San Diego Noir

Sure, there were several years of bickering and politicking between the groups, but overall we’d just been granted citizenship for wherever we lived. A few countries weren’t as simple, so many of those fae just applied for sanctuary and asylum status in more liberal lands. Canada got a great influx, as did the U.S. All either of those countries wanted to know was that we were able to gainfully support ourselves. Most of us could, in fact, most of us had been doing just that. After things settled, many of the fae leaders simply started taking over certain professions, such as prostitution. They cleaned it up, managed to get a bunch of laws passed, and now, in all states except Utah, prostitution was legal and limited to LPWs—who were all of fae blood. This sat a lot better with the various church groups; after all, we weren’t quite like them. Unfortunately, now I was facing this case and someone who was tearing up young-looking male LPWs.

A flash of headlights signaled the arrival of the official crime scene techs. I nodded to the lead, a sprite who’d taken the unlikely name of Lavender Gray when he realized no human could pronounce his real name. “He’s one of ours, Lav,” I said.

A grunt was the only acknowledgment I got. The techs scurried through the alley in silence, placing markers, picking up near invisible bits and pieces, sealing up evidence bags. Abe and I watched just as silently. Jason trailed behind the team, snapping more photos whenever a technician pointed.

“You think we’re going to—”

“Yes,” I cut off Abe’s words. “We’re going to catch this killer.” I had no intention of letting Abe voice my own unspoken doubts. So far, the trace evidence in each case had been so minuscule, so vague as to implicate pretty much anyone—with or without a motive. In the previous two cases, we’d interviewed the victims’ clients, their team leaders, hotel managers, concierges. Abe had worked all his contacts at hotels, the navy, anyone who’d ever owed him a favor. Still nothing. So far, the only clues we had were that they were all males, all LPWs, and all looked very young. None of them were actually young, not in human terms—Donny had been at least a hundred—but young in fae terms. The other two victims had been in the middle of their second century. Two victims were blond, one a redhead. All had gray eyes. All had both human and fae clientele. Nothing in the victims’ backgrounds indicated anything sleazy, drug-related, or any other criminal behavior. I was at a total loss. The usual motives didn’t seem to apply. Jealousy? Perhaps, but there was no client common to the three of them. Money? Not a factor in Donny’s case, he was only a beginner, making scale. The first victim had just completed his apprenticeship, but his new grade wasn’t anywhere near the kind of money people usually killed for. The second victim’s rate was average for a seasoned apprentice. Nothing seemed to fit. The only thing they had in common was their current choice of profession and their sex—traits shared by hundreds. (At last count, San Diego County licensed 210 male LPWs, 212 female, and just under 100 intersex.) Each had been beautiful, male, and perfectly turned out, skin soft with lotion, nails of feet and hands meticulously manicured. All three of them worked the Gaslamp, but so did many others.

What was so special, so unusual about these three that triggered their killer’s attention?

“They’re done,” Abe’s voice interrupted my thoughts.

The techs were climbing into their van and Jason was packing up his equipment. A coroner’s representative loaded Donny, discreetly wrapped in a body bag and gurney, into his van. I blinked and yawned. “I’m going home.” A quick cuddle with Risa followed by a few hours of sleep sounded perfect to me. “Lab at noon?” I asked Abe. “Then we can come back and talk to the staff.” Beat cops had already handled the initial questions, but now it would be our turn.

“One,” he replied. “I’m doing lunch with Leah.”

I smiled. “Tell her hi for me.” Abe’s daughter was visiting from grad school.

“Yeah,” he said. “Will do.”

I watched as he trudged to his car, every month of his nearly twenty years of service evident in the weary posture. I knew he resented me sometimes. He’d aged, and not too gracefully, muscles losing tone, eyesight deteriorating. He’d never been a poster boy for Sports Illustrated, but Abe had kept fairly fit. Now, after two knee operations, he could barely make it around the block without pain. When we’d pull cases together, I saw the looks he gave me. How could I not? I appeared to be in my mid-twenties. My hair still as glossy brown (or black or red) as it had ever been, my eyes keener than his ever were. He thought we were around the same age, fifty-five going on fifty-six. I’d never told him he could be my grandson. It would have killed whatever was left of his self-esteem.