Spells for the Dead - Faith Hunter Page 0,64

some men. Smythe looked like one of those men. I stared at him, but kept an eye on the guard too.

FireWind stared at Smythe. Softly, his lips barely moving, he said, “Catriona Doyle is a foreign national, held and questioned in regards to a capital crime for which there is insufficient evidence. She asked for an attorney when she was brought in for questioning. No lawyer was provided. Yet she was questioned extensively over the last twenty-four hours, with no water, no sleep, and no food. A representative from the Irish embassy is on the way here. The assistant director of PsyLED is making extensive phone calls. The director of the FBI is being notified of your breach of conduct. The chief of police is being notified through official channels.”

“I said to restrain her,” Smythe snarled to the guard.

FireWind spoke directly to the guard. “I am informing you of a severe breach of this prisoner’s constitutionally guaranteed civil rights. If you stay, you will take part in whatever penalties Smythe incurs. Or, you may leave this room right now.”

The guard turned and left. FireWind, his power like an icy draft in the room, swiveled to Smythe. All nonhuman grace.

“You ain’t human,” Smythe accused.

“Turn off the recorder,” FireWind said, his words soft and slow. He shifted his body a fraction of an inch. His head moved forward. One hand formed a fist. “I don’t want this on record.”

It sounded so much like a threat that Smythe turned and left. If he’d been a were-creature his tail woulda been stuck firmly between his legs. Under most circumstances, I didn’t particularly like Ayatas FireWind, but if I was a prisoner in need of protecting, I’d surely want him in my corner, fighting for me. It occurred to me, not for the first time, that maybe FireWind was hard on his units because he saw us as the ones who were protecting others. Maybe he wanted us to be the best. Didn’t make me like him any better, but I was coming to understand him.

The chief of police caught the door before it closed and stepped in. He was a big man, florid faced, clearly experienced, as he took in the room. He nodded to me, to Hooper, and to FireWind. He totally ignored the prisoner. “I understand that the FBI may have abused a prisoner in my lockup. Is that so?”

“It is,” FireWind said.

“I’ve heard rumors about Smythe’s methods. Never seen proof of it. But I made a point of sticking around today, even though it’s my day off. I don’t like what I just saw through the observation window.” He tilted his head at the mirror behind us. “It won’t happen again.”

“Would you have a problem with Gerry Stapp taking over the FBI office?” FireWind asked, his body relaxing from the threat of violence to something less menacing.

The chief stuck his thumbs into his belt. “You mean because he’s black and gayer than a rainbow? No. I don’t care about the color of Stapp’s skin. My paternal grandpappy was purported to be half black and I was bullied about it all through elementary school. Pissed me off. I loved that old man. Best man I ever met.

“And my baby brother died of AIDS in San Fran back in the nineties. He was gayer than a chorus line dancer. I still miss him. I employ two lesbians and if a male deputy is gay I don’t care. I don’t care what any of my officers or employees do behind closed doors or how they live their private lives as long as they keep their noses clean and do their jobs.”

I said softly, “And yet you had heard there were problems. That means you allowed Smythe to abuse prisoners in your interrogation rooms. More importantly, you let your guards assist. Under your watch.”

The chief flushed. “Smythe’s FBI. Fighting him would have accomplished nothing without proof. I got proof now. It won’t happen again.”

“We’ll be finished here shortly,” FireWind said. “I’ll be sending reports to my superior and to the FBI regional SAC within the hour. It is my firm belief that Catriona Doyle will be released soon. There will be a second press conference at six thirty p.m. to announce the direction of the investigation into Stella Mae Ragel’s death by magical means. All official apologies will be made to Ms. Doyle, whether she has been released by then or not. Appreciation will be offered for her cooperation. At that time, I will personally

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