Dark Currents (6 page)

Nine

O
nce again, I was awakened from sleep in the wee hours of the night, this time by Mogwai turning from a warm, dense ball of fur curled against my side into a hissing, spitting, feral creature uttering a low, unearthly wail. Leaping from the bed, Mogwai dashed toward the screened porch.

I sat bolt upright. “What the—”

Outside the screened porch, there was a clatter and a clash, followed by the sound of a door banging open, a rising guttural roar, an alarmed human-sounding shout, and the sound of running feet pounding down the alley.

Yanking on a pair of jeans below the tank top I slept in, I grabbed my phone, unlocked the door to my apartment, and ran downstairs.

Mrs. Browne was in the alley, a broom clutched in her gnarled hands and raised like a club. There was no trace now of the sweet little old lady she usually appeared to be. The lines on her wizened face had hardened into something ancient and fierce and dangerous, filled with all the righteous fury of a brownie protecting its household.

That was another reason I usually felt safe in my apartment at night. Left to their own devices and provided the appropriate offerings—in Mrs. Browne’s case, a fully stocked and prepped bakery kitchen—brownies are benevolent, domestic souls. When threatened, they can and will defend their chosen household with the strength of ten.

“Daisy, lass.” She lowered her broom, her expression easing. “Are ye well?”

“I’m fine, Mrs. Browne. Did you see what it was?”

She shook her head. “I heard the ruckus and came a-running.” Her broad nostrils flared. “Mortal by the smell o’ him, with a skinful o’ beer.” She pointed toward the west end of the alley, where it curved past the Christian Science church. “He went thataway. Do ye reckon it were just a burglar or a creepin’ Tom?”

There was a soft thud from that direction, then a movement in the shadows that made me jump. Mogwai stalked out, his fur bristling.

I relaxed. “I don’t know. I’d like to think so, but . . .”

“But there’s ill doin’s afoot.” Mrs. Browne peered at me beneath her furrowed brow, her deep-set eyes as dark as bog water. “Have ye spoken to the nixies yet?”

“Not yet.” Nixies fell into the same category as naiads and undines. “I’ll go at dawn.”

She patted my hand. “I’ve a nice tray of buns fresh from the oven. Come inside and have one, child. It will help settle your nerves.”

It wasn’t an offer anyone in their right mind would refuse, no matter what the circumstances. Pocketing my phone, I followed her in through the back door of the kitchen, Mogwai winding around my ankles.

I perched on a stool, nibbling on the warm cinnamon bun Mrs. Browne gave me. Trust me: If you think you know what heaven in the form of a fresh cinnamon bun tastes like, you’re mistaken. This was cloud-light and soft as a pillow, laced with subtle layers of butter and cinnamon, just the right amount of icing melting atop it, miles away from the immense, glutinous blobs of dough drenched in cloyingly sweet icing you get at those Cinnabon franchises that permeate malls and airports. Aside from inducing a passing concern that I might be succumbing to gluttony, it did indeed help settle my nerves.

“Do ye reckon this was about the boy who was killed?” Mrs. Browne asked, pouring some cream into a bowl for Mogwai. He lapped it eagerly.

I took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. “Do you know for a fact he was killed?”

“Nay.” Her look turned shrewd. “But I know for a fact you’d not be looking into it if there weren’t somewhat off about the boy’s death. The regular police, aye. Not you, Daisy, lass.”

I took another bite. “It may be nothing. But if you hear anything about it in the community, you’ll let me know?”

Mrs. Browne huffed. “Don’t go offendin’ me, now! Of course I will. But no one I’ve spoken to knows aught.” She upended a large bowl of bread dough onto the counter, dusted her strong, nut-brown hands with flour, and began pummeling the yeasty mass. “You do know your dear mother’s worried about you?”

“I know.” Smiling, I finished my cinnamon bun. “That’s why she’s got you looking out for me, isn’t it?”

She didn’t return my smile. “You be careful, child. I do what I can to protect my own here.” She waved one floury hand in the direction of the door. “There’s naught I can do out there.”

Hopping down from the stool, I kissed her wizened cheek. “I know, Mrs. B. Thank you. If you hear something out back in a few minutes, it’s just me.”

She huffed again, flapping her hand at me. “Go on with ye, then.”

With Mogwai trotting at my heels, I went upstairs to fetch my flashlight, then back downstairs to have a look around.

There was a dent in the plastic lid of the bakery’s Dumpster. Scanning the ground beneath it with the beam of my flashlight, I made out the faint impression of a footprint in the dusty patch between the alley and the Dumpster. It was facing away from, not toward, the disposal unit.

Someone had climbed onto the Dumpster, then jumped down and run away, scared off by Mogwai’s caterwauling and Mrs. Browne’s wrath.

My tail twitched with nervous energy.

Fishing my phone out of my pocket, I glanced at the time. A quarter hour short of three o’clock in the morning. That meant it could have been nothing, an energetic drunk meandering home unusually late from the bar, hopped up on vodka and Red Bull and bent on idle mayhem. I squatted lower and studied the footprint, measuring it against my own. It definitely belonged to either a man, or a woman with unfortunately large feet. Given the odds, I’d bet on the former. The imprint had been left by a sturdy industrial tread, maybe a work boot.

Or a motorcycle boot.

Oh, crap.

I knocked on the back door of the bakery kitchen before poking my head inside. “Mrs. Browne?”

“Eh?” She cocked her head at me.

“You said you thought it was a mortal,” I said. “Any chance it could have been a ghoul?”

I was hoping she would say no.

Instead, she looked thoughtful. “Well, now, that would depend on its diet, Daisy, lass. Those what exist on pure emotion, more often than not they reek of misery. But there’s ghouls that walk among us and pass for ordinary folk. They can eat and drink like mortals; it’s only that they take no sustenance from it. One of those . . .” She shrugged. “Aye, one of those might have fooled my nose.”

I sighed.

Her expression hardened. “Don’t tell me you’re mixed up with the likes o’ them, Daisy Johanssen!”

“No, no.” I willed away a quick vision of Stefan Ludovic and his disturbingly patient ice-blue gaze. “Just checking.”

Back outside, I stood uncertainly before the Dumpster, thumbing through the contact list on my phone.

I wanted to call Cody.

But lingering guilt stayed my hand. Also, I didn’t have the first piece of evidence that my late-night maybe-would-be intruder had anything to do with this case. Hell, we didn’t even know whether it
was
a case yet.

So I settled for splitting the difference. Treating it as a possibility, I used my phone to take photos of the dented Dumpster lid and the dusty boot print.

“Good enough?” I asked Mogwai.

Mogwai answered with a low, distressed howl followed by a gagging sound, his sides heaving as he hunched over in the alley, opened his jaws, and barfed a prodigious mixture of kibble and rich cream all over the boot print. Distancing himself from the mess, he shot me an embarrassed look.

I’d had a feeling that bowl of cream was a bad idea, but so is refusing a brownie’s hospitality.

Oh, well.

“Never mind,” I said to him. “At least you puked outside, big guy. C’mon; let’s go back to bed.”

Approximately two hours later, my alarm rousted me from the warm confines of my bed, Creedence Clearwater Revival informing me that there was, in fact, a bad moon on the rise.

“No shit,” I mumbled, slapping at the snooze alarm. “Tell me something I don’t know, huh?”

Seven minutes later, Mick Jagger told me that while he was so hot for me, I was so cold, like an ice-cream cone.

“As if.” This time I turned the alarm off and hauled myself upright. “You’re an old man, Mick Jagger. When’s the last time you had an ice-cream cone?”

The clock radio remained silent. Nestled into a tangle of sheets and blanket, Mogwai purred obliviously.

It was a bit after five o’clock in the morning and still dark outside. Yawning, I dragged myself into presentable clothing. Naiads are particular about appearances. A short skirt of summer-weight gray wool, check. A sleeveless white cotton shirt, check. Freshwater pearls looped around my neck, check. Given the hike ahead of me, I opted for sensible footwear, shoving my feet into a pair of white Keds and hoping the naiads would overlook them.

My old Honda Civic hadn’t been driven for a couple of days, and it whined in protest when I turned the key in the ignition before catching. It wasn’t that far to the nature preserve, but after last night, I didn’t feel like walking the streets alone.

Even in the car, I found myself glancing nervously in the rearview mirror, but the town was empty.

Five minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of the Ellsworth Nature Preserve. It, too, was empty. You might think that would be a given at this hour, but the preserve was a favorite haunt of birdwatchers, and those people are crazy.

Flicking on my flashlight, I set out along the marked trail that led to the river. That was the easy part. When I reached the river, I departed from the trail and plunged into the undergrowth.

I’d spent a lot of time playing along the river as a kid, but that had been years ago, and it seemed I’d lost the knack of moving effortlessly through nature. Twigs caught at my hair, and vines tangled my feet. I blundered underneath low-hanging branches and tripped over fallen logs.

By the time I reached my destination, a broad, secluded bend in the river, there were streaks of orange and pink in the sky, mirrored in the still surface of the water. A shy green heron took issue at my approach, tall-stepping carefully away into deeper cover among the reeds. Dragonflies were beginning to stir, darting about on translucent wings.

I took a moment to drink in the beauty and tranquillity of the place, then removed the string of pearls and broke it with a sharp yank, pouring the tiny iridescent beads into the palm of my hand.

“Sisters of the river!” I called. “I come bearing offerings!”

With that, I flung the pearls toward the river. They fell in a shimmering rain, pebbling the smooth surface of the water.

I didn’t have to wait long before the river roiled in answer, dozens of lithe figures flitting through the water in response to my summons: naiads with milk-white skin, undines with hair trailing like glassy kelp, quicksilver nixies darting like minnows. They dived deep into the green waters in pursuit of my offering. I’d never seen so many in one place, and the sheer loveliness of it made my heart ache a little. That lasted for as long as it took the head cheerleader of the aquatic mean girls to open her mouth and speak.

A naiad surfaced before me, her alabaster shoulders bobbing above the water, disdain on her beautiful face. “What manner of offering is this?” she demanded, holding up a bead between thumb and forefinger. “These are
cultured
pearls.”

Inwardly, I sighed.

“Forgive me, sister,” I said aloud in a humble tone. “They were the best I could obtain on short notice.” I gestured at an undine behind her who was threading pearl beads through her glimmering hair. “Do they not enhance your beauty?”

The naiad gave a sniff, her gaze skating over me and lingering pointedly on my white Keds. “What do you seek, halfling?”

“A young man drowned in the river the night before last,” I said. “I would know how.”

The naiad reared up in the water, baring a pair of coral-tipped breasts I had to reluctantly admit were pretty exquisite. Capable of luring a man to a watery doom? That, I couldn’t say.
“Do you accuse us?”

“No.” My voice hardened. I held up my left hand, revealing Hel’s rune. “Look, I’ve observed the protocols out of courtesy, but I have the right to ask. What do you know of the events that transpired that night?”

Pursing her lips, the naiad called to the others in a foreign tongue, silvery and lilting. The others responded in kind. In the golden light of dawn, their faces were inhuman, lovely, and utterly unconcerned.

“I know it was naught to do with us,” the naiad said dismissively.

“Okay, but what happened?” I persisted. “According to his friends, he entered the river of his own volition, and began having difficulty swimming about halfway across. Can any of you confirm it?”

The naiad assumed a look of outrage. “Now you accuse us of failing to come to his aid?”

“I’m not saying that!” I said with irritation. “I’m just asking you to bear witness. You must have seen—”

She jerked her chin at me. “We have answered your question, Hel’s liaison! Nothing more is required. I am sorry a mortal boy is dead, but I swear to you on my oath, it had naught to do with us.”

“Yes, but—”

“You have my oath, halfling! You come to us bearing
cultured
pearls, shod like a peasant, and think to earn our goodwill?” The naiad’s eyes flashed with annoyance. “Farewell.” With a flicker of movement, she turned and dived, and like a shoal of fish, the others followed suit.

Within seconds, there was nothing more than gilded ripples on the surface of the water to mark their departure.

I swore, my tail lashing in frustration. “I’ll be back!” I called. “Your oath isn’t enough! I need to know what you
saw
, you heartless bitches!”

In answer, a rill of silvery laughter hung in the air.

Naiads, gah!

Ten

D
isgruntled, I reported to the police station.

It wasn’t a good scene. Patty Rogan, the day clerk, beckoned me aside as soon as I entered the station. Behind the frosted glass on the door to the chief’s office, I could make out several figures and hear raised voices.

“What’s up?” I whispered to Patty.

“The chief and Cody are in there with a reporter from the
Appeldoorn Guardian
,” she whispered back. “The Vanderhei family’s making a stink in the papers. They’re demanding that the chief either disclose details of the investigation, or rule it an accidental death and order the kid’s body released.”

Oh, crap.

“Do we have the autopsy results?” I asked.

Patty shook her head. “The ME’s office is backed up. It might be a couple of days yet.”

With a reporter in the station, I decided this would be a good time to keep my head down and concentrate on paperwork. I grabbed a seat at the corner desk and typed up the notes from yesterday. When the reporter departed fifteen minutes later, I didn’t even look up. As soon as the door had closed behind him, the chief called me into his office.

“Daisy.” Chief Bryant took a seat at his desk, his chair creaking beneath his weight. His face looked old and careworn. He gestured at Cody, whose expression was tense and guarded. “I’ve heard about the results of yesterday’s investigation. Anything new to report?”

I shook my head. “The naiads and the other water sprites say they had nothing to do with the Vanderhei boy’s death, and that I believe. Beyond that, I’m afraid they were uncooperative.”

The chief sighed. “So we can neither confirm nor deny any of the circumstances surrounding the boy’s death with absolute certainty?”

“At this point, no,” Cody said bluntly. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Not your fault, son.” Chief Bryant gazed into the distance. “I just wish it wouldn’t be so goddamned easy.”

“Easy?” I echoed.

His gaze returned, sharpening. “To rule it an accident. Close the book on it and move on. It’s what it looks like. It’s what the family wants. It’s what the county sheriff’s office wants. Hell, it’s what everyone wants. And if I don’t, it could bring a shitstorm down on Pemkowet. Is it worth it?”

I glanced at Cody.

He looked away.

“What we know doesn’t add up,” I said. “Not yet. As far as the naiads go, there are . . . other avenues I can pursue to get them to talk. Or at least one that I can think of. But it’s up to you, sir.” I paused. “How big a shitstorm?”

The chief grimaced. “Big.”

“With all due respect, sir, fuck ’em,” Cody said softly. “This is
our
town.”

For that, along with myriad other reasons, I could have kissed him.

“Yes, it is, goddammit!” Chief Bryant slammed his hands down on his desktop. “All right. I’m going to lean on the ME’s office. Brody Jenkins is taking heat, too. I have a feeling he’s stonewalling us on the results of the preliminary. Fairfax, follow up on yesterday’s leads. Track down Ray D and find out what those college boys wanted with him. Johanssen . . .” His gaze slewed my way. “You look nice.”

I flushed. “Thanks.”

He cleared his throat. “Go ahead and pursue your . . . other avenues. But before you do, I’d like the two of you to restore the victim’s personal effects to the bereaved parents.” He reached into a drawer and plunked the evidence bag containing Thad Vanderhei’s wallet onto his desk. “Reassure them. Let them know we’re on the job, working every angle, tracking down every possibility. See what you can find out about their son’s activities.” He paused. “And while you’re at it, ask if they’re missing a bottle of Macallan.”

Double crap!
Not an assignment I looked forward to.

I caught Cody’s eye and made myself nod. “Will do.”

Since there was no point in putting it off, ten minutes later we were in a squad car heading north toward Appeldoorn. “Chief’s right,” Cody said to me. “You do look nice.”

I’d taken the time to stop by my apartment and exchange my Keds for a cute pair of strappy sandals before I went in to the station. “Thanks.”

He didn’t mention calling Jen, and I didn’t bring it up. Instead, I told him about my late-night visitor.

Cody listened in silence, his expression turning grim.

“Do you think it might be related?” I asked him.

“Hard to say.” He glanced at me. “Do you?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“There’s no telling what kind of hornet’s nest we might have stirred up.” Cody turned down the old country road toward south Appeldoorn. “Maybe you should think about staying somewhere else for a few days. Maybe stay with your mom or your friend Jen.”

I grimaced. “Yeah, I don’t think that second one’s exactly an option right now. And if I’ve picked up a stalker, I sure as hell don’t want him following me to my mom’s place. It’s okay; I can take care of myself.”

He cocked a dubious brow at me. “If you say so, Pixy Stix.”

There was no mistaking the fact that the Vanderhei family was wealthy. Their house, situated on Big Pine Bay, could only be described as a mansion. The grounds were beautifully landscaped and maintained. A three-car garage faced the street, and the driveway was made of some kind of fancy paving stones instead of poured concrete. Although it wasn’t in Pemkowet township, it actually lay less than half a mile beyond the outermost limits of Hel’s sphere of influence, an invisible boundary nonetheless marked by a tangible sense of loss and listlessness as Cody drove past it.

I wondered how the Vanderheis felt about the proximity.

The doorbell was answered by a teenage boy with dark shadows smudged beneath his eyes and a marked resemblance to Thad Vanderhei, maybe sixteen or seventeen, slender, good-looking in a forgettable way.

“Good morning, son,” Cody said in a gentle tone. “I’m Officer Fairfax, and this is my associate, Miss Johanssen. You must be Ben.”

“Benjamin.” The boy’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “You’re here about my brother?”

“We’ve come to return his personal effects,” Cody said. “And we have a few questions for you and your parents. Are they here?”

Benjamin Vanderhei turned away. “Yeah. Come in.”

He led us through a foyer with marble floors and a marble table containing a towering floral arrangement that probably cost more than a month’s worth of my wages. A multitude of smaller arrangements were arrayed on the table around the base of the stand, sympathy cards protruding from plastic stake holders. I did my best to walk softly, acutely aware of intruding on a family’s grief.

Mr. and Mrs. Vanderhei received us in a sitting room that was bigger than my entire apartment. It had a picture window that looked onto the wind-ruffled waters of Big Pine Bay, a baby grand piano, and a bar with half a dozen crystal decanters on it, silver tags identifying the spirits within them, something I’d only ever seen in movies.

There were more floral arrangements on every surface, a further reminder of the family’s loss.

The word that Jim Vanderhei evoked was
patrician
. He was tall and lean, with a thick head of silver hair, his face lined and distinguished. His face was expressionless as he heard out our condolences, and he accepted Thad’s water-damaged wallet without a word of thanks, his gaze flinty. “When can we have our
son
?”

“As soon as the medical examiner releases his findings, sir,” Cody said. “We’re so very sorry for the delay. The chief’s on the phone with him as we speak.”

His wife, Sue, seated on the couch, choked back a sob. She was some ten years younger than her husband, rail-thin, with birdlike features and blond hair pulled into a chignon so tight it looked painful. “Thad drowned! For God’s sake, it was an accident! I don’t understand why you’re being such ghouls about this!”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I murmured, ignoring the accusation’s sting and her unfortunate choice of insults. “We’re just trying to be thorough.”

Cody cleared his throat. “Forgive me for asking, but did any of you notice anything unusual about Thad’s activities in the past few weeks? Any new friends? Unexplained absences? Uncharacteristic behavior?”

“No!” Her voice rose, and she dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “Do you think I don’t know my own son?”

Jim Vanderhei glowered. “Exactly what in the hell are you trying to cover up down there?”

A flicker of anger stirred in me. I tried to tamp it down and failed, a faint scent of ozone creeping into the air around me. “No one’s trying to cover up anything, sir. We’re
trying
to get at the truth. And you’re not helping.”

He stared at me in disbelief.

In the shocked silence, their younger son, Benjamin, took a seat at the piano and began playing a single, halting musical phrase over and over, his head bowed. It helped me regain my focus.

“I’m sorry,” I said again. “That was uncalled-for.”

“Miss Johanssen is upset by your son’s death,” Cody said. “As we all are. I apologize for her behavior.”

The younger Vanderhei boy kept playing.

“Benjamin!” His mother’s voice rose again, cracking and breaking on a shrill note. “Stop it. Stop it this instant!”

He stopped.

“I’d like you to leave now, Officer.” In contrast to his wife’s voice, Jim Vanderhei’s was flat and controlled. “You can tell Chief Bryant that either he can give us our son and let us mourn in peace, or he can give us answers and stop protecting whoever or
what
ever unholy conspiracy he’s trying to hide. Until he does, I will continue to bring the full scrutiny of the press down upon him. I’ll have his badge and his resignation before this is done. And that’s just a beginning.”

I opened my mouth.

Cody’s hand settled on my shoulder. “Duly noted, sir. I assure you, there’s no conspiracy. We’re just trying to do our job. One last question. Is there a bottle of scotch missing from your bar?”

“No,” he said automatically.

“You’re sure?”

Jim Vanderhei strode over to the bar, pulling out the stopper on the crystal decanter marked SCOTCH. He took a sniff. “Present and accounted for, Officer. Would you like to try it for yourself?”

Cody glanced around the room. “Do you keep additional bottles in store?”

“We do not.” His voice was stony. “This isn’t Pemkowet, Officer. Temperance and moderation are virtues.”

I gritted my teeth.

Cody’s hand tightened on my shoulder. “Understood,” he said. “Once again, I apologize for troubling you.”

Jim Vanderhei gave him a brusque nod. “I want my son back. Tell your chief he’s on borrowed time. Ben, please show our guests out.”

Without a word, the boy rose from the piano bench. We followed him back through the marble foyer. Beneath my lightweight skirt, my tail was lashing uneasily. “What was that you were playing?” I asked. “I liked it.”

“Ravel.” Benjamin glanced at me with his shadow-smudged eyes. “‘Pavane pour une infante défunte
.’
”

I blinked.

“Pavane for a dead princess,” he clarified. “Not exactly gender-appropriate, but . . .” He shrugged. “It gets the point across.” He opened the door. “Thad was part of a secret society. You should look into it.”

Cody and I exchanged a glance. “The Tritons?” I asked. “We know about the fraternity.”

Benjamin shook his head. “No. Everyone knows about them. But there’s a secret society
inside
the Tritons. I don’t really know, but I heard Thad mention it on the phone a couple of times when he thought no one was listening. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I did. Something about the Masters of the Universe.” He hesitated. “There’s a guy, a Triton alum—he hangs around the frat house a lot. Matthew Mollenkamp. He’s older. Whatever it is, I think maybe he had something to do with it.”

“Did you ever hear Thad mention someone named Ray D?” Cody asked.

Benjamin gave his head another shake. “Sorry, no. That’s all I know. Whatever Thad was up to this summer, he was pretty secretive about it.”

“Thank you,” I said softly. “That’s a big help.”

He looked at me with tears in his eyes. “Do you think maybe Thad did something bad down there?”

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I hope not.”

I did, too. But I wasn’t sure.