“Werewolf strangers?” Rick asked.
Gomez dropped to one knee and studied the downed were, comparing him to photos of men on his phone, one thumb flicking from pic to pic. He stopped on one and held the cell up to Andy and me. “He’s a little too furry right now to be sure, but this him?”
“No,” we said.
“This?” Gomez brought up another pic.
“No.” I realized we were getting a quickie photo lineup, like in the basement of a cop shop.
“This?” Gomez asked.
“Yes,” Andy and I said.
Gomez marked his screen, grunted, and stood. To Andy, Gomez said, “He’s been seen with the Zips and with a guy who goes by the name Marco Agrios, white, just under six feet, brown and brown, sharp dresser. You or your brother know anything about Marco?”
Andy looked as if she would rather not answer, but she finally said, “I can ask around some. Gimme your card.” Gomez held out a business card and Andy tucked it behind the register.
Gomez nodded, looked me over, and spoke to Ayatas.“You got a safe place to store him until he heals? We don’t want his kind in with the lockup pop, making furbabies outta the locals.”
“Yes,” Rick said, when Ayatas glanced at him. “We’ll take care of it.”
Gomez gave another grunt and left the jewelry shop. Ayatas studied me. I watched him back, wary. “Why would he target you?” he asked.
“No idea.”
“If you need protection, I can arrange it.”
I raised my eyebrows at him. “Really? For little ol’ me? You want I should curtsy and clasp my hands to my chest? Maybe flutter my eyes and sigh some?”
“What about me?” Beside me, Andy dropped into a clumsy curtsy and fluttered her eyes at him. “I’ll do a lot more than that to get you for my protection.”
Ayatas laughed kindly, flashing pearly whites, clearly accustomed to people trying to pick him up. “A war woman can die too. Be careful out there.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“War woman?” She pointed at her right arm above her wrist. “I might have that tattooed right here.” I just smiled.
Rick pointed a finger at me and said, “We are not done with cat business.”
Moments later, Andy and I were hauled off to the Eighth Precinct and separated. My last words to her were, “I owe you a lawyer.”
Her last words to me were, “Make him pretty.”
We spent time in holding cells until lawyers could arrive and we could be interviewed. Leo had several lawyers on retainer, but Brandon Robere was my lawyer of choice, a graduate of Tulane Law, LLM, back in 1946. I hadn’t seen him in a couple weeks. The Onorio looked good, though his suit hung on his leaner frame, he moved less fluidly, and his eyes were still a little hollow. It took time to get over being tied to a beam, tortured, and drained of blood. Sometimes life just sucked. “Jane,” he said. “I’ve requested an interview room. Are you hurt?”
“No. I just hate cages.”
“Yes. I know what you mean.” He followed, silent, asthe cops moved me to an interrogation room, stood as they locked the door on us, and leaned with his back against the wall. He asked, “Is it true they targeted you specifically? Not the store owner?”
“Yes. There’s security video. And one wasn’t a gangbanger. He’s werewolf.”
“So I hear. Is it true you wish me to offer legal services to Andromeda Preaux?”
“Yeah. She tried to get me out the back door before the shooting started. Would you check on her?”
“In a moment. You do seem to attract heroes. How do you know they were targeting you?”
“Andy said the car had been patrolling the streets in the area for days. They hit on me and rolled past.”
