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The Witch and the Gentleman

I drove off, more determined than ever to find Penny’s killer.

Chapter Seventeen

After my training session, and after I had showered and changed at the gym, I headed straight to the Beverly Hills Police Department.

This wasn’t my first time here. I’d been brought in for questioning on the night my vampire boyfriend had been found with a silver arrow in his chest. The police wanted answers and grilled me relentlessly about my murdered boyfriend. I told them I hadn’t a clue who’d broken into the house, or why my boyfriend had been shot in his sleep, with an arrow, no less. Or why the man had spared me.

Truth was, the man had nearly sent an arrow into my own chest, too. Never had I been so afraid, or so devastated. The vampire hunter had shown some compassion towards me, and listed a handful of murders around Los Angeles that my now-dead boyfriend, whose blood was even then pooling in the bed next to me, had committed. I didn’t doubt the hunter. I knew my boyfriend was a killer. But I was addicted to him. Or, more accurately, addicted to him feeding from me.

Few knew that a vampire’s victim derived just as much pleasure from the feeding as did the vampire himself. And I derived much, much pleasure. More importantly, with each feeding, I could feel my psychic powers increasing, sharpening.

Anyway, I had been hauled down here for questioning, twice. The police had been baffled over my boyfriend’s murder. They were certain I had something to do with it. I had been a go-go dancer before meeting Victor. For two months, I’d lived well. No, I’d lived like a queen. A true whirlwind romance of lovemaking, feeding and shopping. Honestly, what more could a girl want?

But I kept to my story: a break-in, I’d awakened to find Victor gasping, and a man standing in the doorway holding a crossbow. Those were the facts. I neglected to mention a few additional facts. That Victor was a vampire, that he had killed often, and that he was getting his just due by a vampire hunter.

Just or not, his murder tore me up for a long, long time. I had literally been addicted to him, to the feeding, to the lifestyle, even to what I thought had been love.

The police, of course, didn’t like it, but in the end, my story held up purely through forensic evidence. Ample evidence of a break-in, and a murder weapon that I had no association with. That I could have staged the break-in with another, to rob my boyfriend, was a possibility they had brought up. I reminded them that I was already living with Victor. Already being treated like royalty, and that I was in love with the man.

It was pointed out by another cop that nothing had, in fact, been stolen, and there was no sign of foul play, or that I was trying to extort Victor. In the end, it was decided that I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and the case, as far as I know, was still open.

Despite having just worked out with a client, I lit up a cigarette and sat in my car outside the police station. I inhaled deeply from the cigarette, knowing I was killing myself slowly, but loving every drag. I didn’t smoke much. Only when I was nervous. And sitting outside the police station was harder on me than I thought it would be.

It had stopped raining. I was in a metered spot along the street just outside of the very police station made famous by a single Zsa Zsa Gabor slap. Traffic slogged past me. Rich people going home after making themselves richer. Water reflected off the road, off the cars. Red taillights and high-powered headlights reflected, too. Beverly Hills was a busy city. Lots of cars. Lots of people. Lots of business. Lots of money.

I finished the cigarette, flicked it out my side window like the bad girl I sometimes was, then got out and headed up to the station.

Chapter Eighteen

After waiting nearly thirty minutes, I was shown into Detective Smithy’s office.

Detective Smithy was a smallish man in a biggish office. His desk was polished. The window behind him appeared recently cleaned. I didn’t detect any cobwebs or dirt or even dust bunnies. The computer monitor on his desk was bigger than my TV screen at home. Even the wires that led up to the monitor gleamed. I swear to God, someone had wiped those, too. Must be nice working for the Beverly Hills Police Department.

If Detective Smithy gave a damn about any of it, he didn’t show it. His thick cop mustache was slightly askew. As in, I was fairly certain he didn’t trim it as neat as his superiors would hope. His nails were mostly trimmed, except for his pinkie nail, which he seemed to have forgotten about. It was twice as long as the others. There was dirt under exactly half of the other nails. I suspected that what Detective Smithy lacked in grooming and hygiene, he more than made up for it in performance. At least, I hoped so.

When I came in, his smallish hand with the long pinkie nail was resting on top of a thick file. He didn’t bother standing, but instead motioned to one of the three chairs sitting before him. I took the middle one because I enjoyed symmetry.

“What’s your interest in this case, Ms. Lopez?” he asked while I straightened my workout pants so that the drape hung neatly. More symmetry. Then again, I think I was overcompensating for his lack of neatness with an overabundance of my own.

Detective Smithy looked at me as if I were doing something foreign to him, blinking once or twice. He waited. While he waited, I thought about how I should answer. Ultimately, I decided to go with the truth—the freaky truth—knowing there was a good chance I might be laughed out of the department.

“I was hired to help look for the killer,” I said simply enough.

“I see,” he said. “In what capacity?”

“I’m a psychic.”

“A psychic?”

“A good one, too, although I’m new to murder investigations.”

He didn’t laugh. At least, not yet. Instead, he studied me closely. “I see. And where do you generally employ your services?”

Detective Smithy had an uncanny ability to look directly into me. Meaning, I knew he was sizing me up far differently than I was used to being sized up. The man was literally absorbing everything about me in ways that I suspected only a homicide cop could. What those ways were, I wasn’t entirely sure, but judging from the way his eyes touched on every aspect of my face, my features, my clothing, there wasn’t a whole lot this guy missed. Also, I intuitively sensed he was a hell of a fine detective.

“I work at the Psychic Hotline.”

“The Psychic Hotline? Those guys I see on TV?”

“I’m one of those guys, or girls. There’s a few of us, actually. I work out of my home, though. Callers get rerouted to me. They are, of course, in for a heck of a surprise when they get me.”

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