Lover Beware

political hay out of these murders by committing legal murder himself?”
    “I don’t know,” she added, careful with her voice and her face, sick in the pit of her stomach. “But it seems possible.”
    He told her to brief him on where she was now, what she planned to do next. And before she left he told her to divide the list of registered lupi with the others who were in today and start checking them out.
    The case was still hers. Lily stood. Her knees felt spongy. “One more thing. No one was supposed to know Turner was working with me. And the only people who knew he would be at the party last night were my mother and grandmother. And they didn’t tell anyone.”
    “Trying to teach me how to suck eggs? I’m aware of the obvious. Someone leaked the story to the press. I want to know who and why. Leave that to me.”
    So Lily went back to the bullpen and told the other detectives they’d been conscripted. There were groans and teasing—she’d gone in to get her ass chewed out and come out with the captain’s backing to pull them off their current cases. She told them clean living gave her an edge, got a couple of snickers, and waited to feel better.
    She ought to be relieved. The captain had been ready to yank her off the case, but she was still in charge. Yet she felt was sick. As if she’d betrayed Rule by telling Foster what he might be planning.
    And that was just stupid. She’d known Rule only a handful of days. She would ignore her stupid, cartwheeling emotions and get on with the job.
    Being a cop came first. Always.
     
    WITHIN AN HOUR Lily had the paperwork for a search warrant ready to submit. She called Rule, but his machine picked up. She left a message. Around noon she hit the streets with six names of lupi confirmed to be still living in San Diego.
    By three she’d spoken to three of the lupi on her list and eliminated one conclusively. He worked nights as a bouncer and was solidly alibied for all three nights in question. The other two were less certain. Each claimed an alibi for one of the murders, but it was possible that more than one lupus was involved. The physical evidence was inconclusive. They’d retrieved hair from two of the three crime scenes that looked alike—mottled silver and charcoal—but the lab couldn’t prove that it had come from the same lupus without DNA testing. And the stuff wouldn’t behave under testing.
    Lily really, really didn’t like Rule’s conspiracy idea, but she couldn’t ignore it.
    At five-fifteen she left another message on Rule’s machine. It was nearly eight when he returned her call. “I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner.” His voice was rough, but she couldn’t tell what emotion moved him. “It’s been a difficult day.”
    “Tell me about it. I called because I wanted to give you notice. I’ve put in for a search warrant to get me into Clanhome. I expect to have it by Monday at the latest.” He was silent so long she wondered if her phone was working. “I told you I couldn’t wait much longer.”
    “I have to talk to you. It will take me thirty minutes to get to your apartment.”
    “I’m not there. I’m working.”
    “At this hour? What—never mind. Just tell me where I can meet you.”
    She knew what she heard in his voice now—urgency. Against her will, it convinced her to see him. She gave him the name and address of a bar down the street and disconnected, frowning.
    There was no way of knowing what he meant to say until she saw him, so she shoved it into a corner of her mind, climbed out of her car, and went to talk to Amos Whitburn, the fifth name on her list.
    Amos Whitburn turned out to be ninety-two, and even lupi weren’t proof against age. He moved well—arthritis didn’t seem to afflict weres—but he was nearly blind. Cataracts. Crossing him off her list didn’t take long, which meant that she arrived at the bar well before Rule did. This gave her plenty of time to wish she’d picked another spot.
    The area should have warned her. It wasn’t a slum, but it was on the far lower end of working class. The bar itself was what she’d expected—dark, dingy, and smelling of beer. She’d been in plenty of places like this since she joined the force. But usually she’d either been in uniform or flashing a badge. Tonight she was in wrinkled linen—baggy walking shorts, sleeveless shell, and a loose, lightweight jacket that covered her weapon. Not exactly come-hither clothes, but it didn’t seem