“What about Carlyle?” Finn asked, not sharing my fascination with Donovan Caine’s ass. “We still going to brace him at Northern Aggression tonight?”
“Yeah. At this point, he’s our best lead. Our only lead.” I turned my gaze to Finn. “So call Roslyn and tell her we need to meet this afternoon.”
“Last night you said you didn’t need Roslyn’s permission to storm her club,” Finn said. “Why the change?”
I took another swig of juice. “Because she might know something else about Carlyle. You know how she likes to keep track of her guests’ habits. And I want to know everything there is to know about the bastard before we confront him tonight.”
18
Since we’d abandoned the SUV Finn had stolen yesterday, we were without transportation. So Finn had to boost another car from a parking garage four blocks away from my apartment. He stalked through one level of the garage, sneering and passing up several serviceable compact cars, before going down to the next level.
“What’s he doing?” Donovan Caine asked as we walked along behind him. “This isn’t the supermarket.”
I snorted. “Tell that to Finn. He’s a car guy. The more expensive and roomier it is, the happier it makes him.”
Finn finally stopped in front of a late-model Lexus and nodded his head. “This will do for today. Tool please, Gin.” He held out his hand to me.
“Didn’t you bring your own?”
“Why carry the extra weight when you make such good disposable ones?” he countered.
I hated to admit it, but Finn had a point. I sighed and reached for my Ice magic. Donovan Caine eyed the silver glow flickering over my palm, wondering what I was doing. A question I often asked myself when dealing with Finnegan Lane.
A few seconds later, I passed Finn a long, slender, wirelike rod. He took the cold, Ice wand and jammed it into the car window. The lock popped open, the rod shattered, and Finn wiped the remaining chunks of the wand off his impeccable jacket. Then he opened the door, sank down into the driver’s seat, reached under the dash, and tugged on a couple of wires.
Thirty seconds later, the engine roared to life, and Finn gestured for us to get in. I took the passenger’s seat, while Donovan Caine slid into the back. Finn steered the car out of the garage. A beautiful September day greeted us. Blue sky. Wispy clouds. Faint breeze. The sun gleamed like a gold coin, brightening even the grime and graffiti on the downtown streets and buildings.
“Where are we going?” I asked Finn. “Where have you tracked Roslyn to? The nightclub?”
Finn had made a call on one of my disposable cells and set up a meeting with Roslyn just before we’d left. “Nah, the club doesn’t even open until eight. She’s at home right now.”
Despite the money generated by her nightclub, Roslyn Phillips didn’t live in Northtown like the rest of the rich types. Instead, she made her home out in the suburbs just west of Southtown. Rolling hills cut through this part of Ashland like jagged teeth on a saw, although the scarlet, gold, and cinnamon color of the fall leaves helped to smudge the edges of the rough ridges. I rolled down my window and let the cool air rush into the car.
Thirty minutes later, Finn turned into a driveway lined with crimson maples. He drove up a steep hill before the trees receded, revealing a modest, two-story home made of gray brick. Black shutters and white flowerbeds framed the square windows, while a variety of colorful toys fought for space on the green lawn. Suburban bliss at its finest. All the house needed to complete the picture was a goofy golden retriever loping through the grass.
Finn parked the stolen Lexus, and the three of us got out of the car.
“Just let me do the talking, and everything will be fine.” Finn smoothed down his suit jacket. He’d gone with a gray seersucker today, with a silver shirt that somehow made his eyes look even greener than they were.
“That was my plan,” I replied. “You’re the mouthpiece. Figured you’d use some of that storied charm you claim to have to pump Roslyn for information. Or were you planning to use a more persuasive technique today?”
Beside me, Donovan Caine snorted, but his mouth curved into a small smile.
“You’re just jealous.” Finn dug a canister of breath spray out of his pants pocket and squirted some into his mouth.
“Hardly. Been there, done you,” I replied. “Adequate, but unremarkable.”
Donovan Caine started at the revelation. He frowned, and something shimmered in his hazel eyes. But the detective masked the emotion before I could decipher what it was.
Finn clutched a hand over his heart. “Oh, Gin, how you wound me.”
“I’m going to wound you a lot more if you can’t sweet-talk Roslyn and smooth things over for us tonight,” I snapped.
“Don’t worry,” Finn said. “Roslyn will shower us with cooperation, since you took care of her brother-in-law a few months ago. Or have you forgotten already?”
A man’s face flashed in front of my eyes. Chocolate skin, curly hair, a dimpled smile, and black eyes that were even colder than mine. No, I hadn’t forgotten Jeremy Lawson. My cheek twitched with a phantom ache. The half-giant had broken my jaw before I’d managed to cut him down.
Disgust tightened Donovan Caine’s face. “You assassinated this woman’s brother-in-law, and you think she’s happy about that?”
I opened my mouth to respond, but Finn fixed the detective with a fierce look.
“Yeah,” he snapped. “Bastard liked to beat on Roslyn’s sister and her niece. Last time, they were both in the hospital for two weeks. The little girl is four, in case you were wondering.”
The detective’s gaze flicked to the toys in the yard, and the disgust drained out of his rugged face. “Why didn’t she call the police?” Caine asked in a quieter voice.
“Roslyn did, but Jeremy had a couple of fishing buddies on the force and plenty of money to get everyone else to look the other way. The coppers wouldn’t even file a domestic dispute report,” Finn said. “So Roslyn decided to look for another, more permanent solution before he killed them.”
Caine’s gaze went to me again. Curiosity flared in his hazel eyes, along with a flash of doubt. The detective had to be thinking about his partner, Cliff Ingles. Wondering if the other cop had done something like that. Wondering if that’s why I’d killed him. I kept my face smooth as I stared back. After a moment, the detective dropped his eyes.
We reached the front door. A small plaque with a rune etched into it was embedded in the stone to the right. A heart with an arrow through it. Roslyn’s symbol for her nightclub, Northern Aggression. Finn rang the doorbell. Cheery chimes echoed through the house.
After about twenty seconds, a shadow moved in front of the peephole. Somebody inside was studying us. Several locks clicked, and the door opened.
Roslyn Phillips was a beautiful woman, with eyes and skin the color of melted toffee. Her cropped, feathered black hair just brushed the edge of her strong jaw. Silver-frame glasses perched on the end of her pointed nose, and her face was free of the heavy makeup I’d always seen her wear. She looked younger without it, softer, and more vulnerable than I knew her to be.
A pair of black yoga pants covered her legs, while a matching shirt stretched over her chest. But the innocuous ensemble couldn’t hide Roslyn’s stack of full breasts, lush hips, and toned thighs that had most men wiping the drool off their chins after a few seconds. And Roslyn knew how to use her body to its full potential. She was one of the vamps who used sex to power up, along with drinking blood.