Before The Witches Part 2

He guided the car through the thinning traffic as he registered the m.u.f.fled sound of voices on the other end of the line. Finally, Laura Granger said, "Nigel?"

It didn't matter how long ago they'd separated. Her pretty Southern tw.a.n.g was a kick to his still bruised heart. "Hey, Laura," he said easily. "How's Bellingham?"

"Rattled," she said. "But it's in one piece. I heard Seattle got hit pretty hard. It's all over the news. Are you all right?"

"Everything's fine." He turned into the station parking lot, slowing dramatically to skirt around a scattered ma.s.s of old concrete. "There's a little damage, but it's not nearly as bad as they get."

"Right. Okay, well." She trailed off.

Nigel bypa.s.sed rows of police cars and navigated into a parking s.p.a.ce. "I'll be over around ten on Sat.u.r.day," he said, stepping out. "Can you get Lene packed in time?"

"About that."

"Don't you-"

Laura spoke quickly. "I want to stay up here for a few more days. Mom's doing much better and I want Maylene to have some extra time with her."

He slammed the door. "d.a.m.n it, Laura, you know how much I've been looking forward to this."

"Really?" Her tone sharpened. "Is that why you canceled the last three weekends?"

His fist clenched around the cell's metal frame. "That wasn't my fault. I'm in the middle of a case-"

"Well, what do you know? Life goes on even when Detective Ferris is on a case," Laura cut in. Her melted b.u.t.ter Southern accent turned to acid real quick. He'd learned that, too. But then it gentled with a sigh. "Look, I know it's not ideal, but I . . . I really think Lene should say good-bye to her grandmother before it's too late. And I don't like the fact that Seattle's rockin' like that."

"It was a tiny earthquake, Laura," he said from between his teeth. The parking lot lights flickered as he strode towards the station. "And your mom isn't that old. Come on, don't punish Lene because you're trying to get one up on me."

She sighed again. "That's just it," she said quietly. "This isn't about you at all."

"Laura-"

"Good-bye, Nigel." The line went dead in his ear. He snapped the case shut, jammed it into his pocket, and lengthened his stride.

f.u.c.k it. He'd call back at a decent hour, when they both had time to simmer.

The station house was five stories of old mortar and brick, and his floor was on the fourth. Vice shared s.p.a.ce with homicide, given the two usually went hand in hand in Seattle.

Maybe it said something that he could easily school his features away from looking angry. It seemed anger was all he ever felt after talking with the mother of his child.

He nodded pleasantly to the desk officers he pa.s.sed, even managed a little small talk in the stairwell. Not that it mattered. Everyone was talking about the quake. Or, more precisely, the elevator that no one dared to risk with the tremors fresh in everyone's mind.

He pushed the doors open to a cacophony of phones ringing, voices chattering, radios squawking. Stepping into the fourth floor maze of desks, he made a face as a telephone exploded into a wild flurry of bells beside him.

The pretty desk clerk picked it up with a harried look. "Seattle Police, Vice. How can I help you?" He watched Stacey Burke put a hand to her forehead as she added, "No, ma'am, this is the Vice department. You'll need to contact the front desk . . . Yes, ma'am, I'm aware, but the Paris storm was two years ago. No, I don't think it's the same thing." She shot him a helpless grimace as he pa.s.sed her desk.

"What the h.e.l.l?" Nigel shrugged out of his jacket, draping it onto his desk chair. "Since when did Vice and Homicide cover the front desk?"

"Since the earthquake scared half the city stupid." Officer Jake Leigh slid a cup of black coffee onto Nigel's desk. "All the doomsdayers are comparing it to Paris and Florida."

Nigel shook his head at the lanky, clean-cut patrolman. Jake could have been the poster boy for the force, with his sandy blond hair and clear blue eyes. Not only was he happily married-the schmuck-but he'd managed to hang onto his wife long enough to get one kid in kindergarten and have another on the way.

"A few cities take a hit and it's the end of the world," he said, grumpy as h.e.l.l. "What's the damage out there?"

"The usual, after something like this. We all got put on double s.h.i.+fts, too." Jake rubbed at his face. "To be fair, that storm practically swept Paris off the map."

"One disaster years ago doesn't make a trend," Nigel countered evenly.

"Florida?"

"Hurricane central," he said, rolling his eyes. "Give me something we haven't been watching for centuries. Hey, have you heard from Nancy?"

It was like turning on a f.u.c.king switch. Jake's whole face lit up at the mention of his wife. "She's shaken, but as they say, no stopping Mother Nature. That baby's due any minute, so Lydia's staying with her mom at the hospital."

"Does she have someone to watch her?"

Jake nodded. "Nancy's sister is there. Good thing, too. Lydia's been having nightmares for the past week, she refuses to sleep alone now."

Sympathy flickered. "Bad ones?"

"I think she's worried the house is going to burn down while we're all sleeping," Jake admitted, rubbing at his forehead. "She keeps saying that the walls are going to fall down. The kid's six and already worrying herself into gray hair, I swear to G.o.d. Did your kid go through this?"

Nigel laughed. "Lene's got an imagination worthy of a horror show. I go through it every time she stays over. Try getting Lydia a nightlight? They make some great colorful ones."

"Once the baby's born," Jake said with a rueful grin. "We promised her she could pick out any kind she wanted. Should be any day now, anyway. Doctors are talking induced labor if the kid doesn't ante up soon."

Nigel glanced down at the cup still in his hand. "h.e.l.l, just give her some of the station brew," he said wryly. "It'll do all the work at a fraction of the cost." He took a shot of the bitter coffee. It scalded the roof of his mouth. "Son of a-Hot!"

"Yeah," Jake said on a crack of laughter. "Right out of the pot." He paused. "By the way, Chief said to send you in when you showed up."

"Why?"

Jake shrugged, already setting his uniform cap over his combed back hair. "I'm out. I've got all the dispatchers aware to let me know the instant my wife sends out the alert."

"We've got your back." Nigel waved at the cacophony around him as if he could make it disappear. "Come h.e.l.l or high water."

The officer grinned. Nigel carefully balanced his coffee cup and strode for the far offices.

"Anyone seen the chief?" he asked.

Detective Anderson Waters, one half of Vice's second team and four years away from retiring to a golf course for the rest of his life, gestured down the hall. The phone glued to his ear, he mouthed, "b.i.t.c.h," and rolled his gray eyes.

The veteran wasn't calling the chief a b.i.t.c.h-though Waters wouldn't have been the first. Nigel scowled as he nodded his thanks.

b.i.t.c.h without any context could only mean one thing.

He rapped smartly on the chief's office door, waited all of half a second and pushed in.

The tableau was easy to decipher. Station Chief Shannon McClintock sat at her desk, her black hair pulled into a severe knot and her spine ramrod straight. Looming over her, and practically screaming b.i.t.c.h from the top of her no-nonsense brunette bob to the tips of her plain black pumps, Sergeant Bethany Simmons leaned her weight on her splayed palms and did her level best to stare down the toughest woman Nigel had ever met.

A lady didn't get to be a police station chief by looking pretty.

Then again, he'd always suspected Simmons had more to offer Internal Affairs than an ice b.i.t.c.h complex. Maybe it had something to do with her terrier-like tenacity.

"Am I interrupting?" he asked, and didn't bother waiting for the answer. He shut the door behind him. "Sorry I'm late, Chief, but there's a hole in my usual route."

Chief McClintock's lips twitched. A smile she hid as she said quietly, "Detective Ferris, I'm sure you've met Sergeant Simmons."

"Never on formal grounds." He gave the Internal Affairs sergeant a smile made of teeth. "Sergeant."

She didn't bother wasting her breath. "We're having a private conversation, detective. If you'd-"

"Right, sure. But my appointment precedes yours," Nigel cut in. He set his cup down on the chief's desk, straight-faced, and added, "There's your coffee, ma'am."

"You are late for your appointment," Simmons pointed out coolly.

"Yup." Nigel met her green eyes. They narrowed. "That's what happens when you go out and do real police work. Life gets in the way. Give it a try some time."

The chief stirred. "Detective."

He turned to McClintock. "There's at least seven girls at the halfway house. All immigrants, and not a single green card among them. Every single one is Slavic, I'll stake my badge on it." He ignored Simmons's snort. "They've only got one guard, but I saw cameras, the kind of locks that don't open without a key, and they're scared enough to obey whatever order they're told. That makes at least four operations that we know of in Renton."

The chief rubbed at her forehead. "Any sign of Mikoyan?"

And the kicker. "No," he admitted.

"Waste of time," Simmons said flatly. It sounded like the reiteration of an ongoing argument.

One he didn't want rehashed while he still felt like putting his boot somewhere painful. But that was the job.

"Hardly," he said evenly. "Over the past six months, I've gotten in with the Mikoyan crowd. They've seen what I can bring. They trust me now."

"To what end?" Simmons demanded, despite the fact Nigel directed every earnest word to the chief.

His jaw locked. "Five brothels, four in Renton alone. One," he added pointedly, "right here in Bellevue. Two restaurants, one club, and a handful of dockside operations. My money's on laundering." He paused. "So is theirs."

"Can you get us probable cause?" McClintock asked.

"With some effort," Nigel said, nodding. "I can get it for the house right now, if you want, but that's just one operation. Give me enough time, and I'll get you inside Mikoyan's door. Especially since they believe I'm a dirty cop."

This time, he bristled at Simmons's none-too-subtle snort.

He turned his head, bracing his fingertips ever so pointedly on the desk. "You have something to say, Sergeant?"

She folded her arms over her chest. "What's this trust cost us, Ferris?"

He hesitated.

She didn't need his facts. She had her own. "We've handed over too many investigations to this case. They've been allowed to skate when we could have at least two of Mikoyan's lieutenants behind bars."

"We needed to give them something," he argued. "What do you suggest? That we grab those two and let the boss walk free? He'll get more. He's got a gang full of mooks ready and willing to do whatever it takes, and if we clear out the head nutcases, it'll be open tryouts all over this city."

She flicked that away. "We're losing face by the hour," she told the chief. "You've let too many cases slip through your fingers, and even though you've a.s.sured us that it's all part of the plan, all I'm seeing is a cop dealing information for a quick visit to a wh.o.r.ehouse."

A sudden surge of violence surprised Nigel. He found himself taking a step forward, fists clenched.

"Detective."

Every muscle locked. He dragged his glare away from the sergeant's cool challenge. "Yes, chief?" he said, half on a growl.

"Grab a chair." Chief McClintock pinned Simmons with a heavy stare. "I'll talk to you when I've heard the report."

"But-"

"In other words, Bethany, get the h.e.l.l out of my office."

Nigel watched Simmons straighten with icy precision. Her lips sealed into a thin line, she strode for the door, her shoulders rigid.

The door clicked shut behind her, and he relaxed. A little.

The chief sc.r.a.ped both hands over her face. "She's not wrong," she sighed. "Did we make the right call?"

"You know we did," he replied flatly. "I'm not that far from busting this wide open. I'm telling you, we're so much closer than we were six months ago."

"Six months ago," the chief said dryly, "you were fighting this a.s.signment tooth and nail."

Six months ago, he hadn't met Katya.

Which reminded him. "Hey, there was a woman in here this morning." He paused. "Yesterday morning."

She shook her head. "You're going to have to be more specific. Drunk, drugs, or prost.i.tution charge?"

"None of the above . . . I think."

She raised a black eyebrow.

"She was in your office, Shannon. About five-two," he added. "Light blonde hair, blue eyes. Russian as they come, got an accent like it's made of vodka-What?"

McClintock's gaze narrowed. "Hair past her shoulders? About a hundred and twenty pounds, most of it hips and rack?"

And how. "Yup."

She sighed. "Her accent's not that thick. She speaks better English than half my beat cops." She stood, pus.h.i.+ng the chair back from the desk. "Her name's Ekaterina Zhuvova."

His brow furrowed. "Is she an informant? A plant, something I should be aware of, here?"

The chief hesitated. "No," she said slowly. "She's an immigrant, no green card to speak of and no family. She came here looking for a bargain."

Nigel stared at her. "And you didn't think to tell me about this?"