Will answered. “Because whoever did this”—he nodded down to the pictures—“wasn’t one of mine. I know their scents. And look at the last photo.”
Jesse automatically obeyed the alpha, flipping to the last picture in the little stack. It was a close-up of the woman’s back. There were marks on it too, and at first he figured it was just another bite wound. As he looked closer, however, he realized that he was looking at a relatively clear patch of skin with only three shallow tears in it. The wounds didn’t match the rest of the carnage. They were in a cluster: a little diagonal line, a long vertical one that ran parallel to the woman’s arm bone, a short perpendicular line beneath it.
Jesse looked up. “It’s a number,” he said quietly. “Number one.”
Chapter 8
“Obviously we can’t be sure,” Dashiell broke in, “but it seems likely that whoever did this will try again.”
Jesse closed the folder and pushed it toward Will. “Call the police,” he said firmly. “Call right now.”
“You know we can’t do that,” Beatrice said genially, as though he’d suggested they all go skinny-dipping.
Jesse turned to her. “Yes, you can. If this woman was human, he’s going to go after humans again.” Beatrice glanced at her husband, whose face remained unreadable. Jesse continued, “People are at risk here. This is a hell of a lot bigger than me looking the other way while someone from the Old World kills someone else from the Old World.” Bitterness had crept into his voice, and Jesse fought to keep it off his face.
“We don’t want you to look the other way,” Beatrice soothed. “Just the opposite. We want you to find him.”
Jesse stared at her, then at Will and Dashiell. Both men—Jesse had to think of them as men, otherwise he’d start to shut down from fear—just gazed at Jesse, waiting for him to put the pieces together.
“Absolutely not!” Jesse exploded. “I’m not getting suckered into doing a half-assed investigation again just so you can keep your fucking secrets. Scarlett almost died last time! I almost died last time!”
Dashiell raised his eyebrows at Will, a gesture that very smoothly said, Told you so. But Jesse wasn’t finished. He took a deep breath, calming his temper, and said tightly, “You need the actual police department, with its resources and experience and tools. Let them deal with this.”
Silence. Dashiell, Will, and Beatrice were all looking steadily at Jesse, like parents waiting for a tantrum to blow over. After a second he got it. “You already had Scarlett destroy the body,” he said, deflating. He looked at the folder, still in his own hand. “This is all that’s left, isn’t it?”
“Scarlett wanted us to take those for you,” Will said helpfully. “She insisted.”
Jesse rubbed his eyes tiredly. “You’ve known me, what, four months?” he said at last. “What would happen if I wasn’t here? What did you do with this kind of thing before you met me?”
Will looked at Dashiell, who shrugged. For the first time his elegant facade faltered, and he looked uneasy. “This has never happened before,” he said. “Other than La Brea Park, Los Angeles has never had a situation like this, which has afforded us certain . . . comfort levels.” He frowned. “It does seem like there has been an escalation of violence in the last year, but I’m not convinced that it isn’t simple coincidence.
“To answer your question, though, we do not bring humans into the Old World. Will would have done what he could to stop the rogue himself, and we would have cleaned up the aftermath as it happened.”
Jesse stared. “You’d let him keep killing, and just cover it up.”
“Of course not,” Beatrice contended. “Will would hunt him. But Will has other responsibilities now, with the pack unstable, and here you are, a trained murder investigator. It seems a shame not to use you.”
It was the wrong thing to say. “I am not one of your pets,” Jesse said between his teeth. He locked eyes with Dashiell, forgetting his earlier fear. “You and I have had this conversation already. You know what I think needs to be done.”
Beatrice and Will were looking at Dashiell now too, and the cardinal vampire nodded. “Detective Cruz feels that a special department should be created within the LAPD,” he said to them, his eyes still on Jesse, “one devoted to Old World crime.”
“Is that even possible?” Will asked, plain curiosity in his voice.
“Possible? Yes, in theory. I could contact the right people, press a few minds,” Dashiell replied in his clipped voice. “But the problem is one of longevity and logistics. A new squadron would require personnel, a budget, annual reviews. It would garner attention. I can press minds to create something, but that kind of long-term maintenance would be too complex and unwieldy to be practical.” The volume of his voice never altered, but he was beginning to exert influence as he added, “More importantly, though, we do not tell humans about the Old World.”
This time Jesse felt the press in time to break eye contact. “Then I’m out,” he said stubbornly. He rose and started for the door, shoulders tensed as if expecting a bullet.
Beatrice’s quiet voice floated toward him like a breeze. “She still works for us, Detective.”
Jesse stopped but didn’t turn. He’d forgotten about Scarlett’s role in all this, but Beatrice was right: Scarlett would be involved in cleaning up the crime scenes.