Page 2 of Vallaverse: Noir
I shake my head. “No. I was never so blessed.”
“That's too bad.” He nods sadly. “You have a connection to them, Detective. A connection that you can always feel. I know she's still out there. I know she's waiting for someone to bring her home.”
“I have to ask, and please forgive me for it. It isn't my intention to be disrespectful. It seems odd that your Alpha doesn't seem to be as concerned with finding your daughter as you are.”
“That isn't exactly a question, though, is it, Detective?”
I take another sip of coffee and watch him over the rim of the cup. “Maybe not, but it is a concern.”
He sighs again and absently rubs at the tops of his thighs. “They argued. She inherited Adam's temper and they were bothvery angry. She didn't want to attend the Selection and he refused to entertain the idea of her missing it.”
“So, she's a runaway?” I interrupt.
“No, no,” he shakes his head quickly. “She may have ran out the door, but only to cool off a little. She only ever goes out to the swing in the yard. She likes to swing when she's upset, she says it helps. When she didn't come back inside and she wasn't anywhere when we looked, Adam ... He thinks she ran away. But she wouldn't. She's an Omega. She knows what would happen if she decided to run away. She knows how dangerous that would be.”
An internal sigh rolls through me and I close my eyes in an effort to hide it from Mr. Westover. Alphas are typically terribly overprotective of their children. If Alpha Westover isn't concerned about his daughter's whereabouts, then that's a suspicious problem. I'll have to question him.
“I know what you're thinking, Detective.”
I open my eyes and peer into his. “Oh?”
“You think Adam doesn't care. Or worse, you think he might have something to do with Celia's disappearance because he seems indifferent.”
I try for a smile, but I'm pretty sure it doesn't make it to my mouth. “I don't know how Adam seems, Mr. Westover. I won't know anything about him or his indifference until I speak with him.”
“Please don't do that. He already feels bad enough. He's taking this very hard and he has such a hard time admitting when he needs help.”
Ah. So he's tried to handle it on his own. Over-dependence on self is often an Alpha's biggest personality flaw. “I'm afraid that I'll have to speak with him regardless. I'll be gentle.”
Mr. Westover looks down at his lap where his fingers are twisting in the hem of his sweater. I feel for him, I do. ButI'll have to speak with his Alpha, there's no way around it. “I suppose it can't be avoided. Maybe you could meet us for lunch somewhere. Maybe that would be better.”
I nod and finish the lukewarm remains of my coffee. “It might. You just give me a call with the time and place and I'll be there. You have my number.”
“So you'll take the job?”
I sigh audibly and obviously this time. “Yes, yes. I'll do what I can. But I can't promise anything. It's been months, Mr. Westover. The more time...”
“I know, Detective. I know. Thank you. I'll be in touch.” He leans forward and neatly places a stack of bills on my desk. “Thank you again.” Then he leaves with his still-dripping umbrella.
Rolling my shoulders, I sit back against the back of my chair. This is the exact opposite of what I wanted to do. I didn't want to take another single job that I'd have to think about, that I'd have to carry around with me. That's what will happen. If I can't find Miss Celia Westover, then I'll have to carry her loss and the desperate look in her father's eyes with me for the rest of my life.
Chapter Two
Dana
The boys that hang around the wharf know everything. They know everything about every ship that docks or embarks. They know about the crew. They know about the drama between the families. They know the layout of the packs and their territories and the changes to those things before anyone else in the city. They know how old the bread is at the bakery and what it means when the PC repair shop leaves the Out to Lunch sign up overnight. And they'll spill their guts for an extra large cheese pizza and a six-pack of root beer.
“I don't know nothin’ about any girls getting lost, but you should probably go to the bakery,” the tallest and grubbiest brat says around a mouth full of half-chewed pizza. “They've had a lot more after-dinner traffic for the past couple months, and they're getting even more busy with the ball next week.” That's street urchin for I'm not ratting out The Baker because he'll put me in an oven, but that's where your information is.
“Yeah,” one of the younger boys continues. “You go get some donuts or something and hang out in front of there. You'll see a lot if you're looking.”
“And go to the pharmacy,” the oldest one adds. “I was just in there with my uncle. They talk about the next ball an awful lot for a pack that already has a couple Omegas.”
“Will do,” I confirm. “You boys want any sweets?”
“Nah,” the oldest says. “You got us lunch. What's that girl look like that you're looking for? We'll keep an eye out.”
This is almost always the dilemma I have. If I gave these kids a description they'd absolutely keep an eye out for her, but the cost for them, not me, would be catastrophic if anyone found out they were watching for me. Getting a bunch of trouble making brats a pizza every couple weeks is no big deal. I've been doing that for years so nobody thinks anything of it. But if they start actively and obviously paying attention to things and talking with me more than usual, people will notice. The wrong sorts of people will notice, and I'm no more interested in finding out what The Baker would do with these kids than they are. So, yeah, the information they could get for me would be beneficial, but it's not worth their safety.
