1. Slate
The lingering smell of stale coffee, musky sweat, and puke assaulted him the moment Slate entered the police station, and he wrinkled his nose in disgust. There was a reason he still preferred to drag his ass to crime scenes, whether it was in a heavy downpour, the middle of the night, or Christmas Eve.
Another week, another murder… or fifty. Ready to roll.
There was only one other person in the locker rooms, a uniformed officer who looked dead on his feet. Slate smiled in sympathy. The 18-hour shifts could be brutal.
“Hi, Cooper,” he greeted quietly, not wanting to scare the poor guy into a heart attack. “In or out?”
The other guy huffed in amusement. “Out. I won’t stay a minute longer.” He rubbed his face, sighing. “The night was madness. Some drunks started a fight in the lobby, and when one got punched in the gut, he puked all over the seats. And that was before the angry wife showed up and beat him to a pulp. And everyone who wanted to separate them just slid around on the vomit.”
Slate winced. Yeah, he didn’t miss that part of the officer position.
Cooper chuckled at Slate’s disgusted expression and let the locker door slam shut before clapping him heartily on the shoulder. “Have fun today. I'll be out until tomorrow. See you.”
Slate dropped his personal belongings into his own locker and ventured into the canteen, greeting colleagues and higher-ups. He wasted some precious time on small talk; avoiding it would be deemed rude. Coffee in hand, the armoury was his last stop before he finally dropped into his chair. It’d taken forty minutes to get there. Monday always sucked.
He sighed when he saw his desk overflowing with documents and folders, the computer screen full of sticky notes with various handwritings. The young detective rubbed his neck, considering where to start, when a head full of locks peeked around the corner. Slate looked up, eyebrows raised, and the older beta, Perris, chuckled as Slate made a grand gesture towards his desk. Or junkyard.
“Hi, Perris. This your work of art?”
Perris shook his head, still amused, and clapped Slate’s shoulder before leaning against the pillar separating their desks. “Nah. Boss and the likes used your desk as the rubbish bin for the hard cases while you were gone, but I'm glad you’re back. How long has it been?”
Slate sat down, shuffling folders and peeling off sticky notes, checking the importance and crumpling half of them because fuck it, people could drop by or write an email if it was urgent.
“Only four days. And sitting in court all day was as boring as you promised, so thanks for the heads up. I’d have been disappointed otherwise.”
“That almost sounds like you missed the station.”
Slate looked around. Everything was as it had been four days ago - nothing had magically changed: underfunded chaos and bad fluorescent lights from the 90s, with that one odd light constantly flickering horror-movie style. The coffee machine gurgled too loudly, and the telephones constantly rang, never giving anybody a break. Their shared office was next to the glass walls of the interview rooms, and even though it was sometimes a bit annoying that interviewees had to walk through their area and could peek at their piles of documents, it was still better than the crammed office in Procressing or the tightly packed one of the squad. Windows would have been nice, but oddly, Slate didn’t miss them or the privacy a cubicle could offer. Perris’ constant phone calls and the relentless ringing of his own phone made him appreciate the silence of his own house. The constant proximity to colleagues and witnesses, convicts and potential offenders dispelled the loneliness that sometimes crept into his own four walls.
It was homely.
In a hellish way.
The court case had fucked with his head, though. Cases involving children always did. Not enough to turn to the hard stuff, but he was itchy and needed to find a hook-up soon to get all the cluttered thoughts about the trial out of his head. The case was closed, and getting drunk wouldn’t help anyone. Especially not the dead.
“I… kinda did. I am glad it’s over. This…” He pointed at the pile of folders and stapled paperwork, “… looks like a lot of lunch dates, though.”
Perris grinned. “My wife will be mad if I don’t eat her lunch today, but we can do the rest of the week, and I’ll update you on everything. By the way, the interview you’ve been waiting for has been confirmed for this afternoon.”
Slate sat down and waved his hand absentmindedly, rummaging for the specific folder. They needed to switch to a fully digital file system. All the additional printouts were stupid, but the city wouldn’t free up any money, and the old guys lamented about every click they had to make, stonewalling changes just to avoid learning a new skill before retirement.
Perris harrumphed and returned to his work, his desk also likely overflowing with cases just waiting to be closed.
“Uh…” Slate continued to shuffle through his sticky notes and files, but nothing jumped out at him. “Okay. Help me out. Which interview for which case? I have like fifty cases right now… or seventy, if I have to guess.”
“Amaury Bardin.”
Slate’s heart stuttered for a second. He breathed out, trying not to look too excited. He would have begged for that interview, traded in favours or even blackmailed colleagues, forcing them to switch. His slight obsession with the infamous Bardin brother was well-known, but most just saw it as a quirky goal to lock up somebody who’d proved time and again to be untouchable. The detective was determined to break that lucky streak once and for all.
He grinned. “Finally.”
***
He thought he had five minutes to spare. Maybe ten. People were never punctual for police interviews; why would they be? But of course, the bastard was on time, and the station seemed to hold its breath when Amaury Bardin entered the building. Slate was in the lobby by chance, sneakily bypassing the Lieutenant’s office by taking a shortcut through the administration department, documents crammed under his arm and hastily gulping down stale coffee.
A wave of repellent pheros slammed into the station when Amaury opened the door. Slate turned, the hair on his neck rising and goosebumps pebbling up the skin of his forearms.
This man's demeanour screamed danger, alpha, and money.
Power oozed from every pore.
People instinctively sensed he was trouble, the silent and mean type you wouldn’t see coming. Even the shouting drunkard and the drugged-up, bad-tempered older woman curled into their chairs, the room going almost silent - save the ever-ringing phones and personnel hollering to each other, safely hidden away in the surrounding rooms.
The oldest Bardin strolled up the stairs and calmly observed his audience like prey before making his way to the front desk, where poor Catrina shrank in her chair; the partition glass and vertical metal bars doing nothing to make her feel protected.
“I’m here for the interview. Amaury Bardin.” He spoke too loudly, growling through the introduction, and he didn’t even bother to look at her. No, he was staring at Slate like he’d found a chew toy interesting enough to pick up and tear apart. And Slate stared back because, really… what could he do? Amaury had been his wet dream of a case file for three years. He could ace every trivia question about the man.
Catrina blinked and turned around, following his gaze to Slate. On autopilot, she started to click on her computer, checking him in, handing over his temporary pass and waving to the detective. “Um… He's handling the case.”
Amaury strode over, his grip hard on an unassuming document case and the leather of his expensive gloves straining to the point of testing the seams. It was the only indication that being here annoyed him, as his face was a mask of unashamed boredom. He stopped in front of Slate and rudely looked him up and down. Mostly down since the younger alpha was some inches shorter than Amaury.
“I’ve had a long flight and came straight here. I’d appreciate it if we could do this swiftly so I can get back home,” Amaury proclaimed, voice a dark timbre.
He wants to force his terms. Sorry, buddy, my turf, you wait as long as I want. Slate knew the domineering posturing and the intimidation tactics well. He used them himself whenever he could get away with it; not shy at all about making people uncomfortable when it served its purpose. But being on the receiving end rarely happened.
“I’ll see what I can do. Please follow me.” Slate smiled, all professional but teeth bared. He gestured to the doors leading to the back part of the building, buzzing them through the security gate. He’d expected the older man to stand beside him or even insist on going first, but the looming presence stayed behind him, practically breathed down his neck, silently ignoring all conventions of personal space.
But Slate heard it. The slight intake of air through the nose. The shameless inhaling of a stranger's pheros.
Asshole, he thought. Sniffing another alpha so openly was considered rude, even without the allegations of complicity. He didn’t say anything, though. The provocations could be simply deemed a quirk, bad manners and everything else typical of nepos in his social circle. Slate had dealt with his share of rude rich people, and especially rude rich alphas. Amaury Bardin could go fuck himself if he thought he’d be able to get a reaction out of a detective of his calibre by behaving badly.
Nevertheless, the low hammering of Amaury’s Oxfords on the hallway’s tiles, like bullets in slow motion, and the light rustling of his overcoat set Slate’s nerves on fire.
He was glad when they left the silent corridor and entered the detectives’ office. Perris was on the phone. His crumpled, annoyed face, in combination with the perpetual shrimp pose, was enough to know not to interrupt him. Slate gestured to a second room, the alpha/beta sign on the door in bright contrast to the door’s dark wood. Amaury huffed, bemused, before stepping in. He gracefully folded into one of the chairs that looked three sizes too small for him.
“Isn’t this discriminatory? Putting the omegas in a separate room? I thought the mayor made equality one of his main points in the last campaign?” Amaury looked around, casually checking where the cameras and microphones were, but not hiding his interest. He didn’t bother to lose his overcoat either.
Not my problem when you start to sweat through your expensive wool, the detective thought. He set down a folder, an empty pad, and a nubby pencil that was too small to be used as a weapon anymore.
“It’s not discrimination, it’s for safety reasons. Alphas are not allowed to enter the room, so pheromones can consequently not influence the respondents' answers or reactions. Some individuals are more prone to giving false statements when influenced by pheros.” Slate smiled slightly, rattling off the sales pitch for the separated rooms.
He didn’t mention that one time a detective had been forced into a rut by an Omega who didn’t feel like giving his statement. Or another time, when pheros had scared an Omega into saying yes to almost every allegation. She would have admitted to killing her mother, despite the woman having died when the girl was one. It had been madness, and Slate was happy that he didn’t have to deal with that shit anymore. It was annoying for both sides; worse than dealing with addicts.
Amaury quirked an eyebrow and nodded, looking satisfied but still bored.
“Coffee?” Slate asked.
Amaury gazed at him over the rim of his silver-framed glasses. His brown eyes looked almost black under the harsh light of the interview room. “No, thank you. The burnt scent is enough to keep me awake. Water would be appreciated, though, Detective…” He trailed off, slightly turning his head in an owlish gesture to read the badge fastened to Slate’s belt. The younger alpha didn’t miss the straying eyes checking out his package.
What the fuck is wrong with this man?
His teeth would be ground to fine dust by the end of his shift. Slate nodded and grabbed a bottle from the desk just outside the door before closing it again, effectively shutting out the rest of the world. He sat down and slid the water bottle over, waiting for Amaury to move and take it, but he didn’t. Instead, he crossed his legs, folded his hands, leant back, and waited.
“Detective Mercia,” Slate stated, glancing at the clock on the wall, before pressing the button on the voice recorder and fixing his gaze on Amaury. “Recording started at 04:26. Mr Bardin, I was on scene the day of the shooting, so it’s my case for now.” Your ass is mine for now. “You’re not required to say anything, but given the circumstances, it's in your best interest to answer my questions faithfully. Everything is recorded by cameras and mic.” He waved in the respective directions of the devices Amaury had already located.
The older alpha nodded, but otherwise didn't move, so Slate assumed he was unimpressed by the warning, and why would he be?
“So, to recap what happened: You flew out the day before the annual Bardin Media party. Mr and Ms Chanda arrived at the party before Amos Bardin and his intended mate, Murano Riva, made it to the location. When Karim Chanda was in the restroom and noticed that Murano Riva was also present, he attacked him with the intention of raping him and likely marking him forcefully. Your brother and Mr Chanda started a fight, and Amos tried to leave with his intended now, albeit unconscious, mate. Then Ms Chanda and Natasha Petrov also entered the restrooms, already fighting over a gun that Ms Chanda had sneaked in, and a shot went off. Ms Chanda then shot her husband and left the venue. So far, that’s what everybody agreed on. And now it gets a bit tricky, and why you are here: Ms Chanda has alleged that the gun she used to kill her husband was directly supplied to her by you.”
Pausing, Slate took a quick sip from his mug and tapped his notepad with the pencil, the sour taste of the cold liquid leaving a nasty film on his tongue.
Amaury quirked an eyebrow. He unfolded his body like stiff origami and leant forward, resting his elbows on the table and pushing the bottle a little further to the left so that both drinks formed a perfect bisecting line across the table. “Really now,” he growled. “How… lovely of her to think of me.”
He took his document case, undid the clasp at an impressive speed, despite still wearing his gloves, and slid a USB stick across the table.
“This is camera footage of the car park.” He dug into the case again and produced a neatly folded page. “This is a list of people who attended a party I happened to host one evening before the shooting. The camera system is set up to protect my collection. I don’t have a camera in my bedroom, since I thought the gun safe would be enough additional protection for my guns. Unfortunately, I happened to be… occupied when Leila left the party, and I had no reason to check the safe”
Slate scanned the list, his eyebrows rising a bit when he saw the names. They were obviously upper crust, but it was mostly singles sans partner; wives and husbands without their significant other and an age mix that made almost no sense. These people had nothing in common. “You reported the gun missing two days later.”
Amaury leant back again, this time with the water bottle. He inspected the bottle like a bug, took his time opening it and hesitated for a moment before taking a swig. The plastic crumbled for a second, and the alpha’s face twisted in displeasure at the sound.
Sorry not sorry, mister. No fancy glass bottles here.
“The gun is a collector's item, and I have security, so there’s no reason to carry a weapon. Hence, I don’t check my armoury unless I want to clean or add something.”
“It's a bit foolish to invite a bunch of people to a party and not expect somebody to sneak around and pick up things, isn’t it?” Slate baited.
Amaury pointed at the list again. “I didn’t invite beggars and thieves. And, frankly speaking, most of these people were naked for the most part. It’s rather hard to hide a weapon when you’re bare-arsed.”
Slate blushed for a hot second. He hadn’t expected an orgy. His mind reeled. This list would be explosive if that were true. His boss's wife was on the list, and so was the son of the mayor. Who had a wife and children. Did she consent? Did his boss consent?
Shit.
“Of course, I can’t prove the fucking part nor that I wasn’t in the bedroom by video evidence as that would be illegal and put people in compromising positions….”
Of course, he has material. Bastard. He can prove it. He knows he’s safe.
“And of course, there isn’t footage that proves that you didn’t give her the key for the safe.”
The leather of Amaury’s glove creaked slightly, but he smiled. It was unpleasant to watch him radiate so much satisfaction. Slate wanted to punch the glee off his face.
“Of course there isn't,” the older alpha mused. “But if the question is whether I am willing to expose a lot of people, including those who could make your life much worse, then yes. The fine for presenting non-existent material I never filmed would likely be only a light dip into my bank account. And, as said… I was busy - my multitasking ends with fucking five people, and, at that point, it could have been anybody from the major’s son to the maid changing my bedsheets. I met with Mrs Chanda only twice before that evening, and I upgraded my armoury immediately after the gun was logged as missing. There was no reason to believe she would need a gun or that she was set on killing Karim for lusting after an omega. They were both rather… actively seeking affairs, and that is well-known.”
Slate tried not to think too hard about how Amaury could fuck five people at once, and tapped his notepad. “Known by whom?“
Amaury smiled, a droll look ghosting over his face. “The upper echelons, I guess.”
The bottle landed soundlessly on the table, aligning perfectly with the mug. Slate looked at it, intrigued. He picked up his own mug and took an unpleasant gulp. He set it down again, deliberately misaligning it and watched the older alpha.
Amaury stared at the mug and his bottle, hand twitching with controlled anger. “That’s rude.” He pushed his bottle to re-form a perfectly split half circle. “Anyway, the gun is a 1911, and I would appreciate it if I could get it back once this… ordeal is over.”
“Even if it's a murder weapon?”
“Detective Mercia, the gun is over a hundred years old. It was well loved and well used and definitely not just for chasing away coyotes.”
Well, he has a point, the younger alpha begrudgingly admitted. Slate took the USB stick. He wasn’t sure how his boss would react to the protocol. Likely not. Chief Caldwell was protective of his wife. Or at least he’d thought so.
“One more question. Two, actually… where were you on the evening of the party? Your company was responsible for the security, but you were not present.”
Amaury checked his watch and sighed. “There was an opening for contract negotiations with a partner. Unfortunately, it was the same day, but on the other side of the country. Which is the reason why I’ve just got back and came directly to the station. Like a good citizen. I did inform my brothers beforehand, so both can vouch for that. I can also prove this by hotel bookings and timestamps in the mobile chat, which indicate that it was planned. The second?”
Of course, you have all the necessary evidence. You’re so slick, nobody’s ever managed to write you up. Not even for a missed parking ticket.
“You had an affair with Osvaldo Coreas, the former boss of your brother’s intended mate. It was rather convenient that he got rid of both Karim and Leila at once, given that there was open animosity between him and the Chandas, wouldn’t you say?”
It was the first time Amaury had looked rather impressed. And absolutely annoyed. “Why would I help Osvaldo get rid of board members? He is a direct competitor to Bardin Media.” His eyes became slits before he evened out his expression again. “That makes no sense.”
Slate wasn’t about to let it go. “But fucking with the board member he hated does?”
Amaury laughed. “I am not his partner, and neither did I harbour any feelings for Mrs Chanda. It was only sex. They both know that.”
The detective leant back and tapped his foot on the tiled floor. It didn’t produce a satisfying sound. Chucks never did. He rubbed his neck and checked his notes, mentally scrambling to find another question he could ask. It didn’t feel right to let Amaury go, not after tracking his activities for so long.
A small card was shoved in his direction. “This is my phone number. If you have any further questions.”
Slate picked up the thick business card, the surface velvety under his thumb. It reminded him of things he shouldn’t be thinking about at that moment. He needed to get laid. “Thank you, I’ll be in touch.”
Amaury smirked and got up. He took his document case and adjusted his silk scarf, not a single strand of his inky black hair out of place. “Please do.” He waited to be led out of the room, looming and hovering but done with talking.
Slate took his time picking up his things and nodded to Perris, who looked surprised when both exited the interview room. The silent prowl continued as they returned to the lobby's security barrier. The younger detective felt his hackles rising again - everything was too loud, blood pounding in his ears. His reactions terrified him.
He beeped the door open and yanked at the door handle; the squeaking sound of the metal against metal was shrill and nasty. Amaury slid around him, still too close. “Nice scent, by the way.”
Slate frowned, watching him go. He didn’t know what to make of that. He never wore any cologne.
End Of Chapter One