I answer the line. “Director Murphy.” I glance at Kane, who tilts his face skyward and groans softly before throwing away the blanket on his side. “Isn’t this your day off?” I ask, refocusing on the call.
“Why did I hear about your new case from someone else, Special Agent Love?”
“It’s Thanksgiving,” I reply, fighting the tartness that wants to slide into my tone. “I was going to call you tomorrow on my way to the autopsy.”
“Let me get this straight,” he says, his tone sharp enough to have me throwing away my blanket too while steeling myself for what comes next. “Our friend,” he adds–that’s his way of discreetly referencing Pocher—because he’s a paranoid bastard who thinks everyone is always listening in—“our friend,” he continues, “is alive, you’re engaged to Kane, which by the way I had to find out on my own, and the victim of a murder last night was wearing a wedding dress. And let us not forget that there was a jar of blood with your name on it left at the crime scene. What part of that said wait to call Director Murphy?”
At this point, I’m sitting on the edge of the bed and Kane’s crossed the room to disappear inside the bathroom. “I’ve been working on being more thoughtful, Director,” I comment. “Please. Thank you. Waiting until after Thanksgiving.”
Kane leans back into the room and mouths, “and fuck you, please” before he disappears again.
I’d smile, but Murphy snips that away real quick with a reply of, “What you’re working on is pissing me off all over again. Don’t patronize me.”
“First you’re my boss. That would be a stupid move. And surely you know by now that I don’t patronize. That’s not my thing.”
“Stop talking, Agent Love, unless you plan to say something of consequence.”
“Okay,” I say, angling for a reason. “I’m not solid on what I’m about to say yet, but I have a strong belief that this could be an Umbrella Man copycat or protégé of Roger’s. Not our friend.”
He’s silent three beats before he asks, “Why?”
I don’t immediately answer and not because the line may not be safe. Because every answer I give him, he could counter. Yes, this whole case feels beneath Pocher, and it feels like him asking for trouble he doesn’t need, but with the morning light, I’m clear on one fact: that doesn’t mean he’s innocent. There could be a motivation I’m missing. A distraction he’s creating to keep me and/or Kane from seeing something else. And he could just be driven by his grief to be careless. This entire crime could be driven by grief and anger that I cannot dismiss as a human reaction—yes, even Pocher is human. Maybe. Or a demon. I’m not into that shit, but if I were, he’d be on my demon list. And so, I say quite professionally, “Because my job is to look at all possibilities.”
“There are no coincidences, Agent Love,” he reminds me. “Isn’t that what you always tell me?”
I grind my teeth. Truly, I’m getting sick of everyone repeating my own words but I roll with it. “That’s true,” I counter, “but I’m also not stupid enough to believe the obvious.”
“Good answer. Dig deeper. Call me tomorrow after the autopsy.”
“Wait,” I say when I’m sure he’s going to disconnect.
“Yes, Agent Love?”
“Danica Day and Officer North. I don’t like them.”
“I’ve come to know you don’t like many people.”
“That’s true, but in this case, it’s about agendas. Perhaps the wrong ones. Do you know anything about either of them?”
“I don’t, but I’ll look into them. Call me tomorrow,” he adds again, and when he would hang up, he adds, “And Happy Thanksgiving, Agent Love.” He disconnects.
I groan and set my phone down. Kane appears in the bathroom doorway. He’s still naked from the waist up, his shoulder resting on the frame. “Problem?” he asks.
Isn’t there always? I think as I stand and Kane crosses to stand in front of me. “I was wrong.”
In other words, he was listening to my conversation therefore I know exactly what he means. “We’re back to Pocher, right?”
“We can’t rule out the fact that he’s still human, no matter the monster we know he is. He could be operating on grief. He could be distracting me, and us, while he plots something bigger. I need to go and see him. And I need leverage when I do.”
He catches my hips and walks me to him. “Give me time to hear back from my people.”
“How long?”
“It’s Thanksgiving. I need a few days. And as for the leverage. I’m it. He knows my uncle wants to rule the world and if not for me, he’d have already started wars that would disrupt the goals of the Society.”
“And yet, you don’t run the cartel,” I say tightly.
His eyes darken. “Is that a question? Again? Because no matter who I am, or am not, if you think I won’t use it to protect you, then we have a problem.”