THE HUNT

CHAPTER-FORTEEN

Even at night, the area bustled with shoppers and tourists hurrying along, paying no attention to the Dallas black and whites that were inhabiting three-fourths of the hotel's parking lot.

They stood outside in front of the hotel and for a pregnant moment, no one spoke. Kate looked to the street, at the passing crowd, hoping that a clue would magically leap out at her.

Clint stepped forward. "We may have caught a break," he said. His voice was low, without its usual ting of sarcasm, and Kate had to remind herself that Clint was still an ass. "Getting the call was plain old-fashioned luck. One of the women had an ID, Golf radioed it in, and our computer caught the name. Lucky for us, she hadn't been dead long.

"I'm listening," Kate said, but she transferred her attention to Adam, and she noticed the fatigue in his eyes, the pastiness of his skin, and saw the way he leaned his body up against the concrete facade, not quite as casually as she'd thought at first glance. "You saw something, didn't you?"

"Not much," Adam said. "But enough." He held out his hand, and Clint passed him a bottle filled with a dark, thick liquid.

"You need a drink," Clint said, but Adam shook his head. "I'm fine. I didn't have to dig deep."

"Adam. . ."

"No." He took a sip, then continued. Vic's name is Matty Livingston. She's a snitch, on our payroll, however, she wasn't above passing bad intel to others if the price was right."

"Did you get a lead from Livingston?" Clint asked.

"Perhaps, she double-crossed the wrong person," Kate said. "Did you see--her killer?"

Adam shook his head. "No. Just images--emotions of what she was doing before. And a name."

"What name?" Clint asked.

Victory lit in Adam's eyes. "Dagan Peavey. The bastards, in Dallas."

"Who?" Kate said, glancing quickly between the two men.

"I talked to the bartender," Clint said, "Turns out, the hotel keeps a security camera running. Does a sweep of the tables, and it happened to catch our victim having a not-so-friendly conversation with a werewolf."

"Have you identified the werewolf?" Adam asked.

"Tony Mills," Clint said.

"Mills could be Dagan's, right-hand man," Kate said.

"He definitely has a talent for wet work." Clint said, "Maybe you two should get to gather for coffee."

Kate ignored his smart-ass comment. And crossed her arms against her chest.

"I made a few calls," Clint said. "It looks like our victim was telling anyone who'd listen about how Dagan killed those humans."

"So, let's locate and bring Mills in for questioning," Kate said. "We've got enough to charge him with Kirkland's murder. Let's see what else we can sweat out of him."

"You won't get much," Adam said. "He doesn't sound like the type, who'll simply roll over and talk."

"That's for damn sure," Clint added.

Kate cocked her head and peered at Clint. "Why can't you step in, twist a few knobs in his head, and convince him, that he wants to talk to us?"

"Big job," Clint said." And there's no way to be sure, he conveys everything. If he's a strong-willed son of a bitch, he may hold something back, and we'd never know."

"Forget about charging Mills," Adam said. "At least for right now. Instead, we play him."

"How?" Clint lifted a brow to Adam.