Kicking It(112)

“Inspector,” he said, nodding at me and giving the word a chilly formality. He stood at the edge of the table, his features caught in a tide shifting between embarrassment and confusion.

Derrick was sitting sideways on his bench, taking up the entire thing, so I scooted over to allow the young officer to join us. He did, but his movements were disconnected, uncertain.

“Officer Lancaster, this is my partner, Inspector Knight. And vice versa.”

Russell held out his hand but, no big surprise, Derrick didn’t take it. Even with his gloves on he never shook hands. Instead he gave the young officer a sharp half wave. I could all but hear Russell’s teeth grinding from the perceived insult, but it wasn’t my place to reveal that my partner was wyrd.

“Anyway, here’s the issue,” I said and then laid out a very brief explanation of why we wanted to know about Vicky the waitress’s heels.

He looked doubtful, and I wasn’t sure if that stemmed from a lack of faith in his own ability or if he just couldn’t picture the bright young waitress as guilty. Still, he didn’t argue but nodded when I finished and closed his eyes so he could concentrate.

After several long moments he shook his head. “There are a lot of charms and active spells in here. I, uh, might also be a little too close to you, Inspector. Your arsenal is a little overwhelming.”

Right. I really should have thought about that.

“You’ll have to get closer to her then. Why don’t you go flirt with her?”

Russell gave me a stunned look.

“Maybe it’s just the smile, but she is very pretty,” Derrick added.

“Not as pretty as you,” Russell said turning large chocolate-colored eyes and his own smile on me.

Derrick tried—and failed—to cover his laugh behind a cough. I shot my partner a scowl, but I wasn’t insulted. I was very aware of how ordinary I appeared. I used it to my advantage as often as possible. And while I was flattered by Russell’s attention, there was business to be done.

“You’re cute, but you’re what? Nineteen? Trust me—that would never work.” I paused, giving him a moment to accept my words. “Now, there is a job on the table, and I’ll pay you, but don’t think a heart is up for grabs.”

The disappointment played across his features, but after a moment he nodded. “Buy me dinner. That will be pay enough for using an ability I can’t turn off anyway. I’ll be right back.”

He headed for the waitress in the fetish heels and I sipped my rapidly melting shake. Derrick and I both watched as he approached and her already brilliant smile lit up an extra degree. Now those two would make a cute couple. If she wasn’t evil.

Russell returned after a few minutes and sank into the bench beside me. I expected him to give a report of some sort—he was an officer, after all—but he sat there for a long moment, staring at the empty tabletop in front of him.

“Are you injured?” After all, the creatures could wound with no physical trauma; maybe the waitress could, too.

“No. Nothing like that. She was nice. Very nice. I just . . .” His face scrunched, his lips pursing and his brow crinkling. “You were right—the shoes are spelled, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out what the spell does.”

Not a good sign for the waitress.

“You did well. Here. You said you wanted dinner?” I passed him the menu, and then sat back in the booth as I considered what to do next.

The waitress wasn’t currently hurting anyone, so no need to make a scene and drag her out in front of the patrons. I’d wait until the diner closed. Also, just because her shoes held a complex spell didn’t mean she was guilty, but it was damning enough that I’d have my crossbow at the ready when I approached her.

Russell’s food arrived and the table fell into silence as he ate, Derrick thought about whatever the hell was bothering him, and I considered the capture I’d make tonight. It wasn’t exactly companionable silence, but it could have been worse. Then Russell’s fork fell onto his plate, food flying off it and skittering across the table.

“Something’s happening. A spell.” Skipping subtlety, he lifted a shaking hand and pointed.

Right at the waitress.

The lights from a truck streamed through the large panel window in front of the table where she stood. It illuminated her and the patrons at the booth in front of her in an eerie yellowish tinge as their shadows stretched across the tiled floor. The waitress stood inside the shadow of one of the men and where her and his shadows met, the darkness quivered, like I was looking at oil instead of the absence of light. It could have been anything, or nothing, but—