Crime Bites (Urban Fantasy Novel)

Part 7

From the airport, the police hustled us into a police cruiser. With all the hub-bub there was no chance to say anything to Jim about the 'reporter.' I couldn't talk without being overheard, so I stayed quiet. This was when I hated being psychic. I couldn't be open. Everything had to be a secret. It didn't just suck, at the moment, it was also obstructing justice, but there was nothing I could do but wait until we were alone.

Not to mention the cop driving us was quite chatty. The drive to the police station gave us a good view of Cleveland and our escort kept up a running narrative from which I learned:

Cleveland was home to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

There were at least seven purse snatchings a day at Tower City, a sprawling complex of shops and business offices.

The Cavs were an awesome basketball team.

Jim nodded politely while I tapped my foot impatiently. From what I could tell, Cleveland was about a tenth of the size of DC. I could literally see the city from end-to-end whereas DC went on farther than the eye could see. The traffic was busy though, we averaged thirty miles an hour as we approached our exit. Our escort kept yapping, talking faster than the car moved:

Bob Hope grew up in Cleveland.

John D. Rockefeller lived in Cleveland.

The creators of Superman heralded from the city.

The stoplight was invented in Cleveland.

Thomas Edison was born about an hour outside the city.

And on and on he went, like he'd memorized the wiki page for the city or something. Jim and I exchanged looks. He shrugged. I shook my head.

Finally, we arrived at our destination. The cop unloaded our luggage for us and with a tip of his hat, drove off. Nice enough guy, except for the part where he wouldn't shut up. Every other word out of his mouth had been Cleveland.

I picked up my bags and took in my surroundings. The Cleveland police occupied a squat concrete building that crouched under the neighboring skyscrapers as if hoping no one would notice how ugly it was. Not that I was judging. The FBI building in DC wasn't known for its beauty either. Law enforcement just seemed to favor ugly concrete brick buildings. It must have something to do with security, or if not that, small budgets.

Before we entered the building, I tried to pull Jim aside, wanting to finally tell him about the psychic-posing-as-a-reporter, but thanks to the scene at the airport, more cop nannies were waiting for us. Before I could get a word out, a petite female police officer, her dark hair pulled back in a neat bun, scurried over to us.

"Agents Packard and Larson?" she asked, her voice carrying a faint Spanish accent. When we nodded, she said, "Follow me. Detective Moskaluk is waiting for you."

It seemed we wouldn't be alone any time soon.

***

Detective Leah Moskaluk, looked like she was having a bad day. Her dishwater blond hair hung in limp strands around her face and her navy pantsuit did little to hide her stocky build. She would have been pretty if she hadn't been working around the clock on the Dracula murders. Sleep deprivation had turned her face gray and shadows hung underneath her pale blue eyes.

We sat at a scuffed up conference table and eyed each other across its wooden expanse. The Detective leaned back in her chair, arms crossed as she eyeballed us, trying to figure out whether we were friend or foe.