My flesh crawls. “He wouldn’t have killed me,” I say. “It would have been much worse than that.”
“It still could be, Shayne. You quit your pack, turned them all down, but it’s not you or Nolan he’ll blame now, is it?” Rook pins me with a knowing look that skewers my heart.
With a rush of fear, I suddenly feel the need to find Jay, to see with my own eyes that he’s okay. “I have to go.”
“I don’t envy you.”
“I have to go,” I repeat, running for the truck.
When I practically break down the doors of Homicide Division at Detroit PD’s central station, Detective Ferro throws a hand up in my face. “Stop right there, Davies.”
“Where is he?” Sidestepping her, I scan the rows of cubicles.
“I don’t care if you’re FBI, or Secret Service, or personal bodyguard to the Pope. You can’t just come in and out of here whenever you want.”
“Is he here or not?”
“Psycho-stalker, please. Don’t even try and come across like you ain’t tracked him on your phone.”
“Fine. Where is he, then?”
“Um, hiding from you?”
A deep voice booms, “Shayne Davies.” It’s Brenner’s partner, Danny Russo, a massive bodybuilder with a perma-smile and a mischievous arch to one brow. He’s older than Jay, late thirties, with some premature salt-and-pepper streaking the hair above his ears. I can’t ever decide what ethnicity he looks—a mix of European roots, Italian or Greek, throw in some Egyptian. Dark hair, tanned complexion. “Feast your eyes,” he says, sweeping his meaty hand toward an office window.
Rushing over, I see Brenner through the window, hunched over a computer screen, his back to me. Instantly, the breath escapes my lungs in a relieved exhale. I lean back against the wall, close my eyes, and clamp a hand to my forehead.
“Emotion,” Russo states with relish. “Raw. Honest. I love it.”
“What is wrong with me?” Doubling over, I place my hands on my knees, and just…breathe.
Russo doubles over next to me, as though he were my breathing coach. “Nothing wrong. Nothing at all. Putting it all out there. Laying it on the line, no holding back. Love it. Don’t you love it, Ferro?”
“Makes me want to lie down on the freeway,” Ferro answers.
“Right,” Russo says. “Exhilarating.”
Ferro deadpans, “Until a semitruck runs over my kneecaps.”
Russo pounds his chest. “Hurts. Absolutely. Love hurts, but feels are feels. Take what you can get.”
“If I want feels, I’ll take a massage, thank you.”
“Love it, a massage to the heart.”
“No, to the corns. On my feet.”
Russo winces. “Corns, now, that I don’t love, and I honestly think that’s a bit of an overshare.”
Ferro is outraged. Tuning them out, I peek one eye around the edge of the window frame to watch Brenner. Maybe Ferro’s right—I am a psycho-stalker—because I feel like I could stand here and watch him for hours. His shoulders and biceps bulge beneath his dress shirt, pulling it tightly across his back. A bit of golden scruff rubbing at his collar. He needs a haircut.
He seems so safe behind the glass. That’s what I enjoy most about this moment. In there, he doesn’t have to watch his back. But the moment he steps outside, he’s exposed to threats from all angles of the Detroit underworld. The East Side demon horde would love to have his head, ever since he helped me take down Arael Moaz. Any number of sorcerers wouldn’t mind seeing Brenner disappear, since he killed King Paul. And just when I can cross Henry Stadther off the list of threats, I now have to add Ben Cody. It doesn’t seem a matter of if, but who and when?
Brenner slaps the desk in frustration. When he hangs his head in his hands, I see on the computer monitor a series of mug shots. Each one is a close-up of a criminal with facial tattoos. Brenner is dejected, but for me, a sliver of hope blooms. If Brenner hasn’t found any black chins and Parker Reed has no knowledge of any vampire fitting that description, then maybe we’re at another dead end. Maybe we can avoid this dangerous case for a bit longer.
Russo’s deep voice hums just inches from my ear. “What’s he like at home?” The hulk of a man leans right next to me, peering at Brenner over my shoulder. We’re like a cartoon where the characters’ heads pop out from around a corner, stacked on top of each other. “Does he watch TV? Play video games?”
I shoulder him away. “Video games? What do you think?”
Russo jams his fists on his hips, striking an authoritarian stance for this authoritarian assessment: “I think he feels guilty if he’s not dedicating every second of his time to somebody else. Even in Chicago, when he was undercover Narco. He’d infiltrated a cutthroat biker gang—just ruthless devils, these guys—and here’s Brenner, gathering intel, right? Only, his reports to the captain talk more about the gang’s personal lives than their operations. On the side, Brenner’s helping their families, getting their kids to school, putting his cover in jeopardy just to get some groceries for a little old lady down the street. Captain was furious.”
“But you loved it.”
He smiles. “Loved it.”
“That’s fascinating, but let me ask, are you in love with Brenner?”
Russo unleashes a booming laugh. “I know, right? From bromance to romance. Can you imagine the captain’s face?”
“Okay, but I’m kinda serious, Russo. You followed Brenner here from Chicago. You don’t know how to quit him.”
“He doesn’t make it easy, that’s for sure.”
“Again, are you hearing yourself?”
“Hear this, Shayne Davies.” Planting his feet wide, Russo pins me with an intense look, vigorous gesticulation of his hands accentuating his explanation. “I’m a career cop, a lifer. Dad’s a cop. His dad’s a cop. His dad’s dad’s a bank robber, knew all the cops.”
“Close enough.”
“Point is, it’s in my blood. The job is all I know and all I’ve seen. But I’ve never seen anybody do this job like Brenner. Do you know how hard it is to keep that rookie focus, that passion for the job? Somehow, Brenner still hasn’t lost it. I was successful in Chicago, Shayne. I was a big deal, the big swinging dick.”
“You loved that.”
“Loved it. But couldn’t have done any of it without Brenner. He was my secret weapon. His devotion is infectious. I was just trying to keep up with him. After he left, things weren’t the same.”
“So you followed him here to ride his coattails?”
“Absolutely. That, and to escape my three girlfriends after they all found out about each other.”
From somewhere in the office, Ferro’s voice floats to the heavens. “Lord, take me. Just take me now.”
I slap his thickly-muscled shoulder. “Three?”
“Amy, Amy, and Jen.”
“Two Amy’s?”
He winks. “Less names to confuse.”
“They did not love that.”
“Didn’t love it. Didn’t even like it.”