His brother and sister-in-law glanced back and forth between us, silent and watchful. Disapproval might be too strong a word, but I got a distinct feeling of discomfort and uneasiness from them. Whether it was because I was a hell-spawn or merely an outsider, I couldn’t say, but I have to admit it was a relief when they said their good-byes as the sun was sinking low, taking their rambunctious wolf-cub boys with them.

I helped Cody carry the dishes, which basically consisted of six plates swimming in bloodred juice, into the kitchen. “Can I help you wash up?”

He shook his head. “No need. Go home; get some sleep. After yesterday and today, you must be tired.”

Actually, I was. It was hard to believe it was only last night that Hel had summoned me. “Okay.” I hesitated. “Thanks, Cody. This was really nice.”

His mouth quirked. “No, it wasn’t.”

“It was a nice idea.”

“Look.” Cody laid his hands on my shoulders. “Don’t take it personally, Daisy. My family is very . . . insular.”

I raised my eyebrows. “You don’t say?”

“I’m glad you came.” He let go of me. “This investigation’s been tough on all of us. I know I had reservations at the outset, but I wanted you to know that I’m glad we’re working together.”

It wasn’t exactly what I wanted, but I’d take it. “Me, too.”

Cody showed me to the door. “Tim Wilkes has called another conference for tomorrow morning. See you there?”

I made myself smile. “Bright and early.”

I drove home to my empty apartment. My neighbors across the hall were engaging in another bout of noisy lovemaking. Mogwai was nowhere to be found. On the plus side, at least I didn’t have to worry about any ravening ghouls lurking around the Dumpster or in my stairway. I had to say, Stefan had come through on that score.

I thought about Stefan and his oh-so-tempting offer.

Cody, too.

And I thought about calling Jen to talk about both of them, or my mom, just to hear her voice, but I was tired.

Instead, I poured myself a couple inches of scotch and put on some music. Sometimes you have to go old-school and let a genuine queen of the blues give voice to your melancholy. I put on a scratchy old recording of Bessie Smith singing “Salt Water Blues,” her world-weary voice accompanied by the spare, droning wail of a muted trumpet, and opened my case file to study Thad Vanderhei’s photo.

Thad’s bland, ordinary face gazed back at me. His hair still bore the impression of a ubiquitous baseball cap. Tomorrow I would attend his funeral. And I still didn’t have the first idea why he was dead.

“That doggone salty water,” I mused, echoing Bessie. “Why salt water? What the hell were you up to?”

Not drugs.

Something else.

But I didn’t know what.

Chapter Twenty-two