Hannah Jayne - Under Suspicion

“Well, maybe I can help you. I wrote a little for my high-school newspaper.”

Actually, I wrote a lot for my high-school newspaper and stashed every poignant well-worded “Letter to the Editor” in my locker, along with reams of sorrowful poetry about waxing moons, waning sunlight, and one of the guys from the New Kids on the Block. I never had the guts to submit anything. In high school, I barely had the guts to walk down the hall. I just wanted to blend in then, to quietly hide in my B.U.M. sweatshirts and stretch pants, dissolving into the spiral permed masses, but I always had the unfortunate ability to stand out.

First, on account of my fire engine red hair, which curled in all the wrong ways. Of course, that was correctable and forgettable, but my nickname—bestowed upon me by one of the prettiest, perkiest girls to ever don a Mercy High uniform—stuck. Year after year I endured the whispers, coughs, and downright shouts of “Here comes Special Sophie, the Freak of Nineteenth Street!”

It didn’t matter that Nineteenth was an avenue.

I sat down across from Nina and poked her arm. “Read me what you have so far.”

“That’s just it!” Nina moaned. “I’m paralyzed. I haven’t written a single word!”

“You have to have written something to have writer’s block. Otherwise, we all have it.”

It was nearly ten A.M. and the pace was humming along at UDA, but I couldn’t concentrate. Each time I tried to open a new file, my mind drifted back to Mrs. Henderson, to the putrid odor and the brackish water that was seeping into her carpet and linens. Finally I pushed everything aside and knocked on Dixon’s door.

“Ah, Ms. Lawson, come on in.”

“Hi, Dixon. I was wondering if you had a chance to look over the information I gave you regarding the”—I paused, my stomach folding in on itself—“the incident over at the Hendersons’ house.”

A sympathetic look washed over Dixon’s hard angles. “I did take a look at the information, Ms. Lawson.” He shook his head. “Such a tragedy.”

I sat down. “So what are we going to do about it? I was thinking I could go over there, maybe talk to some of the neighbors, see if they heard or saw anything—”

Dixon held up a single hand, pressing his lips into a smile that was meant to be disarming, but it came off as completely patronizing. “You don’t need to worry about that.”

“No, I’m happy to help. Mrs. Henderson—well, as difficult as she was, she was a very dear friend to me. I’d like to be involved in finding her—her killer.”

Dixon’s eyebrows rose. “Her killer?” He licked his lips, his smile inappropriately sly. “Look, Ms. Lawson, I’m aware of some of your previous endeavors, crime fighting and all”—he chuckled, a sound that sent ice water shooting through my veins—“but I sent the Investigations team over to the Henderson house myself, and they assure me that while the house was in disarray, there was absolutely no evidence of wrongdoing.”

“No evidence of wrongdoing? The place was destroyed. There were windows broken and rotting food and ... what do you think? The whole family just up and died all at once?”

Dixon remained very still, very firm. His countenance was marble solid and menacing. The slick smile was gone from his lips; they were slightly parted now, just enough to show the angled bottom of his front fangs. “The Henderson children are with their father. Now, Ms. Lawson, I’ll thank you to stick to your job responsibilities, and those responsibilities only. You need to keep your nose out of things that do not involve you.” Dixon jabbed a long, elegant pointer finger at me. “You are a very important part of this community, Ms. Lawson. You offer a specialized skill in the Fallen Angel Division. But if I find that you’re not giving your own job responsibilities the attention they deserve, you can be replaced.”

Dixon laced his fingers together and offered me a kind, milquetoast smile. “Is there anything else?”

I wanted to stand up and scream—or stake him through the heart—or remind him that I had single-handedly brought down the biggest baddie the Underworld had ever seen, but all I could do was nod mutely. The rage simmered underneath my skin.

“Thank you,” I finally managed.

I was walking back to my office when Nina linked arms with me, hers ice cold and refreshing to the heat that pulsed in mine. “Someone’s walking with purpose.”

“Dixon,” I muttered. “I told him about Mrs. Henderson and he tossed me off the case.”

Nina stopped and unwound my arm from hers, crossing hers in front of her chest. “What case?”

“Not a case, per se, but something is weird there,” I hissed.

“Did he say he was looking into it?”

“He said he had the Investigations team check it out, but there’s something wrong, Nina. I just know it.”

“What’d Alex say about it?”

I swallowed. “He said to leave it alone.”

Nina raised a coy eyebrow. Her lips arced up into a “well, then, leave it alone” kind of smile.

“Something is wrong here,” I repeated. “I have a hunch.”

Nina pirouetted. “Is your hunch that this is the perfect lunching-with-Harley dress?”

I glanced at my watch. “It’s ten-thirty in the morning.”

“Is your hunch that this dress is the perfect brunching-with-Harley dress then?”

I rubbed my temples. “You know, I don’t know why I even bother. When are you going for brunch?”

“We’re not. At least not officially. But it behooves a woman to be prepared.”

“Yes. While demons disappear, a woman should always be prepared for brunch.”

Nina narrowed her eyes. “You know what? My heroine’s going to be a go-get-’em crime fighter like you.”

“And, like me, is everyone going to think your crime-fighting heroine is blowing things out of proportion?”

Nina pushed out her bottom lip. “No. That’s not sexy. Cover for me if I’m not back from lunch in time for dinner?”

Nina left me standing alone in the UDA hallway, the fluorescent light buzzing overhead, the hum and din of demons and paper shuffling all around me. My mind went back to the squalid scene at the Henderson house, and I tried to dismiss it, tried to let my suspicions rest, let Dixon’s investigative team allay them.

But something kept niggling at me.

“Alex?” I was upstairs at the police station, rapping on Alex’s office door.

“You’re going to have to knock a lot louder than that,” someone said as they coasted by me. “He ain’t here anymore.”

I felt my eyebrows go up and pushed the door open an inch, poking my nose in. I snaked an arm in and flicked the light switch and then stepped in.

“Alex?”

The room was empty, every cardboard box gone. Alex’s desk was still pushed against the wall, chair stacked on top, but other than that, the room was spartan. It looked as though Alex had never existed—or was never coming back.

An unexpected sob choked in my throat.

“He left? He didn’t even say good-bye.” I sniffled pitifully, feeling tiny and alone.

“Aren’t you Sophie Lawson?”

Had there been anything in the room, I would have tumbled over it when the man spoke. Instead, I clutched my heart and stumbled backward, hyperventilating like a COPD ad.

“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

The man who was trying to coax me down from my near heart attack was dressed in a pristine San Francisco police uniform, which he didn’t look quite old enough to wear. He had smooth, dark skin and thick eyebrows, which stood out underneath a close-cropped Caesar cut. “I’m Officer Romero. I worked with Alex a couple of times. Are you okay?”