The Keepers Story 01 - The Gatekeeper

every conceivable comfort.
    Maybe it wasn’t Carl Bailey, Saxon reminded himself.
    He shook his head.
    No, Carl had to be involved. The new wolf from Toronto hadn’t been here long enough to make the kinds of connections you needed to kill someone and dispose of the body.
    Still, it wouldn’t do to count the guy out. A smart detective considered all possibilities.
    He rose. He supposed he could pay a visit to Carl. But he wanted more evidence than what he had—which came down to pretty much nothing—when he actually accosted the man.
    He wanted to arrest the bastard, just on general principles, but he had nothing to hold him on.
    Besides, how much good would it do when he finally did have enough? How much sway did Carl Bailey have in the courts? Was there any hope the werewolf would actually wind up paying the ultimate penalty under the law?
    There should have been another law. A universal law for the nonhuman races. The kind of law that the Keepers had surely used to rule over their creatures, once upon a very long time ago.
    Saxon reminded himself that he was a cop. Even if he could prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Carl Bailey was a murderer, the man was protected by his rights under the Constitution. Saxon couldn’t just walk in with a silver bullet and shoot him down.
    They desperately needed real laws for the Otherworld. With real consequences.
    It was a waste of time to rue the fact that Monty Reilly was either as crooked as Carl Bailey or totally ineffectual. There were two lost people out there, alive or dead. One of them a woman who was, in a way, kin. He had to find them.
    He put through a few calls and found out that the new wolf in town, Jimmy Taylor, was playing craps at one of Carl Bailey’s casinos.
    He decided he felt like gambling.
    * * *
    Jimmy Taylor was in his late twenties, tall, leanly muscled, and he had a thick lock of dark hair that fell over his forehead and the heavy-lidded bedroom eyes that women seemed to find attractive.
    The guy could have made it in movies. He should have headed to Hollywood—the kingdom of stars—Saxon thought.
    But he’d come here instead—to the kingdom of high stakes.
    Carl Bailey’s Galway Glen casino was, like all his properties, expensively and expertly decorated. There were salutes to Ireland throughout. The Tralee Tavern, located above the casino floor with a view of the action, was done in shades of green, and the bartenders were all female and all wearing short green skirts. Carl liked women—the prettier the better, the bustier better still. It was pretty much a given that if a beautiful woman wanted a job—and was willing to kowtow to Carl Bailey—she was guaranteed a job at the casino.
    Saxon knew that Carl hated him. He knew from the minute he entered the casino that the security cameras were on him and his presence would be announced to Carl, wherever in the city the man might be.
    He didn’t head straight to the gaming tables but decided on a drink first. He settled into a green upholstered chair at the Tralee and took a minute to appreciate the ornately carved wood of the bar itself, designed to look as if it had been cobbled together from logs in a forest. Eyes peered out from between artificial branches, as if mischievous leprechauns were watching out for those who’d come to imbibe. A realistically carved female figure, one of Ireland’s famous selkies, looked down from above the bottles of expensive liquor shelved behind the bar.
    His waitress was in her early twenties. She shimmered a bit when she moved, and he instantly thought, shape-shifter.
    “Good evening, Detective Kirby,” she said. “Are you here to ask questions? Or are you...off duty?” she finished flirtatiously.
    “I’m off duty. But I always like to ask questions,” he told her. “I can start with how do you know my name?”
    She flushed. “I guess you’re not going to believe I’ve waited on you before and you introduced yourself?”
    “No.”
    “Okay, so...the truth is, Mr. Bailey alerted the employees to keep an eye out for you to show up. He doesn’t want to cause a stink by refusing you entrance. He does want you watched.”
    Saxon looked over at the selkie statue above the bar. He knew she had cameras in her shimmering eyes.
    He waved.
    “Why does he want me watched?” he asked innocently.
    “He says you’re on a vendetta—blaming the werewolves for everything that’s been happening lately.”
    “Could be a shifter pretending to be a