MYRA AND Jean were both at their desks, pretending to work. Roy was over at the coffee station stirring a paper cup. They all threw me glances filled with relief.
Trillium Ruiz, a graceful, poised woman with deep brown skin and eyes that leaned hazel-gold sat on the small couch in our lobby. She wore a cascade of earrings, slacks, and a tailored jacket over a white shirt. She ran theOrdinary Post, our local newspaper, and didn’t know about the creatures or deities in town.
“Chief Reed.” She stood, her pad and pen already in her hands.
“Hello, Trillium. Here on personal business?”
“No. Just need a statement for the paper.”
“Sure. What do you want to know?”
“Is it true that Heim Dalton was found dead last night?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know the cause of death?”
“The cause of death is still under investigation. We suspect drowning.”
“When did this drowning happen?”
“Late last night.”
“Were there any witnesses?”
“No comment.”
She raised one eyebrow. “Really, chief? That’s not exactly a make-or-break question for investigating a drowning.”
“My statement stands. And I’ll finish it off for you. We at the department are very sorry for the loss of one of the members of our community. We are doing everything we can to confirm the cause of his death and to alert his next of kin. I think that about covers it.”
“Do you suspect foul play?”
“No comment. This is an ongoing investigation, Trillium. We’re not going to give our final report until we have one.”
“All right,” she said. “All right.” She clicked the pen and flipped the cover on the notepad.
“Why hasn’t this death hit the news?”
I leaned against Jean’s desk. “I have no idea. It’s not my job to babysit the local stations.”
“So you’re telling me you’re not trying to keep this death out of the media?”
I sighed. “That’s correct. Look, we’re small potatoes among small potatoes. News of a fisherman falling off his boat and drowning gets a ten-second mention on the news stations in Portland only if it’s a slow news day. There’s no sizzle in it. He wasn’t lost as sea, he’s not a minor, he wasn’t on vacation or battling cancer, or drunk, or saving a puppy.
“It’s not surprising that our story, his story—no matter how tragic it was—didn’t make the evening news. Believe me, I am very, very sorry he has passed. This kind of thing shouldn’t happen to anyone. But I don’t expect most people outside this town to take note of it.”
What I wasn’t about to tell her was that a few of the supernaturals in town kept tabs on how our news was delivered to the larger cities. We basically had friends in low places outside town who either took the shine off any news that might give away our secrets, or found ways to bury it in more important, more urgent stories.
“It just seems like someone should care,” she said.
“Someone does. We do. You do.”
“Does he have any next of kin?” She sounded a lot less reporter, and a lot more person concerned about how this loss was going to affect others.
I liked her for that.
“As far as we know, no. Parents passed away, no siblings. Last of his family line. We’re doing our due diligence.”
