That wasn’t unusual for a lupus. The magic that flooded their systems inhibited fertility. This was their big secret, the reason for their disdain for marriage or fidelity, for anything that lessened their chances of finding the right woman at the right time. The one who would bear them a child. “How did he deal with his disappointment?”
“Disappointment. It’s a mild word, isn’t it? As adults…” He shifted uncomfortably. “Age mates don’t always remain close, but Steve and I did for many years. Even after I was named Lu Nuncio, we were close. But when Toby was born, when I had a child and he didn’t…his longing for a child distorted him. He couldn’t settle. He couldn’t bear to be with those who had a son or daughter, so more and more he associated with those younger than him.”
“There was a distance between you, and you hated it.”
“Yes.” He sighed. “The one thing that mattered was denied him, so nothing mattered greatly. He didn’t sink into despair, but he made unwise choices.”
“Risky choices.”
He nodded. “If he’d been human, you’d have called him an adrenaline junkie. He loved high-risk sports—rock climbing, parasailing, sky diving. His first love, though, was motorcycles. He always came back to that, to his love for speed.”
“Those are pretty expensive hobbies. How did he pay for them?”
“He had a motorcycle shop—repairs mostly, though he also sold used bikes. He made a decent living with it. He paid off the loan he took out to open the shop years ago.”
“Who inherits?”
Rule shot her a sharp look. “Am I talking to the cop now?”
“I don’t separate out that part of me the way you do your wolf.”
“Fair enough. I assume you’re interested in what his will says, not his private arrangements with his Rho? His will leaves everything to Jason.”
“What do you mean by private arrangements?”
“We traditionally bequeath the clan its drei.”
“I thought the drei was like an income tax.”
“It’s more of a tithe, but it also means any percentage of our personal wealth given to the clan. With an estate, it can be anything from ten percent to one hundred percent.”
“But that isn’t mentioned in the will.”
“Traditionally, no. For centuries we’ve been careful not to leave a trail to our Rho in public records, and wills are public documents. Most lupi leave their estates to a clan member—a family member, if possible. Someone who will follow their private wishes, which they register with their Rho. Steve left his estate to Jason, but Jason won’t retain all of it. Half will go to Nokolai.”
By Nokolai, he meant his father. A clan’s Rho owned all the clan’s common property. As far as human law was concerned, Isen Turner was a very wealthy man. “I thought Steve lived publicly as a lupus.”
“He did.” Rule smiled. “When I made my public bow as Nokolai heir, Steve announced himself, too. That was his way of saying he stood by me. We weren’t as close as we’d once been, but he stood by me.”
“If he was known to be lupus, why the secret arrangements with his Rho?”
“Habit. Tradition. A disinclination to mess with the paperwork involved.”
“As far as the local police are concerned, then, Jason Chance inherits everything.”
His lip curled with scorn. “We don’t kill for money.”
“The local cops won’t accept that as a given, and lupi do kill for other reasons. You seem pretty sure Chance didn’t do it. How do you know?”
Rule shrugged. “How do we know anything about anyone? This would be wildly out of character for him. Jason’s a calm soul, a beta with little interest in status. He’d be moved to violence only if there was an immediate threat. But to be sure, I’ll ask him.”
He meant that. He would ask Chance if he’d killed Hilliard, and if Chance denied it, Rule would believe him. That wasn’t some bullshit belief in Chance’s honesty. Rule claimed that no clan member could successfully lie to his Lu Nuncio.
“Earlier,” Rule said, “you took my hand even though you were angry with me.”
“I was pissed at you, not Nokolai. Wouldn’t be good for the clan if you freaked out on an airplane.”
He smiled slowly. Fully. “What color are they?”
“They?”
He stroked his thumb along the skin between her thumb and finger. “I didn’t watch you dress this morning. What color are they?”
Oh. She smiled. “Leopard.”
Chapter 3
Morgues in California are as chilly as those in other parts of the country. Lily was glad for her jacket—the one she hadn’t gotten blood on yesterday—as she studied the pale body of a man who looked about thirty.
Caucasian, brown and blond, weight maybe one-eighty carried on a five-foot ten-inch frame. Steve Hilliard had been built like a fullback, with streaky blond hair and the sort of face that gets called all-American…if you think of Americans in terms of an all-white, Andy Griffith Show cast.
He was clean-shaven, which was typical for a lupus; Rule’s father was the only one she could think of offhand who wore a full beard. No visible scars. Also typical, since lupi heal without producing scar tissue…unless the injury comes from a demon’s poisoned claws. But demons were—thank God—rare, especially the ones with poison. Rule was the only lupus with a scar.
A quick visual told Lily that Steve Hilliard had no obvious physical flaws. Aside from the large one in his throat, that is. And as long as you didn’t consider tattoos a flaw.
He didn’t have a lot of dried blood on him, either. And that was odd.
“Look just like us, don’t they?” the morgue attendant said.
Lily glanced at him. Morton Wright was over forty, reed-thin, with geek glasses and acne scars—not exactly Steve Hilliard’s twin. But she liked the sentiment. “Lupi, you mean? Yes, they do. Some people have a problem with that.”
He shrugged. “In this job, you get philosophical. Used to be, some folks got churned up about skin color. Now they worry about people turning furry or whatever. But they’re all dead by the time I get to know them. Way I see it, black or white, part-time furry or not, dead is dead.”
Lily didn’t think everyone had gotten over the skin color thing, but she let that pass. “They do call it the great equalizer. Was Hilliard cleaned up before you got him?”
“Hell, no.” Wright was offended. “We may be a Podunk little town, but we’ve got professionals here. We don’t clean up a body before the autopsy.”
“Sorry. I needed to ask. Not much blood on him, is there?”
Wright switched back to agreeable. “Not what you’d expect, huh? Not from a wound like that. You open up a guy’s jugular that way, you’d expect blood to go everywhere.”
“Yeah, I would.” She hadn’t seen the police reports yet, didn’t know anything about the site where the body was found except the general location—higher up in the mountains, according to the newspaper.
It should have been a county case, dammit. Lily knew some of the county law enforcement people. But Del Cielo had drawn its city boundaries with great optimism, and they included the neglected hiking trail where Hilliard’s body had been found.
A body that would be taken to the county morgue tomorrow to await autopsy. Del Cielo didn’t have the facilities for that; this morgue was in the basement of their small hospital. “I’m going to get a few pictures of that tattoo.”
She’d fastened her phone to her jacket pocket earlier, so unclipped it now and bent to study the tattoos ringing Hilliard’s neck. The design went all the way around, like a wide, lacy choker interrupted by the gaping wound across the front of his throat. The tattoo was intricate and nonpictorial—no images of flowers or daggers or whatever. No words or recognizable symbols.