The Devil You Know by Mike Carey

say that like its bad.”
    “Not bad, just unrealistic.”
    Ben’s squad car smelled greasy, like fast food and donuts. I rolled down the window to let in some fresh air.
    “Guilty until proven innocent,” Ben said.
    “I’m not a cop anymore, Ben. I don’t have to play by the rules. I can be as suspicious about people’s motives as I like.”
    “Why’d you quit being a cop?” Ben asked suddenly.
    I looked over at his profile. From the front, Ben looked African-American. But from the side I could see his Shawnee roots in the arch of his nose and his high cheekbones. He had a hunter’s face. Maybe that’s why I liked him. You can trust hunters. They don’t have time for deception. “My partner was killed,” I told him. Like he didn’t already know that.
    “Goes with the territory. A badge is like a target, Nick. You know that.”
    “I didn’t like the way he died. It wasn’t normal.”
    Ben raised his eyebrows at that. “You think it was a hit?”
    “I know it was a hit.” I really didn’t want to talk about this now.
    “Was he into some bad shit?” he asked softly. He wasn’t using his cop-voice, so I knew this was strictly off the record. “Were you?”
    “I was always into bad shit growing up, Ben. But my family is into worse shit.”
    “Organized crime?”
    “Something like that.”
    Ben didn’t ask any more questions, thankfully. Not that I would have answered anymore. I’d already told him more than I told most folks. Only Morgana knew the whole story. And after I’d told her everything all those years ago I could tell she wished she’d never asked.
    Five minutes later we turned up the paved drive to the Berger house and parked next to a bold-looking, cherry-red SUV. I recognized the vehicle immediately, and wasn’t the least bit reassured by its appearance. As Ben and I started up the mum-lined walk to the Bergers’ front stoop, the door opened and Shelley Preston stepped down onto the stoop. She was talking avidly to Thom Berger about having him on the radio. Somehow, I just wasn’t surprised.
    I hung back by the SUV as Ben climbed the stoop to talk to Thom Berger. Whatever Shelley had to say to me, it wasn’t for Thom Berger or Ben Oswell to hear.
    Shelley zeroed right in on me, prancing up in her four-inch pumps, a predatory sway to her hips. Anyone looking on would say she had sex in her walk, but I know she wanted to eat me alive . . . and not in a good way. She smiled her professional smile but her eyes were mean and dead. Shark eyes. “Nicky,” she cooed, looking me over critically, “it’s nice seeing you again so soon. Rockin’ that whole retro Miami Vice look, I see. How’s business?”
    I smiled in return. “We’re surviving the recession.”
    “As long as there’s superstitious old women living on Social Security, you’ll always make out in this town, right?”
    Here we go, I thought. I lifted my head and smiled. “Wow. This from the woman who sucks the blood of human misery in order to further her career in public radio.”
    Shelley laughed, a high, light tune that revealed nothing unpleasant. Maybe she was perpetually PMSing, or maybe it was because the Phillies had lost to the Cardinals last night, but she had that whole angry newshound thing going on. Cassandra’s disappearance had really brought it out in her. “You ought to write that shit down. You could make a fortune writing fiction.”
    “You are such a fucking cunt.”
    She looked at me then with something akin to surprise. “And you’re a fucking hypocrite, Englebrecht. Why are you really here?”
    I could have fired off about a half dozen things in response, but I held my tongue. When I found that lost camper, I hadn’t let the papers report my name. I’d given Ben the credit for that, not because I was feeling particularly humble that day but because my dad had dropped by and warned me not to let my name into the papers. He said it would cause me too much trouble, that I was already