Free Feral Nights by Cynthia Leitich Smith Page A

whisper.
    “Breathe,” Aimee replies. “Go look at the CDs.”
    I run a hand through my hair. “All I want —”
    “Let me handle this. If you act all intense, she’ll get suspicious.”
    I reluctantly wander to the racks of CDs. The labels read: WOOD FLUTES , CHANTING MONKS , AMBIENT , MEDITATION , HEALING , and NONPROFIT . I curl the hand that still aches from having punched the cabinet. Aimee gave me a squeeze of antiseptic lotion from her purse to clean it, and the broken skin on my knuckles has already scabbed over.
    It’s not like me to lose my temper like that. Then again, my sister’s life isn’t usually on the line. Neither is mine, for that matter.
    To cheer myself up, I check out Aimee’s cute hind end. When she shifts her weight, I take a sharp breath and choke on the scent of eucalyptus.
    She glances back. “You all right?”
    I nod, cough, and plop down on a beanbag beneath the wind chimes.
    Probably as an excuse to linger, Aimee fills out an entry form for a chance to win dinner for two at Thai Garden. According to the sign, the menu is vegan and gluten free.
    When Sandra returns, Aimee asks to take a peek at a yin-yang pendant in the case. “You know,” she begins, “I thought I spotted Paxton Junior at Sanguini’s a few months back. He was out with a petite woman. Asian with long —”
    “That must’ve been Ruby,” Sandra cuts in, setting the necklace on the glass countertop. “Saucy little thing, if you get my meaning. I haven’t seen her in months, and as far as I know, he hasn’t, either.”
    For the next few minutes, Aimee tries to finagle more information out of Sandra to no avail. That’s all we get. I have to admit, I’m more than a little disappointed.
    On our way out, Aimee snags an orange flyer off the store bulletin board.
    Studying the photo, I say, “This is a Bear band with some kind of Cat woman doing vocals.” Even in human form, Bears are easy to spot by body type. With Cats, it’s more subtle. How we move or, in the case of a photo, how we hold ourselves. The lead singer is too tall for a female of my specific breed. Beats me if she’s a werelion or Liger or part human, but she’s definitely smokin’. I’d love to make that kitty purr.
    As Aimee and I once again cross the arched bridge over the lily pond, I ask, “Do we know where the law firm is? What it’s called?”
    “Tornquist and Eastwick.” She does a quick search on her phone. “P. Tornquist is also the name of the owner of a local music-promotion company.”
    Bingo.

JUST PAST THE WINDSOR EXIT, I’m about to check a text from Clyde when Detective Wertheimer pulls the car over. He ducks in Yoshi’s backseat like he’s worried someone might see us talking. “Well, well, well,” Wertheimer begins. “When did you two become such good friends?”
    “Is there a problem, officer?” Yoshi asks, turning off the radio.
    “Don’t play dumb, kid,” he replies. “Me and Zaleski told you to lay low, not prance around town, playing Nancy Drew with —”
    “We’re not playing,” I say, though the Nancy Drew part is flattering.
    “You’ve been tailing us,” Yoshi states. “I spotted you two exits ago.”
    “No kidding.” The detective leans closer. “I wanted to warn you. Watch out for the Tornquists. They’ve got deep pockets, and Daddy T is well connected.”
    “Did you question him about Ruby?” Yoshi asks.
    “The younger Mr. Tornquist came in voluntarily,” Wertheimer explains. “However, he chose to do so without any advance notice while Zaleski and I were away on a cruise retreat. A couple of other cops talked to him.”
    Yoshi adjusts the rearview mirror. “Human cops?”
    Wertheimer doesn’t take the bait, but I know what they’re both thinking. Many werepeople can gauge others’ emotions — fear, aggression, even passion. Even better, most can ID the species of fellow shifters by scent.
    Or, as Travis used to joke, “The nose knows.”
    Silence fills the car until