side as I could, hearing the soft swish of tree branches along the top of the van. There was probably a police car out there someplace that would be parking beside me. I think they had room.
There was a small wooden sign, elegantly carved, hanging beside the door. It read, Police Station. That was it, the only hint. Couldn't miss it -- Jamil had a sense of humor. Or maybe he was still pissed that I'd cut him. Childish.
We got out. I felt Shang-Da's gaze on me. He was yards away, but the power of his attention crept down my skin, raising the hair on my arms. I glanced his way, and for a second, our eyes met. The hair at the back of my neck stood to attention.
Jason came to stand beside me. "Let's go inside."
I nodded, and we walked to the door. "If I didn't know better, I'd say Shang-Da doesn't like me."
"He's loyal to Richard, and you've hurt him -- badly."
I glanced at him. "You don't seem mad at me. Aren't you loyal to Richard?"
"I was there the night Richard fought Marcus. Shang-Da wasn't."
"Are you saying I was right to leave Richard?"
"No. I'm saying I understand why you couldn't handle it."
"Thanks, Jason."
He smiled. "Besides, maybe I have designs on your body."
"Jean-Claude would kill you."
He shrugged. "What's life without a little danger?"
I shook my head.
Jason got to the door first but didn't try to open it for me. He knew me better than that.
I opened the mostly glass doors. I guess the doors were also a clue. Everything else on the street had doors like you'd see on a house. The glass doors were modern business doors. The interior was painted white, including the long barlike desk across from the door. There were some wanted posters tacked to a bulletin board to the left of the door and a radio system behind the desk, but other than that, it could have been the reception room for a dentist.
The guy sitting behind the desk was big. Even sitting down, you had a sense of size. His shoulders were almost as broad as I was tall. His hair was very short and still curled in tight ringlets. He'd have had to shave his head to get rid of the curls.
My executioner's license is in a nice fake-leather carrying case. It had my picture on it and looked damned official, but it wasn't a badge. It wasn't even a license good in this state. But it was all I had to flash, so I flashed it. I went in, holding the license out in front, because I was bringing a gun into a police station. Cops tended not to like that.
"I'm Anita Blake, vampire executioner."
The cop moved just his eyes; his hands were hidden behind the desk. "We didn't call for an executioner."
"I'm not here on official business," I said. I stood in front of the desk. I started to put the license away, but he held his hand out for it, and I gave it to him.
He studied the license while he asked, "Why are you here?"
"I'm a friend of Richard Zeeman."
His grey eyes flicked up then. It wasn't a friendly look. He tossed the license back on top of the desk.
I picked it up. "Is there a problem, Officer ... " I read his nameplate, " ... Maiden?"
He shook his head. "No problem except that your friend is a damned rapist. I never understand why the meanest son of a bitch in the world always seems to have a girlfriend."
"I'm not his girlfriend," I said. "I'm exactly what I said I was: his friend."
Maiden stood, and he looked every inch of his six-foot-plus frame. He wasn't just tall; he was bulky. He'd probably been a wrestler or a football player in high school. The muscle had started to melt into a general bulk, and he was carrying about twenty pounds around the waist that he didn't need, but I wasn't fooled. He was big and tough and used to it. The gun around his waist matched the rest of him. It was a chrome-plated Colt Python long barrel with heavy black custom grips. Good for hunting elephants, a little much for scaring drunks on a Saturday night.
"Who are you?" He pointed a thumb at Jason.
"Just a friend," Jason said. He smiled, trying to look harmless. He wasn't as good at looking harmless as I was, but he was close. Beside Officer Maiden we both looked sort of fragile.