JoJo said, “I’ll need those histories to update our arcenciel file.”
While we had been speaking, Occam had tapped and removed shards of shell, placing them in a small pile to the side of the sink. The tapping and removal of shell went faster now, bigger pieces set to the side, revealing the creature within.
“Salamander,” Soul whispered, her face blank.
T. Laine cleaned off the break room table and opened out the ad section from the Knoxville News Sentinel across the top, covering the surface. I scooted my chair into a corner just as Occam carried a lump of slimy blue flesh to the table and placed it in the center. “We shoulda thought about scales for weighing it and devices for measurement,” he said.
“All we want is to get a feel for it and then overnight it to PsyCSI in Richmond,” Soul said.
As she spoke, a long line of goo slid across the papers and dripped to the floor.
I had seen enough of the salamander, and I hadn’t slept enough in the last few days. I needed a nap. I made another trip to the locker room for my clean blanket and pillow, found the room with the mattresses, fell on one that looked unused, and was asleep about the same moment I got the pillow in place.
• • •
It was fully dark outside when I woke, starving and smelling something with a strong protein base. Beef maybe. Hopefully not roasted salamander. I got up, checked for leaves and vines—none—and pulled on my boots. I had kicked them off at some point. Stumbling to the locker room, I folded the blanket, stuffed my linens back into the locker I had chosen, and staggered into the break room.
They had finished with the autopsy and cleaned up the goo. Now there were paper cartons and bowls all over the table, with packets of soy and duck sauce, and chopsticks, which I had not learned how to use. If I hadn’t been so hungry I might have felt icky about sitting at the recently disgusting table. As it was, I accepted a bowl and let JoJo ladle Chinese soup into it. The broth was thin and clear and had lumpy things in it that I was unfamiliar with, but it smelled and tasted wonderful, of onions and herbs I didn’t recognize.
“This is fabulous,” I said, slurping it down, drinking it straight from the bowl.
“Yeah, yeah. Eat up,” JoJo said. “Soul wants you and Occam back at the senator’s mansion to talk with the guests—Occam to get a good smell of Justin and any other Tollivers and Jeffersons he can find, and you to shake Justin Tolliver’s hand and get a feel for him. Human or not human? That is the question.”
“Hamlet,” I said, checking my cell for the time. “It’ll be after eight before we can get there.”
“Good enough. Occam will be driving. You two okay together?”
She had a strange tone, one I’d heard in the church, when a new pairing was being considered. You’un thinking about becoming Obadiah’s second wife? Or, You’un and Luke thinking ’bout marrying in a new wife? It’s always harder the first time. Or, You’un and Zebadiah really marrying Isolde? She’s got a temper on her. The tone was kind but nosy.
I slurped again and, without looking up, asked back in a similar tone, though maybe a little more provoking, “You okay with Tandy?”
JoJo flinched, visible in my peripheral vision. “I’m not . . . How did . . . How did you know?”
“I got eyes in my head. And yeah, I’m fine with Occam. We’re working through a lot of things.”
“He saved your life today. It’s in the report.”
I smiled. “Yeah. He did. And I gotta tell you. When you’re used to fighting for your own life, it’s nice to have a man help out. Or a leopard.” I shrugged.
Occam flew into the break room like a cat with his tail on fire. “I smell Chinese. Fried rice? Beef with broccoli? Oh yeah. Feed me, Mama.”
“I ain’t your mama, white boy.” JoJo swatted the back of his head. Occam laughed and filled a plate. The others who were still in HQ filed in and joined us.
I tried three different Chinese dishes I had never heard of: lo mein noodles with shrimp, beef with broccoli, which seemed to be everyone’s favorite, and chicken with cashews. It was all good, the sauces thickened with cornstarch and as gooey as the slime from the salamander egg. I tried not to think about that comparison as I ate.
• • •
The traffic at Senator Tolliver’s home was not as bad as I expected, though there were a lot of cars. Many of the vehicles had DC plates, marking the occupants as Washington bigwigs. Occam and I sat in his fancy car and drank coffee as the moon rose and the crowds thinned more. Occam’s eyes glowed too bright, and Pea (who had not been in the car when we set out, I could almost swear, not that I ever swore—that was one church teaching I hadn’t left behind) was mworing and chittering and exploring every square inch of the interior, moving and sounding like a kitten. Only her neon green coat and the rare glimpse of her ridiculously long steel claws gave her away.
Occam said, “We never did identify the shooter. Or recover his weapon.”
“No, we didn’t.”
“Search and rescue teams never did recover Clarisse Tolliver’s body.”
“No.”
“We still got no DNA on Sonya or Abrams.”
“No. But we know Abrams isn’t human.”
“So two women salamanders, three if we count the nanny, may be on-site.”
“Could be,” I agreed.
“We could get shot tonight.” When I didn’t reply he added, “And I still ain’t given you that improper kiss.”
I blushed in the dark and dropped my mouth to the sealed lid of my travel mug to hide my smile. “Drink your coffee,” I said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
We sat, not talking, spending the minutes catching up reading reports and files from the interagency investigation. When there were only two visitor cars left, we got out and spoke with the private security types who were trailing around the property. They were packing up gear and writing reports themselves, having been informed by their boss, P. Simon—Peter—that their services would no longer be needed. Which seemed a tad strange to me. Simon was there, in charge, sending his men away, staring out over the house and grounds. His body language seemed particularly angry, tense, and something else. Something odd, like, maybe possessive. I touched Occam’s arm and nodded toward Simon.
Occam made a rumbling noise in his chest, a catty sound of interest.
Inside, we spotted Justin in a formal dining room, talking to two Washington types, one younger, one older. The older, gray-headed man said, “Whenever you’re up to it, we’d like to begin substantive talks on the possibility of your taking over the office and then, next year, your run.”
“Your family name would be a strong bonus in any campaign,” the younger man said. “We know it isn’t something you had ever considered, and it’s far too soon, but the feelers we’ve put out suggest that the seat is yours if you want it. But don’t wait too long to decide. People forget too soon.”
Occam and I eased away, into the living room. He leaned down and put his mouth to my ear, murmuring, “Motive? Kill your brother—who isn’t really your brother—and your wife—who wasn’t human and maybe you just figured it out—and your brother’s wife—who might be offered the Senate seat—and take over his high-powered political position?”
I said softly, “Stretching a lot. Why kill them now? We don’t have an instigating event for that line of reasoning to fit the parameters of the crimes.”
Occam reared back and gave me a look that said he hadn’t expected me to talk cop-speak. Which was mildly insulting. I scowled at him and he grinned and shrugged. “Sorry, Nell, sugar.”
“We need to get a look at all the Tollivers’ wills. Double-check who might have seen a divorce lawyer. Go over the financials again.”
“I’ll text HQ,” he said, pulling out his cell and tapping with his thumbs.
The grieving Tolliver showed out his last two guests
. We approached Justin, offered IDs, and shook hands. I could see Occam sniffing the man out—literally—and I held Justin’s hand a moment too long, feeling for the metallic, sour scent and feel of blue blood, now that I knew what it felt like.
Justin Tolliver felt human. I could tell from Occam’s body language that he still smelled human too, maybe more human, now that his salamander wife was no longer in the picture, sharing her scent with him. We offered condolences, asked the proper grief-talk questions, and said the appropriate small-talk things. Then Occam asked if we could talk to Devin.
“I’d rather not,” Justin said. “The children are all in bed. Devin’s a little boy and he’s been through some horrible things.” He looked at us more closely. “May I ask why PsyLED wants to talk to him?”
Occam lied smoothly, his Texas accent stronger than usual, as if he deliberately brought it out to put people at ease, the way I sometimes did with my church-speak. “Our boss at PsyLED feels there might be a paranormal angle to the method of his parents’ deaths and we want to see if he remembers anything new about his aunt’s death. Witnesses, especially children, tend to recall things later, after traumatic events.”
Justin’s eyes went bigger. “I thought that was a gas tank explosion or something mechanical. You mean it was a magic? Why didn’t someone tell me?”
I said, “The car is still in forensics, Mr. Tolliver. Our greatest concern is to catch the killer and to protect little Devin.”
“Wait,” Justin said. “You think Devin is in danger too? At the recommendation of Peter Simon of ALT Security, I’m sending the crew home at midnight. He didn’t think we would need them again.”
“We’re not sure about anything,” I said. “We’re just covering all the bases.” I realized that I had just lied, without lying but with obfuscation and prevarication, speaking a truth but in such a way as to hide the real truth behind the words. In other words, I had lied. Lied well. I frowned.
Thomas Jefferson’s quote about the truth came to mind, as it often did when I was working. He had said, He who permits himself to tell a lie once, finds it much easier to do it a second and third time, till at length it becomes habitual; he tells lies without attending to it, and truths without the world’s believing him. This falsehood of the tongue leads to that of the heart, and in time depraves all its good dispositions. Last time I thought about that quote it had been in regard to Rick LaFleur. Now it applied to me. Lying was a slippery slope and I was sliding down that slope into hell mighty fast.
“It’s against my better judgment, but I’ll get Devin. Please have a seat.” Justin indicated the matching sofas in the living room to the left, and then stopped, the cessation of movement jerky. Without turning to us, he said, “I shouldn’t be here, letting guests into my brother’s house. He should be here. Sonya and Clarisse should be here. This is . . . a nightmare.” His shoulders hunched and he left the room quickly, his leather shoe soles slapping across wood floors and up a set of stairs.
Occam said, “My nose says he was speaking the truth every time he spoke.”
My frown got darker. “Speaking the truth is sometimes still a lie.”
Occam looked puzzled and then slightly insulted.
“I was talking about me, not you,” I said.
“Even worse, Nell, sugar.” But he entered the living room through a wide, cased opening and sat on one of the sofas to wait. I took the seat across from him.
“You got Pea?” I asked.
A green and black nose poked out of Occam’s jacket pocket. Pea chittered and vanished into the pocket.
“More like the grindylow’s got me,” Occam said, disgusted. “So. Tell me what kind of food you like best.”
I frowned at him.
“It’s called small talk, Nell, sugar. The kind people use when they’re trying to get to know each other.”
“Oh.” My frown got deeper. “Fresh?”
Occam dimpled. “As opposed to spoiled?”
My frown softened at his tone. Leaving the church when I was twelve hadn’t given me much time to learn how to converse in the getting-to-know-you or teasing conversations that most people courted with. Marriage and relationship discussions had been more like business negotiations. And this seemed like a dreadful time to engage in such peculiar chatter. “Why you asking me this now?”
“Because any other time might seem too threatening. I’m trying to put you at ease, Nell, sugar.”
“Oh.” My frown came back. “Part of me likes it when I don’t have to cook. Part of me only wants to eat food I’ve cooked so I can be sure of the freshness and the ingredients. I like trying new things. Like the Chinese food today. Like pizza. That was amazing the first time I tasted it. Like Krispy Kreme donuts. I could get fat on those alone and I’d never be able to replicate the donuts. I tried a time or two and had no luck at all. But I think I could make a better pizza if I put the time into it. I’ve been working on a recipe for crust.” Occam was smiling at me, as if I had said something fascinating, when all I’d done was tell him how food had changed my life. I scowled at him. “What do you like to eat?”
His dimple went deeper and his blond hair swung forward as he dropped his elbows to his thighs and leaned toward me. “When I’m a cat I like raw venison. When I’m a human I love pancakes. I know this woman, lives in the hills, likes to garden? She makes the best pancakes I ever tasted.”
I had made him pancakes. I was that woman. My breathing sped up and Occam focused on my throat, where my color had to be high and my pulse had to be pounding. “What kind of farm animal do you like best?” I asked.
Occam laughed as if the question surprised and delighted him. “When I’m cat I like to hunt wild boar. Pig if not boar. The big old males are mean and good hunting. When I’m human I like to eat chicken. Your favorite farm animal?”
“I like fresh eggs and fried chicken, so, chickens. Second choice would be either milk goats or meat goats, for the milk or the meat, and also to sell the meat and the hides.”
We shared a good ten minutes of casual and sometimes unexpected food and critter conversation before we heard feet on the stairs again, this time slower and heavier. We stood and faced the entry as Justin carried Devin into the room. The boy was towheaded and sleepy-eyed, wearing blue pajamas with Marvel heroes printed all over them. His feet were tucked into white socks. He looked pale and fully human, though small for his age.
Occam’s nose wrinkled slightly as he took in the boy’s scent. And I remembered Devin hitting me with a ball of fire. Occam’s left thumb went up slightly as he stood, telling me that Devin did indeed smell like the fireball-throwing salamander we knew him to be. I didn’t smell anything one way or the other, except that the child no longer reeked of smoke and flame and death.
I smiled at the little boy. “Hi, Devin. My name is Nell. We met a couple days ago.”
“You talk funny.”
“Yes, I do. I was raised in the hills. It’s a hillbilly accent. Kinda hard to let go of.” I let my smile grow wider and held out my hand. “It’s nice to meet you again.”
“Are you retarded?” It came out “wetauted.”
“No.” I kept my smile in place by force of will. People who thought accent was an indicator of intelligence or lack thereof, and people who used the R word, were not real high on my list of favorites. People who taught children to think and ask such things were even lower on that list. And then I wondered if the slur had been used on him, since he was eleven and had a slight speech impediment. I kept my hand out, waiting, and Devin put his hand into mine. I didn’t read him—I knew better. I had no intention of getting burned again. Instantly I felt/tasted/remembered the blue blood from the salamander I had fed to the river. I shook the kid’s hand and let go as quickly as I could, resisting wiping it on my pants.
Occam said, “Devin, I’m sorry about your parents.”
The little nonhum
an child looked up at Occam and tears filled his eyes. His nose wrinkled up and his mouth pulled down, his breathing ragged as he fought tears, making me want to cry with him. “Me too. I’m so . . . sad.”
“I know what you mean, little man.”
Devin reached out and gripped Occam’s hand tight. “Are your mama and daddy dead too?”
“Yep. They are. And I know they’re gone, every single day. Let’s sit over here,” Occam said, “and talk. Just for a minute or two. I know you need to get back to bed.”
It was clear the child had latched on to Occam. We all sat on the couches, me across from the men in the same seat I had taken before. I let my partner do the talking and thought about the feel of the salamander’s little hand. He was small, not much bigger than the tadpole forms in the river, but his hand had felt . . . different from their touch. Older. Not ancient exactly. But not young. I wondered how quickly they achieved physical growth, and at what age they could take on a human form. And then I wondered what correlations I could draw between them and any Earth creature. Probably not many. Maybe none. But for sure the kid didn’t feel like his tailed, swimming, and murderous . . . siblings? Cousins?
I let my attention wander from the conversation and drift around the warm-gray-toned room. It was fancy. Traditional style. Neutral color palette. Dark hardwood floors. Lots of crown molding. Beams in the high ceilings in the style architects called coffered. On the air I smelled cleaning supplies, a hint of fresh paint. Art objects on shelves and on tables illuminated by strategic lighting. Asian rugs set the limited color scheme of blue and deep red, carried out by pillows and a lamp and the backing on framed prints. Two small ornamental chairs at a small Oriental-style table matched the rug’s colors. A vase on a shelf in the dark red, another very large vase in blue on the floor, full of red and blue flowers. Heavy drapes puddled on the floor. They looked like they’d be hard to keep clean; dust catchers for sure, not that the senator or his wife had ever personally cleaned this house. They had a staff for that or a cleaning crew.