Skin Deep

CHAPTER 7

THE VAULT WAS a club everyone knew by reputation but few under a certain income bracket ever experienced. The clientele varied in character throughout the day, but the atmosphere didn’t. Money and power ruled. The upstairs lounge functioned as the power lunch site where lawyers and lobbyists dined with elected officials and their staffs, maintaining the facade of friendship against a backdrop of exchanged favors. By midafternoon, the room evolved into an elite social club that included women and fey, meaning it had the trappings of an old men’s club with the vibe of the new century. The bar saw traffic for the after-work decompression and late in the evening for post-charity-event socializing or breaks from late-night strategy sessions. Laura had been there a few times as Laura Blackstone as well as Mariel Tate, her high-level InterSec persona. She was surprised that two midlevel police officers were interested in the place and more surprised they gained entrance without their badges.

Sinclair and Gianni met her after she parked her SUV in a lucky spot on the street. The doorman held the door as they entered-Laura first, which she wasn’t sure was courtesy or sexist. As the closing door cut off afternoon daylight from the dimmer foyer, the doorman said, “See you later, Sal.”

So Gianni, at least, was known at the Vault. If she had to guess which of her companions was a regular, she would have said Sinclair before Gianni. Sinclair had the look of a Vault bar patron, early twenties to late thirties, dress pants and shirt. She admitted that he looked handsome, equally comfortable in the sports coat he was wearing as he was in the black SWAT-team gear. Without asking or being told, Gianni leaned in to the coat checkroom and retrieved a sports coat that hung with several identical ones under a discreet sign indicating that they were required dress for men. Laura trailed behind them to the bar.

The bartender finished an order, then handed up draft beers to Sinclair and Gianni. He smiled at Laura inquiringly. “Same for me,” she said.

No one spoke as they assessed the room. Laura recognized several people, some from meetings as Laura Blackstone or Mariel Tate, some from the evening news, but mostly the room was full of the unknown people who made the wheels of government turn. Years ago, when she found herself in D.C. advocating for the fey more and more, she’d bought a book to learn how the American democratic system worked. A week after her first job at the Guildhouse, she threw the book away.

Washington worked like so many other governments-relationships and favors drove policies more than rules and regulations ever could. The letter of the law was followed, but the intent or the spirit of it wasn’t always. Words on a page could mean anything if someone powerful enough wanted them to. That was one of the reasons humans feared the fey, though they might not articulate it that way. There was a fear, sometimes a real one, that the fey would use their power against anyone who threatened theirs. High Queen Maeve wasn’t known as the Bitch of Tara for nothing.

The bartender slid a beer next to the first two and walked away. No bill. No tab.

Sinclair picked up a glass. “To Gabrio Sanchez.”

“To Sanchez,” Laura said, and tapped his glass with her own. Gianni frowned as he tapped glasses but didn’t verbalize the toast. He turned a shoulder to them and faced the busy room. Laura sipped her beer, scanning the crowd with a practiced innocent air.

“Have you ever been here before?” Sinclair asked.

She shook her head, amused that it sounded like a lame conversation starter for a pickup. “I’m not much of a bar person.”

Gianni walked off without a word. He leaned in halfway down the bar and started talking to two young women. Laura didn’t think much of it. While they were out of his price range, they were close enough in age to keep it not-creepy. She scanned the bar again until her gaze settled on Sinclair. He smiled.

“What the hell are we doing here?” she said.

He chuckled and finished off his beer. “Gianni does a detail here every once in a while, so he likes to think he belongs.”

“And you?”

The bartender landed another beer for both of them. “I work details, too, sometimes. Mostly I come to watch Gianni make an ass of himself,” Sinclair said.

Laura cocked an eyebrow. “Nice. So why am I here?”

“That’s what I’m wondering. Why’d you come?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe I wanted to get to know Sanchez’s friends.”

Sinclair stared into his beer. “You having survivor’s guilt?”

She paused, considering whether Sinclair would like that or not. “No. It was screwed up, but it wasn’t my fault.”

Sinclair nodded once sharply. “Good. Sanchez wasn’t worth the guilt.”

Sinclair knew she was a druid. He had to know she sensed things off people, even if he didn’t know that she could sense emotion more acutely than other druids. He had to know he was not putting out mourning signals. “Okay, I’ll bite. Why didn’t you like Sanchez?”

Sinclair leaned into the corner to face her fully. “Maybe Sanchez disappeared a lot with no explanation. Maybe he asked a lot of questions, then maybe he clammed up if someone asked him anything. Maybe he liked coming down here as much as Gianni does.” He took a long pull on his beer. “Or Foyle, for that matter.”

“Something about this place I should know?” she asked.

He kept his smile teasing. Laura felt herself blush at his direct gaze. She never thought of the Janice glamour as particularly attractive, more like a simple, plain-looking police officer. She definitely didn’t expect someone with Sinclair’s looks to be interested in Janice, but that was what that teasing smile sure as hell felt like. She told herself it was the beer. She hadn’t eaten all day and was already feeling the soft tickle of alcohol coursing through her. She was tired and seeing things to make herself feel better.

“I’m not talking. I’m just saying. Know what I mean?” he said.

Laura wasn’t sure she did. She didn’t want to seem eager, so she put a little irritation in her voice. “Maybe you’re being real nice to someone you just met. Maybe I could take that two ways. And maybe, considering the freaking bruise on the side of my head, I should be cautious about what I hear. Know what I mean?”

He laughed. She liked his laugh. She wanted to slap herself for thinking it. With everything going on in her life, the last thing she should be doing was clouding her judgment with an attraction to someone who might have shot her. “Yeah, I do.”

Laura stopped looking at him. While they didn’t speak, the silence didn’t stretch to uncomfortable. Assessing, Laura thought. They were assessing their next moves. Offering the raid reports and now hinting at dirty cops was a little too much too soon for her taste. She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to bite on something or if she was being warned off. As far as Sinclair knew, she was a low-level staffer from InterSec, farmed out for the cleanup chores and no-brainer jobs. In other words, no one powerful, so no one likely to bring in any noise from InterSec. Considering where they were, if Sinclair was a regular at the Vault, he had plenty of opportunity to connect with someone who might be interested in stirring the pot in a SWAT-team squad room.

Someone on the team had taken a shot at her, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to assume that the same person had killed Sanchez. Laura had to consider the possibility that the bread crumbs Sinclair was laying out could be a trap to see what she knew or remembered.

He finished his second drink. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to give Gianni a heads-up that the woman whose ear he just licked is a congressman’s daughter.”

“So now you care?” Laura shot at him.

He gave her a cocky grin over his shoulder. “He’s my ride unless you take me home.”

She rolled her eyes. The woman in question did not look pleased, and Gianni wasn’t getting the message. Sinclair slipped between them and ordered another beer. He spoke to Gianni, then turned to the woman and introduced himself.

The bartender slid another drink in front of Laura. “On the house,” he said, and walked away before she could respond. She picked up the fluted glass and sniffed. Brandy, an Armagnac by the shape of the glass. Sinclair caught her eye. She raised the glass and toasted him. He smiled uncertainly as his gaze shifted to her glass. Gianni said something that distracted him, and he looked away. The amber fluid spread across her tongue and released shades of vanilla and apricot and something earthy she couldn’t identify. The crowded bar made it difficult to parse the scents, but it was delicious. Another pleasant surprise from Sinclair.

Intent on watching Sinclair and Gianni, Laura didn’t pay any attention when someone stood behind her. The barroom was crowded, and the bar itself was, too, so the sudden presence next to her did not seem amiss. Until the person behind spoke in her ear. “Good teammates watch each other’s backs.”

She looked into the face of a tall elf. She recognized him immediately from media reports. Tylo Blume smiled pleasantly down at her, his pointed ears showing through long dark hair tied loosely at the middle of his back. Apprehension rippled through her. Blume was a high-profile mover and shaker on Capitol Hill. He had friends in all the right places and was worth millions. The same Tylo Blume that Senator Hornbeck wanted Laura Blackstone to meet and secure a speaking role for at the Archives’ exhibit opening. And suddenly here he was, talking to Janice Crawford. Washington could be a small town, but she hated coincidences and always suspected them.

“Teammates?” she asked.

Blume made no overt indication to the bartender, but another glass of Armagnac appeared at his elbow. He must have done a sending. Laura looked down at her own glass. Not Sinclair then. She felt foolish, accepting a drink without knowing who it was from, as if she were a kid from the country on her first city visit.

Blume glanced over at Gianni and Sinclair. “As are you, Ms. Crawford.” He held out a hand. “Tylo Blume.”

She shook. “And you know me because…?”

He sipped his drink and peered down at her. She debated whether he was sneering or amused. “I heard about what happened to you and wanted to meet you.”

Laura played it cautiously pleasant. “Really? Why?”

He nodded up the bar. “Your friends, Gianni and Sinclair, do some work for me occasionally. I could use a druid with backbone.”

Laura decided Janice would be clueless about Blume. “I’m sorry, but who are you?”

He continued staring at her with his thin smile. His essence felt amused. Laura had the sense that he was buying the dumb act. “Well, I own this place, for one thing. The building, in fact.”

“Nice place. And for another thing?”

“Let’s say I have several business interests in town,” he said.

She feigned loss of interest, looking around the room. “Oh. I don’t really follow politics.”

She caught Sinclair’s watchful eye. He looked away a fraction of a second later, as if he didn’t want her to know he was watching. Blume stayed next to her.

“Are you interested?” he asked

“In a job? Depends. What do you have in mind?” she asked.

Blume took a turn scanning the room. “Look around. Even if you don’t follow politics, you probably recognize a few faces in here. We keep the press and the tourists out. Off-duty law enforcement helps our clients and keeps the place safe.”

Laura twisted her lips. “I don’t know. It sounds like you want a bouncer. I became a police officer to get out of that gig.”

“There are interesting security issues as well,” said Blume.

“I’ll have to think about it,” she said.

“My offices are upstairs. Shall we discuss it in more appropriate surroundings?” he asked.

She was tempted. She had followed Gianni and Sinclair to learn what she could about them. Blume was unexpected, and unexpectedly respectable, but clearly one of her “teammates” had told him about her. Under normal circumstances, she would have taken advantage of such a turn of events. But now the timing and situation felt wrong. Two and a half drinks had taken the edge off her alertness, and drinking with a concussion hadn’t been the smartest move in the first place. She didn’t need to follow up tonight.

“Maybe another time,” she said.

“You could use the money,” he said.

In one sense, it was true-part of the Janice biography. But Blume spoke with a tone of conviction that revealed he knew it for a fact. She faced him with a touch of indignation in her face. “Excuse me?”

He pursed his lips, his amusement turning smug. “You live in a small apartment and have no family to help you financially. InterSec throws you a short job once in a while, and the D.C. human force has no interest in hiring you. You’re three months late on your student loan, and your cable was turned off last month.” He placed a business card on the bar. “Do think about it.”

He melted into the crowd without another word. She picked up the card, a plain cream with two evergreen stripes down the side and across the top. The only text gave Blume’s name, email address, and a phone number, no title or business.

“I see he made his pitch,” Sinclair said.

She glanced at his sudden appearance. He didn’t startle her, but she was surprised she hadn’t detected his body signature until he was right next to her. Her limited sensing range became more constricted in crowded rooms; but once she knew someone, she was usually more sensitive to the body signature. She frowned. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

“It wasn’t my idea. Maybe I wanted to see how you reacted,” he said.

“Did I pass your test?”

“Did you take the job?”

“No.”

He toasted the air. “A-plus.”

“I don’t like being played, Sinclair. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She decided to establish her own role as the druid with a backbone. She pushed through the crowd. She’d have plenty of time to make nice in the squad room.

“Wait a sec,” Sinclair called to her, when she reached the foyer. He followed her. She continued forward but waited for him on the sidewalk.

“What?” she asked, when he stepped out.

“Look, don’t take this wrong. I didn’t mean to make you mad. They played me when I was the new guy. You’re just newerer.”

She glared at him, then laughed. “I hope you’re drunk and don’t think that’s a word.”

He had the good grace to hang his head in embarrassment. Laura wasn’t buying it yet. “You okay to drive?” he asked.

She gave him a cocky look. “I’m a police officer with a badge. I’m always okay to drive.”

She tucked her chin down as she walked away so that he could not see her smiling. His concern about her driving was genuine. She surprised herself by feeling flattered but didn’t want Sinclair to see her looking pleased. He might get the wrong impression. Or the right one. Despite her suspicions, she liked him. He had a refreshing honesty in a city seldom known for truth. He wasn’t telling her everything-either about himself or what he knew about the raid-but at least he wasn’t lying. Yet. She allowed herself to enjoy the attraction. It had been a long time since she noticed a man. Surrounded as she was by beautiful fey people in the Guildhouse, physical attractiveness had almost become a given in what passed for her social life. Finding someone attractive wasn’t the problem. Finding someone attractive in the right way was.

She decided to stay the night at the Guildhouse. It was closer than her apartment, and she wanted to get an early start in the morning. She parked her SUV in its usual spot, shifted out of the Janice glamour in the elevator lobby, and rode the elevator to her Blackstone office.

Without pausing, she went to the closet behind her desk and pushed aside the coat and extra outfit she stored there. To the casual observer, the closet was two feet deep. However, the back wall didn’t exist in the conventional sense. A masking spell created the illusion of a wall, tactilely and visually. The spell was keyed to her body signature, and it tingled over her skin like cobwebs. It allowed her to pass through to an office on the opposite side of the floor. InterSec had requisitioned the space for her. The people who worked in the nearby department thought the hall door on their side accessed an electrical closet.

A double clothing rack along one side held a variety of outfits. Beneath, dozens of shoes sat toes to the wall, everything from work boots to ballet slippers. An unmade bed took up most of the next wall. Two worktables, a bureau, and a desk filled the rest of the space. The room was cluttered and messy, the stale, filtered air tinged with the faint burnt odor of the herbs that she used for healing and meditation.

Laura slept in the room more often than she liked to admit. As the years went on, she spent more time in it, even thought of it as a home. There was no pretense about the room, no artifice. It represented a world of hidden agendas, but the room itself contained none. It was the one place where she didn’t have to be anyone. The problem was, she wasn’t quite sure what that meant anymore. Her life had become the room, closed off, contained, and hidden.

She stripped off her clothing. In the cramped bathroom, she examined herself in the mirror as she waited for the hot water to come up. The bruise from the gunshot hit was already fading, a testament to her fey constitution. Despite whatever Cress had done to boost her essence, she looked drawn and pale. She didn’t spend much time in the tiny, claustrophobic shower, staying just long enough to get the odor of the bar off her.

In the main room, her gaze fell on a vodka bottle next to the hot plate. Even as her hand reached for the bottle, she changed her mind, picked up the teapot, and filled it from the bathroom tap. A small burn ignited in her chest. After decades on the job watching colleagues disintegrate in an alcoholic rage, she was not going to slide into the trap now. It bothered her that she had reminded herself about it twice in two days. Instead, she made chamomile tea and added healing herbs.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she wove a chant into the aroma from the tea. It flickered with healing essence as she sipped. Warmth spread in her chest and stomach, and she used her body essence to nudge the spell to her sore shoulder and head. The ache in both places lessened, as though under a mild anesthetic.

Turning off the lights, she stared into the darkness. She had spent too many moments gazing too long at Sinclair. She needed to pull herself together, remember her job, and not get distracted. Not by drinking and not by flirting with Jonathan Sinclair.

She sighed and rolled on her side. The only explanation she had for her behavior was exhaustion. Why else would she be almost actively slipping up? She needed a break, that much she was sure of. As she drifted into sleep, the image of Sinclair’s amber eyes floated through her mind. He was handsome. He was intriguing. He was interested. She reminded herself that none of those things were worth getting killed over.