Generation 18 (Spook Squad 2)
“But isn’t it possible that one or two have been missed?”
“Maybe.” He scrubbed a hand across the dark line of stubble on his chin. “Did anyone enter the office close to the time of the murder?”
“The postwoman, but she came out at twelve twenty-two. I’ve begun an ID search.”
“Good. Have you checked the tapes for the seventh floor?”
“Not yet.”
He looked at the screen. “Display tape seven. Fast-forward to twelve forty-eight p.m.”
The screen went blank. Gabriel went against current trends, having no character as the face of his com-units. No time for fun, she thought, even for something as minor as that.
The seventh-floor tape began to roll. The counterfeit doctor came into sight, quickly disappearing into the ladies’ restroom. She was out four minutes later, hair wet but tied back off her face and still wearing the white coat. The elevator answered her call almost immediately. The doctor joined several other people already standing in the lift and was whisked away.
“Why keep the coat?” She met his gaze. “Why not dump it with the sweater?”
“Maybe she had nothing else to wear.”
“But why not? This woman is meticulous. She gets in and out of crime scenes without being spotted—at least not until now. She knows there are security cams watching, and she knows how to get around them. Her timing with the doctor was perfect. So why wouldn’t she pack a change of clothes?”
A smile touched his lips. “There’s a limit to what you can hide when you shift form, you know.”
She raised her eyebrows. “There is?”
He nodded. “Clothes don’t change. Nor do watches, or shoes or bloodstained sweaters. The body image is all that shifts.”
“But what about shapechangers? You grow feathers and talons, for Christ’s sake. And I’ve never seen you wearing size-ten boots in your hawk form.”
His smile widened, touching the corners of his eyes. “Nor will you. The rules vary for changers. No one knows why. It’s just a fact that whatever we carry on our person becomes integrated within the animal persona.”
“Weird.” She frowned at the screen for a moment. “But that still doesn’t answer my original question.”
“You suggested in the doctor’s office that the killer was angry. Maybe she didn’t bring a change of clothes simply because she thought she was in control—until confronted by the doctor wearing a white coat.”
“So our killer has an unpleasant history with doctors, might be a doctor herself, and is definitely a multi-shifter.” She met his gaze. This close, flecks of green gleamed in the warm hazel depths of his eyes. “How many multi-shifters has the SIU got on file?”
“Worldwide? Several hundred, at least.”
“I thought you said multi-shifters were rare.”
“They are, compared to the number of regular shifters.”
“Yeah, right.” What other half-truths had he fed her? “How many of those have twins?”
He shrugged. “Twins run in families. It’s not a side effect of being a shifter.”
“So the first thing we do is search the files and see how many multi-shifter twins we have on record.”
The warmth fled from his face. “The first thing you do,” he corrected softly. “After you get some sleep, that is.”
He was locking her out again—not that she was entirely surprised. He’d warned her of his intentions, after all.
“You can push as far as you like. I’m not quitting and I’m not giving up.” Despite an effort to keep her voice flat, a hint of anger crept in. It was tempting, so tempting, to add that she wasn’t going to die on him like his other partners had, but she held back. Maybe it was cowardice, or maybe it was instinct, but something suggested it was better not to say anything until h
e did.
He didn’t reply, but simply rose to his feet and held out a hand.