Dead Spots (Scarlett Bernard #1)(49)

“I also swung by Thomas Freedner’s place, but he wasn’t home. Guy has a crappy rental in Studio City, and there was no sign of life. I went around, peeked in the windows. Everything was neat as a pin, hardly looked lived-in.”

“What does that mean?”

He shrugged. “Might mean nothing. The guy could just be neat. Or maybe he left town, like the other human servants. I’ll keep trying, but meanwhile, I also had an idea, along the same line as yours. It’s about where those chains came from.”

“I told you, I’m on it. But I don’t know what else to do until Dashiell wakes up. It’d be different if I had the actual chains, but I don’t suppose you want to steal them from police evidence, right?”

“No, no.” He waved his hand dismissively. “But I had another idea. There can’t be that many people who make restraints out of pure silver.”

“No, I wouldn’t think so.”

“Well, then maybe the chains came from the same place as those handcuffs, the ones that your friend was...um...wearing. Maybe if we figured out where those came from, we could figure out where the chains came from.”

“Yeah, but I already know the cuffs were Dashiell’s, and he’s...” I paused, and an idea sparked in my head. “Okay, you’re onto something. What time is it?”

He checked his watch. “Seven forty-five.”

“Let me make some calls. If I can get the handcuffs from Eli, I can trace them to their maker.”

He looked puzzled. “How?”

“Well, I know a pretty good witch. And she can probably get the morning off.”





Chapter 19


Cruz had to get back to the precinct, so I had to go see Kirsten by myself. He’d been unhappy about my going alone, but I’d just scoffed at him. I’ve been alone with Kirsten many times, and though witches sometimes give me the willies, they can’t actually hurt me. Not with spells, anyway. Besides, I didn’t have her permission to bring a civilian cop—not an oxymoron here, trust me—over for spell time, and of all the Old World creatures, the witches take that kind of thing the most seriously. Historically, witches and law enforcement have not been good bedfellows.

First, though, I had to go by Eli’s and get the handcuffs, which he’d taken home with him, probably to dispose of. I was really hoping he hadn’t gotten that far.

Eli’s apartment is down in Santa Monica, three blocks from the ocean. It’s a ramshackle old adobe building, the kind that’s “decorated” with that dingy-seashell look. I parked illegally behind the building’s dumpster and climbed three floors of outdoor stairs to knock on Eli’s door.

“Hey,” he called from below me. I stepped away from the door and peered down the alley. Eli was walking toward his apartment, wearing a wetsuit and carrying a surfboard. He looked as happy and relaxed as I’d ever seen him, at least outside of my radius.

“Hey, yourself,” I said back. It was too quiet for humans to hear, but he wasn’t human—yet.

He started up the stairs with an easy loping grace that only slowed down as he hit my radius. I’d never really noticed Eli’s natural, non-lycanthropic athleticism, which is a shame, since I am the only one who really could.

He climbed the last few stairs and grinned at me, seawater still dripping from his damp hair. “What’s the occasion?” he said lightly. “Just here for another quickie?” His voice was teasing, but there was a flicker of hurt on his face, and I felt ashamed again.

Dammit. Eli was the worst three-night stand ever.

“Actually, I’m wondering if I can borrow those handcuffs, the silver ones. They could be helpful for this case.”

He frowned at me. “Come in and tell me about it.”

I followed him into the small apartment, plopping down on his ancient threadbare sofa and curling my legs up around me. I’d never been there in the daytime—unless you count sneaking out with a hangover in the morning—and I’d never really paid much attention to Eli’s habitat. It was kind of messy, which was no surprise, but it was kind of nice, too. There was a lot of ocean stuff on the walls, shells and sand dollars and twists of driftwood. In one corner, a little card table was set up with some carving tools and a big chunk of driftwood. I stood up and wandered over. There was the beginning of a boat carved onto one side of the wood, and it made the wood itself look exactly like waves of the ocean.

“You did this?” I asked.

“Don’t sound so surprised, Scarlett,” he said wryly. “I can do more than pour drinks.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said lamely. I put the driftwood down.

“Okay, so explain to me why you want the handcuffs.”

I started to tell him about Ronnie and the silver chains. While I talked, Eli stowed his surfboard in the front closet and dried his hair with a towel.

“Ronnie?” he said incredulously, when I had finished. “That’s so crazy. Who would do something like that?” He unzipped the back of his wetsuit, pulling it down around his waist.

I tried not to stare. Jesse is prettier, but Eli is no slump, werewolf or not. Muscled chest, just enough hair to not be too much, strong back—

“Uh, Scarlett?”

My eyes flew back to his face, and I blushed like a teenager.