Daemon’s Mark by Caitlin Kittredge (web ebook reader .TXT) 📕

“Not yet,” I cooed, running a finger down his cheek. “I heard a girl could get a good fake ID off of Johnny Boy. I’ve got cash. I’ll pay.”

Johnny Boy snorted, looking me over. “Lady, you need a fake license about as much as my grandmother’s Pomeranian does.”

Will shook his head. “Of all the things you could have said, my man … that one wasn’t the right choice.”

JB cut Will a look that would have taken his nose off, Chinatown style. “She want to get carded? Make her feel young again?” He started to stand up. “I don’t have time for your Desperate Housewives bullshit.”

I shoved him back, rocking his chair against the table, spilling his drink. “Sit your ass down, tough guy.”

He took a second look at me, his expression shifting from boredom to rage inside of a bass beat of the tinny Carrie Underwood number that had replaced Garth. “What is this?” JB demanded.

“This is a dead teenage girl,” I said. I had the photo tucked into my top, and I shoved it in JB’s face with no small amount of relish.

He didn’t react, except to twitch his lips in disgust. “I’ve never seen her. I’m very busy.” Up again, and I shoved him back again. He gave me a smile that was the same smile a tiger gives a side of beef right before it pounces.

“I take it you’re a cop. If so, you obviously don’t know me.” He reached out one hand and ran it down the bare thigh between my skirt and my stocking. “I’d change that if you’re up for it, miss cop. What are you? Vice? Those are my favorite. They know how to moan and squeal—part of the job, when they’re chasing johns.”

Will stepped in. “That’s far enough, John Boy.”

JB slid his hand from my thigh to my ass and squeezed, hard. “This your piece? You should keep her on a leash.”

I needed to get control back, and the fastest way to do that is usually with violence. I balled up my fist and punched JB in the eye, pulling the jab so I didn’t break his orbital bone. I’m a lot stronger than a human, and you have to be careful about those things.

JB let out a yelp and I switched out my fist for my .38, pressing it between his eyes. If anyone in the crowd noticed or cared, they hinted not one whit. Beer and country music will do that to a person.

“I hate repeating myself, Johnny,” I said. “Did you sell Lily Dubois her fake license?”

He drew his lips back in a snarl that rivaled my own. “Fuck you, bitch. I don’t answer to the police.”

“Okay,” I said, putting the hammer up on the .38. “Then let’s find out who you do answer to.” I felt inside his suit jacket, the silk lining tickling my fingers. The ID business was good. JB’s wallet was a soft leather that felt alive under my fingers. I tossed it to Will and stepped back. “I’ll be in touch, John. You may want to find a new watering hole, too.” I jerked my thumb at a college student wearing a Nocturne University Theta Theta shirt, doubled over and vomiting Jagermeister-colored bile into the sawdust. “This one is about to be violated for about ten different health codes. That, and the music sucks.”

I waggled a hand at JB as Will and I walked away. “Don’t get too comfortable. I’ll be seeing you again.”

“You can count on it!” JB stood up, his face red. “I’m not finished with you, bitch! You don’t get to mess with me like this, in my place of business!”

I looked at Will, who rolled his eyes. “Well, at least he admits it,” I said.

“What do you think all of those threats were about?” Will asked. “There’s a lot of brave sons of bitches running around the city lately. Meyer, this jackass…”

I stopped at my car, leaning against the hood and rifling through the wallet. “Let’s see what he thinks he has over somebody who’s authorized to carry a gun and shoot mouthy people with it.”

The wallet was devoid of everything except a balance-carrying credit card, one of the types that were just glorified gift cards and could be refilled with cash. Speaking of cash, there was a fat pack of it, five hundreddollar bills fresh from the ATM.

“And here we have a bona-fide California state driver’s license,” I said, pulling it out of plastic. “John Black.” I looked at the squinty-eyed photo of Johnny Boy.

“The only way that gets faker is if you replace ‘Black’ with ‘Smith,’” said Will.

“He’d have to give an address,” I said. “Two-seven-two-seven Winchester, apartment eighteen.”

“I’m game for driving over there if you are,” Will said. “I can even wake a judge up if you want to make it legal.”

“Do it,” I said. I pulled out my cell and dialed Dellarocco. “Hey, it’s Lieutenant Wilder. If I drop something by, can I get an AFIS report by morning?”

Dellarocco masterfully hid a yawn before he spoke. “Sure. What’s a few hours of REM sleep?”

“I touched it,” I said, slipping the wallet into a evidence baggie from my glove compartment. “My exclusionary prints are on file from the Holly Street shooting about five years back. The prints you want are from a guy calling himself John Black.”

“Good enough,” said Dellarocco. “Although would it kill you pavement-pounders to wear gloves?”

“Sorry,” I said. “Carrie Underwood makes me very distracted.”

“What?”

“Trust me, Dellarocco, you’re better off not knowing.”

Will shut his own phone. “Judge Hannity is calling in a warrant to the SCS. We’re good to go.”

“You and your federal connections,” I said, hopping in the car. “Very sexy.”

Will stroked the same spot on my thigh that JB had touched, no perverse intent behind it, but as if he was reassuring himself I was still there. “I try my best, doll.”

I reached over and patted his knee as we drove toward the ID lab. “So far, so good.”

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