tattooist in the Southeast—”
“This is Philip,” came his crackling voice.
“Phil!” I cried. “We’re missing you—”
“I’m missing you,” he said. “I just wanted to tell you—keep yourself safe, call Rand and the boys for backup if needed, but I think you should do Wulf’s tattoo.”
I couldn’t answer for a second. “And just how did you come to that conclusion?” I asked. He didn’t answer, and I grew suspicious. “Philip. What did you do?”
“Who, me?” Philip said innocently.
“Philip!” I said.
“Just gave him my Mission-Impossible style glasses with the videocamera turned on,” Philip responded. “I got a wolf’s-eye view straight back to his lair—”
“You tracked him!” I cried. Damnit, I knew he was up to something when he gave away those sunglasses. “He trusted you!”
“What if he was our killer?” Philip said, slipping into his super-calm, super-reasonable voice. “I can’t afford to go weak kneed—”
“You son-of-a—”
“Hear me out,” Philip said. “First, before the power on the transmitter ran out, we did get to see his lair. No box, no blood, no nothing to indicate he’s a roaming serial killer—just a homeless werewolf curled up on dirty blankets struggling through pre-lunar shakes. Next time he moves we’re going in to check it out, but as far as the eye could see, he’s legit.”
I was furious, but I could see why he’d done it. “Fine,” I said.
“Second… I had my men check out the incident at the hospital. Thoroughly. Wulf was telling the truth. Someone gave his description to the front desk and told them to call the police, but according to the security cameras, Wulf was never in there. And—get this, I love it—it wasn’t a phone tip. Someone actually walked up to the desk and complained about Wulf in person, but from an angle just out of range of the security camera. Either they really got lucky, or they knew exactly what they were doing.”
I swallowed. “You mean… that talk about his enemies… he wasn’t off his rocker?”
“I’m not qualified to judge his mental state,” Philip said, “but as far as there really being someone out to get him… he’s right on the money. Someone is definitely gunning for him, though we have no way of knowing whether it’s some organized criminal element or just an irate hospital visitor who took offense to his looks.”
“I’m going to want that backup,” I said. What the hell was I thinking? Tattoo artists didn’t need backup. At least, we weren’t supposed to. “I want to help him, but now I’m more worried about whoever has it out for him than I am about any threat from him.”
“Me too,” Philip said. “I’ve already spoken to Rand and he can get you some plainsclothes that work the homeless. They won’t spook Wulf—”
“If he really is homeless,” I interrupted, “where is he getting the money for this?”
There was silence. “That’s a good question. Are you sure he does have the money?”
“Spleen referred him,” I said. “Spleen doesn’t work for free. I think he said he got a five thousand dollar retainer when Wulf waltzed into town six weeks ago. That doesn’t sound like someone worried about money to me.”
“Homeless doesn’t always mean penniless,” Philip said. “He knew what Oakley Thumps were. That ratty old suit of his? Started life as a Caraceni. It’s Italian, ‘bench bespoke’—made to order. New, it was worth almost five thousand dollars.”
“What does all this mean?”
There was another silence. “It means Mister Wulf deserves a closer looking into.”
“Don’t hurt him,” I said.
“Dakota!” Philip sounded hurt. “This is me we’re talking about—”
“Yeah, well, I haven’t known you for all that long. I want to believe you. Really, I do.” I said. “But I really don’t know what you’re capable of. If that little stunt with the sunglasses was any indication, you’re manipulative.”
He paused one more time. “Maybe I am. I’m proud to be a manipulative bastard, Dakota. But I’m still a good guy. I won’t hurt him. Remember what I said in the square—”
“You called him a perfect suspect.”
“I said perfect target,” Philip corrected. “Once he gets that tattoo… he’s going to have the perfect profile to become one of the victims.”
“You’re going to use him as bait?” I asked, horrified.
“No, Dakota,” Philip said. “This is me. There’s always a smarter way.”
“I’m trusting you on this,” I said. “I’m walking a tightrope between human rules and the Edgeworld here. I want to help you stop this killer, but I won’t just hand an Edgeworlder to the Feds— no matter how cute the Fed is.”
“I’ll take that