Dead Spots (Scarlett Bernard #1)(60)
“What about chains?” Jesse leaned forward, trying to get us back on track. “There were silver chains used in a homicide on Pico last night. A werewolf was murdered. Were they yours?”
“Kind of smaller chains, like this one?” He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a foot-long length of small silver chain, with the same hammered oval links as the ones on Ronnie.
“Yes. Do you know who bought them?”
“Nah. The chains are probably my most popular item. People want them for oversized necklaces, ankle bracelets, stuff like that. I get a lot of girls who make their own jewelry wanting a set. There was a lady from a boutique at the Grove here a couple weeks ago, looking at selling them in her store.”
“How do these people find you?”
“Word of mouth, mostly.”
“What about receipts, records?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Everything is aboveboard. I save receipts here for a month, then send them to my accountant, who shreds them. And I gotta tell you, most of my silver clients pay cash”—he winked at us—“as you can imagine.”
Jesse looked frustrated, and I couldn’t blame him. “Do you remember anyone, anyone in the last month or so, who might have come in and bought chains? A bigger guy, maybe?”
“Not that I recall.” Sanderson grinned at Jesse. “And I don’t expect I’d tell you even if I did. Got no reason to.”
“What?” Jesse asked, confused.
“You heard me. I’m not interested in helping you with your investigation.”
“Mr. Sanderson,” Jesse said, getting a little hot, “at least one person has died because of your merchandise. I can get a warrant and—”
“No, you can’t,” Sanderson cut in, that calm smile still on his face. He folded his arms in his lap and leaned back in his chair. “You’re not here in any official capacity, not really. You’ve got nothing on me.”
“You made a weapon that contributed to killing a man; I’d call that something.”
“A weapon?” he replied, feigning confusion. “How could silver necklaces be a weapon? Heck, how do you know the dead guy didn’t bring them with him? Maybe they were a present for his girl or something.” He sat back in his seat, still smiling. “See, Officer, I don’t much like werewolves. I’ve got no problem with them getting killed off; that’s why I make the damn stuff in the first place. Oh, and it’s very lucrative.” He glanced over at me. “At any rate, you’ve got absolutely nothing you can take to a judge or a superior officer, at least not without using the word werewolf, which I’m guessing you’re not gonna do. And so I think I’d like you to leave my store now. The right to refuse service, and all of that.”
My mouth dropped open a little, but I didn’t say anything. Jesse’s furious look pretty much said it all. There was a long moment while he and Sanderson stared at each other, and then Jesse stood up. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Sanderson. I’ll be keeping a real careful eye on your business in the future.”
“You do that.” Sanderson didn’t sound scared one bit, and I followed Jesse as he marched out of the building.
The moment we got outside, Jesse’s temper exploded. “I hate this!” He stalked over to his car and kicked at the tires, spitting out a long, angry stream of Spanish. I caught only a couple of words, one of which referred to...uh...lovemaking. I’d never yet seen him lose his cool, so the burst of anger was kind of...fascinating. When he was done, he braced his arms against the car and stared at the ground, defeated.
I leaned against my van. The sun was now taking a breather behind the clouds, and there was a cool breeze riding the September air. “So what’s up?” I said lamely.
“What’s up? Were you in the same interview I was? That guy knows something, but he’s not saying anything because he doesn’t have to. I can’t get a warrant, I can’t even write up a report, I’m risking my career and both of our lives, and we’ve got nothing.” He turned around and leaned back against his car, sliding down to the ground and putting his head in his hands.
My detachment faded. He was right. We were screwed.
“What about Thomas Freedner?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Same thing. Contacting his known associates got me nowhere, and I can’t get a warrant to run his credit cards or search his place. Unless he suddenly just shows up, it’s a dead end.”
Neither of us said anything for a moment, and then Jesse lifted his head and looked at me. “Scarlett, we might die in the morning. How are you so calm?”
His face was so lost, so defeated, that something stubborn and tight in me just...didn’t seem important anymore. I stepped over and sat down next to him, folding my legs and leaning my back on the passenger door with a sigh. “You asked what happened to me.”
“Yeah.” Jesse raised his eyebrows but let the silence sit there.
“You have to understand, I never had any idea what I was. Once in a while, when I was out in public, I would have these weird sensations, but I just thought everyone had them, the way everyone has headaches or heartburn. I might never have known, even. But when I was eighteen, my mom and dad were killed in a car crash,” I said matter-of-factly. “The police said it was an accident, even though no one was drinking and my mom’s Jeep had just been inspected. The brake pads were worn down to nothing; the brakes failed, and the car pitched off the freeway during a rainstorm.”