Hidden Crimes by Emma Holly

the air. “Put the description she gave you into Missing
Persons. If we get a hit, we’ll proceed from there.”
    Nate had already done this from his home
unit, and was waiting on the results. That didn’t seem diplomatic
to admit right then. “I want to pursue this,” he said instead.
    Adam let out a sighing breath.
    “Give me Carmine,” Nate insisted, knowing the
older man was the only detective Adam might be willing to pull off
the Galina case. Carmine was a good solid cop, but not what you’d
call brilliant. Nate didn’t care about that. Carmine’s belly laugh
and easy manner had a way of disarming witnesses. “Carmine can
coordinate a door-to-door around the blanket factory. See if any
vagrants or shopkeepers saw our trio of doctors. It wouldn’t hurt
to canvas the area anyway—in case the dumpsite doesn’t pan out the
way you want. Vasili was holed up there for a while.”
    “Fine,” Adam said. “You can have Carmine and
two uniforms. Make sure you don’t waste them. I might need to pull
them back again.”
    “Thank you,” Nate said, possibly conveying
more exasperation than gratitude. He didn’t ask if Adam wanted to
speak to Evina personally. He already knew the answer to that.
    ~
    The fact that Nate’s boss thought Evina
couldn’t be trusted didn’t seem like news he ought to share by
phone. Because it was past eleven, when she’d mentioned her shift
started, he made the ten-minute drive out to Company Number 5.
    He parked across the street half a block from
their garage bay. This was where their lime-green tiger-striped
fire trucks would pull out. Evina’s station owned two apparatuses.
The first was a pumper. As Nate understood it, pumpers increased
the pressure of hydrant water, to ensure it would blast from hoses
onto a blaze. The second truck was a lengthy ladder and platform
deal, designed for attacking fires or entering buildings from high
floors.
    The pup in Nate was excited to be close to
these life-size toys. The man in him preferred the prospect of
sniffing around Evina. From the moment he’d seen her behind her
cart at the Holy Foods, his sexual antenna had been hyper-tuned to
her. His pulse quickened as he left his car, his outlook
brightening in spite of the awkwardness of his errand.
    A second later, he realized seeing her wasn’t
going to be simple.
    A tiger were the size of a refrigerator was
working in the bay. He was folding a soft-sided hose so that it
accordioned neatly into a compartment on the truck. The taut set of
his giant shoulders told Nate the tiger knew a stranger was
approaching.
    “You can’t park there,” the firefighter said
without bothering to turn his head.
    The implication that Nate posed no threat was
a classic wereanimal insult.
    “There’s no sign,” Nate said, taking in the
man’s height and build. He was bigger than Nate’s packmate
Rick—6’7” if he was an inch and equally muscle-bound. He could
bench press Nate without effort but wouldn’t be as fast. This
knowledge was in his voice as he continued. “I made sure your
trucks would be able to get by if they went out in that
direction.”
    The man tucked up the last of the hose and
turned. His hair was strawberry gold and wavy, his skin a rosy
cream color. Many weretigers were of Indian descent but not all.
This fellow looked like a Celt to him. When he spoke, a growl
rolled under his voice.
    “You misunderstand me, dog. You can’t
park anywhere near here.”
    A grin broke across Nate’s face. He wasn’t
any more afraid than if this had been his pack’s beta. Nate knew
how good he was at hand-to-hand. Civilized or not, some big lunk
spoiling for a tussle put him in his happy place.
    “I can park there,” he said, “and I
have. If you want a piece of me for that, by all means give taking
one a shot.” Enjoying this, he spread his hands and grinned more
broadly, his fingers beckoning the other on.
    The fireman lunk measured Nate scornfully
with his gaze, tiger gold bleeding