Shift Happens(37)
If the SRD ever found out, my name would be quickly added to the top of their next hit list or worse, their retrieval list. Shuddering, I stepped into the elevator when the doors dinged opened. The last place I wanted to end up was in the government lab as a specimen. No thank you.
The SRD would know from the autopsy reports of my targets that I could change into an animal. They’d assume I was a Shifter or Were. And apparently, that was enough for them. Results spoke, and as long as I was in the good graces of the SRD, there was no need for them to push the issue. Well, I was no longer on Santa’s ‘Nice’ list. They could call it an interview all they wanted—I knew I walked into my own interrogation.
When the elevator reached the tenth floor, I squared my shoulders and walked out with as much confidence as Superman around kryptonite. The receptionist with boobs too perky to be natural sported a rock solid updo that must’ve taken hours in the morning to create and half a container of hair gel. I never had that much patience. One shift and it would be a mess anyway. On a regular day, my hair was tied back in a ponytail and if I felt like making it fancy, I would twist my bangs up with a clip. The only time it came down was when I acted as slutty bait for a target, or when I slept.
The receptionist looked me up and down, and her lips curled in a nasty smile. One minute of visual analysis and she’d determined who the more attractive woman was. Too bad she got it wrong.
“Andy McNeilly to see Agent Booth.” I cut right to the point. This woman looked mean. When her citrus and sunlight scent reached me, I tensed. Wereleopard. As if she could sense my discomfort, her smile grew. She probably thought she’d take me in a fight. She probably could. If she finished her shift before I gutted her. I was quick on the draw.
“One moment,” she purred. She pressed a button on her desk and spoke into it. Sniffing the air again, I analyzed her scent. Not the same as the one from Landen’s apartment, but similar, familiar. Relative, maybe? Same pride? This couldn’t be a coincidence. I eyed the receptionist, wondering about her connection to Landen’s killer. She was too busy checking out her reflection in the computer screen to notice.
“Put her in room two,” a familiar raspy voice croaked over the intercom.
The receptionist nodded despite the other woman not being able to see her. She looked up. “Please follow me,” she said as she pushed away from her desk and stood up. She was a small thing. Petite. That was what her online profile would say. She seemed like the type that would hunt men on dating sites only to chew them up like a gazelle femur and toss them aside.
I followed her swinging hips to ominous room two, all the while wondering who she wiggled for. She didn’t strike me as a lesbian, so there was no need to saunter around like a sex kitten when no one else accompanied us. Unless she couldn’t help it. Or was she trying to make me feel inferior? My lip curled up in a scowl. I hated her type.
“Please have a seat. Agent Booth will be with you shortly.”
I nodded and tried to ignore the satisfied smile she flashed me before closing the door. Her scent lingered in the room and I made a mental note to track her after I finished up here. Something wasn’t quite right with her—other than her double D’s.
A lie detector machine, sprouting wires and straps like a forgotten potato in the pantry growing roots. It sat in the corner of the interrogation room, looking archaic and out of place. This thing probably dated back to sometime before the Purge. Why would they bother with a machine when they could use supes to scent out lies? Did the norms not trust us?
The air in the room stirred as the door swung open to admit a middle-aged woman with graying black hair. A large hooked nose jutted out beneath trendy purple-rimmed glasses. Her lips pursed into a straight line. Not a good sign. I stood when she entered the room. Not out of respect, but as a defensive maneuver.
“Agent McNeilly?” she asked. When I nodded, she held her hand out.
I reached over and clasped it. Ouch! The woman had a vice-like grip. At least she didn’t do the soft noodle hand shake a lot of women seemed to prefer. I hated weak handshakers—didn’t trust them. But it would take more than a firm handshake for me to invite this woman to my confessional booth.
“I’m Agent Booth.” She gestured for me to have a seat. We sat down in the plastic chairs facing each other. They never had comfortable seats in an interrogation room. Agent Booth stared at me. She’d lined her cement gray eyes with green eye make-up. She wouldn’t get the satisfaction of seeing me squirm.
Then I noticed Agent Booth had no scent. She didn’t smell like a norm, didn’t smell like a Were or Shifter, didn’t smell like a Witch—didn’t smell like anything. I bit down to prevent a growl from escaping. She hid her scent. Now I really didn’t trust her.