Page 17 of Hoofin’ It

I knew nothing about the man who’d fallen or the other two men killed.

“Quarantine? Why are you under quarantine?”

“Lycanthropy exposure.”

“Your file states you’ve already been exposed.”

I sighed. “I required a transfusion, and my father supplied the blood. He’s a werewolf, so my virus levels are rather high at the moment. It’ll be three days until it can be confirmed if I’m infected with the virus.”

“That’s rather inconvenient. Care to explain why you required a transfusion?”

Dodging a cop’s questions wouldn’t help me in the long run. I muttered a few curses. “Drive by shooting yesterday near my parents’ place. I got lucky. I took two rounds to the shoulder. The shooter took the alpaca and left me for dead. Fortunately, he shot me not far from my parents’ home, and the neighbors heard the gunfire. Since I’m resistant to the lycanthropy virus, the hospital allowed my father to donate blood. So, until we find out if the virus takes root, they’d rather I stay close to home.”

“And you’re still in the hospital?”

“No. They flew in a surgeon from Des Moines who handled the surgery. Dad’s blood took care of the rest. I was discharged this morning, so I’m at my parents’ place.”

Detective Steinburg was silent for a moment, then he sighed. “Do you have a contact at your local station I can talk to?”

“Sure. I’ll put you in touch with my mother’s partner. He can field any questions you have. They already have my statement about the shooting and all the information on the suspect. I’m sure you two can compare notes.”

The silence dragged on long enough I fought the urge to tap my toe while I waited. “Your mother’s partner?”

“Just be glad I’m not putting you in touch with my father’s partner.”

“Let me see if I understand the situation. You, an ex-cop, was gunned down near your parents’ home, both of whom are police officers.”

“Correct.”

“And to think all I wanted to do was ask you a few questions about any people you might remember standing near you at the scene. This is not how I anticipated this conversation going, Mr. Gibson.”

“That’s how I felt when some dumb fuck in a Ford decided to open fire yesterday. I already told you everything I know, Detective. I’m happy to return to New York City in a few days to answer any questions you have. I’m also happy to talk over the phone. I just don’t remember anything beyond what I’d already told you.”

I gave him the contact numbers for my parents’ partners.

“I’ll be in touch,” the detective promised before hanging up on me. Long after the call disconnected, I stared at nothing. What could I have possibly witnessed that was worth killing me over?

Chapter Six

The first rule of the Chicago police department was to stay out of personal cases. Objectivity mattered during an investigation. While I’d had no hope of rising to the rank of detective due to my low magic rating and classification as the son of a lycanthrope, investigations had intrigued me. The entire process of determining the truth lit a fire in my blood.

Personal involvement led to mistakes, mistakes that could cost someone their life.

In Chicago, my involvement with the investigation would have been limited to my interrogation with any other participation in the case strictly banned. Expecting the same principles to apply in Lincoln, Nebraska classified me as an idiot.

At least I’d gotten the kitchen habitable and the fridge cleaned before the first cop came knocking at my mother’s door. I regarded my godfather and my parents’ supervisor, Sergeant Lewis Springfield, with a frown. He wore plain clothes, although I saw the lump under his jacket promising he had his firearm with him. “More questions?”

“Are your parents home?”

“I’m pretty sure they mugged someone for a motorcycle and went on a joy ride.”

Lewis chuckled. “That works for me. I got several interesting calls today.”

“NYPD?”

“And from Chicago. Can I come in?”

“At your own risk. I’ve decontaminated the kitchen, but the rest of the house worries me.”