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“I don’t want to fucking know, do I?” was how he answered the phone, and I almost laughed at the irony that I’d been the one to exasperatedly answer Ward’s calls that way for years.
“Not in the least,” I replied cheerfully. “But the answer is dead shifters.”
“Fuck.”
“Yep,” I agreed.
“I can’t take it,” he told me.
“The fuck you can’t. Hampton doesn’t have the capacity to deal with Nid cases, especially not of there’s ritual magic involved.” That had been my beat for years. I knew which departments could handle it and which ones couldn’t. I’d called Dan because I knew Hampton would just have to call in the RPD for arcane coverage, anyway.
“Not the problem,” Dan answered, and his voice was wary.
“What do you mean?” I asked, sensing something wrong.
“All shifter homicides now go straight to the Feds,” he answered. “We’re not allowed to touch them.”
I blinked. “Fuck. Seriously?”
“I’ll explain later,” he said, ominously, and I realized he must still be at work and unable to share what must have been either really juicy or really shitty details within earshot of his colleagues.
“Dan?”
“What?”
“I’m sorry this shit landed in your lap.” Then I told myself to pull my head out of my ass. “I’m sorry I threw this pile of shit in your lap.” I’d text ElliotTake responsibility for my actionslater.
“It’s—It’s not your fault,” Dan said, and he sounded a little surprised. I wasn’t sure if that made me feel better or worse about having apologized. “But I appreciate the thought. Beers tomorrow?”
“Yeah, that’d be great. Seven?”
“Meet me at Hardywood.”
“You got it, Dan.”
Ward was giving me a look that asked why on earth I was making social engagements in the middle of a homicide scene.
“I’ll tap Raj and keep you updated. Let me know if you hear anything more on Rosemary Carlisle?”
“Autopsy is later today. I’ll update you tomorrow.”
“Great. Thanks.”
“See you, Hart.”
Ward’s expression was vaguely incredulous, but it turned to alarmed as I explained that we had to call in the FBI.
“Why?” he asked.
“Dan didn’t say,” I replied, “but I’m guessing nothing good. I’ll find out tomorrow.”
“You calling Raj?”
I nodded, then hit the little Tony the Tiger icon on my phone.
“Keebler, you never call me anymore,” was how Raj answered.
“You didn’t buy me chocolates the last time, Tony,” I replied. “But I got you a present.” Beside me, Ward was rolling his eyes.
