Blood of the Demon (Kara Gillian 2)

I scowled at my reflection in the full-length mirror in my bedroom. Brian Roth’s funeral was in an hour, and my dress blue uniform hung on me like an oversize sack. My choice of attire for the funeral yesterday had been easy—dress like a detective. But this was a funeral for a fellow officer, which meant that everyone—from the chief on down—would be dusting off the dress blues. Until this moment, though, I hadn’t realized quite how much weight I’d lost, thanks to the too-stressed-to-eat diet that I’d been on for the last few months. On the one hand, I was elated that the insistent little pudge at my belly was gone. Flat stomach! Hooray! However, the idea of buying a whole new wardrobe was nowhere near as pleasant. Not on a cop’s salary.

I sighed and cinched my belt a notch tighter in an effort to keep my pants from falling down. The extra fabric wrinkled uncomfortably at my waist, but it was better than giving the entire community a free show. I scowled down at my clown-sized pants, glad that I didn’t have to wear a fully rigged duty belt, with holster and handcuffs and baton. My pants would definitely end up around my ankles then.

I fiddled with the positioning of my name tag and tried to remember when I’d last put the damn uniform on. Two years ago, I decided, at the annual departmental awards ceremony when I’d dutifully accepted my five-year service pin. I wrinkled my nose and leaned closer to the mirror, repositioning said pin on my right breast pocket. Since making detective, I hadn’t had any other need to wear the uniform. I rarely worked off-duty details like so many of the other detectives did. And, fortunately, the department hadn’t lost a cop in the line of duty since I’d been there.

My fingers paused on the pin. Except for me. There was a part of me that still felt guilty for subjecting everyone to the agony of thinking I’d died, even though it wasn’t my fault and the only other option would have been for me to actually die permanently. But funerals were horrible, wrenching affairs, and the brotherhood of police officers was a tight one. The loss of a cop was the loss of a family member, and I knew I wasn’t the only one dreading going to this funeral.

And Brian’s is guaranteed to be a ridiculously overblown affair. Since he’d been the son of Judge Harris Roth, that meant that every attorney, politician, and kiss-ass would be there.

I winced and gave myself a mental smack for the uncharitable thoughts. Brian had been a cop, and as such he would get the honor due a cop, even though he hadn’t died in the line of duty, and even though his death had numerous questions still surrounding it. However, apparently word had leaked out that there were questions as to whether Brian had killed Carol. I suspected that Pellini had probably let something slip, but on this occasion I couldn’t find it in myself to be annoyed with him for sharing information about an ongoing investigation. Everyone’s morale had lifted immeasurably, just knowing that there was a chance Brian had been innocent.

But this service would be a far cry from Carol Roth’s funeral. Her parents had insisted on a very private, very personal service, which had been performed with an extreme minimum of fuss the day before. I wasn’t sure if her former father-in-law, Judge Roth, had attended—or been invited. I couldn’t blame Carol’s family for that. Since it had been assumed that Brian killed her, I could see why they didn’t want any of his family there. Plus, Judge Roth was likely having a hard enough time as it was.

Sighing, I stepped back and regarded myself in the mirror again. I looked like shit. Even I could recognize that. I had dark circles permanently embedded under my eyes, my face was sallow, and my uniform was about three sizes too big for me now. Yeah, well, maybe averaging only three hours sleep a night isn’t helping much either. And that’s only with the help of a few glasses of wine.

A hard knock on the door interrupted my self-loathing. I stuck my tongue out at my reflection, then went to the door and peeked out through the peephole.

I pulled the door open and frowned at Ryan. “You look sharp,” I said. And he did too, which made me feel ten times as sloppy. He looked one hundred percent Fed, in a well-tailored dark-blue suit, crisp white shirt, and gray tie. “Why?”

“I figured I’d come with you to the funeral.”

My knees nearly wobbled in relief, and I realized how nervous I’d been about facing the rest of the department. I knew I was being stupid, but since the last funeral had been mine, I couldn’t help but feel an odd sense of awkward. “Thanks,” I said fervently. I didn’t need to say any more. He got it.

“You need a new uniform,” he said, narrow-eyed gaze traveling over me.

I snorted and grabbed my keys. “I wear the damn thing barely once a year, and we don’t get our annual uniform allowance until next January. By then I’ll probably have gained all the weight back.” I headed out the door, locking it behind me.

“Good,” he said as he followed me down the stairs. “You’re all angles and elbows right now.”

I gave him a sour look. “You certainly know how to make a girl feel sexy.”

He grinned. “Well, how about: If anyone can make an oversize polyester uniform look hot, it’s you.”

I had to fight to keep from revealing how tickled I was at the thought that he might consider me hot. Not that he did. He’d already said I was all angles and elbows. Instead, I made a point of looking down at my attire and then rolling my eyes. “You are obviously incredibly desperate for female company.”

He shrugged. “Maybe I have a thing for smart chicks in uniform?”

This time I did laugh. “And apparently the heat is affecting your perception. Just get in the damn car.”

I’d been more than right about the expected turnout. The location of the funeral had been changed at the last minute to the municipal auditorium, since none of the churches in the area had anywhere near sufficient capacity to handle the number of people who wished to pay their respects—even with Brian a suspect in Carol’s death. I found a spot against the wall and did my best to blend in and stay unnoticed, though I wasn’t having too much success with Special Agent Ryan Kristoff standing beside me in full-fledged FBI mode.

The line for the viewing snaked throughout the auditorium, and I couldn’t help but think that the place would have been best served by having a setup with ropes and poles like the ones for the rides at Disney. I didn’t join the queue. I’d never had a desire to look at the carefully waxed and made-up faces of the dead, and I also felt no desire or need to offer my regrets to the grieving parents. I didn’t know them, they didn’t know me, and there was no need to make the line even longer, in my opinion.

I casually scanned the crowd. About every third person was a police officer—either from Beaulac PD or from neighboring agencies. Brian had been fairly well-known and had also worked with the sheriff’s office for a time, so I could understand why so many officers were here. But I had to force myself not to roll my eyes at the insane number of political hangers-on that streamed in. This place was a local lobbyist’s wet dream. I mentally tagged every parish and city councilman, darn near every courthouse employee, the entire DA’s office, the mayor, constables, judges, justices of the peace …>Ryan nodded toward the back door just as Zack emerged. Blond and tan, Agent Zachary Garner resembled a lifeguard more than a federal agent. It didn’t help that he looked like he was barely twenty, though I knew he surely had to be older to be a federal agent.

“Good to see you again, Detective Gillian,” he said with a broad smile.

“Likewise, Agent Garner,” I replied, then grinned as he came forward and gave me a hug. “Good grief, Zack, what did you do to your hair? Did you try to highlight it?”

He ran a hand over his head and gave me a sheepish smile. “Yeah. I was trying for blond tips, but it didn’t quite work out.”

I eyed him. “Your hair was already blond. Now you have …”

“Orange,” Ryan stated. “You can dance around it all you want, but the truth is that his hair is Oompa Loompa orange.”

“Well, just the tips,” I said, “but, yeah. Wow. You need to get someone to fix that.”

“I’ve already made the appointment,” Zack assured me with a smile. “You look quite dressed up. Court?”