Recognizable to her, anyway. Briefly, fiercely, she wished for Cynna, whose body was covered in tattoos rather like this one. Tattoos that were actually spells.
But Cynna was in another realm…alive, Lily reminded herself. Alive and doing okay, according to the optimism she’d promised herself for another three months. She raised her phone and took pictures of the tattoo from various angles, then had the attendant roll the body on its side so she could get the rest of the pattern, which went all the way around.
Finally she put her phone away. “I’ll need to scrub before I do the rest.”
Wright nodded amiably. “Sure. You explained about that. Sink’s to your left.”
Lily scrubbed thoroughly. The body hadn’t been autopsied yet, and though it was unlikely the lab results would be useful—body fluids from those of the Blood tended to screw up lab results, even after death—she’d do this by the book. “Did you know Jason Chance?” she asked casually.
“Sure. The chief’s wrong there,” Wright said. “So were the jefes. Jason’s a good guy. Shouldn’t’ve fired him.”
Jason Chance was the lupus the police had locked up pending formal charges. He was also a nurse. It was not the profession where Lily expected to find a part-time wolf, and it made her curious about him in a nonprofessional way.
She returned to the body. “Did Jason come see you when he visited Hilliard?”
“Naw. Not this time, anyway. Last time he was in town he did.”
Lily nodded. Then she laid her bare fingertips on the edges of the wound.
Cold, flaccid skin. A few flakes of dried blood. Nothing else. She probed gently inside the wound. Still nothing.
One more place to check. She touched an intact part of the tattoo on the side of Hilliard’s neck. The tingle of magic was faint—too faint for her to identify the type. But it was, by God, present. “Mr. Wright—”
“What the hell are you doing?” demanded a tenor voice that did not belong to the morgue attendant.
Lily straightened and turned. The man who’d just entered was fat and freckled with thick, gingery red hair. Very Auld Sod. He wore a khaki uniform and badge, a hip holster, and a scowl.
The voice went with the scowl. “Morton, you’d better have a good explanation for letting this—”
Lily interrupted coolly. “He does. Would you be Chief Daly?”
“I am. Who the hell are you?”
“Special Agent Lily Yu, FBI. I left several messages for you.”
“And just what are you doing here, messing with evidence?”
Lily raised her eyebrows. “Obviously you don’t respond to your messages. Do you not listen to them, either?”
He waved that away. “I got your goddamned message. You want to stick your nose into my murder case. That doesn’t give you the right to go messing with the victim’s body, messing up evidence. You don’t even have goddamned gloves on.”
“Which is why I scrubbed first. I’m a touch sensitive. I can’t gather information with gloves on.”
“You’re what?”
“A sensitive,” Wright said helpfully. “You know, one of those folks who can feel magic when they touch it. Like on that old show, Touching Fire—you remember it? With Michelle Pfeiffer and that guy—I can’t remember his name, but he played in—”
“Jesus Christ, Morton, spare me. I know what a sensitive is. I don’t know what Agent Yu here hopes to prove by feeling up a dead werewolf.”
Oh, yeah. Working with this red-headed ape was going to be fun. “Since you’ve torn yourself away from your other duties to speak with me, Chief Daly, perhaps we could take this discussion somewhere less chilly.”
“Not much to discuss. You’re butting out.”
“No. I’m not. I need to wash up.” She didn’t wait for a response, heading back to the sink she’d used before. “I understand the body was found by a hiker.”
“That’s right. He was found within city limits, which makes this my case. Nothing to do with you.”
She turned, drying her hands. “No? Where’s the blood?”
“You think I don’t know your type?” One thick finger jabbed in her general direction. “Publicity hound. Gets you plenty of attention, doesn’t it, swooping in here and stirring things up, calling the press to feed them whatever crap you think will get you a headline.”
“You don’t know me, Chief. I have not and will not contact the press, and I sincerely hope no one else does, either. I need to see the reports you have on this case.”
“Yeah, well, I need a vacation. Doesn’t mean it’ll happen.”
“I have the authority to require your cooperation.” She returned to her purse, extracted the little folder with her badge, and showed it to him.
Lily was with Unit 12 of the Magical Crimes Division of the FBI. Prior to the Turning, people knew about MCD, but the Unit had been a well-kept secret. Almost all its agents were Gifted, and the Gifted were not trusted. After the Turning, Congress flip-flopped, giving the Unit rather broad powers. Too broad, according to some. Lily was careful not to abuse her authority…however tempting it might be at times like this.
Daly pulled a small notebook out of his shirt pocket and wrote down her badge number. “I’ll check this out.”
“Of course.” Lily slipped the badge back in her purse. “Why don’t you call now? I’d like to see those reports as soon as possible.”
“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.”