Stormwind (The Storm Chronicles Book 3) (18 page)

She parked in the lot across from the building and looked up at the antique structure. The two story brick building took up almost two city blocks and extended back almost as far. They received tons of fish every day to be processed and sold, a procedure that involved a lot of salt to preserve the fish.

Raven walked across the street and pushed through the door, stepping under the blue sign and antique threshold and into a large comfortable front office. A door in the back of the office led to what the owners called the shop floor where fish could be bought by the pound for an intimate dinner or by the ton for supermarkets or a wereseal convention.

A man of perhaps fifty with gray hair tucked under a blue fisherman’s hat, full beard and mustache stood behind the counter, a pair of antique spectacles perched on his nose. He pulled off his glasses when the two detectives entered and stuck them in the breast pocket of his blue work shirt.

“Good afternoon, what can I do for you folks?” he asked.

“Detectives Storm and Sanchez,” Raven said, flashing her badge. “Is there someone around who can answer a few questions?”

The man folded his arms across his chest. “Yeah. Me. I’m John Trinear, the manager. What’s this all about?”

“Salt,” Raven replied. “Particularly Pacific sea salt like you use to preserve some of your fish.”

“What about it?” Trinear asked.

“Do you use Pacific Blue?” Raven asked.

“Yes, we get it from a west coast supplier,” Trinear said.

Sanchez said. “Have you had any go missing in the last week or so?”

“Not that I’m aware of, but we go through tons of the stuff,” Trinear replied. “Come on, we’ll go talk to the shop foreman.”

Trinear left a teenage girl who looked to be his daughter behind the counter and led the way into the shop. Dozens of purchasers were pouring over the assortment of fish. The smell of freshly gutted fish and blood made Raven gag and she had to pause to catch her breath before continuing through the shop. She was trailing behind Sanchez when she spotted a long-haired blonde man carrying a large box of sea salt toward a side exit.

“Hey! Halt!” she yelled, turning toward him.

The man looked over his shoulder, spotted Raven and started running. He crashed through the side door and vanished into the back alley beyond. Raven drew her Automag and followed, reaching the door at the same time as Sanchez who held his .40 S&W Glock at the ready.

“Stay here, Rook,” Raven said, pushing past.

“What? I’m your partner!” Sanchez yelled.

“Like hell,” Raven replied. “Put that thing away, you couldn’t hit a lake if you were standing on the bottom and that Glock has the stopping power of a BB gun. Stay here and find out how much salt has gone out this door.”

Raven pushed through the door without waiting for an answer. The blonde’s trail was easy to follow. He’d run across the alley and a parking lot to crash through the door to an abandoned building less than a block away. Raven followed, slipping through the splintered door and moving quickly down the hallway, her senses drawn tight as a drum.

The corridor was plain white with a bare wood floor and boarded up windows. The man’s boot prints were easy to spot in the grime on the floor and she followed on cat feet, periodically checking down to make sure she was on track before turning her attention back to the corridor and empty rooms around her.

She followed her quarry for another five minutes before the boot prints just stopped. Raven looked around, looking for any where the man could have gone, any holes he could have slithered into. She spotted the lycan in the ceiling. He had wedged himself among the old steam pipes and plumbing. His jaw opened, dripping saliva and he growled low in his throat.

Raven raised her Automag as the lycan fell from the ceiling, his claws extended. He landed on her before she could bring her weapon to bear and it clattered uselessly to the floor as the weight of the lycan pushed her to the ground. She raised an arm under the lycan’s throat to keep it from biting her face off while her free hand scrabbled for one of her knives.

“I am Furstin Ravenel Tempeste of House Tempeste,” she grunted. “My mother is the Mistress of the City. What you are doing is a violation of the Treaty, get off of me right now!”

The lycan chuckled and reared back, his long clawed hands grabbing Raven’s wrists and pinning her to the floor. He then lowered his head, drool dripping from his jaws onto the fire-haired detective’s face.

Raven watched the lycan lean closer and turned her face away. “Before you bite me, can I say something? Your mouthwash just ain’t making it.”

She kicked out with her right foot, the sharp toe of her boot scraping along the delicate skin between the creature’s legs. The lycan howled and pulled away, blood running down his thigh.

Raven rolled to the side and scooped up her Automag. She was climbing to her feet when the lycan grabbed her from behind and shoved her face first into the wall. She felt her nose break like an old popsicle stick and blood spurt onto the old white plaster. When she pulled free and spun her eyes glowed bright green. The lycan laughed again and charged. Deftly Raven leapt over the lycan, her heels kicking him in the back of the head as she somersaulted to safety. She landed and spun, her pistol aimed at the lycan’s head.

“Last chance, bub. Change back and tell me what the hell is going on,” Raven said, sniffing blood.

The lycan turned and spread his arms, his claws clicking like keys on a computer. He glared at Raven and howled his fury, preparing to pounce again.

Raven waited no longer. She squeezed the Automag’s trigger over and over again, punching nickel-sized holes in the lycan’s head and chest. With a whine like a kicked dog the lycan collapsed to the floor and slowly changed back. Raven squatted next to him and pulled her nose back into shape before testing the lycan for a pulse. He was dead. Permanently.

Raven shook her head and pulled a bottle of silver powder from her jacket. She uncorked it and sprinkled the contents on the lycan who began to dissolve. Within moments he was nothing but a grease spot on the floor.

She finished cleaning the blood from her face, picked up her empty brass and headed back toward the fish market.

RAVEN ENTERED THE MARKET THROUGH the same door she’d exited through. Sanchez was speaking with two men who were holding an open box of Pacific sea salt. He looked up when the door opened and frowned.

“Hey, Detective. Did you catch the blonde guy?”

“Not exactly,” Raven replied. “I’m pretty sure I know where he was going though. I’ll catch up with him later. What have you got?”

“The famous Detective Storm didn’t catch her man?  Say it isn’t so,” Sanchez quipped.

“Sanchez? Can I talk with you for a second?” Raven said, beckoning the well-dressed rookie to the corner.

Sanchez joined Raven away from the watching workman and folded his arms.

“What’s up, Detective?”

Raven scowled at Sanchez and let the fire rise in her eyes once more. “Rook, did I give you the impression I have a sense of humor?”

“No, Ray… Detective Storm,” Sanchez replied, looking uncomfortable. “But I’ve seen you and Rupe banter and I thought it would, you know, lighten the mood.”

Raven shook her head. “You aren’t Rupert Levac. More than likely you’re another casualty waiting to happen. The best you can hope for is to get reassigned before you die or end up eating through a tube. Do your job, keep your head down and otherwise shut the hell up, are we clear?”

“You really think that’s what will happen?” Sanchez asked.

“Ask Frost what happens to my partners on the weird ones,” Raven replied. “In the meantime tell me what you learned about the salt and that guy I chased out into the alley.”

Sanchez pulled out his notebook and flipped a few pages. “The blonde guy’s name was Thomas Cleary, a laborer hired about three weeks ago. His documents indicate he’s new to Chicago and is out of White Peak, Colorado. He checks out on the surface, but Harvey says his paper trail ends in White Peak and his birth certificate is a fake.”

“And the folks here have discovered they’re missing quite a bit of salt,” Raven said.

“Yes, it looks like close to a thousand pounds in the last month,” Sanchez said.

Raven nodded. “So one less mystery. Now we just have to figure out where his partner is hiding.”

“Maybe he’s wherever the other guy went,” Sanchez said.

“I doubt it,” Raven said, lost in thought.

She turned and walked back to where the manager was standing with two of his foremen.

“I need to report this stolen salt,” Trinear said.

“It will be in my report,” Raven said. “I’m sorry to say it’s unrecoverable. What can you tell me about Cleary?”

Trinear shrugged. “Not much. He answered an ad I took out in the paper for someone to do manual labor. He was big, muscle bound and would work for minimum wage. His papers were clean so I put him to work.”

“Was there anyone in particular he hung out with?”

“No, he was a loner. Came in, did his shift, stole some salt and left,” Trinear said with a shrug. “I never saw him with anyone.”

“Did he give any next of kin?” Sanchez asked.

Trinear tapped his nose. “You know what, he did, it is required in a job like this one. Let me check the files.”

He headed toward the office with Raven and Sanchez in tow. He pulled open a file drawer and rifled through it, eventually pulling out a single piece of cardstock in the shape of a miniature file folder. It contained a mixture of print and handwriting and looked as if it had been completed in a hurry.

“Yeah, here it is. He lists a brother, Jacob Cleary over in Riverdale.”

“That should be fun,” Sanchez said.

Raven took the card and slipped it into her jacket. “Thank you, Mr. Trinear. We’ll get back to you.”

“Good luck, Detectives,” Trinear said. “If that guy was tied up in those Skinner cases I read about in the Tribune, I hope he resists arrest. What a freak.”

Raven gave a half smile and turned away, walking through the warehouse and back out into the noise of the city. The roads had become crowded with early afternoon traffic and Raven watched it with distaste, her mind momentarily wandering to Levac. She could feel him out there, could feel his hurt and it made her heart ache.

She shook off the feeling, straightened her sunglasses and slid behind the wheel of her Shelby. Sanchez dropped into the seat next to her and Raven had to fight not to tell the kid to get out. He was trying and, in truth he wasn’t that much younger than she was. He just seemed so green, like an accident waiting to happen.

She backed the Shelby out of the parking lot and pointed it toward Riverdale and the address of one Mr. Cleary.

RIVERDALE WAS AS FAR SOUTH of Chicago’s city center as you could get and still be in the city limits. The drive had taken an eternity during which Raven listened to Sanchez’s stories about college and the academy and did her best not to reach over and strangle him.

Night was falling by the time the Shelby turned into the parking lot of what looked like a large abandoned apartment building. All of the windows were boarded up, no light shone from the cracks and all the parking lot lights were broken.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Sanchez said, looking out at the bloody moon hanging over the building.

“Welcome to the weird cases,” Raven replied.

She parked the Shelby next to the overgrown sidewalk and picked up the car’s microphone.

“Dispatch, X-ray 42. In the 3500 block of South Rhodes,” she said. “The place looks abandoned, but Sanchez and I are going to check it out.”

“Xray 42, proceed with caution,” the dispatcher replied. “We’ve had six homicides in that area in the last month.”

“Yeah, that’s what worries me,” Raven replied. “X-ray 42 out.”

She dropped the microphone and exited the car. Sanchez followed her to the trunk of the car and Raven pulled a Sig Sauer 1911 replica out of her gun bag. She handed it and two magazines to the rookie.

“Here. Take a real gun.”

Sanchez looked at the Sig with a frown. “What’s wrong with my Glock?”

“It’s a popgun for people who can’t hit the broad side of a barn with a rocket launcher,” Raven replied, slamming the trunk. “These kind of cases, you need a real weapon. That Sig is loaded with +p ammunition with more penetration and less recoil than that plastic toy of yours. If you’re going to remain my partner, get a real weapon and save the Glock for home defense.”

Sanchez unholstered his Glock and put in the trunk, exchanging it for the Sig. Raven waited until he was through and then turned to lead the way toward the building.

Even when it was new, the building had probably been intimidating and ugly; it was made of brown brick with very little decoration. Wide windows with black painted frames now covered with boards dotted the first and second floor while barred windows extended up a central tower nine stories high topped with a once copper cap. The whole structure looked like something out of a survival horror video game.

The pair reached the door and Raven checked the handles. The door rattled when she pulled the rust encrusted steel, but was steadfastly locked.