Witches Brew, page 7
part #6 of Phantom Queen Diaries Series
“Aye, sorry. Please, go on. Alby, was it?”
The pooka, face covered in coarse black fur, ran his hands over the lapels of his expensive suit jacket and nodded—an action only slightly impeded by his ludicrous bunny rabbit ears, which had a tendency to flop onto his face when he wasn’t paying attention. “Quite. As I was saying, I didn’t see a thing.”
“Well, not to be insensitive, but is it possible ye heard somethin’?” I asked, staring pointedly at those ears.
Alby’s mouth pursed and one of the ears twitched. “No.”
“How about a feelin’, then?”
“A what?”
I propped myself up, hands pressed flat against the bar top. “Tell me what ye do remember. From your point of view. Try and recall exactly how ye felt. A play-by-play, if ye will.”
“Listen, Miss MacKenna, I have a business to run, as I’m sure you can understand. I don’t have time to—”
“Ye are welcome to go at any time, Alby,” I interjected, offering a smile that I knew didn’t reach my eyes before raising a finger in warning. “T’ing is, right now you’re treatin’ this like it isn’t your problem. And perhaps you’re right. Maybe whoever or whatever is doin’ this will keep huntin’ down your neighbors, leavin’ ye to live your life, free as ye like. Or maybe it won’t. Maybe you’re next. But no matter what happens to ye personally, I can promise ye this: if ye don’t do what ye can to help your own people, that business of yours is goin’ to dry up. And fast.”
“Is that a threat?” Alby hissed, ears perked straight up now, his freakishly long fingers gripping his dress slacks so hard I knew they’d be a wrinkled mess by the time he stood up.
“Can’t do business if ye don’t have clients,” I replied, spreading my own hands wide to emphasize the fact that I wasn’t the threat, that in fact we were on the same side. “All I’m sayin’.”
Alby raised his chin, doing his best to look down his muzzle at me. But of course, after a brief staredown, he broke first. He glanced away and fiddled with his tie, his button-nose twitching. “It was late. I was in the office, going over the books in the back room. Ennis usually hangs around until I told him to go home, but some nights—like that night—I’d forget, and he’d sit out there all night waiting for me to send him home.” Ennis—I recalled from Robin’s brief description of the missing Fae—was an ogre and one of Alby’s leg-breakers, an enforcer who made sure Alby’s loans got repaid, with interest. “Listen, I know Ennis isn’t the brightest wisp in the bog, but I made sure to get him a ground-floor apartment close by. Walking distance, so he doesn’t get lost. It never even occurred to me to check on the big lug once I realized he hadn’t waited around for me. Honestly, I didn’t even think about it, really think about it, until the next day when he didn’t show up for work.”
“Any chance ye noticed somethin’ odd that night? Maybe on your way out the door?”
“Like what?”
I shrugged. “Anythin’ out of the ordinary.”
Alby’s nose twitched again. “I remember it was cold.”
I cocked an eyebrow, declining to comment on the obvious because I could tell from Alby’s expression that he’d recalled something, something he’d forgotten; his eyes were unfocused as if he was replaying a memory in his head. “What is it?” I asked.
“The cold. It was odd, because this was back at the beginning of the month, before the weather turned. I remember I left the office thinking I’d need to wear a jacket the next day, but then I hadn’t needed it at all. In fact, the only reason I was reminded of it now was because I had to double-back to put my jacket away the next morning, which made me late for a meeting.” Alby’s yellow eyes met mine, and they were puzzled. “What could that mean? That it was cold?”
I shook my head. “I have no idea. But don’t say anythin’ to the others. I want to see if they felt the same t’ing, or not.”
“Can’t take my word for it, is that it?” Alby said. The pooka let out a deep breath and slid off his barstool, standing nearly as tall as me in his three-piece suit. Taller, if you included the ears. He seemed to gather himself in pieces, drawing his shoulders back before adjusting the cuffs of his shirtsleeves. In a matter of seconds, the loan shark was unnaturally calm and self-assured once more, his momentary confusion and discomfort discarded like a half-smoked cigarette pitched out of a moving car. “Catch this thing, won’t you, Miss MacKenna?” Alby said, fussing with his tie. “It’s screwing with my money. Oh, and if you see Ennis, please do tell him to get his ass back to work.”
“Aye, I’m sure that’ll be the first t’ing out of me mouth,” I replied, sarcastically.
Alby finished with his tie and left, marching right past the others and out the door. Robin cocked an eyebrow at me, but all I could do was shrug. In my experience, when shit goes sideways, most people turn into caricatures of themselves. Some get hysterical, others freeze, and a few step up. But not everyone reacts that way. Occasionally there are those who simply go right on living, oblivious to the world around them, content in their ignorance. My best guess? Alby the pooka was an entitled asshole, and not even the threat of being abducted or losing out on business was going to fix that particular personality flaw.
“Alright, send over the next one,” I called with a small wave as I scoured the bar in search of my friendly neighborhood bartender, hoping he’d take pity on me and bring me a cocktail—one of the themed ones, if I was lucky. At least now I understood why those poor private investigators always seem to have a glass in hand in the movies.
One witness down, and I already needed a drink.
Chapter 11
By the time I’d polished off the Godzilla—a sake-based monstrosity as big and green as its namesake—I’d independently verified that two of the remaining three witnesses had recalled it being unusually cold during the supposed time of the abduction. Enough, at least, to suggest a pattern of some kind. As the last witness headed for the door, Robin joined me at the bar, and I filled him in on what I’d discovered. “Does that mean anything to you?” Robin asked. “It being cold out?”
“Not at all,” I replied.
“Then why are you grinning?”
“Because, this means I have to call the man of me dreams.”
Robin arced an eyebrow. “Come again?”
I didn’t bother explaining. Instead, I took out my phone, found Max’s contact information, and hit send. As I waited for the call to connect, I wondered how he’d sound over the phone. Would that Spanish accent be thicker? Would his voice be as deep, as masculine, as I remembered? Fortunately, I didn’t have long to find out; he answered on the third ring. “Max? It’s Quinn MacKenna.” I waited for a response, half-expecting the man to make some crack about me not being able to resist calling him, or something equally suave. But he didn’t.
Instead, he screamed.
The sound of glass shattering buzzed in my ear, though it was a distant sound, as if Max were watching an action movie on TV. An explosion came next, much louder this time, much closer. More screams, almost too faint to make out, though I could tell it wasn’t Max screaming anymore. The voice was definitely a woman’s. Camila’s? Suddenly I could hear the woman better, as if she’d come closer. It was Camila, and she was screaming her brother’s name, shouting words in Spanish until the phone crashed against something solid. The sudden thump was so loud it forced me to move the phone from my ear. “Max!” I yelled. “Max are ye there?!”
More thumps, but no answers.
“Max, tell me where ye are! Can ye hear me?!”
Robin faced me, his eyes wide, mouth open. “What’s happening?”
“I don’t know.” I cursed, pressed the phone to one ear, and pinned my hand to the other, trying to catch anything that was being said. Any clue as to where they were, or what was happening.
But the line went dead.
I stared down at my phone for a moment, then leapt over the bar with one hand, clearing it so easily in my hurry that I nearly landed on a table five feet away. I skidded to a halt and spun around, realizing I didn’t have time to wait for an Uber or to hail a Taxi. “Robin, I need ye to drive me!”
“Where?” he asked, fetching his jacket from the barstool.
“Wortcunnin’ Corner,” I replied, taking a blind stab at Max and Camila’s location; it was the only possibility I could think of. If they weren’t there, then there was probably nothing I could do, but I would worry about that later. “I’ll give ye directions on the way. Now hurry!”
The Redcap didn’t need telling twice.
Which was good, because I was already out the door.
Chapter 12
When we turned onto Newbury Street, it was obvious the cops were already on site—their flashing lights visible through the gaps in traffic. By the time we’d parked, I’d already spotted several uniforms herding a growing crowd of pedestrians away from the immediate area surrounding Wortcunning Corner. Unfortunately for them, it appeared that corralling the masses was proving even more difficult than usual—unsurprising considering it basically meant creating a roadblock in the midst of retail rush hour. After all, no self-respecting shopper would let a crime scene derail their march from one boutique to another without at least seeing what the fuss was about, much as no driver ever seems capable of cruising past a wreck without slowing down for a good, long look at the damage.
Once I’d gotten closer, however, I realized the comparison to a wreck was too close for comfort: the grimy windows had been shattered, blown outward onto the sidewalk as if from an explosion within. The sign had fallen to the ground, shattered into pieces. Scorch marks blackened the brick facade in thick blotches, like the ashen fingerprints of a giant. The door had clearly been kicked in, the wood splintered where the lock had given way. All in all, the once underwhelming storefront was almost unrecognizable in the aftermath of whatever had gone down here, the difference so great I could hardly believe I was looking at the same shop.
I took a moment to bob and weave, craning my neck to see beyond the crowd of onlookers, but—once I was sure there wasn’t any more I could learn from back here—I carved a path through the bystanders to find whoever was in charge. My best guess was a plainclothes detective, or a fire marshal, or maybe someone from the ATF; it looked enough like a bomb had gone off to earn their attention. Finally, after forcing my way to the front of the crowd, I spotted someone standing within the police barricade, though it definitely wasn’t who I’d expected—or even wanted—to find.
“Maria! Maria, over here!” I called, waving.
Detective Maria Machado was a short, Hispanic woman with an attitude problem who, as far as I knew, loathed my guts. In fact, she’d threatened to put me in jail so often over the last few years it had practically become a running joke—not the humorous kind, mind you. More like the sad, cosmic kind. Still, as Jimmy’s former partner, at least I knew her well enough to suspect I could tempt her to tell me what had happened so long as I was prepared for a little grilling.
“Jesus, what the fuck are you doing here, MacKenna?” Maria asked the instant she saw me, practically snarling,
Ok, maybe a lot of grilling.
I waved her over. “I’ll tell ye, but ye have to come here,” I hissed. I actually watched Maria swallow her response, noting the crowd of potential witnesses. She jerked her head, indicating we meet where the crowd was thinnest. I did what she asked, skirting the edges of the rabble as though I was trying to resume my seat in a darkened movie theater, mumbling apologies as I went.
“Alright,” Maria said, once I’d arrived. “What do you want? In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a little busy.”
“I didn’t realize this was in your jurisdiction,” I said, raising an eyebrow.
“It isn’t. The owners are family friends. Now answer my fucking question before I arrest you for interfering with an investigation.”
See? At this point, I was pretty sure she couldn’t help herself. Still, the outburst surprised me; if she thought I was interfering now, she was about to get well and truly pissed. “I know Max and Camila,” I said, hoping that would get her attention.
It did.
“What was that?” she asked, taking a step forward, cocking her head to the side as if she’d misheard me.
“I was on the phone with Max while this was happenin’,” I explained. “I came as soon as I could.”
Maria stepped all the way into me this time, invading the hell out of my personal space in the process, and grabbed my jacket with both hands. “Why is it whenever shit goes down in this town, and I mean the absolutely batshit crazy shit, you’re always the one in the middle of it, MacKenna?”
I took hold of her wrists, as gently as I could. “Just lucky, I guess. Now, let me go, Detective.”
“Make me,” Maria said, jerking on my jacket, her eyes practically seething with hate.
I considered crushing her wrists, or at least putting enough pressure on those brittle bones to show her that—if it came down to arm wrestling—I’d win. But, in the end, I decided to handle it like any reasonable adult woman would. “Talked to Jimmy, lately?” I asked as cattily as I could manage.
Maria immediately let go and stepped back, the expression on her face so pitiful I opened my mouth to apologize. But the words never left my mouth, because that’s when she slapped me—striking so fast and so hard I actually tasted blood. I blinked away tears of surprise, then turned back to face the detective, probing my swollen lip with my tongue. Maria, meanwhile, cradled her limp, likely broken hand. “Ye know,” I said, “I’m not really the turn the other cheek type. But I t’ink ye ended up with the raw end of that deal, so I’ll let it go this once.”
Maria simply stared up at me, mouth hanging open, eyes wide with shock. Then, when the shock finally wore off, came the pain. She pressed her mangled hand to her chest, grinding her teeth so as not to cry out. It almost made me feel bad to see how much damage had been caused by my remarkably durable, inhuman flesh.
Almost.
“Detective Machado, what the hell is going on here?” a man asked, coming up from behind Maria. He wasn’t quite my height but made up for it in bulk; the epaulets of his uniform were forced to stretch almost impossibly far to meet the seams at his sleeves, which were covered in chevrons. He had the face and build of a bulldog, jowls tugging at the corners of his mouth, eyes beady, barrel-chested and bow-legged.
“This bitch,” Maria said through clenched teeth, “broke my hand.”
“Actually, Sergeant,” a nearby uniform said, “I saw the whole thing. Detective Machado grabbed that woman first, then slapped her. Hard.”
Machado glared at her fellow cop, but the younger officer wasn’t backing down. Instead he gave her a flat stare, as if daring her to contradict him. I began to wonder if Maria had pissed off more people than just me, lately; cops usually went out of their way to protect their own, in my experience. At that precise moment, a few industrious pedestrians actually started corroborating what the uniform had said, yelling and pointing fingers from behind the barricade. By the time they started calling for Maria’s blood, I realized I’d become the center of attention.
Not good.
I raised a hand. “I don’t want to press charges!” I called. Then, in a much softer voice, I addressed the Sergeant. “Listen, the only reason I’m here is because I believe I was the last person to have contact with the owners of this shop. Detective Machado here was takin’ me statement, but when I insulted the owner, the Detective took it personally. I didn’t realize they were close. It’s as much me fault as it is hers.” I caught Maria’s gaze and held it, willing her to stick to that story and let the cards fall where they may, for both our sakes.
“Did you say you were the last to talk to the...” the Sergeant checked his notebook, “Velez’s?”
I nodded. “Aye, that’s what I said. I called, and the owner—Max—picked up in the middle of whatever happened here.”
“Machado, go see the EMTs, get that hand checked out,” the Sergeant said, dismissively, his eyes never leaving mine. Which meant he didn’t see the hateful glare Maria directed at his back. “Now, please,” he continued, “Ms...?”
“MacKenna,” I offered.
“MacKenna,” he said, nodding. “Come with me.”
I ducked under the outstretched arms of the officer who’d come to my defense, found Robin in the crowd, and gave him a subtle thumbs up, letting him know everything was alright. The Redcap surreptitiously tipped his hat to me as the Sergeant, whose last name I learned was Stone—yes, Sergeant Stone—escorted me to the top of the stairs that led down to the storefront, though no farther. From that vantage point, I could see that the shop’s interior looked even worse than its exterior: the glass jars had all been busted, their contents blown around the room, the shelves ripped free from the walls. Only the counter stood intact, though it bore some of the same scorch marks as the brick outside.
“So, what did you hear when you called?” Sergeant Stone asked, pen poised above his notebook.
“Not much. Max answered, but I don’t t’ink he had his phone in his hand. More like in his pocket. I heard screams. Camila’s, I t’ink. Explosions. But it was all muffled.” I shook my head, wishing I had more to offer. “D’ye have any idea who might have done this?”
“We’re looking into several possibilities,” Stone replied.
Meaning they had absolutely no idea.
“Was it a bomb?” I asked.
His eyes narrowed. “We have someone looking into that.”
Translation? He knew but wouldn’t tell me.
“Is there anythin’ ye can tell me? Are Max and Camila in there? Were there any witnesses? Anythin’?”
“Your friends weren’t found inside, no. In fact, until you came along, we had no reason to suspect they were here when this happened. We haven’t been here long, ourselves.”
“But that means you’ll have people lookin’ for ‘em, right? Now that ye know they were here?”
