“You going to let me in on the joke?” Nick glanced at me from the driver’s seat. “It looks awfully funny.”
“There’s … no … joke,” I managed. “I promise. The insanity of the whole situation finally … just got to me.” I laughed again. “Whew, I feel better now. I had to release it somehow, or it was going to eat me alive.” I wheezed. “And speaking of eating, can we please pull over and grab some takeout? I’m freaking starving.” More giggles.
“Anything you need, Jess.” Nick grinned. “Wouldn’t want you to crack too soon, because whether you like it or not, this is just the beginning.”
That was comforting.
It took me well over an hour and several Big Macs to fully calm myself. I’d dug a pair of jean shorts out of the backpack and managed to squeeze myself into them in the bathroom. It was a damn good thing Daisy Dukes were back in. The shorts were old and tight, but at least they weren’t plaid. I’d happily dumped my pajamas in the garbage can on the way out and prayed my hairy legs weren’t going to overly offend anyone’s delicate sensibilities in the restaurant. The crowd inside hadn’t appeared to be overly grossed out and I’d made double sure I didn’t stick out by ordering my food in an affected European accent. My talents were vast, and Europeans loved their hair.
Nick eyed my legs as I climbed back into the car, his one eyebrow arching perfectly above a dark golden eye. “Forgot to pack your razor?”
“Shut it.” I plucked my phone from the center console where I’d left it. “Hey, do you have a phone charger in here? This thing is dead.”
Nick pointed to the glove box and I fished out a charger. We always bought the cheapest phones at Hannon & Michaels, since we tended to break them on a monthly basis. The bad guys never cared if your pockets were full when they trounced you.
I plugged my phone in, gave it a quick moment to gather some charge, and powered it on.
“Are you going to call the PD now?” Nick asked as he nosed us back onto the highway. “Or wait until you see the damage for yourself first?”
“I’m actually hoping there’s a call from Pete on here. I’m sure word spread through the precinct once my address came through, and Pete should’ve noticed fairly quickly. I definitely want a heads-up to who’s in charge of the case before we get back, and I’m still crossing my fingers like crazy it isn’t Ray Hart.”
Pete Spencer was the only supe I knew of on the human police force. Or at least the only one I’d ever detected. I’d never been very good at picking out other supernaturals when I hadn’t been one; they were good at blending in. Pete was an avian shifter and a damn good beat cop. He knew me as Molly Hannon, a human Essential who used to be a cop who now worked for a supe. He’d kept his distance from me on the force, but once Nick and I had started our P.I. firm, we’d set up an information swap to benefit both of us. I’d just helped him on a case, providing him with information on a group of pain-in-the-ass juvenile sorcerers who’d been causing trouble around town. He owed me, and if he had information, I knew it would already be on my phone.
Once I got a signal, I keyed in voicemail and punched in my codes. I had seven new messages. The first one was from my building super, Jeff Arnold, a low-budget guy who got by without doing much of anything. “Um, hi, Molly, this is Jeff. Just wanted to tell you your apartment is kind of trashed. There was some kind of break-in. So call me if you need anything …” Click.
The next message was from Nick, who did a great job sounding alarmed and worried. I glanced at him with the phone pressed to my ear and gave him the thumbs-up, knowing he could hear every word.
“I know I’m the bomb.” Nick grinned. “How many times can I save your ass? Lemme count the ways. One …”
I rolled my eyes.
The next call came from my landlord, Nathan Dunn, which surprised me. I’d only met him once about a year after I’d moved in. I guess if your apartment gets ransacked, you have a vested interest, but I was still surprised by a personal call. “Hello, Ms. Hannon, this is Nathan Dunn, the owner of your building. I’m calling regarding your break-in last night, and am hoping this message finds you in good health. The police have informed me that you were out of your apartment at the time of the burglary.” They were calling it a burglary. My first piece of good news. “That was very fortunate. The damage seems to be … in the extreme. Please let me know when the apartment will be available for cleanup. I’ll send my carpenters over at your first convenience. I am anxious to get this fixed, as I’m sure you are as well.”
I raised my brows. Nick shrugged.
The next call was from Marcy. She sounded panicked, which was likely genuine. Marcy Talbot loved her routine more than the Queen loved her tea, and even the smallest upset put a serious wrinkle in her demeanor. She was the only gal pal I’d ever had—or even toyed with having. We didn’t do sleepovers or get pedicures, but there was a connection there. She ended her call with, “… and if you ever scare me like that again, I’ll make your life a living hell. You can count on it, princess.” Click.
The next call was from my neighbor Juanita Perez, a fifty-something Latina divorcée who’d never quite gotten the hint, like everyone else in my apartment building, that I despised small talk. Instead, she behaved quite the opposite. “Hola, Chica,” her heavily accented Spanish stretched across the phone line, then dropped to a rough whisper. “Dees is Juanita Perez, jour neighbor here. Somteen baaad has happened. The police, they tell me you are not at home when the crashing and the banging start, but I know you are still in there. I hear you come home in the night, but I weel not tell. I weel keep it quiet from them. Since they did not find you in there, I theenk you must get away anyway. I keep jour secret, but oh, Chica, the damage, it es sooo much. I weel pray for you.” Click.
I pressed lucky number seven to erase her message from my phone forever. Then made a mental note to thank her by buying some of that Patrón tequila she always talked about. Maybe then she’d forget she ever made this call. Though having a neighbor who would gladly lie to the police for me, without my asking, was definitely a huge bonus. Juanita could be a thorn in my conversational side, but now I knew for sure she had my back. If anything, this phone call should teach me to be a better neighbor. It paid off.