06. sorry, we're dead: clover and curses.
vera lynne (ruth wilson) | lucretia crux (hayley atwell) | commissioner samson francis (keith david)
PART SIX:
THE DETECTIVE IN RED
VIRGIL
It would have been quicker, easier, and more gentlemanly of me to flag down a cab. But there was no way I was going to get into such a small, enclosed space with her right now, and the walk would do me some good -- I needed to burn off the anger if I was actually going to work her case.
She didn't complain about the forced march; in fact, there were times when I had to half-jog to keep up with her, her stride was so quick. I found myself admiring her mile long legs as I had a hundred times before and shook myself sharply. Neither the time nor the place -- never again.
I should've listened to Mags and my gut. I should've told Molly no. I shouldn't be mixing myself up in her business any more. I was going to regret this, I just knew it...
It began to snow as we walked, thick clumps that promised to linger and settle in slippery drifts in the gutters. Vera was right about this being a bad spring -- the same time last year we were already enjoying balmy mornings and afternoon thunderstorms.
The street in front of the diner was packed with cars: the blue-and-whites of the cops and the long black hearse-like vehicle that belonged to the city coroner. Yellow caution tape had already been strung around light-posts and a trio of uniforms were redirecting curious pedestrians.
"When did the body drop?" I asked, pulling my wallet from my jacket pocket.
"Just over an hour ago."
"Didn't waste any time, did you?" I said, not really expecting an answer. "Hi, I'm Virgil Meriweather," I told the fresh-faced uni working perimeter detail, flashing my P.I. badge. Kid was so young he'd probably just left the Academy yesterday. "I've been retained to investigate this murder."
"Uh, I don't think I can let you in, sir," the kid said hesitantly. "It's still an active scene."
"Best time to see it, don't you think?" I persisted. "All kinds of evidence disappears over time -- gotta catch it while everything's fresh. Here, who's your superior? Lemme have a word with him."
"Which one, sir?" the kid said sourly, showing a flare of personality. "You've got a whole pack to choose from. The Commish himself is here."
"Commissioner Francis?" I glanced back at Molly, hovering at my shoulder. "Who the hell was the victim? Thought you said he was a regular, a nobody."
"Just because the man was a quote unquote nobody doesn't mean he's not entitled to the full process of the law," a familiar mellifluous voice said. The uni snapped a sharp salute and stepped aside as the Commish himself started towards me, gloved hand stretched out. He was my height and close to my build, but there were liberal splashes of grey at his temples and in his short beard, and heavier bags beneath his dark eyes than I remembered. When we'd first met, he was only a detective on the vice squad -- now, twenty-five years later, he called the shots at the department and looked nearly old enough to be my father. "Hello, Meriweather. Helluva night -- they say we'll get ten inches by morning."
"Hey, Sam." I shook his hand firmly. "I didn't mean to sound like a bastard just then -- my nerves are just a little strained. Didn't expect to see you out in person for something like this."
Francis arched an eloquent eyebrow. "Something like a hex murder? Not every day you see one of those."
"So that's why you're here? For the novelty factor?" I gave him a long look. "Come on, Sam. You know I've always been aboveboard with you."
"How about that mess in Little Mexico?" the Commish said shrewdly, before shaking his head dismissively, casting aside the aspersion. "You know I like you, Meriweather. You and your partner run a tight outfit and I've always appreciated the work you do. But this case might be a little too loud for comfort."
"I know it is," I said without hesitation. "But we've all got our crosses to bear. I've been asked to poke my nose in, and you know I'll do that with or without your blessing."
It was tall talk, especially to such an audience. I'd done a couple of small favors for Francis in the past, and he knew I was close to Tom Tiller -- must suspect that I'd sent the occasional solid tip the department's way over the years. But I wouldn't call us friends. He didn't owe me anything. And I might be balancing on the line right now, teetering between anger and acquiescence. Francis had the world's greatest poker face: it never gave away more than he wanted it to.
"Fine," he said after a pause that stretched just a shade too long for comfort. He knew how to time those just right, so the man he faced was sweating and uncertain. "A look around won't hurt anything. And I can't legally bar your work so long as it doesn't interfere with my people's. Maybe another set of sharp eyes will do us some good." He nodded at the uni, who lifted the caution tape for me. "Thanks, Murphy."
The diner smelled of beignets and blood -- a heady combination, but one I'd take over Molly's infuriating perfume. I took a deep breath and let it fill my nose. I was so concentrated on picking out the other scents of the place that I almost jumped when a hand slapped my back.
"Whoa there, it's just me, buddy," Tom Tiller laughed, raising his hands in a gesture of appeasement. "Sorry, should've remembered -- it doesn't pay to spook a were when blood's in the air."
Detective Tiller was a thin, trim young man but he'd been on the job for over a decade now, rising quickly in the force through a combination of hard work, unerring luck, and sheer determination. His black skin and dark eyes fairly gleamed in the bright fluorescent lights of the diner; his gray fedora was tilted at a rakish angle. With his thin moustache and fine-boned hands, he wouldn't have looked out of place playing a piano in a jazz bar. Instead he was standing at a crime scene with a gold-plated badge clipped to his breast pocket and a small notebook in one hand.
"Tommy, what the hell -- you could've told me he was working your case," I shot in Molly's direction.
"I didn't know he was--" she began in the same breath that he said, "Officially, I'm not." We all exchanged looks.
Boy, was this night a riot. The past fell over us like a suffocating blanket, and I saw Tiller fidget with his pen and look down at his leather shoes rather than meet my gaze. He was, after all, the reason Molly and I had met in the first place.
"If you're not on the case, why are you here?" I demanded.
"Guess you could say I'm liaising," he said, coughing to clear his throat. "I'm here in a supervisory capacity. Sorry, Molls, but the Chief and the Commish both know we've got history. I can't be lead on this or else the attorneys will claim prejudice and bias. The last thing you need is evidence thrown out just because I touched it."
"'Supervisory'?" I echoed. "Who are you supervising?"
"Me," a warm female voice said to the accompaniment of sharp clicks as her heels struck the floor. I turned to take in a perfect hourglass figure wrapped in a red wool pencil skirt and tightly-buttoned jacket. Chestnut waves fell over firm shoulders, framing an oval face with broad lips and defiant brown eyes. She held herself in an attitude that was somehow both regal and aggressive, feet planted firmly and arms loose at her sides, as if half-daring me to lash out at her.
This was a woman who A) knew how to handle herself, B) had solid steel beneath her padded curves, C) was used to being challenged, and D) hadn't been alive in centuries. Her cheeks were rosy enough but there was still a chill to her creamy skin, a weight of time behind her eyes that no woman in her thirties -- as she appeared to be -- could ever carry. She also carried, beneath the fresh tang of a lemony perfume, the same scent that always clung to War: something akin to dust, an earthiness that you found only in very old tombs.
"Shot in the dark here, but I'm gonna guess you're Lucretia Crux," I said. "The newest addition to the department."
An eyebrow quirked up along with the corners of her red lips. "Very good, especially considering I was only officially sworn in three hours ago. I know word travels fast, but my, that's impressive. I'd almost accuse you of being psychic, if I didn't know the gift was unheard of in weres."
"Lucy, this is Virgil Meriweather," Tiller said, glad that the momentary personal squall had blown over. "Private eye and a very good friend of mine. Great guy to have at your back in a crunch."
"I'll keep that in mind," she said, voice clipped and dry as she shook my hand briskly. It was a firm, professional clasp. "A pleasure, Mr. Meriweather."
"Funny, but you don't sound Roman," I said.
"Would you even know an Old Roman accent if you heard it?" she countered sharply. "No, I cast that aside along with my mother tongue centuries ago. I've been living in England for the last seven hundred or so years, and I find that a British accent impresses you Yanks. Now, exactly why are you standing in my crime scene?"
"Your crime scene?" I said. "And here the Commish himself invited me in. Are we going to be territorial, Miss Crux?"
"Considering this is my first case, yes, I think we might." Her gaze was a fierce and glittering one, but I saw a sliver of something behind it: fear. Not the usual sort of fear, but one I, as another preter, recognized. What she was telling me without so many words was that this was about more than just her -- this was about the future of our kind in this city. The Commish was going out on a mighty high wire, giving a badge to a preter, and all eyes would be staring in her direction for quite some time. If she made any missteps, especially this early, the repercussions would be immediate and far-reaching. It was vital for Lucretia Crux to distinguish herself as soon as possible. If she did, it could mean a veritable revolution. Doors that had previously been barred to preters would open everywhere. Institutionalized speciesism could become a thing of the past.
I could appreciate that. "Miss Crux, I'm only here to find the truth. I don't want to step on your toes or steal any of the credit. In fact, I'd be more than happy if my name never shows up in any of the papers in connection to this. I'm here because Miss Mason has hired me -- and to offer any assistance you may need."
My words seemed to take her aback. Perhaps she'd expected me to push further; perhaps she wasn't accustomed to a man giving way before her. Goddess knew the world was hard on women, especially women who looked the way she did. "...Thank you, Mr. Meriweather."
"Now, perhaps we could look at the body?" I gestured at the sheet-covered corpse that lay only a few feet away.
"Molly, if you'd come with me to the back," Tiller said quietly. "I'd like you to give a full statement to Detective Wharton -- he should be finished up with Bee and Jacky by now..."
"So Tommy's your training officer?" I said, unbuttoning my jacket so I could squat down.
"That's his official title," the buxom vampire replied lightly, balancing on the tips of her black pumps as she reached out for the sheet. "You could also say he's here to hold my proverbial leash. The department says it's ready to have preters investigating preter crime, but they want to make sure I'm not using any of my 'dark powers' to manipulate evidence. I'm sure you know how it is."
I thought of all the times I'd been cross-examined on the stand, the bullheaded unwillingness of lawyers and juries to accept my word as truth. How things like scents were inadmissible in court, despite the fact that there was practically nothing that could hide a smell from a were nose. War faced similar trouble when it came to the things he heard -- he'd tried explaining that heartbeats had unique patterns, that every living thing had a distinctive sound, only to be scoffed at. And everyone knew vampires could hypnotize people. Could put the 'influence' over them.
"Fuck transparency and close-mindedness," I said with feeling.
"Agreed. Now," she said, all business, as she yanked the sheet back. "Tell me what you smell."
That was one of the (many) things that separated weres from vamps. We both have extremely acute hearing, though mine can't penetrate as far as heartbeats, and heightened reflexes. But vampires can only smell two things beyond the normal human range: the stink of death and fresh blood. Get a bad nosebleed and a vamp could track you for miles just like a shark; once it dries, though, the trail goes cold for them. But for me? On a good day, when I'm not stuffed up or assaulted by too many chemicals, I can tell you what you had for dinner three days ago and every stop you made between then and now.
"Blood, obviously. Syrup. Sausage. Pancakes. Unsweetened coffee. Last meal -- at least it was a good one," I said. "Bee's an excellent cook. I'm also picking out... feathers. A raven, and a young one."
"You can really tell the species?" she said.
"I'm a cat," I replied blithely. "I know my birds. But this bird isn't right. It... grew too quickly. I don't really know how to explain it, but there's a definite whiff of left-handed magic about it."
"This magic, would you recognize it again?"
"Ye-es, I think so," I said after a pause, mulling it over. It was mixed with other scents, scents much more powerful and fresh, but were noses are legendary for a reason: once we've smelled something, even the faintest trace, we remember it for life. It's like an entire part of our brain is tasked with scent memory; which makes sense, considering how much of our lives revolve around our noses. "It was a life spell, but one that was corrupted. I can make out the rot of the ingredients that went into it."
"A life spell?" Lucretia glanced back at the closed door of the storeroom. "This coven specializes in life spells, doesn't it?"
"Fertility spells," I said, knowing it wasn't much of a clarification. "And this doesn't smell like any of their potions. They're called the Clover Coven for a reason -- all of their spells use the plant in one way or another. This had aconite in it."
"Wolf's bane?"
"You know your herbs."
"I've helped dozens of healers puzzle out many of their uses," Lucretia said. "I know that clover is said to have qualities conducive to feminine health, which explains its place in fertility spells. And aconite is one of the deadliest poisons known to man. It causes paralysis and constricts the heart."
"Yes, in some ways it's the opposite of clover. A witch of the Clover Coven would never touch it."
"Unless she wanted to deflect suspicion," Lucretia said quietly.
"What motive would she have to hex an old man?" I asked, properly taking in the victim's features for the first time. Sometimes I get so caught up in the smells, I forget people have faces, too. His spoke of long years and ill health, wrinkled and liver-spotted, cheeks sunken and eyes buried by crow's feet and bags. The tiny capillaries of his broad nose and the blood vessels in his rheumy eyes had burst, though whether that was from age or the last throes of death was uncertain. The thinning hair circling his substantial bald spot was a uniform white, with the texture of hay, and his chin was covered in at least three days' worth of bristles. His teeth were uneven and discolored, probably from thousands of cigarettes and cups of coffee. The chest had a horrible concave quality to it, the threadbare shirt sinking in where there should be a full ribcage to support it. Stiffened hands hooked into claws were frozen by his distended throat, locked there by rigor mortis. "Poor old bastard," I said in an undertone.
"He was a handsome man in his youth," she said thoughtfully. Catching my glance, she added, "I've learned to see the past in people's faces, how they were as well as how they are. Still, he lived a longer life than most mortals enjoy," she continued in a dispassionate tone. "The only shame is that he had to lose it in such a painful manner. Having a raven grow in your chest and fight its way up your throat must have been an agony. We have the raven, by the way, if you want to see it."
"I was wondering when you'd mention that," I said, tapping my nose meaningfully.
It lay on the table top, covered by a smaller sheet. (I knew the coroner kept a variety of sizes at hand -- sometimes the bodies that needed covering weren't adult, or all in one piece.) It was an actual raven, not a magical simulacrum, which explained why it had died when its neck broke. There was a tiny chip in the glass of the bay window, from which radiated several hairline cracks, where its beak had struck. And the smell of the tainted magic clung to it like oil, permeating every feather.
"Yep, I'd know that smell again anywhere," I said confidently. "Nasty shit." I paused, taking a good look around the room. The plate and mug still sitting on the man's table, the syrup and grease congealed into a shiny pool beneath the fork. "If it was a powder or a potion, chances are he ingested it while he was here."
"What, your nose can't pick out if it was one or the other?" she said.
"Actually, no," I confessed readily. "Before it's activated, magic doesn't have a smell. And the words chanted over the ingredients to stabilize them and lock in the power have a neutralizing effect -- sort of like sealing food in an airtight container. Stuff that potent, though, it wouldn't have taken long for the magic to take hold. And Molly said he arrived around 5, right on schedule. The timing would be off if he'd been dosed before he got here."
"That only makes it more likely that someone working here poisoned him," Lucretia said.
"Maybe," I conceded. "But Molly told me Fred Dobson has been coming here for almost fifteen years, every night, like clockwork. Wouldn't have been hard for someone to take advantage of that schedule, especially if this was intended as a frame up."
The vamp nodded in concession and pulled a notebook from her inner jacket pocket. It reminded me of War and his love of having everything written down and ordered. "The cook said several people sat down at his booth over the evening. Also regulars, long-time friends of his. I've got their names and the approximate times they ate with him. Should help narrow down suspects once the coroner gives an exact time of death. Still... It would be even easier for the cook or a waitress to slip something into his coffee while no one was looking..."
"And again, I say: what motive would they have to hex an old man?"
"Why does anyone commit murder?" she asked rhetorically.
"Love, lust, personal gain, revenge, anger, and because they're fucked up enough to enjoy it," I replied promptly. "None of those really seem to fit here, if one of the Clover Coven was responsible. They're making money hand-over-fist with their spells and this diner's always been a steady source of side income. I highly doubt love or lust was involved in this, and I don't see a harmless old man inciting a murderous rage over a plate of pancakes."
"Still leaves the psychopathic angle -- maybe these ladies aren't as wholesome as you make them out to be."
"Oh, I never said they were wholesome. But they're all white witches -- all took vows to do no harm. Sure, Bee sometimes gets into a lather and threatens to brain people with pots, but she's all bark and no bite. "
"Alright," Lucretia said, sounding anything but convinced. "You know these women. You trust them."
"Molly and Bee I know -- the others, by name and scent, yeah, but not well. And it's been over a decade since I last spoke with them. If you're worried I'll tamper with evidence to keep them out of stir, don't. I'm not that sort of dick. Just ask Tommy."
"Maybe I will. Now, you're welcome to talk to the witnesses, if you like, but I'm going to let the coroner take the body. Nothing else more he can tell us here."
"Not unless you know a good necromancer or medium," I said, unable to stop myself. "Sorry."
"We all handle horror in our own ways," she said. "Good evening, Mr. Meriweather." She held out her hand again and I shook it gladly, already impressed. Calm, observant, methodical -- she seemed like a good fit for the job. I looked forward to working with her in the future.
"Hopefully next time I can introduce you to my partner," I told her before heading for the storeroom. "I think you and War will get along just fine."
"...only family, as far as I'm aware," Molly was saying as I opened the door. She glanced in my direction for a moment, cheeks flushed, before turning back to the heavyset detective sitting before her. "I don't know his number or where he lives -- has he been notified yet?"
"We got a uni on it," Detective Wharton drawled, snapping a wad of gum between his horse-like teeth. He glanced up from his notebook, pencil pausing in mid-scrawl, and flashed a humorless smile at me. "Hiya, Bojangles. Fancy seeing you here."
"Wharton," I said, face carefully blank. Ron Wharton was, unfortunately, standard issue for the department -- lazy, dense, and an asshole. Tommy and Lucretia were definitely exceptions to the rule. Wharton went through the motions of detecting but never put the effort in to make a good job of it; he always had a pocket ready for handouts, too. I wasn't a fan, but that was alright, because he didn't care for me much, either. "Detective Crux said something about needing you out front."
He'd probably get into my face over the lie in five minutes, but right now I just wanted him and the stink of his cheap cologne gone. He heaved himself up, the chair creaking, and flipped the notebook shut with a smack. "Thank you for your time, Miss Mason," he said, casting his eyes over her cleavage before pushing past me. My fist tightened at my side but I managed to stifle the impulse to punch one of his teeth out.
"Want me to start from the beginnin'?" Molly said wearily, adjusting the hem of her skirt over her knees.
"No, I want you to go home and get some sleep."
She blinked, surprised. "But--"
"You've already repeated yourself too many times tonight and I know you keep daytime hours. I'd rather you go over things with me when you're fresh and not so shell-shocked. So tomorrow I want you and Bee and the waitress--"
"Rajani."
"Yeah, her. I want you all to come to the office around ten. What you can give me right now is the names of the people who sat at the man's booth tonight."
She stood, took a clipboard from the wall, tore off a supply order form, and scribbled a trio of names. "I didn't see any of them tonight," she added as she held the paper out to me. "Came in less than ten minutes before it happened. But Bee was here all day, and she had a clear view of the booth the entire time."
"Where is Bee?" I slipped the names into my pocket.
"Upstairs, breakin' the news to the rest of the girls." The two floors of apartments above the diner belonged to the Coven as well, serving as both living space and workshop. After the relationship had crashed and burned, that made things easier for me: all I had to do was avoid this street and my chances of ever crossing paths with the Clover Coven were slim to nil.
For eleven years, anyway.
"They're taking the body out," I said.
Molly bit the edge of her lip as the door opened behind me. "Poor Fred... Goddess, I wish I could've done somethin'."
"You couldn't've," said a lilting voice from the doorway. "Not that kind've whammy." Jacky O'Malley leaned into the room, hands gripping the doorframe and a funereal expression on his weathered face. His flattened sandy hair carried the impression of the baseball cap he'd been wearing; the cap now folded and thrust into the back pocket of his trousers. "The lady detective wants a last word with ya, Boss."
"Excuse me," Molly murmured, hurrying past.
Jacky looked at me calmly, and I looked right back. He hadn't changed a jot since the last time I'd seen him a decade ago. In fact, I would've sworn that he was wearing the exact same clothes. Same short compact body that radiated coiled strength, same gnarled hands and weathered face, same scarred wrists and faded tattoos. Some of the designs inked on his skin I recognized -- one was the mark of the Tam 'O Shanters, an Irish gang that had called a lot of the shots during Prohibition but had since died out; another was a symbol worn by most of the inmates of a particular cellblock in Sing-Sing -- but there were other, much older ones, that I didn't. Blue tattoos that looked like woad, in curving, undulating shapes that brought to mind elaborate knots and hungry serpents. I'd never asked Jacky about his ink, and he'd never offered any stories about them. For as long as I'd known him, as long as he'd worked for Molly and Bee, he'd been a quiet guy who kept mostly to himself. If his youth had been wild and lawless, his middle years were a marked contrast.
"Hey, Jacky, how've you been?" I said finally
"Same as ever, Virgil. You?"
"Pretty much."
"Still playing poker at Mac's?"
"No, you broke me of that habit. Thanks, by the way -- don't think I ever properly said it."
The diner's all-in-one handyman, dishwasher, busboy, and hired muscle shrugged nonchalantly. "Terrible shame, this," he said, his brogue thickening around the double 'R's. Leave it to laconic Jacky to sum up the night's death and horror in three words.
"Rather. Say, Jacky... Has there been anything else strange going on around here lately?"
"How d'ya mean?"
"Has the Coven been having unusual bad luck? Any break ins, nasty notes, threats, that sort of thing?"
"Not that I've noticed. But then, witch business is witch business. Doesn't pay to mix luck with spellcraft. I only see to the diner, me."
"Gotcha. Well, thanks, pal." I stuck my hands in my pockets and made for the door.
"Virgil?"
I looked back at the leprechaun, still leaning against the storeroom doorframe. "I'll let you know if anythin' else happens," he said. "Same number as always, right?"
I nodded. "See ya, Jacky."