Greg, And the Walk of Shame

Tonight wasn't the first that ever ended in embarrassment for me. I can admit that. But this night, eh, this one stung. Sharp like the bile lingering in my throat. Shouldn't have eaten all that junk. I was stupid. Was only a matter of time before it all came back up on me. But right then? Hell. Saw myself right out of Isla's place (after tidying up in my mess in her powder room of course). She apologized for laughing... while she was still laughing.

Another cold night. You feel it more, the cold, when you're hungry. Feels like the wind blows right through your vacant bones. Hunger gnawed at me. I'd been playing it too loose. How many times now has Phoebe scolded me for getting so caught up in my work I don't make time to eat? I lost count after fifty-two.

But she's right (that bird is always right). Things could've ended a lot differently tonight. I could've lost it. Could've sunk my teeth in without even thinking.

Even now, I couldn't get Isla out my head. The picture of her splayed on her wrinkled sheets was seared behind my eyelids. Platinum hair frizzed around her chin. Lipstick smeared from kissing. The silken robe folded delicately in her every curve.

I wanted her more than I wanted to eat. To take care of her more than taking care of myself.

Forget it, old boy. That ship sailed tonight. Just don't get caught without a paddle twice.

What's more embarrassing was how I let my imagination get carried away with the case back there. The facts. Always stick to the facts.

The facts were that tonight did not go in any direction that was planned, and not all those detours were fun.

Walking up South Street from Isla's apartment wasn't fun. It was messy. The drunks were out in full force. Not even the ice could slow them.

A woman hobbled out of a bar; phone held so close to her face the screen fogged from her breath. Calling a ride, no doubt. Alcohol wafted off her like perfume. At least she was more appropriately dressed than Isla, wearing a thick coat, scarf, pants. A man came out after her, yelling for her to come back inside. She was being a drama queen, he said. He'd take her home. She cursed at him and walked to the corner.

He followed her.

I followed him.

Quietly. Only a step behind.

He was sober. Ish. At least, more sober than she. And angry. A mere two feet behind him and he didn't notice me, his own pulse pounding hard in his tense muscles. We passed an alley. It was narrow and dark, lined with dumpsters.

It was, as the vamps joked, secluded bistro dining.

I grabbed the man by his coat and dragged him into the alley. He shouted and slipped on ice, but I clamped a hand over his mouth, pulling him behind a dumpster. Threw him against the brick wall, it scraped his cheek, breaking open the skin. The bright tang of blood hit my nose. I hissed, bearing my fangs, feeling the saliva drip. He slid to the ground, arms covering his face, protesting that he didn't have any money, please don't kill him, don't hurt him, blah blah blah.

Didn't plan on killing him. I wouldn't need that much. Just a hit. Just enough to get by. Of course, I was going to hurt him, but you know what they say about omelets and cracking eggs.

The shrill jingle of my cell phone cut through the air.

Shit! I usually keep that on silent. That dickhead Curtis fussed with my settings.

As I scrambled to untangle the device from my pocket, of course my meal seized the opportunity to run. He was slow and scraped his knees on the icy pavement. I could've run after him. Easy. Except, sigh. It was Phoebe.

My veins were going to regret taking this call.

"Oh, good, I caught you," she didn't give me the chance to even say hello. "Is Isla there?"

"No." I lisped through my fangs. "You tell her where I was earlier?"

"Mmm, so, a fax came in. I have the results on that license request you asked for, finally," Phoebe spoke quickly. She did that when she was avoiding a question. "And I can confirm that your lady does not have a Tourism and Entertainment license. Or any kind of magic license. I am certain. And I'm certain because I submitted a lot of combinations of names. No Isla Margarita, no Margarita Isla, no Margarita Santiago – that's the name she booked your consultation under – no Isla Corrigan – the name she signed your contract with. I tried every combo, even the number seven with extra cheese," she laughed. Stopped. Cleared her throat. "She's got zippy for licenses. I even searched the address, to see if it was a genuine registered parlor, and nope, no sir."

I sighed. "Can't say I didn't expect that."

"'You're a champ, Phoebe,'" she said in a mocking imitation of me. "'Your work is unparalleled. Without you—'"

"Without you blabbing I'd never have to worry about clients hunting me down."

"Oooph, you're in a mood."

"Yes. I am," I rubbed my throbbing temple. Phoebe let the silence stew between us. I took her bait and grumbled: "Good thinking checking the property."

"Thank you. I know."

Speaking of property, that werewolf in Sloane's locker room had mentioned deeds, hadn't he? Who goes to a bar to discuss real estate?

"The property, Phoebe. Who owns the building Isla lives in?"

"Oh, uh, give me a sec there, detective," I heard papers shuffling and a bit of static. I was going to mourn the state of my desk tomorrow, wasn't I? "Yep, here it is. D'Onofrio Family Properties. Which, because I knew you would ask, is a property management group holding a lot of mixed-use space in South Philly."

"D'Onofrio. The werewolf pack?"

"You betcha."

The D'Onofrio werewolf family was notorious for their racketeering and unsavory business dealings. They controlled most of the supernatural underbelly of the southeast corner of Philadelphia. Society law and order be damned in that wolf pack's part of town. Or rather, Society law and order be paid off, particularly in the old Italian neighborhoods. Hell, I lived in one of their old, Italian neighborhoods (the price was good and the humans knew better than to pry into the business of the neighbor who only comes out at night).

South Street was, ironically, a touch North of their territory line. But you already knew they were expanding, old boy.

And I bet those mixed-use properties sure came in handy for money laundering. An all-night café that dealt primarily in cash, for example, would be ideal. One that employed a barista who just so happened to be the personal escort of the owner of a vampire club located firmly in werewolf territory.

Sloane shooed us out there real fast when the werewolves showed up too. Don't forget to add them in your conspiracy theory, Isla had said.

How'd she know the man in the locker room was a wolf? My comment about the wet roadkill smell? Maybe. But what if she recognized him already? She hadn't kissed me till after that comment. Had she misspoke? Did she reveal too much and subsequently use her own body to distract me? I'd suspected the phony psychic bit was a cover for a different kind of racket the moment I met her (the night she called my fangs kinky). Darling knew too much about Society to be just another Tourist splashing her toes around.

Was Isla mixed up with the Pack?

"Phoebe, my best girl, you are a champ."

"Ugh, what do you need now?"

"The Bok Building. Can you pull the records on who owns that?"

"Aw, the old high school? Should only take a moment to bring it up online. The things the city makes public these days," there was typing, a bit more static, and a slight electrical hum that made me pull the phone away from my ear for a moment. "Uh huh, same property group. D'Onofrio."

Dmitri rented space from the werewolf pack?

The thrill of the hunt raced in my veins.

"Can you see any recent property sales? Or pending ones?"

Phoebe tsked. "Now that is beyond my power. And public domain, till the sale is final at least."

"You're a real pip, Phoebe."

"I know," she said. "Oh, before you go, Mrs. Cabroni called—"

I hung up. Woops.

So Sloane and Dmitri were concocting a real estate deal with the D'Onofrio Pack. Dmitri's long lost truest love barista worked in both factions. Coincidence? Hm, logically, too soon to tell. Too little facts. But my gut said hell no. (And don't you dare ask me what my gut said about Isla's connection to this whole mess could be).

Checked my watch. Few hours left to spare till sunrise. I could squeeze some work in. Emphasis on squeeze. Course, I was going to need a favor.

Bracing for the inevitable headache, I dialed another number. One I avoided using whenever possible and with good reason. They were a killjoy. Had the name in my contacts list simply as: The Fuzz.

The gruff, exasperated voice of the Magisterial Inspector I had phoned popped on.

"You have the worst timing, asshole, I'm busy."

"Octavius, old pal, always good to hear your voice." I said, "where are you?"

He groaned. "Oh, not another one of your—ugh, the Bok Building. Shit's going down, Greg."

Mother of fangs. My hunch played out. Octavius always did draw the unlucky straw of night patrol. Poor bastard. Good for me. This time.

Looked like I was going to have to deal with the Magistrate tonight after all.

I sucked in a deep, useless, unnecessary breath. "Be there in ten."