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Fuck.
With a grimace and a nod, I took it from her and made my way back over to where Ward waited in his chair, texting someone—probably Doc.
He looked up as I approached, and I could see the moment he braced himself in the tension in his neck and shoulders.
I held out the little plastic dish with its squidgy toe bone.
“Ugh.”
I agreed. “Sorry.”
“They couldn’t even… wipe it off?”
“Apparently not. You want me to get you a towel or something?”
He sighed, then dug a pack of wipes out of the bag on the back of his chair and opened the lid. “Okay,” he said, holding out a hand, “hit me.”
I held out the tray so that he could reach in and pick up the toe bone.
I’ve been working with Ward long enough that I knew immediately that the toe didn’t belong to a dog.
“You got a name, Ward?”
He quickly put it back in the dish, then scrubbed at his fingers with a wipe. “Hector Dimas.”
“He remember anything?”
Ward looked up, his grey eyes focused on someone I couldn’t see. “He does,” Ward answered. “You should probably get Raj or whoever over here.”
“Let me just…” I held up the dish. “Give this back.”
* * *
Hector Dimas,forty-six, originally from San Diego, had come to Richmond by way of college at UVA and a career that had jumped around from Charlottesville to Fredericksburg to Richmond. He had worked for the last five years at the Arc-Arcanid Legal Aid Center as a clerk. And he’d been killed because the Culhua was fucking delusional enough to think they could bring about the end of the world by skinning him.
About the only good thing I could say for them was that at least they killed their victims before they fucking skinned them. Just sacrificial murder, not torture.
Jesus fucking Christ on a cracker.
The thing that really had me on edge, though, was the fact that I knew the AALAC worked closely with most of the shelters and transitional facilities that catered to Arc-humans and Nids. Like the AAYC and Hands and Paws. Which meant that Dimas spent his time in disturbingly close proximity to Taavi and his coworkers, as well as the people they served.
I couldn’t bring myself to ask Ward if Dimas had known Taavi, and he hadn’t said if he’d asked. But after dropping my boss off at home later than either of us would have liked, I was on my way over to Taavi’s apartment, and I’d just realized that if Taavi had known Hector Dimas, I was going to have to be the one to tell him.
Fuck.
Dimas had been dead for eleven days, a missing-person report having been issued by his work a week ago after he hadn’t shown up or answered any calls or emails for five. Which told me he probably didn’t have any family to speak of—whether because he was a shifter or not, I didn’t know.
I dragged my feet going up the stairs and down the hall to Taavi’s apartment, even though I could smell the telltale Italian scents of garlic, onions, and tomatoes. Instead of growling, though, my stomach just felt like lead.
I sighed, then tapped a knuckle on the door.
Taavi opened it, a smile on his face that faded almost immediately when he saw me.
“Val, what’s wrong?”
“They found our shifter,” I answered as he stepped aside to let me in.
“Oh.”
