Midnight Marked (Chicagoland Vampires, #12)(55)

There was something odd about my grandfather, a man in his seventies, referring to a four-hundred-year-old vampire as “son.” But the dynamic worked.

“You know this is part of a bigger plan,” Ethan insisted.

“I know what kind of man Reed is, and I’m not alone. There are others on the force—Detective Jacobs, for one—who agree with us, who understand. But, by God, you’re playing right into his hands. You’re proving the point he’s apparently decided to make—that he’s a businessman who’s doing right by this city, and you’re unstable monsters with a personal vendetta. You’re too smart for antics like this, and I’d say the same thing about your trip to Hellriver last night.”

“We wanted to get out before the CPD arrived,” Ethan said.

My grandfather looked dubious. “While I’m sure that was part of the motivation, I doubt that was all of it.”

Ethan had to know my grandfather was goading him to answer, but he obliged. “I was hoping Cyrius Lore would get away, tell Reed.”

“You thought you’d provoke him to act.”

“I want him to come at me.” Ethan pushed his hands through his hair. “I want him to come at me like a man with some courage.”

“And there’s the fault in your logic,” my grandfather said. “A man like Reed doesn’t have courage, not in the way you mean. He has soldiers. He has men who fight his battles for him.”

Ethan took a slow, heavy breath. “It was my call, not hers, and I take responsibility for it.”

My grandfather nodded, acknowledging the admission, then looked at me. “You’re unusually quiet.”

Because I was seething with anger. But there was nothing to gain in airing that anger in front of Jeff and my grandfather.

I settled on “It’s been a long night.”

My grandfather watched me for a moment before nodding. He could probably read my face, understood Ethan and I would have words later.

“Did you find anything in Hellriver?” Ethan asked, bringing my grandfather’s attention back to him.

“No. They’d cleared out the entire building other than a few pieces of furniture. If there was anything that tied the building to Reed, it was gone by the time we got there.”

“Damn,” Ethan said. “There’d been file boxes in the dock area. Dozens of them. Merit had suspected it was paperwork, maybe records of improper business dealings by Reed.”

My grandfather’s eyebrows lifted. “I don’t suppose I need to tell you that we might have gotten to it if you’d phoned us earlier.”

“You do not,” Ethan said. “That was also my call.”

“Next time,” my grandfather said, “make better calls.”

The cops walked back to us again. “Mr. Merit, we need to get these two to the station, get them processed. You know how it goes.” The CPD might have given my grandfather some deference, but we were still criminals.

“I do,” my grandfather said, then glanced at Ethan. “I’ll warn Malik. And have them put the House on alert. Just in case.”

? ? ?

We were driven to the nearest station in the back of a cruiser, processed, and separated, stuck in separate rooms for interviews.

My room was small, with a hard tile floor and a small table with four chairs. The wall beside the door was mirrored. Probably two-way glass so people in the hallway could look in on the woman in the fancy party dress who was mentally kicking her boyfriend.

I was a well-dressed cautionary tale.

I’d been sitting alone for fifteen minutes when the door opened. Instinctively, I sat up straight.

The woman who walked in was tall and slender with dark skin, wavy brown hair, and very serious brown eyes. She wore dark trousers, and a cream silk top beneath a fitted taupe blazer that curled into pleats across the bottom, showing long and elegant legs. There were pearls at her ears and throat, and a no-nonsense handbag on her arm. She set down the bag and a leather padfolio on the table, pulled out a chair for herself, and sat down.

“You’re Merit.” Her expression was as no-nonsense as the bag.

I nodded.

“I’m Jennifer Jacobs. Arthur Jacobs’s daughter.”

Arthur Jacobs was the CPD detective and ally my grandfather had mentioned. He’d actually been the cop who responded to Reed’s previous call.

“Did he send you?” I asked.

“He asked me to check in on you, make sure you’re all right. I’m an attorney,” she said, checking her phone when it buzzed, then sliding it back into a slim pocket on the side of her purse. “Not your attorney. I’m not offering you representation, nor am I representing you with respect to any criminal complaint that Adrien Reed may file. I’m just doing my father a favor.”

A favor, by her tone and lengthy disclaimer, that she wasn’t thrilled about. But since she was here, I could be gracious.

“Then thanks to you both. It’s nice to meet you, if under these circumstances.”

Jennifer didn’t respond, but took a good look at me, then linked her hands on the table.

“I’m going to tell you something, Merit,” she said, her gaze direct. “My father is a good cop. A good father and a good cop. He doesn’t need trouble.”

I was getting tired of this speech. “We haven’t brought him any trouble.”