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

to make the FBI look like a bunch of flatfooted federal donut-munchers,” I said. There was no love lost between the ATF and the feds. Will’s mouth quirked.

“Well, sure. There is that. I’ll requisition some equipment from my friend in technical services and we’ll meet at the pier once it gets dark.”

“I’ll call the port authority and let them know we’re coming,” Andy said.

“No,” I told him. “Anyone in the port could be in bed with the Russians. Why don’t you try to find out who Salazko is working for, instead? And requisition a surveillance van from the motor pool. One of the new ones, not the one that smells like old hot dogs.”

Andy nodded and went back to his computer. If there was one thing I could count on him for, it was obsessive fact-checking and following my instructions.

“What do you want us to do?” Bryson asked.

“Until tonight, sit there and look pretty,” I said. Natalie Lane stuck her head into the conference room.

“Sorry. Am I interrupting something?”

“Always,” I said. “What can I inconvenience myself for you and do this time?”

Lane rolled her eyes. “May I see you for a moment?”

I stepped into the hallway with her. “What? What is it?”

“I understand you’re set on this Salazko as a suspect?” she said. “Not that you’ve been sharing any information with me willingly.”

“He had the motive and opportunity,” I said. “He looks pretty good from where I’m sitting.”

“And you base this on the fact that he’s involved in prostitution?” Lane said.

“Lady, what is your point? Are you only around to state the obvious?”

Lane sighed. “Look, I don’t take any pleasure in this, but I think Salazko has an alibi.”

Fan-freaking-tastic. “Are you really that hard up? You want to show up the freak squad that badly?”

“Believe it or not,” Lane growled, “I’m doing my job, something you seem distinctly uninterested in.”

“What?” I snapped. “What could you possibly have to prove by alibiing a mobster other than to show me up and get a pat on the head from all of the other sex detectives?”

Lane’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe the truth? Salazko may be bad, but he’s not our kind of bad.”

I crossed my arms, not wanting to admit she had a point. “I assume you can show me some proof?”

“Would we be talking if I didn’t?” Lane said. “I do my job well, Lieutenant. I don’t have the luxury of screwing around and hoping no one notices.”

“You are just aiming straight for my fist in your face,” I muttered, grabbing my jacket and following Lane. “I’ll be back in an hour,” I called to the others.

“I’ve worked with these girls before,” Lane said when we were in her silent-running Japanese toy of a car, “when a customer roughs them up and we’re lucky enough to find out how old they really are.” She drove us toward Needle Park, the section of the city where drug deals were as plentiful as ice cream trucks.

“And Salazko brings them in?” I said. “I figured that was his deal.”

“His name rang a bell,” Lane said as we turned down an alley stacked on both sides with boxes and discarded appliances. “A girl had eyeballed him as one of her regular customers when we brought her in on a solicitation rap. Fifteen.”

“A year older than Lily,” I murmured.

“This can be a little rough if you’re not used to it.” Lane drew the hybrid to a stop at the end of the alley.

“I’ve pretty much burned out my shock and horror at the human condition,” I told her. “Between the shootings, ritual murders, death threats, black magick…”

Lane stopped me. “Fine. Just let me do the talking, and don’t act like you’re here to bust anyone. These girls are in enough trouble as it is.”

I followed her to a graffiti-covered door at the end of the alley. The markings were mostly wards from various witch gangs, all of them spent and faded. Whatever lived here now was much, much worse.

Lane buzzed, then pounded on the door with the flat of her hand. “Privyet! Open up.”

“Maybe nobody’s home,” I said. At that moment, the door cracked and a thin-faced girl stuck her head out. Hair that had seen at least five bleach jobs too many was piled on top of her head like a bird’s nest.

“Da? I help you?”

Lane smiled perfunctorily. “I was wondering if we might talk to Mika?”

“Mika is sleeping,” said the girl, starting to shut the door. I caught it, not even having to strain. The girl, all skinny bones and huge eyes, was about as strong as a kitten.

“Please,” I said. “We just want to talk. It’s important.”

“Look,” the girl said. “We have papers, all. We not do anything wrong.”

She jerked against the door until I let go, and slammed it shut. I looked to Lane. “Okay, clearly the Mother Theresa act isn’t gonna work.” I pounded on the door, feeling in my wallet for cash.

“Go away,” the girl hissed when she opened up again. “You will scare customer.”

“First of all,” I said, “It’s two P.M. on a weekday. You don’t have customer. Second of all…” I flashed her a twenty. “We just want to talk to Mika. We’re not here to go all la migra on your fine establishment, all right?”

The girl pursed her lips, looking over her shoulder. If her pimps found out she’d let two cops into their brothel, she’d catch hell, probably in the form of a fist. But money that didn’t have to be shared with said pimps was a stronger temptation, and she snatched the twenty from my hand.

“Upstairs. The second door on the left.”

Lane nodded her thanks, and we stepped into a dank back hall that smelled of unwashed bodies, stale cooking and staler vodka.

A few girls were sitting against the wall, smoking or nodding, and a pop station burbled from the front of the building, which I guessed at one point had been a restaurant.

The industrial kitchen was to my right and I glanced in, just to