It was good to see her laugh again, to smile. I grinned, shook my head as I leaned back against the wall. “No, he couldn't ever get that far. A bullet would whiz past his head and he'd have to start over. Farthest I ever heard him get was O.”
She giggled, shaking. “I know I shouldn't be laughing about this.”
I shrugged. “Some war stories, they're okay to think they're funny. You gotta find something funny when shit's going down, you know?”
“Yeah,” she said, nodding. “Yeah, I guess you're right.”
“But, listen,” I said, jerking a thumb back over my shoulder, “I'm gonna get back out there. I'll make my calls from the Jeep, see if we can't find out something more about this guy.”
“Okay. I'll probably be leaving here in thirty. That sound good?”
“Fifteen? An hour? I literally have nowhere else to be.” I turned and left, headed back through the gallery. I stopped and stared up at the wolf painting I'd spotted on my way in, letting the colors and paints clear my head as I took them all in.
I heard footsteps back in the office, just her walking around, but didn't bother to turn.
She needed her privacy, and needed to know I was working to keep her safe. I turned and headed out of the gallery, the bell clanging overhead. I crossed the slow Main Street and climbed back into my old Jeep Wrangler.
Lacy picked up her phone on the third ring. “Whatchoo got, furball?” she asked, her pixie voice ringing in my ears.
Lacy Richter was Genevieve’s granddaughter, and probably one of the best computer techs in Colorado. And, if not Colorado, then definitely the High Rockies. She could tap a line, hack a voice mail, and find out everything you could about a person in less than a day. She was also an incorrigible brat, and not even old enough to legally drink. Like her grandmother, she knew we were shifters, and she just thought it was cool, like we were real life “furries,” whatever the hell that was. If Gen Richter was our den mother, then Lacy was our mascot.
I rolled my eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me that?” I reprimanded in a growl. “How do you know I'm not calling you on speaker phone or something?”
“How do you think I keep you from calling me on speaker phone, old man?”
Knowing this would quickly devolve into a skirmish of words I'd never truly win, I chose instead to just grumble and move on. “The boss tell you about what I got going?”
“Death threats on the pretty local girl? Yep.”
“She's got a name.”
“Of course she does, fuzzy. Jessica Long, right? What's going on? Time is money, here.”
“Her silent partner that died? Executor on the estate came by just now. Axelrod left his part of the business to his nephew, Wyatt Axelrod. Need you to check into him.”
“Think he's the perp?”
I shrugged as I looked out over the sleep Main Street. “I don't know, to be honest. But, Jessica thinks the calls started right around the time her old partner died. Maybe he wants the business for himself and he's trying to push her out for cheap?”
“I'll look into it. Anything else?”
“One other thing. She received a fax, another death threat, just a little while ago. Any chance you could track where it came from?”
“From here? No. But I can get in there first thing tomorrow, check it out. Depending on what number it came through on, they either used an online service, a cell phone, or the internet.”
“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “First thing, soon as she opens. That fax looked crazy, and I'd like to figure out who's sending it. And you can do that? Fax from the internet?”
“I know right,” she replied, a grin in her voice. “First men turning into wolves, now this. The wonders, they never cease.”
“Ha. Ha.”
“Got anything else for me, old man?”
Sure, I had a hundred questions. Who was this Blake Axelrod guy? Who was making these calls? What was Jessica's biggest goal in life? Did she like Thai food? Why did she feel so perfect when she was in my arms? I shook my head. “No. That's it for me.”
“Got it. I'll see what I can dig up on Mr. Wyatt here, and get back to you. Going to be home, or out running around in the woods all night?”
“Neither,” I growled. “Stakeout tonight at the client's house.”
She giggled. “Sure,” she said, drawing out the word. “Stakeout.”
“Oh, grow up.”
She giggled again. “Got it. S'later, dude.”
We hung up. But there was still, at the back of mind, the questions nagging at me. Most importantly, though, was the biggest one I had: why was I so drawn to her? It was unlike anything I'd ever experienced.