CHAZ’S PHONE buzzed against his coffee table. He rose from the couch with a start, not quite asleep but definitely not awake enough to answer his work phone. On the TV, a familiar newscaster named Maxine Dream stared back at him as she reported the local crime stats. The body by the docks had made the news, everyone calling him “the mermaid boy.” Chaz had to fight the urge to call the neon numbers of the tip line at the bottom of the screen so they could get it right. He muted the TV instead.
Chaz didn’t recognize the number on his phone. He pressed it to his ear skeptically. “Hello?”
“Hi, Mr. MacDonald. It’s Declan Gallagher. New partner—”
“Right. Of course I remember you, Declan. Am I late? Should I be somewhere?” Chaz glanced down at his clothing that still reeked of sweat, smoke, and sex. He hadn’t changed since the thin nap he’d had with Nat. No, Sully. Chaz blinked away some delirium that had lingered. “We have to go to the autopsy, right? Katja requesting us both?”
“Actually, that is what I called to tell you about. I can go. I’m awake and ready. So if you want, you can take it easy and I’ll have the report by the time you come in later. Jack wants you there by five at the latest for the night shift, the same time he told me.”
“How come Jack didn’t call me?”
A low chuckle from Declan. “I believe he did but there was no response.”
Chaz blushed. Jack must have called while his phone was in his glove box and he was with Sully. Best not to let that faux pas linger. He sank back into his couch and watched the brightly colored news report change to report something else. His bones ached and his face was scratchy. He could use the extra time, however much it ended up being, to get properly showered, shaved, and dressed. “Well, if you’re sure you can handle the autopsy by yourself, I’ll get caught up later. Maybe I’ll even call a tip line while I’m at it.”
“Tip line? What do you mean?”
“Oh, right. Have you seen the news in this city, Declan?”
“No. No time.”
“Well, it’s changed a lot in the past few years and our broadcasts are a little different now.” Chaz picked up his remote and unmuted the TV. The nasal voice of the sportscaster merged into the equally nasal voice of the entertainment reporter. The song that had been playing at the bar—“You Belong to Me” by The Unseen Answers—played for a couple seconds with Atticus Dubcek’s image on the screen, fully made-up, in tight pants, and playing a show. It soon flashed to an image of him, without hair dye or makeup, brooding in his cell. Chaz muted the TV again, his heart in his throat. “What’s on right now isn’t the best example. But when the TV news reports on crimes, especially murder cases, they have tip lines for people to call in to that the department doesn’t have access to.”
“What? That makes no sense.”
“I know. It’s frustrating. But since the cops don’t always get their monsters right, or even consider monsters to be victims of crimes, the people and reporters band together to get it done their way. The tips that don’t pan out get turned into tabloid stories.”
“I think I’ve seen those magazines. I thought they were fake.”
“Most of them are.”
“So how can they report it?”
“Freedom of the press. And moreover, most of us don’t know for sure if those stories are fake. They sound fake, but so did the myth of the Oracle until a body was actually produced.”
“The Oracle?”
“Never mind. Old legend.” Chaz shook his head and quickly moved on. “Anyway, the fact is that no one knows for sure what’s real and what’s not, so the public has the right to access all information and to decide for themselves later on. They won a court case for it. Ignacio v. Kelley. When monsters are involved, there are a lot of unknowns the police can’t investigate. So the Citizen’s Brigade does it for the public. In Toronto, at least. They stream all over Canada so others can access the information, but it’s more like pirate radio. Other provinces don’t have the same level of supernaturals as Ontario and especially Toronto, but who knows, maybe they’ll have to open more chapters of the Brigade to keep up.”
“Huh. That seems to be asking for vigilante justice.”
“Yes and no. When they report on monsters, they don’t use anyone’s name, but give general safety tips like don’t go out during a full moon to avoid the werewolf pack causing havoc in Hamilton, or the gargoyles in the Bluffs… things like that. It’s mostly stringing together legends, you know? Only a handful of people take the stories out of context and do something stupid. And that’s what we’re for, right?”
“Still… seems irresponsible. I guess the pirate radio explains why some of the legends carry all over, even up to Nunavut. I just had no idea Toronto was the hub of things like this. Or that they allowed it to get so out of hand.”
“You gotta allow it. No other way to survive when the city has become a monster itself.”
“Well, we might have to agree to disagree on that one for now. At least, let me settle into Toronto for a bit, first.” Declan chuckled, but it seemed stilted. “And let me ask this about the Citizen’s Brigade. Are they obligated to tell us some stuff, even if it’s not everything?”
“No. But there are a couple good reporters and people I can talk to. I have in the past.”
“Good to know,” Declan said. “And what are they saying about our boy last night?”
“The news says he’s a mermaid. Merman? Don’t know the proper term. But that’s it.”
“So no news on the vamps yet?”
“No.”
“Good.” Declan sighed. “I mean, at least we can keep some information to ourselves. I will go to the autopsy. I’ll see you later, Chip.”
After a quick good-bye, Chaz looked through his missed messages and found a couple from Jack. Be at the station whenever you can. Know it’s a brutal case and you need some sleep, but that’s what the crib is for.
Chaz deleted them without replying. Atticus’s image haunted him, though he was no longer on the TV and the story was about some new buildings the Société de la Technologie de Diamant were installing in Montreal, completely built by gargoyles and their masons. Chaz tapped his fingers against his coffee table. He could get up and get dressed, shave, and make himself presentable, but the allure of a slow afternoon was now gone. He could only think of Nat.
Chaz rose from his couch and changed to a new dress shirt and pants so no one would question where he’d been last night. Then he dropped down to take out the box he kept hidden under his bed. His small movements made the act seem like a ritual or a prayer.
When the news of the Oracle having died hit the tabloids, Chaz hadn’t paid any attention to it. But when the local news team started to report on Atticus’s trial and then subsequent prison sentence for sixteen murders and arson, Chaz had rushed out and purchased every single tabloid he could find, and befriended one of the main reporters, a little person named Igby. Over drinks at Adelaide’s, Chaz had gotten as much information as he possibly could about Atticus and stitched it together with what he’d previously figured out. The tabloids contained a million sordid tales, sometimes narrative accounts, of Atticus and the Oracle—a man named Duke—fucking their way to success, but there had only been passing references to Nat.
“Who is Nathanael Wyatt?” Igby had asked when Chaz brought up the name. He munched on a ham and rye sandwich and sipped his coffee. “I only know the legends, man.”
“He is one. He’s the firestarter—the person who was first charged with Atticus’s crimes. You can’t tell me you’ve never heard of him.”
“Oh, but you see, I know him as the Flame. And I’m sorry to say, boyo, but the Flame’s been extinguished.”
“What?”
“Yeah. He’s dead. Don’t know all the details—this stuff gets garbled from so many sources—but if you’re a cop, then look into it for yourself. You know, in the Monster Mythology. I hear Toronto’s got a record-keeping system so that all the heavy hitters are accounted for.”
“Monster Mythology? What?”
Igby glanced around and shoved his plate aside so he could huddle closer to Chaz. “From what I hear, you gotta go to the basement where the real treasures are. Evidence holding, you know? There’s a file folder with all the monsters laid out. Find the real names and up pop aliases. Shouldn’t have this information, but the guy’s dead, so I can tell you that the Oracle’s full name was Dennis Gregory O’Malley.”
“Not Duke?”
“Duke’s a passing name. Dennis is his birth name. When he died in the badlands, shot by the Ghost, the Flame died with him. None of it was ever talked about much in the tabloids because, well, the whole thing with the Flame is kinda sad. And I sell more copies if I paint Atticus and Duke as lovers who fought hard until the end, going out in a blaze of bullets and glory.”
Chaz had left the meeting feeling drained. He was still new to the department and didn’t have as many clearances as he did now, so the Monster Mythology Igby mentioned was mentally put aside. Even if he had the clearance to find it, Chaz needed time to mourn. He didn’t want to look into Nat’s or Duke’s death because that would mean it was real. With information from the tabloids, even the Citizen’s Brigade, there was still some room for doubt—that Nat was actually alive and the reports had been misheard.
“A chance, a chance, a chance,” Chaz murmured now. He ran his thumb over the tabloid clippings that were well-worn with age. He needed to find out the answers now.
For once, he had time.
CHAZ PARKED his car at the diner across the street from the precinct in order to walk into the station without raising too much attention. The guard on schedule for the evidence room was Marvin, who towered over Chaz.
“How are you doin’ today?” Chaz asked, affecting nonchalance.
“I’m good. Hitting a craving real bad, though.”
“Well, it’s almost your break, right?” Chaz glanced down at his watch, then tapped the unopened cigarette package in his front pocket. “Want to step out for a moment? I have your duties.”
Marvin considered the cigarettes more than he did Chaz. He took them without another word and disappeared up the stairs. Chaz plugged the code into the keypad and stepped inside the evidence room. His card would come up if they checked the backlog, but he wasn’t planning on stealing evidence.
Next to the long stacks of enchanted weapons and confiscated drugs were tall file folders, sealed and stored away for the requisite ten years, exactly like Igby claimed. The Monster Mythology. It wasn’t as ornate as Igby had made it sound, but it was exactly the kind of record keeping Chaz needed but wasn’t always permitted to access for his cases. Each file started with a birth name. From there, the crimes were listed, the evidence at the scene, and any subsequent aliases and legend names. They were short files and meant to act as basic indexes and backups to the computer system all across New Canadiana. The Monster Mythology was in hardcopy to prevent the files from being tampered with by spider spells or viruses from techno-witches who wanted their names deleted. If a cop or detective suspected a file of having been corrupted, they could cross reference the file that was handwritten, signed, and preserved as well as with magical physical evidence. These were the purest form of records. Chaz never thought bureaucratic paperwork would be so enchanting, but here he was, spilling over the filing cabinets and searching desperately for the names he needed.
He found Dennis O’Malley right away, listed under the Oracle. Blood wizard. Self-taught with an earring power source (still missing). The crimes were long and cross-listed against several other criminals and victims. Sure enough, Nat was there. Chaz went in search of Nat’s cover file next. Nathanael Wyatt. Manifested firestarter at age fifteen (not eighteen as previous records indicate). Innocent of all crimes, framed by brother. Deceased.
Chaz’s heart stopped. In a blink, he saw Nat sleeping in the backseat of Chaz’s car. Then Atticus taking him inside one of his warehouses. Then that was it. There were years stretched between that moment and Nat’s death with Duke in the badlands of Alberta, but it all boiled down to seconds in the file in front of Chaz. Nat’s body hadn’t been identified, but the car he’d been in had gone up in flames. By the time they put it out, there was no evidence left but blood-soaked sand. The flame’s been extinguished.
Chaz slammed the file drawer. He choked back a cry. You already knew this. You already…. Chaz tried to calm himself and breathe properly. Marvin would come back soon, and Chaz didn’t need to be freaked-out in the file room over some random firestarter. He needed…. Chaz straightened up and noticed one of the other file drawers was open a crack. He pulled it out and grabbed the first file that seemed out of place.
Tex Jacobi. Leader of the Chaos Cartel. Alchemist specializing in golden gunpowder. The list of crimes was extensive, from sex trafficking both human and creature, drug trafficking, murder, extortion, money laundering, and theft under and over five thousand dollars. Deceased. Chaz flipped over the cover sheet and read that he was killed by the Judge—also known as Gabriel Dominguez.
Chaz remembered the story. The dragon shifter who destroyed half of Canada avenging the one he loved. But the Judge now had a name, which had its own history and legacy attached to it. He’d been a cop in Toronto and responsible for some of the biggest drug busts. He was killed in the line of duty by the Chaos Cartel, though—or that had been the story. The police had needed a bunch of PR wizards to clean up the fact that he’d become the Judge and taken out the Chaos Cartel directly. Chaz was floored, especially when he remembered the tabloids’ reports that the Judge had been hired by Atticus to grab the Flame.
Chaz searched deeper in the file compartment and realized the next file rearranged as if it’d been touched recently was for Gabriel Dominguez. The Judge. His crimes were the basic ones of murder and extortion, both of which he’d done as a freelancer. Last spotted three years ago over the skies of Saskatchewan. Hasn’t been seen since.
A million questions swarmed in Chaz’s mind. If the Judge grabbed Nat, why wasn’t there much talk about Nat afterward? Had he lived after all? How could anyone after a bloodbath like that? And if the Judge was supposed to be the scales of justice like everyone said, how come he never saved Nat? Chaz closed the drawer again but was caught by another question: Who had looked at this information before him? He doubted very many people had come down here to look at the files recently, given they hadn’t had problems with techno-witches in months. It would be easy, if given access to the keypad system that often kept track of badge numbers, to weed out who was there for evidence and who was there without a work-related purpose.
Chaz left the evidence room just as Marvin came back from his smoke break. The smell of it clung to him, and Chaz realized he hadn’t had one in a while. He pushed the urge away and bounded up the stairs and into his squad room. Jack and Declan weren’t around, and neither were the other set of detectives, Monique Jenkins and Gita Bhatnaghar, who often went to crime scenes with him, along with most of the squad. Chaz went to the main computer at the back near the holding cells. After a couple tries at the password for the evidence-room logs, he was in (bless everyone who thought password1 was a good way to provide security). He was halfway through the list when a hand clapped on his shoulder.
“Hey, you! I wanted to let you know we got a hit off that necklace.”
Chaz gasped, hitting the keys on the computer at once and exiting the program. He figured it was for the best when he realized Jack was next to him.
“Fuck. Don’t sneak up.”
“Sneak up? We all work here.”
The once-empty squad room now had three more detectives, including Declan by his desk. He and Jack both wore the same blue button-down shirts and standard-issue handguns holstered to their sides. Somehow Declan’s clothing looked extrapressed, as if he’d starched his uniform before getting there.
“Well, I suppose I should say good morning, right?” Chaz said. He turned away from the computer. “Err. Good afternoon?”
“Good afternoon is fine. I know your schedule is a little scrambled. You should cut back on the coffee, though, or else you’ll jump right out of your skin.”
“I haven’t had any, actually,” Chaz said. The thought of coffee made him crave it, just like the cigarette. “Can I step out and grab one?”
“In a minute, okay? I wanted to give you and Declan a debriefing about the necklace.” The excitement in Jack’s eyes was clear. He should have been doing admin work, but he seemed to already miss doing the investigating.
Though Chaz hated to leave his task unfinished, he followed Jack to their desks, where Declan had a file with an image of the necklace they’d found on the body last night, blown up several times over.
“Morning, Declan,” Chaz said. “Or afternoon, whatever.”
“I’ll call it morning if it’s the first thing you’ve done after a nap. How’s that for compromise?”
“Good. So what do we have?”
“Well, first of all, the medallion on the necklace is a locket,” Declan said.
“Great. Did the person inside it come up as missing?”
“Person? No, it’s a saint in the locket. Like on the outside. Look.”
Jack gestured to the enlarged photos. The saint inside the necklace seemed exactly the same as before, only now one of the saint’s eyes was crooked. The hearts around the saint were accented with red flowers. The background was a pale pink.
“It’s Saint Valentine,” Declan said. “We thought it was simple enough until we put the name—along with the hearts and flowers—through the database and a few gang hits came up.”
“Gang hits?” Chaz repeated. Somehow, he hadn’t expected gangs. Maybe sanctuary churches but not this. “What gangs use saints to mark their merchandise?”
“Not as simple as that,” Declan said. “Check out the next photo in the file.”
Chaz did as he was told. More images of the same necklace followed, but the back of it was enlarged. Carved into the gold was a cross with a sigil around it. Chaz closed his eyes, dreading the connection. “Another drug cartel? An alchemist pushing saints and… guns?”
“Not quite,” Jack said. “In the file, you’ll also see photos of saint candles and cards found at other scenes. All of them Valentine.”
“A calling card? Literally?”
“We’re not too sure. The bodies found at those scenes aren’t consistent in cause of death. Some drug overdoses, some murders—but some of the scenes where the candles or cards are found have no bodies whatsoever. They’re merely deserted warehouses where a cartel has been in the past.”
“So we’re not thinking a calling card for gang hits, but… what? A passageway for drugs, then?” Chaz asked. He rooted around in the file to see if he could find some gang names, something linking it to the Chaos Cartel. That had to be why the Chaos file in the downstairs room had been disturbed. Maybe it was Jack, and he’d merely followed the landmarks from Chaos to Judge to Flame and Oracle. His panic eased, but he found nothing related to the Chaos Cartel. Only more and more pictures of Saint Valentine.
“I’m pretty sure drugs are the minor fare here,” Declan said. “This seems to be Los Corazónes Con Sangre. Spanish for the Bloody Hearts, which is why Saint Valentine could be their symbol. Their main fare is sex trafficking.”
“Oh no. Really?”
“Yeah. Not to mention, our victim had sex before he died.” Declan produced a file folder from his desk. “Melinda is still working on the toxicology report for us, but she found signs of penetration consistent with sexual intercourse. No fluids or DNA, which either means condom or the water completely destroyed all evidence, but we’re hoping to get a hit on the prints. They’re still being run outside of criminal databases now, so maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” Chaz scratched his chin, still thick with stubble. He examined the photos once more, turning over the first one to see the saint. “Valentine. What else is he known for?”
“Marriages and love,” Declan said. “Hence why the Bloody Hearts would want to use him as a calling card.”
“But it’s not all Bloody Hearts’ warehouses,” Chaz said, pointing to some of the earlier crime scenes where no one had been murdered or had OD’d. “Some of these are unlabeled. So it could still be a drug route.”
“Plagues,” Jack said, piping up. “Sorry. I mean, Valentine is the patron saint for people with the plague. Epilepsy. And beekeepers in addition to marriage. Knew my Catholic education would help.”
“Yes, of course,” Declan said, looking grave, as if he was ashamed he’d forgotten these points. “I should have studied harder.”
“Maybe not,” Jack said. “What would cartels want with beekeepers as a symbol, yeah?”
“Blood, maybe. Don’t elementals taste like honey?”
“Oh shit.” Jack nodded. Chaz had to bite his tongue to keep from correcting them. Elementals never tasted like honey; they were more savory, rich. The rumor of honey was easier to sell, though, so maybe that was what mattered. If this was sex trafficking, then elementals would fetch a lot of money for both sex and drugs, since they could get humans high and were enchanting to fuck. Rare too. From what Chaz could remember from Divine Interventions, the supernatural population was 1 percent of the general population, and elementals were 1 percent of that 1 percent.
All three of them seemed to realize how likely it was to be sex trafficking based on the information they had from the saint markers and their John Doe. Declan and Jack sank into chairs they pulled up to Chaz’s side of the desk.
“So what does this mean?” Chaz asked. “Should we start looking up the cartel’s most recent transactions? Get someone from the gang crime unit over here?”
“Probably. I can put in a call for Jerry Chan in that unit, but it will take time to sift through this material, and I’m not entirely sure we’ll get too much help figuring out who murdered our guy.” Jack wore his new badge on his front pocket, which now shone under the bright fluorescent lights. His open expression and the shrug of his shoulders still made him seem younger, like their equal. Everyone here, no matter their rank, was always trying to unravel a mystery about something horrific they couldn’t understand. “It’s possible that our victim wasn’t a worker being trafficked—but someone who had sex with a worker and got caught in the crossfire.”
“Our guy was young, though,” Chaz said. “That’s not exactly a population that frequents sex workers. And it’s unlikely that the necklace would be with him if he was just walking by.”
“Maybe. But—”
“I’m thinking it’s a pimp,” Declan said, cutting in. “A vampire pimp doing transactions for the cartel since not many vamps last long in cartels themselves. So this guy is hired because he can work nights no problem and it’s probably cheaper to pay him in blood—especially since they can just use the cargo itself, right? So he’s shipping them, one of the cargo gets out of line, he threatens them, and he goes a bit too far. So he gets rid of the evidence after feeding for himself.”
Hearing Declan describe people as “cargo” made Chaz’s stomach quiver. He hated sex-trafficking cases. They were always impossible to solve and impossible to stop, and worse than all the drug crimes because the merchandise being sold wasn’t merchandise at all, but people. They could talk back—or could until pimps or johns took things too far. When sex-trafficking cases like this led to murder, it was possible to get some kind of justice—but Chaz could never look away from the victims, though there were many things he wished he’d never seen.
Or maybe, Chaz’s inner voice scolded him, you look because you feel responsible. You use people too. Just like these men.
“I know jobs like this make us squeamish,” Jack said. “But before we continue, we have to figure out what kind of shipment we’re talking about here. Were the sex-trafficking victims humans and then they were turned to supernaturals once they arrived? Were they creatures to begin with? Or are we still dealing with drugs, and the human trafficking angle is a red herring? We need to know these details before I go to gang crimes or the case is taken from us.”
“I don’t want it to be taken,” Declan said. “As rough as it is.”
“So get searching. If our boy was found at the docks, it means he was probably on a boat, right? So look through the witness statements, and I’ll go make some calls and get security clearances from the higher ups. You know, the fun paperwork.” Jack gave a weak smile as he rose from the seat. He gestured toward the file folders containing the statements, plus the seized ship manifests from each ship at the dock. “We’re talking about Lake Ontario here, not anything huge like the ocean. Someone knows something they’re not telling us.”
Chaz and Declan nodded along, and then Jack slipped into his back-room office. He already looked worn-out and it was only his first official day in charge; Chaz felt for him, so he focused on his own job in hopes of making Jack’s easier.
Alan Ramirez was doing fine and not reporting any worrying symptoms caused by his cut or his time in the water, which was good to hear. Chaz skimmed the autopsy report and saw nothing more than what he’d heard at the crime scene, so he moved on to the ship’s cargo logs while Declan scanned gang history in the area, from public records and reports. Chaz read entry after entry filled with electronics, produce, and clothing—all from legitimate companies—and was about to give up when he noticed all the cargo on board had come from one place.
“Hey. How does Manitoba fit into this?”
“What do you mean?”
Chaz showed the manifests and pointed out where each one had arrived from. Declan let out a low whistle. When Jack came out of his office, Chaz showed him right away. “Shit. I should have seen that. I’ve been getting too involved in my own success.”
“It’s fine. Why we’re here,” Declan said. “Chip’s got all our backs.”
“Yeah, something like that.” Chaz opened his computer to a different database and fed in whatever information he had about the cargo ship captains, their shipments, and Manitoba. When a couple notifications for gang arrests came up, he turned the screen to Declan. “What can you tell me about this? You see any of this before in your files?”
“I don’t think so. No Los Corazónes, anyway.”
“What about drugs, then? You see anything interesting in common with your work in Nunavut?”
Declan sighed. He squinted as he read over a couple records. Jack peered over Declan’s shoulder too, deliberately hovering. “Wait. That.”
“What?”
“That. ‘Blue gem,’” Jack said, reading from the gang arrest. “Wasn’t blue gem listed as something on the body?”
Jack pulled out the file from Chaz’s desk and confirmed it. Under the victim’s nails and on his clothing were traces of dissolved blue gem, the street name for a type of soluble, industrial thickening agent.
“Commonly used to cut magical drugs like Dino Dust,” Jack explained. “A few cartels are known for it, including the Bloody Hearts. I don’t know how they fit into Manitoba, but they used to transport the drugs in teddy bears.”
“Shit,” Chaz said. He held up one of the ship’s manifests. “A toy distribution came in on this boat. They don’t say what exactly is in the shipment itself, but it’s gotta be teddy bears.”
“And people,” Declan added. “Shit.”
“I know. It’s still all speculation at this point… but Occam’s razor. We’ve done enough like this to know what gangs and trafficking look like. And it doesn’t look good.” Jack nodded gravely, but as he took out his cell phone, a smile lingered on his lips. They were solving things together again, and Chaz’s heart yearned for more. Jack took a step to the side as he phoned for some warrants so Chaz and Declan could go and explore. Maybe even save the day.
If it ends up being as easy as this, maybe I’ll go see Sully. In that moment the need to protect Sully grew fierce. With the lingering regrets of Nat still on his mind, Chaz became more determined than ever before to not let another person he interacted with be a name in a file folder. Artie’s seemed so, so safe—there was no way it was a run-of-the-mill flophouse. Trinity enjoyed the work, Chaz knew, and so did Sully. Right? Chaz was struck by how little he knew about Sully in spite of having seen, felt, and tasted nearly every inch of him. He needed to fix that as soon as possible.
“Okay, great. Glad to hear it. We will be right there.” Jack stepped to the desks again, eyes alight.
“Are we being removed from the case?” Declan asked.
“No, no. But I’m going down to see Melinda and Katja to verify the findings on the body and liaise with Jerry in the gang unit. Now that we’ve made this connection to sex trafficking, and probably drugs, it’s best to have as many people as possible involved.”
“Never thought I’d hear you argue for more cooks spoiling the broth,” Chaz teased.
“Well, you’ll be happy when that means more expert witnesses at trial.”
“So where does that leave us?” Declan asked.
“Well, I hear Manitoba is nice in the fall,” Jack said.
Chaz looked at him aghast. “Really? The department—”
Jack held up a hand to calm Chaz’s concerns. “The plus side about being on this side of the desk is I get access to all the grants and budgetary concerns. And let’s just say the paperwork’s gone through. So Manitoba awaits you. It’s not quite time to see the leaves change, but you’ll get to experience the dog days of summer from another place.”
“And another air-conditioned hotel room, I suspect?”
“Sure, sure. Only the best rooms for the brightest detectives. Just let me write out the expense report and I’ll book your tickets. Oh, the fun part of administration.”
“I’ll still take the foot patrol over paperwork any day.”
When Jack disappeared into his office again, Chaz sighed. All thoughts of visiting Artie’s tonight left. He slumped in his seat, clicking around and printing several of the police reports he was sure they’d need when they started to retrace the ship’s path. If they could find where their victim came from, maybe they could ID him. And from there, maybe a family could come and bury him.
“Well, this took quite a turn,” Declan said. “Manitoba, huh? You ever been?”
“Yeah, boring as sin. Nothing but cold air and drug addicts. You’re not missing much.”
“Can’t be worse than Nunavut.”
“Touché.”
Chaz rose from his desk and grabbed the printed forms. He paused by their database computer but shook off the notion of finding who had gone through the file room. It had most likely been Jack all along, working this case and the leads he had. Not anyone searching for Nat or the Judge.
By the time Chaz returned to his desk, Jack was already giving them their itinerary. He’d speak to the local cops next, followed by a judge for a warrant, and forward along the victim’s photo. “We managed to give him some eyes in Photoshop, so he won’t frighten anyone and maybe people can recognize him.”
Jack handed over the mocked-up photo depicting the victim with blue-gray eyes. His skin had been given proper color too. He looked sweet. Too young to be a part of this.
“So we’re to work as soon as we land?” Declan asked, eyeing his watch. “At eight or nine?”
“As long as you two don’t mind the nighttime, then I’ll authorize the overtime,” Jack said. “How does that sound, Chip?”
“Just let me get some coffee and a cigarette, and then, maybe, I’ll be fit to pack.”