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My stomach curled. He was doing me a favor by letting me do the talking - letting me control the House's destiny, so to speak - but that didn't mean I was crazy about the idea of going voluntarily to a police station.
"Not great, to be real honest. Ethan will have a fit."
"Not if the other option is a random Cadogan vamp without your training or allegiances. We need to talk to a Cadogan vamp," he said, "and it's better you than anyone else."
I sighed. Not only was I now the bearer of bad news; I was the rat fink tasked with reporting all the dirty details to the CPD. But my grandfather was right - what better choice did we have?
I nodded my agreement, blew out a breath, and pulled out my cell phone again.
I might not be the bearer of good tidings, but at least I could give him a little forewarning - and hope to God he wasn't waiting to strip me of my medal at the end of the night.
I rode in the front seat of my grandfather's Oldsmobile, adrenaline turning to exhaustion as we drove to the CPD's Loop precinct. He parked in a reserved spot and escorted me into the building, a hand at my back to keep me steady.
Given the task at hand, I appreciated the gesture.
The building was relatively new and pretty sterile - the peeling paint and ancient metal furniture of cop dramas replaced by cubicles and automated kiosks and shiny tile floors.
It was nearly four in the morning, so the building was quiet and mostly empty but for a handful of uniformed officers moving through the halls with perps in handcuffs: a woman in a short skirt and tall boots with undeniable exhaustion in her eyes; a jittery man with gaunt cheeks and dirty jeans; and a heavyset kid whose straight hair covered his eyes, his oversized gray T-shirt dotted with blood. It was a sad scene, a snapshot of folks having undoubtedly miserable evenings.
I followed my grandfather through what looked like a bull pen for detectives, rows of identical desks and chairs filling a room bordered by a ring of offices. Detectives lifted their gazes as we passed, offering nods to my grandfather and curious - or just plain suspicious - glances at me. On the other side of the bull pen, we moved down a hallway and into an interview room that held a conference table and four chairs. The room, part of the renovation, smelled like a furniture showroom - cut wood, plastic, and lemon polish.
At my grandfather's gesture, I took a seat. The door opened just as he took the chair beside me.
A man - tall, dark-skinned, and wearing a pin-striped suit - walked inside and closed the door. He had a yellow notepad and a pen in hand, and he wore his badge on a chain around his neck.
"Arthur," my grandfather said, but Arthur held out a hand before my grandfather could stand up in greeting.
"Don't bother on my account, Mr. Merit,"
Arthur said, exchanging a handshake with my grandfather. Then he looked at me, a little more suspicion in his eyes. "Caroline Merit?"
Caroline was my given name, but not the name I used. "Call me Merit, please."
"Detective Jacobs has been in the vice division for fifteen years," my grandfather explained.
"He's a good man, a trustworthy man, and someone I consider a friend."
That was undoubtedly true given the respectful glances they shared, but Detective Jacobs clearly hadn't made up his mind about me. Of course, I wasn't here to impress anyone. I was only here to tell the truth. So that's what I tried to do.
We reviewed what I'd seen at the rave, what I'd learned from Sarah, and what I'd seen tonight. I didn't offer analysis or suspicions - just facts. There was no need, no reason that I could imagine, to insert Celina or GP drama into events that were already dramatic enough.
Detective Jacobs asked questions along the way. He rarely made eye contact as we talked, instead keeping his eyes on his paper as he scribbled notes. Much like his suit, his handwriting was neat and tidy.
I'm not sure he was any less suspicious by the end of my spiel, but I felt better for having told him. He might have been human, but he was also careful, analytical, and focused on details. I didn't get the sense this was a witch hunt, but rather his earnest attempt to solve a problem that just happened to involve vampires.
Unfortunately, he didn't have any information about V or where it might be coming from. Like Catcher had said, as the third-biggest city in the country, Chicago wasn't exactly immune from drug problems.
Detective Jacobs also didn't share any strategies with me, so if he had plans to do his own infiltrating, I wasn't aware of it. But he did give me a card and asked me to call him if I discovered anything else, or if I had anything I thought he could help with.
I doubted Ethan would want me involving veteran CPD vice detectives in the investigation of our drug problem.
But that's why I'd been named Sentinel, I thought, tucking the card into my pocket.
Ethan sat in a plastic chair in the hallway. He was bent over, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. He tapped his thumbs together, his blond hair tucked behind his ears. It was the kind of pose you'd have seen on a family member in a hospital waiting room - tired, tense, anticipating the worst.
His head lifted at the sound of my boots on the tile floor. He stood up immediately, then moved toward me. "You're all right?"
I nodded. "I'm fine. My grandfather thought it would be better to get the story from me."
"It seemed like the fairest decision," said a voice behind me.
I glanced back to see my grandfather moving down the hall toward us. Ethan extended his hand. "Mr. Merit. Thank you for your help."
My grandfather shook his hand, but he also shook his head. "Thank your Sentinel. She's a fine representative of your House."
Ethan looked at me, pride - and love? - in his eyes. "We're in agreement there."
"I'm tired," I said, "and I don't have a car. Could we go back to the House?"
"Absolutely." Ethan's gaze shifted to my grandfather. "Did you need anything else from us?"
"No. We're done for now. Enjoy the rest of your night - to the extent possible."
"Unlikely," I said, patting his arm. "But we'll do the best we can."
But before we could take a step toward the exit, the doors at the end of the hallway pushed open. Tate walked through, followed by a squadron of suit-clad assistants. They looked drowsy, and I sympathized; it was a crappy job that required hangers-on to wear suits at five fifteen in the morning.
Tate strode toward us, both sympathy and irritation in his expression. I figured the irritation was offered up by his strategic half, the political leader anticipating nasty commercials about "the vampire problem." The sympathy was probably offered up by his baby-kissing half.
