Flame in the Dark (Soulwood #3)(92)

“But there is no accelerant smell,” T. Laine said. “One of the warden’s trustees said it was spontaneous combustion. That’s what we got. A dead witness.”

Rick cursed inventively and rubbed his head. His eyes were glowing slightly green, the color of his cat. We were getting too close to the full moon. “So now we have three players? And one’s in Texas? Get home,” he said to Tandy. “We’ll see you late this afternoon.”

“Okay, boss,” Tandy said. “Out.” The screens went black.

Rick swiveled in his chair to the partial team in the conference room. “Clearly we have more than one killer. It’s highly unlikely that a killer managed to get inside a maximum security prison, find and fry a specific prisoner, and then get back here in time to locate and fry the senator, and shoot up Clarisse Tolliver’s car.”

“Unless he could fly,” I said softly.

Rick cursed again and threw himself out of his chair. Pea, the grindylow, appeared at his side and leaped onto Rick’s shoulder, chittering madly as Rick stormed down the hallway, calling for Soul.

A flying, fire-throwing, gun-shooting paranormal. Which would explain how the shooter got away each time. He/she/it shifted shape and flew away. Like an arcenciel?

There were no other known species that could do all the things we had seen and that had been attributed to it. If it could fly or even teleport . . . how would we stop it? Without commenting further, I went home to shower off the stench of fire and death and to sleep, a feeling of failure riding on my shoulders, and later, into my dreams.

? ? ?

T. Laine and Tandy were in the conference room when I got back to HQ, both wearing fresh clothes, hair still damp from showers, and the EOD meeting was in midswing. On the screens was a new case file. What had been a protective investigatory case was now an examination of data and evidence with national importance: the investigation into the extraordinary and bizarre death of Senator Tolliver by unknown means and under unusual and possibly paranormal circumstances.

A stranger stood in the corner, a man with a face like a piece of oak and a suit that had to cost a month of my wages. He was a Secret Service agent, one of the ones who had come to the hospital after the senator was blasted with fire. And he was staring at Occam.

I didn’t have to be Tandy to know why he was here. Occam was a wereleopard. Occam had been in the presence of the senator at the time of the bizarre and unexplainable fire. Occam had survived that fire when the senator and his security detail had not. And Occam the wereleopard looked fine. Occam was a suspect. I looked around the table as I took my seat and saw from their body language I had missed some important stuff. I pulled up the files that were open on the big screens, scanning to catch up on the intel.

An irritated burr in his voice, Rick said, “Clementine, record the attendance of Probationary Special Agent Nell Ingram. Time is six twenty-seven.”

I flinched and whispered, “Traffic.” And then I flushed with anger, cleared my voice, and said, “I was caught in traffic. There was an accident on South Illinois Avenue.” Rick looked at me blankly. “On Sixty-two near Tuskegee Drive,” I clarified. Unit Eighteen was composed of out-of-towners, not local people, and for months now, I’d had to refer to roads by their number instead of the pike name or street name.

Rick said, “Okay, so why aren’t you at the senator’s place, reading the ground?”

“Ummm.” I flicked my eyes around the table, meeting Tandy’s. “Because the senator’s dead?”

Tandy gave me a slight nod telling me that Rick was not himself, but that he was working to share his own calm with the boss. The full moon was close. Rick was antsy. I put a sugar cookie shaped like a gift box tied with a bow onto a paper plate and passed it Rick’s way. He didn’t take it, instead looking even more annoyed.

Calmly, Soul said, “Nell is where she should be. In fact, I think Nell should concentrate on a timeline. We have murders to investigate. This is now our case. The FBI and Secret Service will still be involved but on the periphery.”

“Fine,” Rick said, his voice tight, his green-glowing eyes on me. “Read the file notes, Ingram. T. Laine, continue.”

T. Laine said, “I spent the last half of the day and the flight back working on the legislation angle. The senator had three bills before Congress: one that would make all paranormals born in this country equal citizens with all protections under the law; one that provides regular law enforcement equal power over all paranormals; and the last one unrelated, that requires much deeper background checks on all gun buyers and a three-week waiting period. All this is totally out of character for a Republican senator, especially since several of the Tolliver companies contribute to the production of weapons.”

Tandy said, “I’ve been talking to his aides. They say he’d been acting strange for the last three months, taking breaks and disappearing, missing meetings, postponing trips to DC, abstaining from votes he normally would have strong feelings for or against. It means nothing by itself, but taken together with a possible paranormal turf war, it might eventually make sense.”

“Occam,” Rick snarled. “Update us on the senator’s PM.”

Occam didn’t raise his eyes from his computer screen, eyes that were glowing the golden brown of his cat, but his lips lifted in a snarl of his own. The tension in the room was suddenly too high, the air feeling too hot. The werecats were acting catty, not human. It could be from the stuff I missed before I arrived. Or because when it came to cat shifting, Rick was a brand-new were and had little control over his emotions. Or because the dominance games in the null room had been unsuccessful. Or because, when I helped Rick shift back to human during the last full moon, breaking the wereleopard curse he was under, maybe I didn’t succeed all the way. I had tried not to think too much about that event, but I had never broken a curse, let alone one applied by a cat-woman. Maybe I just partially solved his problem and he was still in trouble. Or maybe the tattoo magic spell on and in his flesh was the problem. Whatever it was, Rick acting hotheaded or out of control would be bad for him and for all of us in Unit Eighteen. Rick tilted his head in a catty, nonhuman manner.