Redemption Alley

Though not as interesting as it is right this second. “Scurf? Where?”

“Near the river. The 3700 block of Cherry, he says you’ll know when and if you get there. Good God, what happened to this guy? Who is he?”

“Homicide detective. Name’s Carper. Keep him here, and keep him alive for me. This Trader stays here too, I need her in one piece and available. You.” I pointed at Irene, who jumped as if pinched. “You come with me into the other room, I’ve got a few questions. Leon, we’re going scurf hunting in a few minutes. Stock up on ammo and whatever else we need.”

Some days it’s nice being the resident hunter. It means some decisions are just not consensus. Leon nodded and sidled against the wall. Galina hunched over Carp and kept working to patch him up.

“The ammo is in that cabinet there. Take what you need,” Galina said as I left the room.

The Trader followed me out into the darkened front room, the walls humming and alive with Sanctuary shielding. Crystal balls in the glassed-in case under the counter sparked, swirling softly with golden light. The stock rustled, books and materials all alive in their own specific ways in a store that has the advantage of being completely useful—unlike a few other occult shops I’ve had the bad luck to try to supply myself from.

Sometimes I wonder what hunters do without Sancs in their territories. Santa Luz is lucky to have Galina.

“All right. Start talking.” I rested one hand on my bullwhip, the other on a gun butt. If it made her nervous, she didn’t show it.

Much. Her eyes were wide. The dim light was kind to her, making her bloody hair a river of softness and her shell-like hips curves of delight. The stain on her lips made her look just-kissed. She must have been pretty in her own way, while human. “I’m allowed to talk now?”

“Don’t get cute. Carper had a lead in the organ-theft case, and it was you. You have exactly thirty seconds to tell me what you know, everything you know, leaving nothing out, or we learn if you bleed green too.” I didn’t even have to snarl, the flat matter-of-factness in my tone was more chilling than ranting and raving would be.

I was too tired to rant and rave. The successive shocks were begi

Get over it, Jill. Focus.

“Organ theft.” Did she sound relieved? She nodded, and a curl fell forward, sweetly and fetchingly, into her face. A shadow of hardness in her eyes told me the attractiveness was only skin-deep. There was something else under that thin crust.

“And dirty cops. Start talking.” I kept one eye on the clock.

“Oh, that. It wasn’t even work, just something I learned on a house call.” When I gave her a blank look, she smiled, a thin tight curve of lips that brought the hardness out and made her look a lot less sex-kitten. “I’m one of Shen’s dogs, hunter. We’re available for reasonable rates if you have… desires, and the money to pay for them.”

That was nothing new. And neither was the way her face changed. Even paranormal hookers learn how to calculate, and they learn how to try and hide that calculation. She wasn’t very good at it. Maybe she hadn’t had a lot of practice yet.

“About two weeks ago I had a client, a police officer. Normally run-of-the-mill detectives can’t afford us, you know. It’s mostly the brass we service, and the politicos. But this one was flush, I guess, and paid up front.” A gleam touched her eyes at the mention of money—a ratty little gleam I wasn’t sure I liked.

“How much?”

“Seven thousand to secure the appointment, another five for the standard consultation, and four for… extras.” Faint dislike tinted her voice, swirled away. She shifted her weight, licked her lips again.

Those heels must be murder. I waited for the rest of it.

“He wanted the usual, and my specialty. Most of all, though, he wanted to talk. His conscience was bothering him. That’s what I do, I provide… discipline.”

I got the feeling she wanted to call it something else. That gleam in her eye turned into a hard little diamond, assessing how much of her story I was buying. I still waited. Silence is the best weapon in conversations like this.

“Anyway,” she continued, “he was really upset. Kept repeating that he hadn’t signed on for murder. He’d just wanted to make some money, some of the money he was spending on me. It was getting too big. He wanted out, but couldn’t see any way out. I just gave him the usual and left. I didn’t tell Shen about it—it didn’t seem important, the man wasn’t Trade material. Too guilt-ridden.” Her shrug was soft poetry, like a Venus flytrap just waiting to close. “Anyway, tonight this detective shows up and asks for me. He stinks of human and doesn’t seem to notice the place isn’t safe for him. Turns out he had access to my client’s credit card statements and traced me from there. We’re independent contractors, you see, and—”

“Names. Your client, anyone else he mentioned.”

Her eyes flickered from side to side, and a pale tongue-tip crept out, touched her glossy lower lip. “I don’t know, the confidentiality—”

For fuck’s sake, what are you, a psychiatrist? “I don’t give a shit about confidentiality, I want names. That table in there can hold a Trader down, you know. You’ve been cooperative so far, I’d hate to have to convince you to give me what I need.”

She shrugged again, satiny flesh moving against the velvet of her gown, and I had one of those irrelevant flashes of memory that happen when you’ve been going for too long on not enough rest. I’d been idly trying to figure out who she was dressed to resemble, and I had it now. She looked just like Jessica Rabbit in real life, right down to the high wide forehead.

I hadn’t seen that movie in forever.

“It doesn’t make much difference. Shen will kill me anyway.” Her gloved hand flicked nervously and produced a long thin brown cigarette with a gold band. The pulse ran high and hard in her throat, despite her show of indifference. “The name on his credit card was Alfred Bernardino. Italian, greasy, built wide and hairy. Do you want to know what he wanted me to do?”

Bernardino? Why does that sound familiar? Most cops’ names do sound familiar, since I put every rookie through the obligatory orientation class. But this sounded more than familiar—it sounded like I’d heard it in the past couple days.

My memory’s normally like a steel trap; I only have to concentrate for a second or two to make a co

“All I know is that they’re getting them somehow. There’s a buyer from out of state, they pack them up and send them in shipments from a private airfield out of town. There are lists, you know, people too rich to stand in line like the rest of us.” Another shrug. Her voice quivered, but I didn’t blame her. Facing down a hunter in a bad mood should give anyone the shakes. Especially a Trader with something to hide.

And she was most definitely hiding something.

Jesus. “What do the cops do?” I should have dug harder to find the clients that Sorrows bitch was shipping organs to. I should have kept an eye on Sullivan and the Badger and their case, too. Goddammit.

Hindsight is twenty-twenty, but no hunter likes that sort of vision.

“They find the donors and cover everything up. It’s just under the table, he said. Like hiring illegals for yard work.”

What a lovely way to look at it. “He told you all this?”

“He had a lot on his mind.” She waved the cigarette. “Can I get a light?”

“No. Galina doesn’t like people smoking in here, and you’re not going outside. At least, not until I know you’re telling me the whole truth.” This is a nice neat little story, but something’s off. It just doesn’t make enough sense.