Kitty and the Midnight Hour (Kitty Norville 1)

“Serial killers are monsters. This guy may be a werewolf, but he’s acting like a human, not a wolf. His victims aren’t random. They’re well-chosen: young, vulnerable women. I’m betting he picks them, stalks them, and kills them because they’re easy prey.” Oh, that was a choice phrase. “His MO is a serial killer’s MO, not a wolf’s. Or even a werewolf’s. Yeah, I’ve been doing some of that reading you gave me. The wolves usually seem smart enough to stay away from people.”

“Yeah. Usually. Look, Detective.” I fidgeted, forcing myself to look at her only at the last minute. “I don’t think I can go through that again. The last time really bothered me.”

“What, did it look tasty to you?”

“Can’t I be shocked and traumatized like anyone else?”

Arching an eyebrow skeptically, she said with a heavy dose of sarcasm, “Sorry.”

I looked away, my jaw tightening. “I suppose I should feel lucky you aren’t treating me like a suspect.”

“I’m not being nice. It’s a matter of statistics—serial killers rarely turn out to be women.”

Saved by statistics. “I may know what he smells like, but I don’t know how to find this guy.”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, like she was counting to ten or organizing an argument. Then she looked at me and said, “You don’t have to see the body. Just come to the site, tell me anything you can about it. You have to help me, before more women die.”

If this conversation had happened at any time other than the day after the show with Estelle, I could have said no. If she hadn’t said that particular phrase in that particular way, I might have been able to refuse.

I stood and grabbed my jacket off the back of my chair.

The site of this killing wasn’t far from the other, but the street was retail rather than residential. The victim was a late-night convenience store clerk walking home after her shift.

The media vans were there again, thicker than ever. The city had a serial killer, and they were all over it.

“How do they know where to go?” I said. “They must have gotten here the same time your people did.”

Hardin scowled. Not at me this time, but at the reporters drifting toward us as she parked. “They listen to police band radio.”

The shouting started before I opened the car door.

“Ms. Norville! Kitty Norville! What do you think is behind these killings? What are you talking to the police about? Do you have any statement you can give us?”

On Hardin’s recommendation, I ignored them. She formed a barricade between me and the cameras and guided me to the corner.

She showed me the first splatter of blood at the end of the alley behind the row of shops. It looked wrong in the daylight. Too bright, too fake. Half a bloody paw print streaked the concrete nearby. The whole paw would be as big as my head.

The blood started a trail that led into the alley, where a half-dozen investigators worked intently. They blocked my view of anything else. My stomach clenched and I turned away.

Hardin crossed her arms. “Well?”

I smelled it, the same wolf, along with the blood and decay. Those smells were connected to him. Like he didn’t bathe, like he wallowed in death.

My nose wrinkled. “He smells . . . damp. Sick. I don’t know.”

“Is it the same guy?”

“Yeah.” I still didn’t want to look at the body. I couldn’t. “This is worse than the last one, isn’t it? He’s getting more violent.”

“Yeah. Come on. I’ll drive you back.”

She’d parked around the corner. I stood at the car door for a moment, breathing clean air before I got in.

I caught Hardin watching me.

“Thanks,” I said. “Thanks for not making me see it.”

“It really gets to you, doesn’t it?”