Just to be on the safe side, Ian had requested backup of the demon-fighting variety, and until they arrived, we stayed.
I was happy to say that our wait was blissfully uneventful.
I didn’t hold out the same hope for our investigation. When you were dealing with demons, you were guaranteed to get “eventful” by the bucket load.
However, I knew that one thing would go right. When investigating a murder, SPI had one huge advantage over the NYPD.
We had a necromancer on staff.
Once we got Sar Gedeon back to headquarters, Bert could just ask the elf who killed him.
* * *
I didn’t think Sar Gedeon’s body could look worse.
I was wrong.
I was convinced that morgues had the same lighting as department store dressing rooms. One made you look dead; the other made you look so fat you wished you were dead. Neither even tried to be flattering.
I looked at the elf. He didn’t look like he’d gained any weight, just lost more blood, or maybe it’d just pooled in his back and butt like I’d seen on CSI. Now if we could solve a murder in an hour like they did.
I wondered briefly about putting “flattering morgue lighting” on my end-of-life request list.
I’d be gone and wouldn’t care, but I’d rather no one see me on a stainless steel table looking anywhere near that bad. Though hopefully, some of me wouldn’t have been partially cooked, and I wouldn’t have had a sadistic killer rip his way into my chest and cut out my heart while his demon buddy held me down with his big ol’ cow hoof. I didn’t care who you were, no one looked good after that.
We were six stories below Manhattan’s Washington Square Park in the lab of SPI’s world headquarters complex. Nearly as big as the park itself, the complex was centered around what we called the bull pen, which was where most of the field agents had their offices. Above were five stories of steel catwalks connecting labs, more offices, and conference rooms.
We were in the morgue section of the lab. It was my first time here and I really wouldn’t have minded it being my last.
Everything was white tile and stainless steel, and totally pristine—except for the burned brisket of a mutilated elf on the table. A table with troughs and drains.
Normally when I felt this queasy, I went straight for the ginger ale and saltines.
Our resident necromancer, Bertram Ferguson, looked like somebody’s grandpa. That is, if their grandpa was Santa Claus.
Even though it was only the first week of November, Bert knew better than to wear anything red. The belt loop on his jeans had long since turned over their challenging job to suspenders. Today’s suspenders were navy, the plaid shirt dark green, making him look less like Santa Claus and more like an understated lumberjack. Bert was big, not in an excess of fat, but bigness of big.
The necromancer’s strength and speed were equally notable. Bert attended a crime scene only if there was a dead body, but that didn’t mean there couldn’t still be living perpetrators lurking around. For all his size, the necromancer could outsprint most SPI field agents to reach the safety of his armored van, though it was more like a laboratory on wheels. Not being eaten by the monster du jour was a powerful motivator.
Outside the morgue lab, Bert had met me with his usual bear hug. And as usual, I’d had to stand on tippy toes to even try to get my arms over his shoulders to hug his neck. I and everyone else at SPI loved Bert Ferguson.
He regarded me with his bright blue eyes. And yes, like Santa’s, they did twinkle.
“I understand you had unexpected company at lunch,” he said.
“Ian or the guy having the bad trip?”
“Yes. Which one ruined your date more?”
I blinked. “You knew about my date?”
“Everyone knew. So which one was it?”
“I’ll have to think about that and get back to you.”
Bert chuckled. “Take it easy on him, he’s—”
I waved a hand. “I know. He’s just doing his job.”
“That, too. You don’t have any big brothers, do you?”
“No brothers, period. No sisters, either.”
Bert gently patted me on the shoulder with one big paw. “You’ve got a brother now. And he’s going to take care of you whether you like it or not.”
“I’m getting that impression.”
The morgue tech stuck her head out the door. “Whenever you’re ready, Bert.”
6
DETECTIVE Fred Ash had asked to be present for the pre-autopsy questioning. Before starting work at SPI, those were two words I never thought I’d hear together.
A few supernatural members of the NYPD enjoyed SPI headquarters privileges. Fred was one of them. When crimes involved supernatural perps or victims, shared information between SPI and select members of the NYPD had brought criminals to justice many times. It was a working relationship we all valued.
Ian and I were in the morgue because with me able to see the portal the killers had used to enter and leave the scene of the crime, this case was going to land on our desks with a resounding thud.
I’d called my manager, Alain Moreau, about what I’d seen. He hadn’t been in his office, so I’d left a voicemail. My being able to see portals was the earth-shattering equivalent of a documented visitation from the Almighty himself, so I expected my vampire manager to come crashing through the morgue door any moment now.
The tech left to give Bert more privacy to work, so it was just the four of us. Five, if you counted the corpse we were about to have a conversation with.