Rogue (Shifters #2)(29)

In that moment, as I accepted a fresh mug of coffee—loaded with sugar and vanilla-flavored creamer, just the way I liked it—I could have kissed my mother. Even though she’d finished cleaning the kitchen before joining the important meeting. Even though she’d just served drinks from a silver tray to a room full of mostly men. And even though she’d done it in a demure skirt and two-inch heels.
At the moment, I was too grateful for the caffeine to ruin her nice gesture by telling her we were perfectly capable of getting our own coffee. So, I just smiled and thanked her. And gave myself a mental pat on the back for passing up an opportunity to argue with my mother and gloat over the fact that I hadn’t grown up to be just like her.
“Anything else?” my father asked Vic, nodding at my mother in thanks as he took the mug she offered. She nodded back and accepted the seat on the couch that Parker—ever the gentleman—gave up for her.
Owen nodded as Parker settled onto the floor at his feet. My father’s armchair was empty, but none of us would have dared sit in it. “There was a third scent on Jamey’s body. A stray. Neither of us recognized it.” He glanced around the room, taking in our individual reactions. “I’m sure it doesn’t mean anything. He probably just came into contact with a stray at some point today.”
Marc frowned and set his mug on the end table to his right. “Are you sure it wasn’t Harper’s scent?” he asked, and I knew what he was thinking. Instead of reporting Robert Harper’s indiscretions, Kevin had helped cover them up, and as much as I hated to consider it, we couldn’t ignore the possibility that Jamey had been doing something similar. Maybe that was why my father had withheld information from Jamey’s brother.
“We’re sure,” Vic said. “We all got a good whiff of Harper last night, and this definitely wasn’t him.”
My father sat up straight, listening to the crunch of Michael’s tires on gravel out front. A dark frown settled over his face as he stood and set his half-empty coffee mug on his desk blotter. “This is the third time this rogue tabby has killed someone in our territory in as many days, and now that she’s gone after a Pride cat, the Council can no longer pretend she’s doing us a favor.”He popped the knuckles of his right hand, and the resulting crack seemed to echo throughout the room. “I can get enough votes for a combined effort now. The other Alphas will have to do something to prove they care. But the Council will resist being forced into action, and every minute they spend dragging their heels and pointing fingers is another minute added to the tabby’s head start. She’s hunting in our territory, and we can’t afford to wait on the Council to find her.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “So…we’re going to apprise them of the situation, as we’re obligated to do. Then, while they twiddle their thumbs, we’re going after her on our own.” He paused, glancing at each of us individually, determination etched into every line of his face. “Does everyone understand?”
Hell yeah, we understood! Our Alpha was going vigilante. As the tips of my fingers began to tingle with excitement, I realized that for the first time in years, I was truly pleased to call myself my father’s daughter.
Chapter Fifteen
Outside, my father and Michael marched down the gravel driveway side by side, their backs illuminated only by the front porch light because the moon and most of the stars were hidden by a thick covering of clouds. The rest of us trailed behind them. Except for my mother, who’d stayed behind.
Clad in his typical off-work uniform of khaki slacks and a navy polo shirt, Michael listened without a word as our father went over the specifics of the case for him. His pace never slowed, and his step never faltered—until he heard about Jamey Gardner. The instant he heard Jamey’s name, he seemed to trip over nothing, regaining his usual grace and poise an instant later. He and Jamey had been childhood friends, not quite as close as Jace and Ethan, but more than just acquaintances.
“You’re sure it was a woman?” Michael asked, his stride once again smooth, but noticeably quicker and more determined.
My father nodded. “We have a working description, but no idea who she is or why she’s targeting toms in our territory. Or where she came from, though we’re guessing somewhere in South America, based on the scent.”
The barn rose before us at the end of the dirt path running down the center of the western field. In my childhood, it had been my secret retreat, but instead of afternoons spent in the company of Oliver Twist and Jane Eyre, I now associated the smell of fresh hay with death and decay, because for the second time in as many days, we were using the barn as a makeshift morgue.
With a stoic heave, and not so much as a grunt, my father pulled open the big double barn doors. Again. And again we filed in after him. But this time, as Owen and Vic unloaded the plastic-wrapped bundle from the back of the van, my father gave directions to Jace and Ethan, who scampered up to the loft to push down the only three hay bales left over from last season. We weren’t going to put the body of a Pride member—a man who’d spent several childhood summers on our ranch—on the floor. 
“The most obvious starting point is the unidentified stray scent on Jamey’s body,” my father said in his Alpha voice, as Owen carefully peeled strips of duct tape from the plastic. “I’m willing to bet this stray is our anonymous informant, and that he saw Jamey with the tabby. With any luck, he’ll have some useful information for us—like her name, and where she’s going. So the first order of business is to identify this stray.”
When the sheet of black plastic draping Jamey’s body fell open, a limp hand fell with it, hanging to brush the side of the hay bale. It looked for all the world like an image from a cheesy horror movie, and was every bit as surreal.
Owen clomped forward in his boots to gently lay Jamey’s hand over his stomach. As thoughtful as the gesture was, it didn’t really help. There’s only so much you can do to make the sight of a dead companion easier to accept. Especially under such gruesome circumstances.
My father came forward first, while the rest of us stood watching him with our hands in our pockets. He stood silently at Jamey’s side, as if to say his final goodbye, but I could tell by the rise and fall of his chest that he was breathing deeply to take in the scent. He would no more lean down and blatantly sniff Jamey’s corpse than he would lay him on the floor. Or leave him exposed as a meal for nature’s scavengers.
Finally, he stepped back and shook his head. “I don’t recognize the scent, but that’s not really surprising. I can’t remember the last time I saw a stray in person. A live stray, anyway.”
I glanced at Marc in amusement, and he smiled back. My father probably didn’t even realize his mistake; he truly never thought of Marc as a stray. He thought of Marc as a son.
Michael came forward next and actually took Jamey’s hand in his own. I knew in seconds that he hadn’t recognized the scent, because when his breathing resumed its normal rhythm, he didn’t offer us any information. Yet he stayed with Jamey for almost a full minute, staring down at his friend’s face as if he were lost in some distant memory.
Eventually, Michael shook his head and retreated silently to a spot near the door. To avoid looking at anyone, he cleaned the wire-rimmed glasses he only wore for show. Marc and I stepped into the space he’d vacated. Marc inhaled deeply, and I did the same.
Then I froze.
Son of a bitch! My fingers clenched around Marc’s, and his knuckles popped in rapid succession. He yelped in pain and tried to pull back his hand. I barely noticed. When my hand relaxed, his fingers slipped from my grasp. He rubbed his bruised knuckles, smiling broadly at me. He’d identified it, too.
“You recognize the scent?” Michael asked, his voice sharp and clearly skeptical.
I nodded, and Marc’s smile widened even further.
My father arched both eyebrows, already impatient with the suspense. “Well?”
“Dan Painter,” I said, excitement making a breathless whisper of my voice. Things were finally starting to make sense. Some things, anyway.
Ethan shook his head. “What the hell is Painter’s scent doing on Jamey Gardner?”
I indulged in a gloating smile, thrilled to be more in-the-know than he was for once. “Clearly Painter is the anonymous informer.”
Owen frowned, shifting his hat back and forth on his head. “That’s not quite as clear as you seem to think it is, sis,” he drawled. “At least not to me.”
“I second that.” Parker’s gaze flicked uncertainly from me to Marc.“Let me see if I’m understanding this correctly,” Vic began, propping one arm on top of the nearest stall door. “Greg’s been getting anonymous phone calls, all from the same man, reporting the rogue tabby’s kills and telling us where to find them.”
“So far, so good.” I winked at him for good measure.
“Thanks.” He glanced at my father, then continued. “Presumably, this caller has been following the tabby around, watching her. And now you think he’s this Dan Painter fellow. The same stray you guys caught and released in Arkansas, what? Three days ago?”