Frost Moon (6 page)

“Miss Frost?” the Fed said, detaching himself from the ‘copter. People in movies duck when stepping under a chopper’s blades, but he just strolled forward, letting the wind tousle his wavy brown hair. “Special Agent Philip Davidson. We met at Atlanta Homicide, but didn’t really get a chance to speak. I was told you would be expecting me?”

He extended his hand, and I stared down at it, not sure what I was seeing was real. His suit was tailored from a fabric whose sheen somehow matched the ‘copter’s hide, and his well-trimmed goatee still reminded me of Johnny Depp or maybe Spock’s evil twin. His sunglasses were straight out of the Matrix, and I swear if he’d had a tie with a horizontal tie tack I’d have started calling him “Agent Smith.” But he exuded a gentle sincerity, staring up at me with an easy directness I rarely saw in shorter men. His surprisingly delicate hands were warm, his handshake firm.

“In not so many words, but yes,” I said. “Rand said something about it.”

“I would have made an appointment,” he said, in a voice as warm and firm as his hands, “but since we were in the neighborhood I thought I’d drop by and hope you were on your break.”

Abruptly the twin sets of counter-rotating blades whined and folded up, closing like two Chinese fans and tucking themselves back over the body of the craft until it was narrow and compact enough to fit in the width of a single parking space.

“You decided to drop by in that?” I asked.
“Really?”

“Budget cuts,” he said, spreading his hands—as if budget cuts explained anything. “Ever since we lost one in Iraq it’s been harder and harder to justify spending money on Shadowhawks, so the brass took them public and is playing up their silent-running so we can market them to local law enforcement. One of its features is the ability to land quietly in a restricted space—so I told the pilot to land here, kill two birds with one stone.”

Suddenly I could see an APD officer inside the copter talking to the pilot—no one I knew through Rand, but clearly high ranking and
highly
interested.

I laughed out loud. “Secret
-agent
-man, now copter
-salesman-
man—”

“It wasn’t my idea,” he said, mouth quirking up in an embarrassed smile that made him seem even less ‘agent’ and even more ‘human’. “They’re fun, but personally, I drive a Prius.”

“Riiight,” I said. “Well, as it so happens I’ve made an appointment for my break, but I don’t want you to have wasted all the gas on this trip. What can I do for you?”

“Based on your comments last night, I believe you can help our investigation into the murder. I had
hoped
to ask you a whole series of questions,” he said, calmly staring up at me, radiating disapproval without dropping into an accusatory tone. “Is this appointment of yours something that can’t wait?”

“Yes, it’s urgent, and a friend is doing me a favor,” I said. Suddenly, inspiration struck me. “Hang on. You don’t happen to have a picture of the victim’s tattoo on you?”

“Why?” I expected him to say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ or play neutral, but he had a cheerful directness that was hard not to like, and when he pursed his lips thoughtfully I felt like I could stare at his lips all day. Then they moved. “It is evidence, you know.”

“I’m seeing a graphomancer,” I said. “Maybe she could shed some light on it—more information about what the mark does, or who did the design.”

He leaned back, thinking, and, damnit, I started to think the smile was just from looking at me. “I thought you said Sumner did it?”

“Sumner didn’t do his own designs,” I said. “He used graphomancers. Even
I
use graphomancers—”

“So you’re better than Sumner?”

My face flushed. “I’m not saying that, it’s just… my training is—”

“That’s all right,” he said, smiling. “Look. I didn’t mean to hold you up. I’ll get straight to why I’m here. I want your client list.” He must have seen my jaw tighten, so he raised his hand. “Now, don’t get antsy. I won’t force you to turn it over—”

“You’re right about that,” I snapped. “In Georgia tattooing is practically a medical procedure—that list is private, and sensitive. I could lose my license if I gave it to you without a warrant, and I really doubt you can get a warrant.”

“Really?” Philip said, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t think
I
could get a warrant?”

“Maybe,”
I said, “if you were investigating a crime, and not trying to prevent one. Unless I or one of my clients were suspects in the prior killings.
Are
we suspects?”

“Well, no, but given the circumstances there are other legal avenues I could—” Philip began, then stopped. “Look, I’m not trying to be a dick here. I know how the Edgeworld works—I don’t want to come down heavy and scare off the very people I want to protect. But I would like to talk to you about setting up a procedure to warn your client base. They could be targets… if you are as good as you look.”

His eyes were drifting over the tattoos on my arms, but his mouth quirked up a bit as he said it, and I gaped. I could swear the cheeky little gnome was hitting on me! OK, perhaps “gnome” was too strong: that was just an automatic reaction to an advance from anyone in a suit. Strip him out of the suit, on the other hand… he’d be buffer than Alex Nicholson. Oh my. Either way, I was too dumbfounded to speak, so he continued.

“Think it over,” he said, all serious. “I know you think I’m spooky-black-helicopter man, but I’m really a nice guy who doesn’t want to see you or any of your clients hurt. Please think about how we might warn them—perhaps you could contact them, let us know who’s willing to talk to us?” He held up his hands. “No innuendo here—seriously. Twelve people have been killed. I don’t want to see that number hit thirteen. You should think about it.”

“I’ll… ask. No promises.”

“Okay. For now. And about the tat we showed you,” he said, “we don’t normally let evidence into the wild. You never know what may tip off a suspect, or spawn a copycat. Perhaps your witch would come to the offices and view the piece there?”

“No,” I said. “For this witch, you bring things to her—she’s got an elaborate computer setup to analyze images. Makes her fees high, but it’s worth it.” I stared at him. “Twelve people murdered? You should think about it.”

“I’ll ask,” he said. “No promises.”

“Fair enough,” I said, turning to my Vespa to ferret out the Sumner book from my saddlebags. “And now I have a present for you, Special Agent Davidson.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” he said, throwing up his hands in mock astonishment. Then he saw the book’s title and the few bookmarks I’d put in it, and his face went solemn. “Scratch that— you should have.”

I told him about my theories—the potential victims in the book, the good chance that someone else might have the tat, the likelihood that a graphomancer had inked it sometime around the turn of the millennium, and even my fears about Sumner’s death itself.

“So much fucking time lost,” he said, staring at the book in his hand. “We should have been looking for graphomancers from the very beginning—”

“You didn’t have a name until yesterday,” I said, hoping it would reassure him.

“We had hints,” he snapped. “We’re supposed to be the ones that follow up on them. We’re the ones who’re supposed to catch the bad guys based on a torn receipt and a funny smell. At the first clue the tattoos were magical we should have been talking to magical inkers and graphomancers and the whole lot.” He was silent for a moment, glaring off into the distance. “We—
they
—those
dolts
at the
Bureau
—treated it like a normal serial killer case for two years. Two whole years! And when
they
finally get wise,
we
have to pick up the crap—”

“I’m sure you did your best,” I said.

“Not likely,” he snorted. “We could have found out at least half of what you’ve told me without knowing Sumner’s name. Five minutes listening to you and I feel like I’m caught with my pants down—”

“Well…not yet you’re not,” I said.

“Don’t you start,” he said, eyes back on me with that same appreciative look he’d had scoping out my tattoos. “Scratch that— do.”

Oh, Lord.
Me and my smart mouth—I hadn’t meant to open that can of worms. I already had a werewolf as a secret admirer; I didn’t need another suitor. I held up my hands, which made his eyes light on the yin-yang and magic circle tattoos on my palms. “Agent Davidson,” I began. “I’ll do what I can to help you find the killer—”

And then a horrible thought struck me. All the other tattoos, presumably, had been ripped from someone’s body. But this time, we had the tattoo, not the victim—

“What?” he said sharply. “What else have you thought of?”

“You… you don’t have a body for the last one, do you?” I said. Davidson scowled, hand clenching on the book, and my stomach churned. “I mean… at least I
hope
the victim was dead when they… when they took the tattoo.”

There was an ugly pause. He just looked at me. Oh, God.

“I’ll talk to my clients, and to the witch,” I said.

“I’ll talk to my agents, get them on this,” he said, holding up the book. “And talk to Nighy about releasing images of the lid, maybe even some of the other tattoos—”

“One more thing,” I said. It had been bugging me the whole time, but still I hesitated a moment; this would reopen that can of worms. But that held me back only a moment.

I reached out and took his glasses off carefully. He twitched, just a little, and I guessed it was more from our eight-inch height difference than the invasion of his space. I waggled the glasses. “I could see the smile in your eyes even through these. You have
wonderful
eyes.” I slid the glasses into his pocket. “You shouldn’t hide them, Special Agent Davidson.”

He smiled at me, the same warm, quirky smile he’d given me back at Homicide, given me a few minutes ago, now enhanced by warm, blue-grey eyes.

“It’s Philip, Miss Frost.”

“Dakota,” I said, turning and walking away.

I’d just met one of the fabled “black-helicopter men,” of conspiracy theories and New World Order fame, and he was darned cute.

Talk about having men falling out of the sky.

9. ELEGANT GOTHIC LONTA

The Starbucks in Little Five Points is on Moreland, at its farthest northern edge, as if the raw power of LFP’s eclectic vortex had repelled the chain’s sterile corporate heart and this was as close as it could come. Me, I come for the dark roast—at least Starbucks claims it’s made from sustainable beans.

My young witch pored over a book, murmuring, dressed in head to toe in frilly black—ornate petticoat and satin dress, Victorian corset and ruffled jacket, black bonnet and folded-back veil, all outlined here and there in shocking white lace.
Elegant Gothic Lolita,
the style was called, though you rarely saw it outside of a science fiction convention.

Yet here Skye “Jinx” Anderson sat, decked out in the middle of the Starbucks, oblivious to the stares of the college boys at the next table as she moved one hand over a spiral-bound book, still murmuring. Whenever she took a sip, raising her coffee to her lips with a delicate hand wrapped in a fingerless black lace glove and jingling charm bracelets, the boys drew in a breath; when she set the cup back down with deliberate grace, they all seemed to sag.

I knew the drill by this point—Jinx already knew I was here, but didn’t care to be interrupted. So I waited in line and got some coffee, creamed it, and joined her.

Jinx looked up at me over her black disc sunglasses, and now
I
drew in a breath. I never failed to be shocked by her eyes: blue, gleaming, the iris inlaid with a milky white ring, like a snowflake embedded into the surface of blue marble. She caught me looking and pushed her glasses up with one delicate gloved hand, at which point I could see the glowing nub of a Bluetooth mike poking out of the lace mesh and curls of dyed, blue-black hair. Beside her book, there was a cute little laptop with raised spider decals. She’d been dictating notes.

“Hi, Jinx.”

“Dakota,” she said, smiling, drawing her fingers over one last line of Braille before closing the book. “It’s been too long. You’re normally not so shocked.”

“Actually, I always am, spooky-eyes,” I replied. She scowled, and I said, “You’d prefer ‘Little Miss Anderson’?”

“NO!” she said, throwing her hands to her cheeks in mock horror. “Shame on you for dredging up high school memories, Miss Frost!”

“Don’t you start,” I said. “I’ve heard that far too much over the past few days—”

“So,” she said primly, leaning her elbows on the table, folding one hand over the other, and propping her chin atop them, “Let’s see this tattoo you’ve got for me.”

“Actually,” I said, pulling out the envelope, “I have two today, and maybe one later—”

“Oh, goody,” she said, clapping her hands together.

“Don’t get too excited, I may be taking one of them on spec.”

“Anything for you, Dakota.” She leaned her head against her hands. “What are they?”

“The one I called you about is a werewolf control charm. Spleen—”

“Feh,” Jinx said. “He smells.”

“Spleen hooked me up with a were who wants more control over his beast.” I grew uncomfortable, but Jinx kept ‘staring’ at me from behind her black glasses. “I think it may be a Nazi design, or something they collected. Frankly it scares me. I’m not comfortable inking it without knowing what it does.”

“As you should be,” she said. “And the rest?”

“A magical wristwatch.”

“Oh, my,” Jinx said, making
gimme, gimme
motions with her fingers.

“This one is a… stunt,” I said, holding off. “I don’t know if I’ll get paid, but I’ll cut you in for ten percent if I win the contest.”

“Dakota,” she said reprovingly. “Anything for you. But really! A contest. That’s so unlike you. What’s my cut going to be?”

“One hundred thousand dollars,” I said.

“Mmm.hmm,” she said. I couldn’t tell whether she believed me. Or maybe she missed the ‘thousand’ part? “Well, anything for you, Dakota. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

I slid the flash out of the envelope and arrayed it on the table. She stared down at it for a moment, then let her fingers run over it, looking off into the distance, murmuring. Then she pushed her glasses down and picked the flash up, holding it close to her spooky geode eyes, staring first at the detailed joins of the clock, then at the edge of the wolfsbane charm.