Grave Visions (Alex Craft, #4)(46)

He huffed, still not meeting my eyes. Which was pretty much a yes.

“So the kids? Surely Bruce wasn’t the only one approached with the drug.” Though I hoped that if anyone else had accepted, that they hadn’t used it and had heeded the warnings about the danger. “Did you get more information on the dealer?”

John finally looked up, his blue eyes were tired, the wrinkles around them deeper than I remembered. I’d never thought about it before, but John was probably getting close to retirement age, and it was starting to show. He ran a hand over his bald spot before letting his fist fall limply to the top of his desk.

“Narcotics investigations aren’t as . . . straightforward as murder investigations. In murder you examine the body, the scene, and gather what information you can. Then you talk to the friends, the family. You find out who wanted to kill the person, who had motive and opportunity. And hopefully, at the end of the day, you get a confession or have enough evidence to nail the suspect in a trial.”

He picked up the file he’d been studying before I entered. He tapped the edge of it against his desk, not opening it. “Narcotics tends toward long-term investigations. You bust someone low on the pole, usually a user. You get them to give you information on their dealer. Maybe you turn them, or maybe you use an undercover to do some buys and then you bust the street dealer, but these are still the little guys. They might be carrying three hundred dollars’ worth of product on them at any time. You try to work them back to their source. This guy’s the real dealer. If you’re lucky, he’s the one cooking the drugs, but usually, he’s still a middle man. Oh, he might be the local ‘drug lord’ but he’s getting the drugs shipped in from somewhere else—especially if it’s being run by a gang. Anyway, getting to him isn’t easy. You need probable cause for a warrant and you want to bust him when he has a large stash you can put him away with. It takes surveillance, maybe even getting a man inside, and once you do have the warrant, a raid. You’re talking weeks, months, sometimes even years of police work to get that far, and even then, you don’t necessarily know where the drugs are coming from.” He frowned at the file.

I chewed at my bottom lip. I didn’t doubt anything he was telling me, but I didn’t have that kind of time to wait on the cops, and I certainly didn’t have the resources or knowledge to do it on my own. “So how far have your guys gotten?”

“Alex, we found out about all this yesterday. We haven’t scratched the surface. We’ve got a rough sketch of the dealer based on the shade’s description, and we’ve tracked down and questioned a couple of kids who were at the dance, but no one is saying anything.”

I sighed and pushed out of the chair. “I suppose if I ask if there is anything I can do to help . . . ?”

“That I’ll tell you to go home.” He gave me a look that said it wasn’t a hypothetical suggestion.

I nodded and grabbed my purse, but I paused at the door. “John, it’s important I find this guy. Like life-and-death important. Just . . . just give me a call if you can.”

I didn’t stay and press him. It wouldn’t help, I knew that. Without waiting for him to sputter something about police business or ongoing cases, I left.

? ? ?

By the time I reached my house, I was more than a little discouraged. I’d heard nothing from the satyr at the Bloom, which, as it was fairly early in the day, was not surprising, but I realized I didn’t even know when he’d be bartending next. For all I knew he was required to work only once or twice a week. I hadn’t heard from Falin either. I’d taken a taxi back to yesterday’s crime scene to retrieve my car, and I was sure he’d be at my place by the time I drove home, but when I pulled up to the house, the driveway was empty.

But my porch wasn’t empty.

I stopped, my foot frozen above the bottom step leading to my rented room. A tall figure stooped in front of my door, something long and wrapped in black paper in his arms. Whatever the object was, I couldn’t tell if he’d been in the process of picking it up or putting it down when I’d mounted the steps, but he straightened when he heard me, turning to face the stairs.

Ryese grinned down at me from the landing in front of my door. The bright sunlight caught in his hair, making it glisten like crystal refracting light and spilling prisms of color around his face. The effect was blinding. I frowned at him and briefly considered turning and getting back in my car, but I wasn’t going to be driven away from my own home. Not more than I already had been, anyway.

I took the stairs at a slow, but deliberate pace. While I didn’t relish seeing the fae, and I was more than a little unsure about what his presence at my home meant, I didn’t want him to see me frightened. Still, it took everything I had not to draw my dagger as I climbed the last few steps.

“Lexi, dearest,” he said, opening his arms as if he’d sweep me into an embrace.

I stopped, out of arm’s reach, and glanced at what he carried. The long, paper-wrapped object turned out to be the largest bouquet of roses I’d ever seen. Black roses at that, mixed with sprigs of delicate baby’s breath. It was a striking contrast.

“What’s that?” I nodded at the roses.

Ryese glanced down as if he’d forgotten about the flowers. Then he shot me a sheepish smile. No, not sheepish, guilty.

“This? Nothing. I—” He swung the bouquet over the porch rail as if he intended to drop it.