"You know what, Mrs. Dubois, I'm doing my job to the best of my ability," I said. "Maybe if you didn't keep harassing me I'd be able to build a case against the man who hurt your daughter."

"So you do do have someone in mind," Petra said, rounding on me. "Who is it?" have someone in mind," Petra said, rounding on me. "Who is it?"

"I'm afraid I can't reveal the details of an open investigation," I said primly. Nate Dubois I felt for. His wife was just starting to piss me off.

"Not even to the person who could call her pack off of your scent?" Petra said, her eyes darkening as the pupils expanded. My were snarled inside my head and I felt my fingernails sting as my claws started to grow.

I beat the were back. "I'm not playing this game with you," I told Petra in a deliberately quiet tone.

"If I removed you from this case, I could get some real progress," Petra snarled. "Believe that I'll be talking to your chief in the morning. We have plenty of friends, including the commissioner."

Nate put a hand on her arm. "Can we just go home, please?"

Petra put her hands over her face, and her shoulders started to shake. "I'm so sorry, Lieutenant Wilder. I know that every time we meet, I treat you horribly." She grabbed my hands. "I'm so, so sorry."

"It's fine," I said, looking to Nate with a help me help me expression. He put his arms around Petra as she started to sob in earnest. expression. He put his arms around Petra as she started to sob in earnest.

"Come on, love," he said. "Let's go home."

I pulled up Nikolai Rostov's file on the department database once Nate and Petra had stumbled out, and checked his known addresses. None were current, no businesses listed. Aside from enforcing mob law, Nikolai was a ghost. No wonder no one could build a case against him.

The pictures were still sitting on my desktop and I looked at the meatpacker's logo again, faded and patchy. I punched the company name into the department database search and found an address sure enough, with a notation that the company was in foreclosure.

I hit my intercom. "Norris, forward my calls to my cell." He grunted at me.

"And what should I tell any further drunken, disgruntled werewolves who invade our office space?"

"That you're an enormous curmudgeon?" I suggested with a bright smile. "I'll be back in an hour."

"Don't get yourself shot," Norris said, turning back to his computer. "That would be terrible. Just terrible."

CHAPTER 10.

The drive to the suburbs took me across the overpass of Ghosttown, the burned-out wreckage of the government housing project that the Hex Riots destroyed in 1969, through the tract houses that were starting to finger out from the center of Nocturne City, and finally into the industrial wasteland, old chemical factories like patient, rusted sentinels by the roadside, weeds and birds and graffiti spreading life over their carcasses.

The meatpacking warehouse was just another ghost along the strip, sandwiched between a restaurant supply warehouse and a strip club called Tit for Tat. About as classy a locale as I would expect from a mobster who trafficked in sex slaves.

I pulled into the parking area, empty except for my car and a few pallets of old refrigeration equipment that had rusted to lace in the elements.

I locked the car and headed into the warehouse through the cargo door, pushing aside bloodstained plastic strips designed to keep the cold air in. Arrows painted on the floor guided me toward the front office. I followed them along a white-tiled hallway illuminated by half-dead fluorescent tubes, only to find the shades pulled and a sign crookedly shoved into the window that proclaimed closed.

I tried the door anyway. It was locked, in a shocking development. I looked at the frame for alarm wires, and saw nothing but an antique security camera. I pulled out my lockpicks, which lived on my belt next to my handcuffs, a packet of rubber gloves and the waist rig for my sidearm. I'm a good lockpick even without tools, which comes more from a teenage life as a delinquent than training as a cop.

Either way, I got the lock open in about fifteen seconds. The door clicked open an inch, and I scented the room beyond. Cheap carpet, dust, stale air and perfume.

Keeping my hand on my gun, I pushed the door open and edged inside, hoping that I'd caught Nikolai with his pants down.

A secretary stared at me from behind a reception desk. "We are closed."

"Um," I said, easing my finger off the trigger guard of the Sig and brushing my hands over my jacket to smooth it. "Your door was open."

"No, it wasn't," she said plainly.

"Okay," I said with a sigh. "Just tell me where Nikolai is."

"I do not know who you speak of," she said, her accent managing to make her sound prissy even though she was wearing a garish floral-print blouse, had red hair that could have been put out with a fire extinguisher and bright blue eye makeup. "You leave before I call the police."

"That's good," I said. "You calling the police on your front-I mean, your 'meatpacking warehouse.'" I made sure to use air quotes.

She glared at me. "You are a very rude woman. You will leave now."

"Tell you what," I said, leaning on the desk. "I'm fresh out of patience, so you toddle on back and tell Nikolai I'm here, or I'll give you a reason to wear that much cheap makeup on your face."

Her lip curled back and I started when I saw fangs. She didn't smell like a were, but then again, she was sporting about a gallon of cheap perfume. "I wouldn't do a thing for you, except throw you out on your fat ass."

"Word of advice, Fuzzy," I said. "You don't want to go there with me. I'm what you might call a sensitive type."

She pursed her lips. "What do you want I should do, pull him out of thin air?"

"Look, I know he's here or you know where he is," I said. "I'll speak to him now, or I'll get very, very unpleasant until he shows his face. Your choice."

After a long second of snarling at each other like wolves on a nature program, she sighed. "I buzz him." Her hand dipped below the level of the desk.

My gun came out fast, the safety off, aimed less than an inch from her eyes. "Don't move."

She didn't gasp or cry, like someone who %wasn't reaching for a gun would. She just glared at me, like a small child who's been denied a reach into the cookie jar. reaching for a gun would. She just glared at me, like a small child who's been denied a reach into the cookie jar.

"Slowly," I said. "Show me the piece."

Sniffing in fury, she brought out the long-barrel revolver and slammed it onto the desk. It was a .38, plenty large enough to ventilate me at close range.

"Now I call Nikolai?" she asked hopefully.

"You wish," I said, taking the gun and tossing it into the trash can on my side of the desk. I unhooked my cuffs from my belt and gestured to her. "Up."

"Nikolai will kill you," she snarled. "He will make you into pieces so small you will not fill paper cup for a funeral."

"Scary threats, scary gangster, blah blah blah," I told her, handcuffing her to the office door and relocking the deadbolt.

She cursed at me some more, in Russian, but I turned my back on her and walked around the desk and through the door behind it, finding myself in a chill metal-lined hallway, freezer lockers on either side filled with nothing but permafrost and empty hooks for meat. I gave a small sigh of relief. Another dead body would really ruin an already crappy day.

I walked on, pushing through another plastic curtain into the main freezer, from which a chorus of male voices emanated.

I didn't hesitate before I banged the door wide open. "What, no strippers? No pool table? No humidor? Nikolai, this is one sucky secret clubhouse."

The group I'd surprised slowly stopped what they were doing, which was counting stacks of worn bills and banding them. Four pairs of eyes turned and bored into me. Rostov stood up slowly, deliberately setting down his fistful of bills.

"I'm sorry, miss, but this is a private business establisment. Can we help you find your way back to wherever it was you got lost?"

"Is this where you took Lily Dubois?" I said, gesturing at the featureless warehouse and plastic pallets, the cold air drifting down from the vents in fingers and cloaks of white vapor. "Not exactly a romantic hot spot, I have to say."

One of Rostov's companions reached for his gun, or whatever the bulge inside his windbreaker was supposed to be. Could have been a hero sandwich, but I doubted it.

"No," Nikolai said. "I'm sure the young lady is here in an official capacity."

"Smart boy," I said. Rostov gestured to a an empty plastic chair at the table covered in money.

"Please. Sit."

"You're pretty polite, for a gangster," I said. Rostov chuckled. It was a deep, fatherly sound, like a jolly Eurotrash Santa Claus.

"My dear, whatever rumors to the contrary-I'm a legitimate businessman who happens to run a concern built largely on cash transactions. What you see here is merely an ... accounting meeting."

"Lucky for you, I'm not interested in your money laundering," I said. "I'm interested in the girls that you're selling overseas."

Rostov shrugged broadly. "Girls? I'm lucky if I find myself a date on [http://www.match.com] match.com, Officer."

"Okay," I said, sitting in the offered chair and propping my feet on the table, sending cash to the floor in a minor snowdrift. The heavies traded glances but Rostov waved them off. I said, "I have a proposition for you."

Rostov seated his bulk in another chair. He wasn't fat, just solid-twenty years ago he might have been a heavyweight boxer or just one hell of a big guy, but he had run to softness around the eyes and jaw, and he looked like a mopey cartoon character. "I am listening, Officer."

"It's Lieutenant," I said. "Lieutenant Wilder."

"Whatever flips your skirt up," Rostov said, and suddenly he was no longer a friendly Santa but one of those innately creepy ones you see on Dateline Dateline exposes. exposes.

"Here it is," I pressed on. "You admit to killing Lily Dubois..." I took out the picture and shoved it across the table at him, "and I'll let you tie up the case the feds are making against you with local prosecutors for a couple of years. You plead guilty and you'll serve your time at Los Altos instead of some federal hellhole."

"I do not know this girl," Rostov said dismissively. "She is not my type." He shoved the photograph back at me. "Too skinny. Too pale. I require something to grab on to when I fuck them."

I had planned to stay cool and calm and to whittle Rostov down with common sense instead of threats. All of that flew out the window when I got a look at the gleam in his eyes.

"Although in a pinch, I would have taken her on trial basis," Rostov continued in a clinical manner. "Some men's proclivities are not the same as mine. Her youth could have served her'" He let out a yelp when I came across the table and grabbed him by the neck, squeezing down on either side of his windpipe, burying my fingers in the space between the thick cords of his tendons.

"Word of advice," I snarled, feeling the sting as my eyes changed color from gray to gold. "I'm real, real real low on patience these days." Hex me, this was not how things were supposed to go. I didn't lose it and jump the gun anymore. I was in control of the were, not the other way around. The crippling rage stayed locked in a box in the dark part of my mind, not always prowling the surface. low on patience these days." Hex me, this was not how things were supposed to go. I didn't lose it and jump the gun anymore. I was in control of the were, not the other way around. The crippling rage stayed locked in a box in the dark part of my mind, not always prowling the surface.

I heard noise behind me as the heavies fumbled for their weapons, their eyes wide with shock. Rostov fumbled for something in his waistband and I beat him to it with my free hand, grabbing a Browning pistol and tossing it over my shoulder. "Here's how it's going to go," I growled. "You're going to tell me who killed Lily Dubois and why. Then I'm going to arrest you and drag you out of here, and everyone is going to be happy. Except you, because you'll be rotting in jail for twenty-five to life."

Rostov laughed wetly under my hand, his face turning purple-red under my ministrations. "Even if you live to walk out of this place ... you think the FBI will let me serve a day in prison? I will turn on my bosses and I will go into Witness Protection. I will retire to someplace like Tucson, where the sun is warm and the women wear halter tops, and street cops like you will never be able to touch me again."

I used my were strength to leverage Rostov out of his chair and slammed him into the wall of the freezer, hard enough to shake the calendar of topless women circa 1991 loose. "That day? It's not today. Now tell me about Lily tell me about Lily."

"Nikolai..." said the largest of his buddies. I turned on him with a snarl.

"You shoot at me, you hit your boss," I said. "We're having a private conversation. Shoo." They were scared enough by my eyes and fangs to be hesitant, but for how much longer?

"Go," Rostov croaked. "Let us speak." When his goons retreated, he turned his eyes back to me. "I will tell you nothing. You're just a whore like all the rest of them," he grunted. "A whore who doesn't know her business."

Black closed in on my vision, my animal side taking over with a vicious snarl that ripped out of my throat. I shook Rostov like a rag doll, impressing myself with my own strength. "Call me a whore one more time."

Dimly, I realized that I was losing control, lack of sleep and stress and rage creating a perfect storm in my hindbrain that had allowed the were to rip free of the tight harness I'd maintained on it since I'd phased and ripped a murderer to shreds, nearly two years ago.

But I can't say, in that moment, that I really cared. I just wanted Rostov to pay for all of my frustration and anger and for the visions of Lily that danced in front of my eyes.

It made me sloppy. Rostov wriggled an arm free and drove a fist into my gut. He was, as I'd predicted, disproportionately strong and I felt all of my air sing out of me.

I sagged, my grip on his throat loosening, and Rostov grabbed me by the scruff and tossed me like one would a bag of garbage. I went backward over a pile of pallets, landing in a heap.

Shit, Wilder. Get yourself together. Rostov came over to me, his feet in my field of vision, cheap shiny patent loafers that I could see my startled face in. He picked me up again. I struggled, but after the rush of the were it was a pitiful fight. I was disoriented and the animal in me was panicking while the cop in me was watching the whole thing with a resigned sigh.

This was why there are procedures. If you go off half-cocked, you just end up on the floor, getting beat to shit by a mob enforcer with terrible taste in footwear.

Rostov gave a grunt, and breathed in my ear: "Whore." Then he heaved me away from him, and I went through the freezer door, plastic sheeting shredding around me. I landed in a cutting room, with long metal tables, rusty hydraulic scissors hanging from hoses, knives and meat hooks piled in the sinks along one wall.

The three heavies came after me, their steps deliberate. They gathered in a half-circle, looking down, waiting for Nikolai's order as patiently as Rottweilers trained to attack. I gave them a weak smile. "How's it going, fellas? You get good dental in this line of work?"

Rostov brushed off his hands. "She's a filthy, disrespectful cop. Anton, deal with her. You two, get back to the count and don't let me find it fucking short tonight, eh?"

Anton, the one who'd been staring at me with such intensity, came over and got me up, even though my legs wobbled. The other two retreated, opaque plastic whispering shut after them like a shroud. Anton put me in a police hold with remarkable efficiency and shoved me down onto the cutting table, grabbing my legs and laying me out flat like I weighed nothing.

"Oh, good, torture," I said. "You in the secret police or something before you came to the bright lights of America to seek your fortune?"

Anton grunted. "Shut your mouth."

He went to a row of metal equipment lockers and pulled on a plastic apron stained dark purple with animal blood, and heavy gloves, never taking his eyes from me or giving me a chance to be sneaky. This whole situation couldn't have telegraphed body disposal body disposal any louder if there were bright flashing lights. any louder if there were bright flashing lights.

So this was it. This was where they'd find me, days later, when someone finally retraced my last steps. If they found me at all.

"You women are all the same," Anton said, reaching into his waistband. "Putting your business where it should never be." I heard the click of a pistol's safety coming off. "Turn your head," Anton ordered. "Away from me."

I twisted my neck around so he'd have to look me in the eye. "No."

Anton snarled, and I saw with shock that he had twin fangs growing from his top row of teeth. Another were who didn't smell like a were. What was this, my lucky fucking day?

"Don't look at me, bitch," he ordered again, and cuffed me in the jaw, drawing blood from my lip. It was either be executed like a good little girl or end up too beaten for an open casket.

"I hate this," I sighed. Another reason why I'd stopped kicking down doors that I had no business kicking down. More often than not, I found situations like this on the other side. You never really learn, do you, Wilder? You never really learn, do you, Wilder? "Shut up, will you?" I told myself crossly. Anton raised an eyebrow. "Shut up, will you?" I told myself crossly. Anton raised an eyebrow.

"Are you a crazy woman on top of it?"

"Quite possibly," I agreed. "But not as crazy as you are to shoot a cop in the head." The metal was freezing under my back, and the small .32 pistol Anton held looked disproportionately large so close to my face.

"One cop," Anton said, raising his pistol. It was shiny and nickel-plated, one of those penis replacements gangsters like to wave around. "Lots more where you came from."