Oh, God, what was I getting us into?
On the other side of the playground was a cluster of picnic tables. Only two tables were occupied. At one, a mother divvied up animal crackers to three howling preschoolers, all the while shooting furtive glances over her shoulder at the lone man sitting a few tables away. He was brown-haired and in his late thirties, with a thin scar running down his cheek and no attached kids in sight. When the man met her gaze with a level stare, she looked away and doled out the crackers faster.
I snuck up behind him, then leaned into his ear.
"She thinks you're a pervert," I whispered.
Xavier jumped, realized it was me and grinned.
"Is that it?" he said. "Whew. I thought she was trying to pick me up."
The woman at the other table breathed a nearly audible sigh of relief as I sat across from him.
"I was starting to think you weren't going to show," he said.
"Good thing I did," I said. "A few more minutes and she'd have been calling the cops."
He shot a look in the woman's direction. "You know, she doesn't seem completely convinced. Maybe if you gave me a big 'hello, honey' kiss...Did I mention you look good?" He grinned. "Damned good. I forgot how--"
"Hard I hit?"
"That too." His grin broadened. "Wanna refresh my memory? Really give momma hen a reason to gawk?"
"You've given everyone enough reason to gawk already. So much for keeping a low profile."
"Hey, I wanted you to feel safe. Nothing safer than a playground. Absolutely no reason to regret not bringing the boyfriend."
I glanced over the crowd by the play equipment. "How do you know I didn't? You've never met Clay."
"I've seen pictures, remember? Blond curls, big blue eyes, everything but the goddamn cleft chin." He shook his head. "Brains, looks and the lovely Elena on his arm. I'd feel really inadequate...if he wasn't a raging lunatic. Score one for the half-demon. I may be a little nuts, but no one's ever called me a psycho."
I shook my head and sighed.
"Hey, don't tell me I'm wrong. I've heard the stories. Saw a photo too. You ever seen those pictures?"
"No, but I've heard about them."
"So you think they're fakes?"
"I'm sure they're not."
"And...that's okay with you? Your boyfriend spent his teen years hacking up people and taking pictures? But hey, high school was rough on all of us. Everyone has his own way of coping."
I could have set Xavier straight, told him the pictures were of one trespassing mutt, and Clay had his reasons--as alien as his reasoning might be to the rest of us. But to clear the record would be to wipe away the reputation Clay had so painstakingly built for Jeremy's protection, so I kept my mouth shut and shrugged.
Xavier leaned forward. "Sarcasm aside, you don't need a guy like that, Elena. Maybe you think you do--only female werewolf and all that--but hell, I've seen what you can do--tied to a chair, up against a male werewolf. You can do that, you don't need some fucking psychopath like Clayton Danvers--"
He stopped, noticing my gaze.
"He's standing right behind me, isn't he?" Xavier murmured.
"Uh-huh."
Xavier tilted his head back, saw Clay and disappeared. He reappeared on the opposite bench, pressed up against me. I looked over at him, eyebrow raised. He swore under his breath and teleported to the far end of the other bench. Then he stood and turned to Clay.
"You must be--"
"The fucking psychopath," Clay said.
"Er, right, but I meant that in the most respectful way. Believe me, I have the utmost regard for, uh..."
"Raging lunatics," I said.
Xavier shot me a glare.
"Oh, sit down," I said. "He didn't bring his chain saw."
Clay circled the table and slid in next to me. Xavier waited until he'd sat, then took his original place across from me.
"Clay, this is Xavier, Evanidus half-demon. Specialty? You just got a little demonstration of that."
"A pretty damned indiscreet demonstration," Clay said, shooting a look over at the playground.
"No one saw," Xavier said. "And even if they did, they've already explained it away. Humans only see what they expect to see. I bet you guys could change into wolves right here and you'd have twenty parents grabbing their cell phones--not phoning CNN to report a werewolf sighting, but calling the Humane Society to pick up a couple of really big dogs that are definitely violating the leash laws."
"Speaking of violating leash laws, you do know where David Hargrave is, right? And he'll still be there when we arrive?"
"He should be. If he bolts, it won't be because I tipped him off. And if he does bolt, I'll get you a new location or you don't owe me a thing. This guy killed three women. I say you're welcome to him. I may not be the most moral guy, but with something like that, I'll gladly turn him in to the proper authorities. Which, in this case, would be you guys."
Clay snorted. "How long have you known where he was before your sense of civic duty kicked in?"
"Let me guess," I said. "Just long enough to find something you could ask for in return. Don't give me the wounded look. We want Hargrave. What do you want?"
Xavier eased back in his seat. "You guys ever hear of the From Hell letter?"
"No, and from the sounds of it, I'm not sure I want to."
Clay said, "If this is some kind of demon thing, we're not interested. The werewolves don't get involved in--"
"It's nothing demonic. It's just a letter. Supposedly sent by Jack the Ripper to the police. At some point over the next hundred years, it went missing."
I frowned. "You want us to find--?"
"Oh, I know where it is. It was never really missing. Not to our side of the world, that is."
When Clay and I glanced at one another, Xavier rolled his eyes. "Our side. The supernatural side. You guys rejoined the council; that puts werewolves back in the middle of the whole supernatural community. Didn't you get your membership cards?"
"About this letter," I said.
"All the Jack the Ripper files were sealed up for a hundred years. When they were opened in the eighties, the From Hell letter was missing. Not surprising, considering it was stolen back in the twenties. The theft was commissioned by a sorcerer."
"Why? Is it magical?"
"Nah. The only way of getting it was with supernatural aid, so it stayed on our side of the line. But just think--that letter could tell us the true identity of Jack the Ripper, and some rich spellcasting son of a bitch is hoarding it for himself. Disgraceful. We are about to rectify that."
I glanced at Clay. "Not liking the sound of that 'we.' "
"Me neither," Clay said.
"I hope you aren't going to ask us to steal that letter--"
"You can't steal stolen goods. What I'm asking is for you to right a very old wrong."
"And return it to the London Police. Gee, that's mighty big of you, Xavier." I turned to Clay. "See, there is a sense of civic duty there after all."
"Ha-ha. I'm passing it on to a buyer, yes, but he wants to have it analyzed by a team of DNA experts so the world can know once and for all the identity of Jack the Ripper."
"Damn," I murmured. "That is a righteous cause. Now we can finally catch that murdering bastard and lock him up in prison where he belongs."
Before Xavier could open his mouth, I continued. "What's the guy looking for: a book deal or a movie deal?"
Xavier hesitated, then said, "Book...and probably movie eventually, but he's investing over a hundred thousand dollars in this crusade--"
"In return for a book deal that I'm sure will net him a pittance."
I glanced at Clay. He shrugged. He was right. As offensive as I found this guy's reason for wanting the letter, it wasn't doing anyone any good where it was now. And we needed to find David Hargrave before he went on another killing spree.
"Why us?" Clay said. "You can teleport through walls." He met Xavier's gaze. "Unless there's a reason you want
someone else to do it."
"There is, but not the one you're thinking. There's zero danger involved. No electric fences or armed guards. Just a spell. A very special spell. That's how it was protected the first time too, probably by a sorcerer judge or prosecutor who wanted to keep all the Ripper letters safe, so he cast a spell that would detect any living being who came near them. To get the letter, then, the guy who wanted it stolen found himself a very special thief, one without that telltale beating heart."
"A vampire," Clay said.
"Whoa. You're good. When he got the letter, he cast another protection spell around it--one that will detect anything in human form. He figured that was safe. Sure, someone could send in a specially trained bird or whatever, but no bird could open the sealed glass box."
"Ah," I said. "So, to retrieve it, you need someone not in human form. A wolf, perhaps."
"You got it."
I leaned forward. "Problem number one: as you doubtless noticed back at the compound, we change into full wolves. Wolves with paws. Operating a glass cutter? One of those things that requires opposable thumbs."
"True, but as I also recall from the compound, you can change just your hand."
"From human to wolf, yes. Vice versa? Not so simple." I glanced at Clay, who gave a half-shrug. "Not impossible, but not easy either. How many locks are we talking? Is the box locked or just sealed? And I assume the room is locked too?"
"The box is just sealed--a solid glass box bolted to the table. As for the door to the room, it's locked, but more to keep out the housekeeper than serious thieves. The spell covers that. Once you get the door open, you just need to change forms before you get too close to the glass box. As for changing just your hand back, that's pretty much essential. Change any more and you'll set off the alarms, so if you can't--"
Clay cut in. "We'll deal with it. Bigger problem for me? What's to say this sorcerer hasn't used both the spells: the one to detect a pulse and the one to detect human form?"
"Can't. If you double up high-powered spells like that, you're almost guaranteed nasty side effects. Don't take my word for it, though. Check it out with your spellcasting buddies. Either this sorcerer didn't think about werewolves, like the last one didn't think about vampires, or he figured there was no real risk. Vamps are known for stealth, weres for killing."
"So this letter is in Toronto?" I said.
Xavier nodded. "Owned by the grandson of Theodore Shanahan, the sorcerer who had it stolen from the police archives. Guy's name is Patrick Shanahan. Lives alone. Typical investment banker--keeps his life very ordered and dull, with a strict routine. You won't show up and find he's moved the letter or skipped a client dinner to stay home unexpectedly. If he does? Abort, and we'll try again. No rush. No pressure. This letter isn't going anywhere."
I glanced at Clay. Another shrug, but this one merging into a nod.
"Let me think about it," I said.
"Really?" Xavier cleared his throat. "I mean, sure. Right. Think about it, do your research, make sure everything's on the up and up. I'll give you everything you need. I've bought a contact with access to the house, so I'm working on that now. All you'll need to do is go in and get the letter."
It would be Jeremy who made the final decision, but I wanted to do my homework before I decided how strongly I'd support Xavier's offer. I'd start with the letter. I hadn't wanted to admit the depths of my ignorance in front of Xavier, but say "From Hell" and "Jack the Ripper" to me, and the only association sparked was the Johnny Depp movie, which I'd wanted to see and Clay hadn't. Nick and I had ended up ditching him at the multiplex, sending Clay in to see Training Day and telling him we'd catch up after we got the popcorn.
Took thirty minutes for Clay to realize we weren't coming back, and another ten to get past the ushers and track us down in From Hell, whereupon he declared that if we'd really wanted to see it, we could have just said so. Then he plunked himself into the seat beside mine and spent a half hour grousing about how much he hated serial killer flicks before I shoved my Milk Duds box in his mouth, and Nick and I moved to a spot with no empty adjoining seats.
A typical night at the movies. The upshot being that my memories of the movie had big Clay-induced plot holes, and if there had been a mention of the letter that had inspired the title, I didn't remember it.
As we walked into the house, I said, "I'll go online and see what I can find out about this letter."
"Let's ask Jeremy first."
"Jeremy?"
Clay shrugged. "He likes solving mysteries. He might know something."
"About a case like Lizzie Borden maybe. Jack the Ripper is definitely not Jeremy's style."
"Maybe."
The study door opened down the hall and Jeremy walked into the foyer.
"That was quick," Jeremy said. "Was there a problem?"
"Questions needing answers," I said. "He's serious about giving up Hargrave--says if his tip doesn't pan out, we don't owe him anything. Hard to argue with that. But the favor he wants in return is...a little strange."
"Jack the Ripper," Clay said. "What do you know about him?"
Jeremy frowned. "Jack the Ripper?"
"Victorian serial killer," I said. "Killed some prostitutes--"
"Five women in Whitechapel in the fall of 1888," Jeremy said. "I know who he is, Elena."
"Obviously," I said. I tried to keep the surprise from my voice, but the corners of Jeremy's mouth twitched.
"Come into the study," he said. "I'm hardly an expert on the subject, but I'll see if I can start you in the right direction...after you tell me what this has to do with Xavier's request."
Jeremy didn't "start us in the right direction." He got us all the way to the last stop, and then some. I guess I should have known. As Clay said, Jeremy did love a mystery, and there were few crimes with more questions and theories than those of Jack the Ripper.
First, Jeremy skimmed the particulars. "Then there are the letters," he said, propping his feet on the ottoman. "Hundreds of letters sent to various members of the police and local press."
"I thought only modern killers did that," I said. "Establishing a correspondence with a reporter in hopes of getting more inches on the front page, keeping their crimes in the spotlight."
"That may very well be what he was doing," Jeremy said. "One of the first media-savvy criminals. But it's more likely that the majority of those letters didn't come from him. Had he really written them all...well, let's just say his wrist would have been too tired to wield a knife."
"Fakes," I said. "Written by people in serious need of a life."
"Presumably that's where most came from, though some are believed to have been written by reporters themselves, frustrated by the lack of news between killings."
"Next they'll be saying the Ripper himself was a journalist, killing people to boost paper sales," I muttered.
"You know, newspaper sales did skyrocket during that period..."
I shook my head. "So this letter Xavier wants is a fake?"
"Perhaps. And yet...Imagine you're the killer. Someone else is writing to the press and the police, claiming to be you. Dozens of people, signing your name to letters, putting their words in articles that are supposed to be about you."
"Identity theft, Victorian style. You'd want to set them straight. So you send real letters proving you're the killer."
Jeremy nodded. "There are three letters many believed to be genuine. The first, sent to the Central News Agency, appears to hint at a double murder committed a few days later. The second, sent to the same place, refers to the original letter, and includes details of the crimes that hadn't yet reached the papers. Still, there were doubters, those who believed the references in the first were too vague and the details in the second could have been leaked. Two weeks later, a third letter came in, this one sent instead to the chairman of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee."
"The From Hell letter," I murmured.
"Called so because that was the return address on
the envelope: From Hell. Enclosed with the letter was half a human kidney, and one of the victims was indeed missing her kidney. Tests indicated it came from a woman approximately the victim's age but that was the best they could do at the time, so whether it was a hoax or not was never determined. Obviously the man who wants to buy it believes it's the real thing. Yet all that matters, for our purposes, is that the letter does indeed exist and is indeed missing, as Xavier claims."
"What happened to it?"
"It was boxed up with the other evidence and packed away for a hundred years. When they opened the files in 1988, the From Hell letter wasn't there. It may have simply been misplaced. Conspiracy theories speculate that it was 'removed,' either by the police to cover a misstep, or by 'interested parties,' who feared it contained an important clue. Most likely, the truth is exactly what Xavier believes, that it was stolen for its value on the collectors' black market."
He paused, tilting his head slightly, eyes unfocusing as he retrieved something from his memory. "There was a story that it was bought by a Canadian collector. Interesting, given where Xavier claims it is now. I don't think there was ever much credence given to the rumor. It wasn't very interesting, given the other possibilities."
"That's the problem with the truth," I said. "Making things up is so much more fun. So what do you want us to do?"
Again, Jeremy paused, this time for a few minutes. Then he pulled his feet off the ottoman and straightened. "Look into it more before you get back to him. Be thorough, but be quick. If we can get to Hargrave, I want to make this deal before he decides to move on. Start by confirming what I've just told you. It's been years since I took an interest, so make sure the letter hasn't turned up in the meantime."
"I'll search the wire services--" I began.
"No, give Clay your access." He turned to Clay. "You can do that, right?"
"Simple enough."
"Then, Elena, you get back to Xavier. He said he'll make this easy, but I want specifics. Make sure he can give us blueprints, security codes, keys, anything we might need. This isn't our area of expertise, so I want all the professional work done for us and provided in advance so we can get a second opinion."