sounds like Mr. Hauptman is trying to blackmail us,” said Agent Orton, his voice gravelly. “We can’t take his wife in because he’ll start a war?”
“Is it blackmail to tell a child that he’ll burn his hand if he puts it in a fire, Agent Orton?” asked Jenny. “This is, I think, the same thing.”
“Orton,” said Kent, sounding tired, “we are done here.”
“We have orders,” the older agent said.
“No,” Kent told him. “This isn’t the army. We were given instructions and gathered new information that made those instructions unwise.”
“Gentlemen,” said Jenny, “I trust we are finished here. If you have further questions, please feel free to call me rather than bothering the Hauptmans.”
That’s when Detective Willis came in, looking exhausted. “Sorry to be late. We’ve found three more dead women, and the press has found out about all of them.” He looked at Adam. “We’ve watched that video and read the letter Ms. Trevellyan sent with it. We are satisfied that this Juan Flores is our killer, whatever he is. I’m supposed to tell you that if you have any more information on him, we’d like it, including where he can be found. For my part, I just hope you have more of an idea of how to handle this thing before it kills again than we do.”
12
On the way to Honey’s, we decided to drive by the house to check on the cat and grab another change of clothing. Warren had left Medea with a mixing bowl filled with cat food and another with water because they’d spent an hour looking for her everywhere. He figured if he couldn’t find her, then neither, probably, could Guayota. There was a cat door in the house, so Medea could come and go as she pleased. If Guayota came and burned the place to the ground, hopefully she’d escape.
But I intended to stick her uncooperative rump in a cat carrier and take her with us. I wasn’t taking the chance of leaving her vulnerable.
I quit worrying about the cat when I saw the car parked in front of the house. A gray Acura RLX, a luxury sedan with horsepower, was sitting in Adam’s usual spot.
Adam slowed a little. “Do you know that car?”
I started to shake my head, then reconsidered. “No. But I bet it belongs to Beauclaire. I didn’t see what he drove, but I heard it, and the RLX fits what I heard.”
The SUV resumed its usual speed. “He’s early, and you left the walking stick at Honey’s house.”
“He can follow us to Honey’s—”
“I won’t take him to Honey’s house,” Adam said. “We’ve already exposed her enough by moving the pack there.”
“Fine. We can meet him at a place of his choice in an hour.”
Beauclaire was leaning against the front door, reading a book. A battered old copy of Three Men in a Boat; I’d had to read that in college. Twice. Now I couldn’t remember if I’d liked it or not. Beauclaire looked up when we drove in.
“Let me deal with him,” Adam said.
This wasn’t a John Wayne–esque “let the men deal with the situation, little lady.” There was a bit of sandpaper in Adam’s voice: he was still unhappy that the fae had invaded his house and made him sleep through it. He wanted to go establish dominance. Over Lugh’s son. Because that was a really smart idea.
While I’d been processing, Adam had already gotten out of the SUV. I shoved open my door and scrambled out, nearly tripping over the walking stick that fell on the ground as if it had been in the SUV and I’d kicked it when I hopped out. Which it hadn’t been, and I hadn’t done.
“Adam,” I said. “I’ve got the walking stick.”
He stopped halfway between the SUV and the house. He looked at me, and I trotted up to show him.
Beauclaire straightened, tucked the book in his suit-jacket pocket, where it didn’t bulge. Either he’d used glamour, or the suit was as expensive as it looked.
Adam put a hand on my back as I passed him in an unvoiced request, so I stopped next to him. Beauclaire came down the stairs to us, his movements so graceful I wondered how he had passed for years as human.
He paid almost no attention to Adam and me. His eyes were fixed on the walking stick. I couldn’t tell what he felt for it, and I expected to. I expected him to be … something more decipherable.