“It’s a possibility. I told her she could send the samples to our lab. No need for the town or the county to cover that expense.”
“That’s…” He stiffened, his voice trailing off.
His bulk completely blocked her view. “What is it?”
He spun around, his face distorted by fury. “You—you—I knew I’d heard your name someplace! Trying to make out like you’re so professional—well, that won’t work now!”
His face was so red the freckles had disappeared. “Maybe you should calm down. That can’t be good for your blood pressure.”
She thought he’d explode. “You—”
Rule’s voice, smooth as silk, came from the other side of the furious man. “Congratulations on that promotion, Pete. Lily’s right. You want to watch your blood pressure. I’d recommend anger management therapy.”
Daly pulled himself together, but the color stayed high in his face. He didn’t say a word. His hands were fisted at his sides as he marched off down the short hall.
Rule watched him, a small smile on his mouth, his hands shoved casually in the pockets of his jacket. His eyes were snake-cold.
The hall they were in seemed to be part of the administrative section. Lily could hear voices from an open doorway at one end; three closed doors studded the hall in the direction Daly took. He marched to a door at that end, jerked it open, and let it slam behind him.
“Oh, geez,” Lily muttered. “Why didn’t you warn me the two of you had a history? I had him ready to cooperate. Then he saw you.”
“I said that the cops here weren’t trustworthy. You didn’t ask how I knew.” Rule was still watching the door Daly had used. Slowly his gaze shifted to her. “Five years ago, Pete Daly—he was a detective at the time—tried to beat Steve to death. A difficult task, considering how fast we heal, but he did his best.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Well, he’s a bastard, then, and a disgrace to the uniform, but what did you do to him? Because that isn’t the way a man reacts to someone he despises. Despises would mean he won, and he didn’t. He’s scared shitless of you.”
“Ah.” Now Rule looked at her, and his smile turned genuine. “Very insightful. To answer your question, I did nothing to Pete. How could I? He was an officer of the law. I was newly and publicly revealed as a lupus. I did nothing to him…over and over and over.”
She studied him a moment. He was truly relaxed now. Before he’d faked it, posing to look at ease in the presence of his enemy, announcing how little he considered Daly a threat.
Dominance games. He was good at them. “You stalked him,” she announced.
His smile widened. “I do love your twisty mind. How did—” A door opened in the short hall and a middle-aged woman glanced at them as she emerged from the office. “Perhaps we should discuss this elsewhere,” Rule murmured and took Lily’s hand.
“Quit that.” She pulled her hand free. “I can’t wander around holding hands when I’m investigating. You ever see a cop holding hands on duty? Or an FBI agent,” she remembered to add. The woman click-clicked her four-inch heels down the hall toward the door Daly had used. “Come on. Explain while we head to the car. You can start by telling me why you were here waiting for me. Or for Chief Daly?”
“That’s simple enough. I spoke with Jason’s former supervisor, as I told you I planned to do, but she’s on shift and couldn’t give me much time.”
“That wasn’t exactly what I asked. I suppose you heard Daly talking to me on the stairs and that gave you time to pose for him. What did you learn from Chance’s former supervisor? Was he or she responsible for him getting fired?”
Rule opened the door, holding it for her. “No, and they remained friends afterward.”
The hall opened onto the hospital lobby with a Pink Lady station, tiny gift shop, the main exit, and a couple elevators. “He was fired after coming out as a lupus, you said.”
“Jason didn’t announce it openly the way Steve did. He simply stopped hiding certain things, such as his visits to Clanhome, and let others draw their own conclusions. They did. He was fired.”
“He found another job pretty quickly.” He’d moved to San Diego for it, but Rule said he returned to Del Cielo sometimes to see Hilliard, who’d lived here. He’d been here on such a visit when Steve was killed.