Dead Spots (Scarlett Bernard #1)(59)

And Van Nuys is where those two attitudes intersect. Although it’s technically a town, it’s really just a town-sized strip mall where it’s always hot. And where, apparently, you can buy werewolf-proof restraints. I took the Van Nuys Boulevard north exit off the 101, following it almost to the northern border with Panorama City. The GPS directed me to a little block with two sub shops, a tire store, and an appliance repair place. The last business, on the west end of the mall, was called Aaron’s Bait Shop and Specialty Metal.

I squinted in the sun, which was blazing down on the Valley with a renewed sense of purpose. Jesse was just getting out of his car as I pulled into the parking spot closest to the road and hopped out of mine.

“You got them?” he asked me, pausing in front of the entrance.

I held up the bag, nodding. “And hello to you, too.”

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I’m short on time. And sleep.”

“Are you okay?” I asked, hesitant. You may have noticed that feelings aren’t really my thing.

He looked up, a little surprise in his face. “Yeah, Scarlett. Thanks.”

He held the door open, and a blast of air-conditioning welcomed us inside.

I had fished a few times when I was little, but the homemade tackle my dad used had nothing on Aaron’s. The store’s main feature was the wall to the left of the doorway, which was covered, ceiling to floor, in fake flies, fake minnows, and other little contraptions of feathers and rubber. The room itself was well kept and bright, with wide skylights that spread the sun down onto freestanding shelves filled with all manner of fishing gear.

“Wow,” Jesse whispered, still focused on the big wall. “That’s a lot of bait.”

“Can I help you?”

The guy who approached us was younger than I’d imagined, maybe late twenties, and he was carrying twenty extra pounds on a tall frame that otherwise looked pretty strong. A buzz cut accentuated ears that stuck out a little, and his smile was both friendly and distant, the customer-service smile you find everywhere. He was wearing a baggy polo shirt with a little metal name tag that said, Aaron.

I glanced at Jesse, willing him to take the lead. He took the hint.

“Are you the owner, sir?” His tone matched Aaron’s for politeness.

“Aaron Sanderson. Yes, I am. Can I help you find something?”

When Jesse reached into his breast pocket for his ID, I caught the little flinch on Aaron’s face. “My name is Officer Jesse Cruz. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.” He looked around the bait shop, which was empty except for us. “Is there somewhere we could speak?”

“Uh, sure. Am I in some kind of trouble?”

“No, sir. We just came across some metal items that may have originated with you. I’d like to talk to you about their owner.”

“Oh, okay.” Relieved, Aaron stepped past us and reached above the doorframe, pulling down a cardboard sign that said, Gone fishin’. Back in a few. He hooked it on the door under the open sign and flipped the lock shut. “This way.”

We weaved through the shelves of gear and passed a twelve-foot section of glass coolers filled with live bait. I saw a big aquarium with tiny squid moving around. Aaron took us through a fireproof back door and down a small hallway that led to a modern office with a desk and two sturdy oak chairs.

“Please, have a seat,” he said. He lowered himself down onto a wheeled desk chair. “So, what is this about?”

I pulled the small paper bag out of my giant purse and dumped the two halves of the handcuffs on the desk, feeling like a magician’s assistant.

“Mr. Sanderson, did you make these handcuffs?” Jesse asked.

“Yes, I did.”

Jesse raised his eyebrows. “That’s it? You don’t even have to pick them up and look at them?”

“I know silver when I see it, Officer. It’s not a real practical metal. As far as I know, I’m the only one in Southern California making pure-silver handcuffs.”

“To hold werewolves.” Jesse’s voice had no hint of a question in it, and Aaron Sanderson’s face changed. He looked at us with new interest—especially at me.

“I didn’t catch your name, Miss...?”

“Bernard. Scarlett Bernard.”

“Yes, I thought that was you.”

“You’ve heard of me?” It was my turn to be surprised. This guy hadn’t pinged when I got close, so I knew he was human. It must be because Dashiell was his client. Maybe that would make him want to cooperate with us.

Sanderson turned to Jesse. “And as you’re here with her, I’d expect you know about this Old World business, too?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, good. Now that we’ve got all that out in the open, yes, I do make items out of silver, for use for and against the werewolves. And I sell things here and there to humans who want stuff that looks good—letter openers, stuff like that. As far as I know, it isn’t illegal.”

“For the wolves? How can this be for the wolves?” I pushed the cuffs a little closer. It was off point, but the image of Eli writhing with pain wasn’t vacating my head anytime soon.

“Well, you know, some of the alphas in the Southwest know me, keep some things on hand in case the pack gets out of order. Not Will Carling, who I’d expect you know, but there are some who are interested.”