Kitty and the Midnight Hour (Kitty Norville 1)

My head was spinning. She’d drawn me straight into the middle of this, but there was no way she could hold me there. Precedents, legal precedents—I was going to need a research assistant before too long. Was I out of my mind? There weren’t going to be any legal precedents.

Hardin continued. “Would you recognize the wolf that did this if you ran into him?”

“Yeah. I think I would.”

“Then keep in touch. Let me know if you find out anything. That’s all I want.”

She wanted me to be a freakin’ witness for a crime I had nothing to do with and was nowhere near. The manipulative bitch.

“There’s no way in hell an after-the-fact witness by smell would be admissible in court. The courts aren’t going to know what to do with that kind of testimony.”

“Not yet,” she said with a wry smile. “Give me another minute and I’ll drive you back.”

One of the reporters, the woman in the suit, was waiting for us at Hardin’s car. A man held a camera pointed at us, over her shoulder.

“Shit,” I muttered.

Hardin frowned. “Ignore them. Walk by like they’re not even there.”

“They can’t air pictures of me without my permission, right?”

“They can. Sorry.”

I hunched my shoulders and ducked my head, unwilling to lose my dignity to the point of covering my face. Besides, it was too late.

The reporter dodged Hardin and came straight toward me, wielding a microphone. “Angela Bryant, KTNC. You’re Kitty Norville, the radio show host, right? What is your involvement with this case, Ms. Norville? Are you a witness? Is there a supernatural element to these deaths?”

For once, I kept my mouth shut. I let Hardin open the car door and close it when I’d climbed inside. Calmly, she made her way around to the driver’s side. I propped my elbow on the inside door and shielded my face with my hand.

We drove away.

Hardin said, “For a celebrity, you’re a shy one.”

“I’ve always liked radio for its anonymity.”

We stopped in front of the KNOB studio. I was about to get out of the car—slink out of the car as innocently as I could—when Hardin stopped me.

“One more question.” I braced. She reached into her coat po

cket. “I felt stupid when I went looking for these. But they were easier to find than I thought they’d be. I guess there really is a market for this kind of thing. I have to know, though—will they work?”

She opened her hand, revealing a trio of nine-millimeter bullets, shiny and silver. I stared at them like she was holding a poisonous snake at me.

“Yeah,” I said. “They’ll work.”

“Thanks.” She pocketed the bullets. “Maybe I should invest in a couple of crosses, too.”

“Don’t forget the wooden stakes.”

Waving a half-assed good-bye, I fled before the conversation could go any further.

Chapter 8

The phone rang eight times. Didn’t the guy have voice mail? I was about to give up when he finally answered.

“Yeah.”

“Cormac? Is this Cormac?”