A Little Street Magic Page 2

  “You’re too good to me.”

  “Only the best for my favorite societal menace.”

  He wasn’t following us. I stopped and looked back. “You’re not coming?”

  “Up close and personal once was enough for me, thanks. I’ll be sticking to the photos.” The burly detective waved us on. “Don’t forget your vomit bucket.”

  Turning around, I hesitated, so not wanting to walk through the curtained doorway. But since I kind of had to, in order to be of assistance, I started walking again. Logan followed suit, and we paused to put the shoe coverings on before going through the swinging door.

  He grabbed the wastebasket and handed it to me. “Here you go.”

  “Water?”

  He pulled the bottle from inside his jacket. “Got it.”

  This close, even with the curtain, I could smell the tang of blood in the rather musty air. I flipped my hair over my shoulders and hugged the little wastebasket to my chest. “Here we go.”

  Logan nodded and pulled the curtain aside. Two men standing directly beyond it stepped apart and turned to look at us.

  I saw the thing dangling at the end of the rope, felt my forehead wrinkle for puzzled second, and then realized the thing had once been a human.

  Chunk blowing promptly followed.

  “Better?” Logan finished wiping my face. I was sitting on the floor behind the counters, after coming close to passing out from the violence of my vomiting.

  “Not really.” My face was burning with embarrassment, thanks to being laughed at by the newest member of the detective division, one Frank Dodson.

  Dodson was seven feet tall and solid as a mountain, with pale blue eyes and light brown hair cut in a close buzz. No one looks good throwing up, but none of Santo Trueno’s finest had ever laughed at my weak stomach before.

  Damian had come damn close to punching the much larger man before Schumacher had intervened and said something that shut down Dodson’s roaring hilarity.

  “Want some water?” Logan offered the open bottle. I couldn’t even meet his eyes, though he’d spent a good ten minutes wiping away pressure induced tears and streamers of drooling vomit.

  Accepting the bottle, I took a mouthful to swish around, and winced at the tiny leftovers it loosened. I spat the water out, wiped my mouth with a paper towel, and swallowed a much smaller sip. My throat burned, and my entire torso hurt. The stink of puke was plastered in my nasal passages. At least, I hoped it was just the smell.

  It had been that kind of pukefest.

  “Cordi.”

  I forced myself to look up and meet Damian’s eyes. My warlock friend smiled. “Can you try again?”

  “Considering the volcano of vomit she spewed, she should be dry for a year.” Dodson snorted. He sounded like a horse. “Thought she was supposed to be a badass.”

  Damian’s smile disappeared, and he aimed a narrow-eyed glare upward, being a foot shorter than Dodson. “You’re going to step back now.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or I call Stannett and tell him the new guy’s a jerkoff,” Schumacher said from behind the counter I was sitting against. “Then again, Jones could complain. It’s not like that was professional behavior, Detective.”

  I could do that? Hm. I took another sip of water, letting its coolness soothe my throat.

  Dodson lumbered out of the counter area, muttering “Bunch of losers” as he went.

  “Maybe we should think of creating a chart,” Logan said. “Because that is not what I’d call ‘messy’ in there.”

  “Hey, I tried to warn her. Did you really say ‘messy’?” Schumacher asked.

  Damian grimaced, but didn’t get the chance to reply because Dodson broke in. “Do you people do any actual work? Or do you sit around scenes, playing nurse to the delicate little psychic?”

  Logan stood up, looking over the counter. “She doesn’t like seeing the aftermath of people being killed. That’s not delicate, it’s human.”

  “You didn’t spew your dinner everywhere.”

  “I’m not human.”

  Dodson sniffed. “So seeing a torn apart body doesn’t bother you?”

  “It bothers me. Doesn’t seem to bother you much though. You laughed.” Logan’s voice had developed that soft, scary tone.

  Which meant the testosterone level was rising too fast for comfort. I quickly climbed to my feet before Dodson could reply, and said, “I’m ready to take another look.”

  All four men looked at me, and disappointment flashed across Damian’s face. Suspicious, I ‘pathed him, Do you want Logan to beat him up?

  Well...kind of.

  And get arrested for assaulting an officer of the law?

  He had the grace to look embarrassed.

  Argh. Fricking men. I stomped over to the curtain. “Logan, come on.”

  My summons put a halt to the stare off he’d begun having with Dodson. He joined me at the curtain, where I took a deep breath and lowered my eyes to the floor before pulling the material aside. The floor was bad enough, splattered with blood and bits of...stuff. Yeah, “stuff” worked for me.

  I picked a way through it to a clear spot behind a big wooden crate to the right of the doorway, Logan following. He was sniffing the air. I breathed through my mouth, hoping not to smell anything. Damian stayed just inside the doorway.

  “You smell anything weird?” I asked.

  Logan wrinkled his nose. “Blood and cooked meat.”

  Ugh. Why did I ask? “Not magic?”

  He shook his head. “Sorry.”

  “I guess that’s good, or we might have more bodies.”

  “Victim’s name is Arthur Pettigrew. Seventy-three, white male, owner of this shop. Body was discovered by one Brian Fogbottom, who’d arranged to meet the vic at eight.” Damian paused. “Pettigrew is a widower, lived alone except possibly for his dog. I’m sending men over to his house.”

  “How do you know he has a dog?”

  Damian pointed to a desk on the other side of the doorway. “Photo.”

  “Oh.” I frowned at the top of the crate, thinking about the junk out on the shelves. “Why would anyone meet a junk dealer by appointment?”

  “He wasn’t just a junk dealer. He dealt with antiques and other specialty items.”

  “Special? Do you mean stolen?”

  “No proof of that at this time. Fogbottom had a request in for a first edition book. Ah, The Happy Prince and Other Tales. It’s by...”

  “Oscar Wilde,” Logan said. “Haven’t read it myself, but I did see a copy at the library last week. Guessing not a first edition.”

  “Probably not,” Damian agreed. “First edition for it runs around forty thousand, and I don’t think the library has that kind of budget.”

  I peeked at the body, or what was left of it, and my stomach clenched in protest. “I don’t think book collectors do that to people.”

  “Depends on the book.” Logan was studying the hanging body. “Someone hunting down grimoires might have the power to do that.”

  I dropped my eyes back to the crate’s top, noticed there was a bit of finger bone with blackened skin attached, and closed my eyes. “That is now duking it out with old Henry Wilkins for worst thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Wilkins.” Damian snapped his fingers. “The serial killer who skinned his victims alive. From now on, anything this bad is a Wilkins.”

  “Noted.” Logan was sniffing again. “I don’t understand how there’s so much blood.”

  “It always looks like too much for one person.” I opened my eyes, wanting to close them again immediately. Instead, I studied the late Arthur Pettigrew’s hanging remains.

  His head, most of his chest, and part of one arm had survived the explosion. Everything else, ka-blooey all over the room. There were streaks of rawness showing through the blackened exterior.

  “Not what I meant.” Logan pointed under the body, and to a few other spots where blood had spilled. “That’s fresh blood. Or rather, not boi
led blood. It landed there before the perp blew him apart.”

  “Perp?”

  “Guess I’ve been reading too many thrillers lately.”

  “I mean, perp works, I just prefer bad guy or killer myself.”

  “Perp is correct,” Damian said. “I hate to ask, but can you pick up any scents that would indicate a vampire or shifter did this?”

  I shook my head while Logan did more sniffing. “Wouldn’t be a shifter. They can’t do magic, so would’ve had to use actual fire and an explosive. Did anyone hear a boom?”

  “No vampire scents, but the blood and meat smell is pretty overpowering. Not much smoke either. I’d kind of expect more.”

  I side-eyed Logan. “Have you smelled burned people before?”

  “No, but I burned a roast and the smoke filled up my apartment.”

  “A person isn’t a roast, Logan.”

  “We’re all meat to someone.” He nodded at the remains. “That poor old guy was definitely meat to whoever killed him.”

  I hated when people made points like that. It did bad things to my worldview. “That’s not a cheerful idea. Hey, Damian.”

  “Yes?”

  “Why don’t you do that past time-lapse spell?”

  The warlock rolled his eyes. “Look around. I can’t draw a clean circle in here. By the time this place is fully processed and then cleaned, it’ll be too late for that spell to work.”

  Foiled. “Why isn’t anything easy anymore?”

  No one bothered to try answering. Damian decided to theorize. “Two possible motives leap out. Either someone had an issue with our vic, or he surprised a thief, who turned violent.”

  There were open boxes on the shelves and a few crates on the floor. One of the crates was opened. “Is there a safe?”

  “Over on this side, and torn open. Can’t tell if anything’s missing, but if robbery was the motive, the perp wasn’t interested in money. There’s a few cash stacks in the safe.”

  “Has the safe been done?” was my next question.

  “Only the door and interior edges. Everything’s been photographed, but the contents haven’t been dusted yet.”

  “Okay.” I began to pick a path to the other side of the door.

  Damian sighed. “Cordi.”

  “What?”

  “Everything’s been photographed and your shoes are protected. You don’t have to mince.”

  “Mince?”

  Logan backed him up. “You’re mincing. Definitely mincing.”

  “Fine. I’ll keep right on mincing, because I don’t want to step on little bits of Mr. Pettigrew. That’s disrespectful.” Also extremely disgusting, shoe coverings or not. Crap, I shouldn’t have thought about that. I’d probably have a nightmare about tiny Pettigrew pieces crawling all over me now.

  The safe was a solid box with a keypad and handle. I didn’t envy the person who had to process the contents, because they were as gory as everything else. What the hell had gone on in this room?

  As I crouched down, Damian came to stand behind me. The handle of the safe was bent out nearly straight, and the bolt was wrenched out of shape too. “Wow, the killer has to be super strong. Is this bolted to the floor or wall?”

  “No, and it wasn’t moved. It’s still right against the wall.”

  The top was dusty and free of handprints. “So what? He just yanked the door open really fast?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Right, that’s why I was here, to try and shed some light. “Glove coming off.”

  “Just the handle,” Damian reminded me.

  “I know.” I touched the handle and waited. After a moment, I let go. “Nothing useful, sorry. Just a sense of satisfaction. Business kind, not ‘Ah-ha, I killed a guy’ kind.”

  “Damn.”

  I stood up and Damian turned to look at the remains.

  “Dude, I’m not touching that.”

  “I didn’t ask you to.”

  “You thought it really loud, and I’m standing right here.”

  “Idle thought. You couldn’t until the autopsy’s done.”

  “Not touching it then either.” Uh-uh, no way, no how.

  Damian grunted. “How hot does a fire have to be to cause a human body to partially explode like that?”

  “Fire doesn’t explode bodies, at least not by itself. It cooks the moisture out, burning from the outside in.” Logan cocked his head when we looked at him. “I cut open my roast to see if the center was edible.”

  “Again with the roast.” I pointed at him. “We’re going to have a talk about mentioning food at murder scenes, mister.”

  “Sorry, but my observation stands. The outer layers were completely dry and blackened, the inner portion dry and brown. It didn’t explode, it shrank.” He looked at the remains too. “There’s still raw flesh on that part. But all the pieces are burnt.”

  My stomach began to roil again. Right. “Unless you have something else I can try psychometry on right now, I need fresh air.”

  “No, but come into the station tomorrow. I should have some things you can handle then.”

  “Sure.”

  “Sorry for ruining your evening.”

  I glanced at Pettigrew Partial. “It’s nowhere as ruined as his was.”

  We started for the door, and I asked, “What’s going to happen to his dog?”

  THREE

  I sat on the floor, my eyes locked to those of a silent Rottweiler. An animal control officer had hold of the dog, with a pole and loop. Tilting my head, I checked the tags hanging from his collar. “Rufus, huh? You’re lucky the cop you bit is a dog lover, or he may have fed you a bullet for dinner.”

  Rufus stared back impassively.

  I straightened my head. “My name’s Cordi, Rufus, and I can understand you. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

  Rufus kept staring.

  “Mr. Pettigrew was killed at his shop. If you’ll talk to me, you might be able to help us find out who did it.”

  More staring. The AC officer was shaking his head. “You do know dogs can’t talk, right? I’d like to go home, lady.”

  “For your information, I’m a psychic, and dogs do talk. Remember that the next time you’re putting some down. They’re probably begging for their lives.” Satisfied by the sick expression appearing on his face, I turned my attention back to Rufus. “Come on, boy. Talk to me.”

  The Rottweiler continued to stare. I moved a little, but his eyes didn’t follow me.

  “I need help.”

  “You damn sure do,” The AC officer muttered.

  I ignored him, and called for backup. “Leglin.”

  The pole hit the carpeted floor as the AC officer backed away when my hound appeared. Rufus didn’t move.

  “What the hell?”

  I ignored the man. “Leglin, this is Rufus. He lost his master tonight. I can’t get him to talk to me.”

  Leglin stretched his nose toward the other dog. “Hello, Rufus.”

  No response. My hound sniffed the dog’s muzzle, and licked his cheek. Rufus, kept staring, a black and tan statue.

  “He’s in shock,” Leglin said.

  “Crap. Get me that blanket.”

  The AC officer shook his head. “You know what? You’re on your own, lady. I’m out of here.”

  “Fine. Get that thing off him.”

  “I’m not getting anywhere near that monster of yours.”

  “He won’t hurt you, and he’s not a monster. He’s an elf hound. But whatever.” I scooted forward and removed the loop from Rufus. “There. Leglin, the blanket, please.”

  The AC officer picked up the pole and held it between him and Leglin as he began to edge past. My hound looked at him, and softly growled. “He smells of death.”

  “Not surprised. He works at the pound. They put animals to sleep there. Permanent sleep.”

  Leglin growled again, louder. The guy went pale, and suddenly bolted.

  “That was just plain mean,” Logan said from the doo
rway. “All he does is his job.”

  “He won’t be doing it on Rufus. Besides, you’ve never been to the pound. It’s awful. They put dogs and cats down after 3 days, and all the animals know it. I could tell that before I learned to actually talk to dogs.” Leglin brought me the blanket. I wrapped it around Rufus and moved to sit beside him. After putting my arm around him, I said, “You’re not going there.”

  “Where is he going?”

  “To see a vet if he doesn’t snap out of his shock soon. He may know something. Even if he doesn’t, I’m not going to let him end up at the pound. People don’t adopt dogs like him much. Bad press. Not as bad as pit bulls get, but,” I shrugged. “I’ll take him home. For now.”

  Logan smiled. “I knew you were going to say that the minute we got here and saw him.”

  Rufus shuddered and blinked. I hugged him. “Hey, I’m Cordi. That’s Logan, and this is Leglin.”

  He let out a heart-breaking whine. “Master is gone.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. But I’m going to take care of you.”

  Logan pulled out his cell phone. “I’ll call Damian.”

  I left the doggy huddle, accepting a cup of coffee from Logan when I reached the kitchen. “He doesn’t know anything. Pettigrew was a nice old man, never gave any sign he was having any problems.”

  “How’s Rufus doing?”

  “A little better. That’s helping.” I nodded at the dog pile. Bone and Diablo were cleaning the Rottweiler’s face and ears. “I’m glad you asked Damian about his stuff.”

  “Familiar things help people. Figured it would help him.” Logan took a drink of his coffee. “Are you going to keep him?”

  “I don’t know. Kind of have a full house, and the Tinies aren’t happy I brought a big stranger home.” I’d had to shut them in the guest bedroom.

  “Sunny might take him.”

  “No. She found homes for her little guys. Doesn’t want another dog living there, except Kyra.” Kyra was Tonya’s Husky. “Kyra goes to the shop with Tonya now.”

  “Oh. What about your dad?”

  “Maybe. Depends on Betty and Amadeus. You saw how he freaked out over my Pit Crew.” I had a drink. “But two little boys may be the right medicine.”