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I groaned. “Telepathic . . .” I shook my head to rid it of the horrifying concept. “You’re telling me that Fuzzykins is okay with being called Fuzzykins?”
“Certainly!” She gave me a look as if wondering whether I suffered from some form of mental disorder. “I would not speak a name for her that brought her distress.”
I was saved from more talk of telepathic cats by the ringing of my phone. A Beaulac PD number. “Kara Gillian,” I answered.
“Hey, Gillian, it’s Marcel Boudreaux,” the familiar nasal voice said. “You busy right now?”
“Nope, whatcha got?” I said. Eagerly. Malfunctioning stop light? Cockroach invasion? Crowd control at a 90%-off shoe sale? Anything to get out of this store.
“Got a detective here from St. Long sheriff’s office with some questions about one of your old cases.”
“Yeah, I can come by,” I said. “I’m only about five minutes away.”
“See you in five then,” he replied and hung up.
“Okay, enough cat toys, Eilahn,” I told her. “Need to go to the PD.”
She balanced a large box atop the rest of her haul. “A fresh water fountain is not a toy,” she lectured. “It is for optimal health, well-being, and happiness.” She indicated the words on the box.
I felt a twitch forming in my left eye. “Fine. Let’s get it and go.”
To my relief she headed for the check out. As soon as she was done I jogged to the car and popped the trunk open, while she proceeded at a more leisurely pace.
“You seem distressed,” she said as she carefully tucked the fountain, cat bed, food, toys, and all the other paraphernalia into the trunk. “Do you want me to drive?” She closed the trunk and gave me a calm smile, though I caught the wicked humor in her eyes.
Yep, my demon bodyguard was a smartass.
I decided I wouldn’t dignify that with a reply and climbed into the driver’s seat. I was even nice and waited for her to get in the car before I drove off.
• • •
* * *
• • •
There was no street parking to be found, and the visitor’s lot was full, so I finally cheated and found a place in the far corner of the detective’s lot. To be safe, though, I quickly traced an aversion ward on the hood, just in case anyone decided to ticket or tow it.
Eilahn lingered in the foyer while I headed through the familiar Investigations door. A sharp twinge of nostalgia went through me as I walked down the hall with its stained tiles and cheap wood paneling and ever-present scent of burnt coffee.
My former sergeant, Cory Crawford, wasn’t in his office. A vaguely familiar young man earnestly typed away at his laptop in the closet-sized room that used to be mine. He’d been a road cop, I realized as I passed by. Must have snagged the promotion when I left.
Yet as soon as I passed the open doorway I had to stop and take a several deep breaths. I wasn’t a cop anymore. I’d known it before, but now the truth of it hit me hard in the gut. Not a cop. I wasn’t really a consultant for the FBI either. What the hell was I now? A summoner? That didn’t adequately describe it. Not anymore.
Squaring my shoulders, I continued on to Boudreaux’s office. He was on his phone, but when he saw me he covered the mouthpiece and said, “Interview three,” with a jerk of his head in the direction of the interview rooms.
I nodded and continued to the side corridor that housed the various interview rooms. The first two rooms were dark, their doors open. The third, at the end of the hall, was lit and the door ajar. I headed to it and peered in, even as a sudden hard shove in the middle of my back propelled me fully into the room.
I let out a startled yelp and stumbled forward as the door closed solidly behind me, but then I registered the other occupant of the room. Gritting my teeth, I recovered and tugged my jacket straight.
“Got all the cops under your thumb?” I asked Farouche with a tight smile.
Impeccably dressed in an obviously high quality steel-grey suit, dark shirt, and pale blue-patterned tie, he stood with the fingertips of one hand lightly resting on the table, silver cufflinks glinting at his wrist as he regarded me. “They are eager to accommodate me,” he replied mildly.
“Must be boring to always have things go your way,” I said with a mock-tragic sigh. “No surprises. No adventure.”
He straightened and adjusted his cuffs, flicked a miniscule bit of dust from his lapel. An elegant band of gold and diamonds rested on the ring finger of his left hand, and I found myself weirdly surprised that he still wore his wedding ring. I knew about the cancer center and his dedication to the search for his abducted daughter, but this clear sign of devotion to his deceased wife struck me on a different level. A sentimental monster?
“How odd,” he said as he took a step toward me. “I’ve always found it to be exhilarating.” He took another step closer, but when I didn’t flinch or back away his brows drew together, and a whisper of tension creased the skin around his eyes.
