Mercy Thompson 01-05 - THE MERCY THOMPSON COLLECTION

you.”
    â€œI don’t mind,” he said.
    He never complained about work, no matter what I asked him to do.
    â€œIt’s all right. I can get this.”
    My cell phone rang about fifteen minutes later, but my hands were too greasy to pick it up so I let it take a message while I worked on cleaning up the engine well enough that I could figure out where all the oil was leaking from.
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    It was almost quitting time and I’d already sent Gabriel home when Tony walked into the open garage bay.
    â€œHey, Mercy,” he said.
    Tony is half-Italian, half-Venezuelan, and all whatever he decides to be for the moment. He does most of his work undercover because he’s a chameleon. He’d worked a stint in Kennewick High School posing as a student ten or fifteen years younger, and Gabriel, who knew Tony pretty well because Gabriel’s mother worked as a police dispatcher, hadn’t recognized him.
    Today Tony was all cop. The controlled expression on his face meant he was here on business. And he had company. A tall woman in jeans and a T-shirt had one hand tucked under his elbow and the other holding firmly to the leather harness of a golden retriever. Dogs are sometimes troublesome for me. I suppose they smell the coyote—but retrievers are too friendly and cheerful to be a problem. It wagged its tail at me and gave a soft woof.
    The woman’s hair was seal brown and hung in soft curls to just below her shoulders. Her face was unremarkable except for the opaque glasses.
    She was blind, and she was fae. Guess what fae I’d run into lately that was blind? She didn’t look like someone who could turn into a crow, but then I didn’t look much like a coyote, either.
    I waited for the sense of power I’d sensed from the crow to sweep over me, but nothing happened. To all of my senses she was just what she appeared to be.
    I wiped the sweat off my forehead onto the shoulder of my work overalls. “Hey, Tony, what’s up?”
    â€œMercedes Thompson, I’d like you to meet Dr. Stacy Altman from the University of Oregon’s folklore department. She is consulting with us on this case. Dr. Altman, this is Mercedes Thompson, who would doubtless shake your hand except hers is covered in grease.”
    â€œNice to meet you.” Again.
    â€œMs. Thompson,” she said. “I asked Tony if he would introduce us.” She patted his arm when she said his name. “I understand you don’t think the fae the police are holding is guilty: though he had motive, means, and opportunity— and he was found next to the freshly killed dead body.”
    I pursed my lips. I wasn’t sure what her game was, but I wasn’t going to let her railroad Zee. “That’s right. I heard it from the fae who was with him at the time. Zee is not incompetent. If he’d killed O’Donnell, no one would have known it.”
    â€œThe police surprised him.” Her voice was cool and precise without a trace of accent. “A neighbor heard fighting and called the police.”
    I raised an eyebrow. “If it had been Zee, they would have heard nothing, and if they had, Zee would have been gone long before the police showed up. Zee doesn’t make stupid mistakes.”
    â€œActually,” Tony told me with a small smile, “the neighbor who called said he saw the vehicle Zee was driving pull up to the house after he called the police having heard someone scream.”
    The doctor who was a Gray Lord hadn’t known about the neighbor before he told us both. I saw her lips tighten in anger. Tony must not like her, since he’d never play a trick like that on someone he liked.
    â€œSo why are you trying so hard to pin this on Zee?” I asked her. “Isn’t it up to the police to find the guilty party?”
    â€œWhy are you trying so hard to defend him?” she countered. “Because he used to be your friend? He doesn’t appear to be appreciative of your efforts.”
    â€œBecause he didn’t do it,” I said, as if I were surprised she’d asked such a stupid question. From the way she stiffened, she was as easy to get a rise out of as Adam. “What are you worried about? It’s no skin off your nose if the police do a little more work. Do you think a fae in the hand is better than searching the reservation for the guilty one?”
    Her face tightened and magic swelled in the air. It was searching the