“He also said it can be smoked or injected,” he continued. Which supported Mez’s theory that it was a combo of alchemy and blood magic.
“What’s the street price?” I asked.
He finally put down the magazine and turned toward me fully. “Two hundred an ounce.”
“Fuck off! Who the hell are they selling that shit to at those prices?”
“My guess is they’re trying to scare off the curious.”
I frowned. “The demographic in the Cauldron that can afford that kind of scratch is so small it’s laughable.”
He shrugged. “Well someone’s buying. Gardner got a call from your boss at BPD this morning. There was a mugging last night. Vic said the perp bit him, but he managed to beat him back with his briefcase, which the perp promptly ran off with.”
“Why do they think it’s related to Gray Wolf?” I lifted the binoculars to watch the corner again.
“The vic said the guy looked like, and I quote, ‘One of them ugly werewolves from the movies.’”
I nudged him with my elbow. “Speaking of ugly—get a hold of that mug.”
The guy leaned against the building, smoking a cigarette. He was a six-foot-plus-tall sack of tough meat and gristle. His lanky frame was pretty much the only thing noteworthy about him. Brown hair, ashy skin, brown eyes.
Morales turned and lifted the binoculars to get a gander. “Recognize him?”
I nodded even though he couldn’t see me. “He’s a regular corner boy. One of the Votary boys.” Which wasn’t a surprise since the Green Faerie sat smack-dab in the middle of the territory Uncle Abe used to run. Now, of course, no single wizard was in charge of these corners—just low-level guys duking it out for prime real estate.
“I busted him a couple of times for vandalism. Real name’s Marvin Brown, but on the streets he’s known as ‘Picasso’ because he’s a coven Herald.” Personally, I thought the nickname fit because his face looked like one of those cubist paintings—all angles with no symmetry.
“Herald?” Morales shot me a curious eyebrow raise.
“Covens sometimes use graffiti to spread messages to the troops. The ones who paint the symbols are called Heralds.”
Morales nodded. “Some of the covens in Los Angeles do something similar. What kind of code do they use?”
“The Sangs tend to use Egyptian hieroglyphs. The Votaries use the alchemical language of birds.”
He shot me a look that I was too smart to mistake for respect. “What about the Os?”
“Aphrodite Johnson doesn’t bother with that cryptic bullshit.”
“So our friend is a tagger. Any history of dealing?”
“Hasn’t been collared for it yet,” I said. “But he’s looking awfully nervous for a graffiti artist without his paints.”
Marvin’s posture was casual, but his eyes worked over the street as if he was waiting for someone to attack. Morales and I were parked in a lot down the street, so he hadn’t eyeballed us yet.
“Should we have a chat with him?” I asked.
Morales watched for a few moments. Finally, he picked up his magazine again. “We’ll wait.”
“Why?”
He sighed and dragged his eyes from the magazine. “Because, Nancy Drew, we’re trying to find evidence, not have a heart-to-heart with the guy.”
I considered calling him to task on the Nancy Drew thing, but it was better than Cupcake, so I let it slide. Plus, as soon as Morales said it, a limo pulled up to the corner. We both sat up straighter. Marvin sauntered to the car and leaned in through the open window. I tried to adjust my angle, but I just couldn’t see inside past Marvin’s skinny ass.
“Wait for it,” Morales said.
Just then, the Herald pulled something out of his pocket. Couldn’t tell what, but I was guessing he wasn’t passing notes. “Can you see it?”
“Shit,” Morales said. “No.”
A split second after Marvin passed the item into the window, it rolled up and the limo took off like a shot. I spun around to grab the license plate. “Got it.”
Morales picked up the cell he’d stashed on the dashboard. “Shadi. Yeah. Need you to run a plate for me.”
I held up the pad with the numbers while he read them off.
“Call me back when you got it,” Morales said and hung up. “All right, let’s go have a chat with Marvin.”
He put the car in gear and drove toward the front of the club. The closer we got, the more alert Marvin’s posture became. His eyes narrowed as Morales slowed near the corner.
I didn’t know if he recognized me or if his criminal Spidey-sense just told him who we were, but he started walking at a rapid clip down the side street. When he reached the alley behind the building, he sprinted off like a gazelle.
“We got a runner,” Morales said in a bored tone. “Go get him.”
I frowned. “Why me?”
“I’m driving.” He glanced over. “Go on.”
The sly tilt of his lips told me he expected me to balk. Trust me, I considered it. After all, I was still in the stupid suit and heels, a detail my new partner had clearly not forgotten.
“Fine.” His eyes widened as I reached for the handle and threw the door wide. I hit the ground running. A jolt of pain raced up my ankles as I sprinted in front of the car, but I dug in and ran faster. The heels were a bitch, but damned if I was going to let Morales think I couldn’t hold my own.
I shot off down the alley, my gaze lasered on Marvin’s rapidly retreating back. “We just want to talk to you, Marvin.”
“Ah, hell no!” he yelled over his shoulder. He hurdled a cardboard box and headed straight toward a chain-link in the distance.
“Goddamn it.” My heel skidded on a puddle of grease. I windmilled my arms and caught myself before gravity won the battle. Now that I was good and pissed, I was able to put a little extra gas in my stride.
I managed to grab a handful of Marvin’s shirt.
“Bitch, you crazy!” he shouted, struggling for the top.
I managed to get my other hand on his waistband. A good yank later, he came tumbling down like a sack of pointy elbows and ass cheeks. He landed directly on top of me.
“Uh!”
Marvin struggled against my hold, but I gripped hard despite the pain in my ass and my twisted ankle.
“I told you to catch him, Prospero,” said an amused voice behind me, “not make out with him.”