Five Dead Herrings by E.J. Russell

As I dusted the railing for prints—getting the square root of nothing for my trouble—I asked, “So Blair saw Wyn toss the first fish? Why not use their testimony then?”

“It wouldn’t do any good.”

“Because they’re human and can’t testify before a supe tribunal?”

Lachlan glared at me from where he was perched on a weathered wooden bollard. “I don’t want this to go to a tribunal.”

I looked up from my latest failure to lift a latent print. “You don’t? Then why hire us?”

He carded his fingers through his hair, causing it to fall in those very distracting Jason Momoa waves. “I don’t want Wyn to suffer. I don’t want him punished. I just want him to stop. Besides, Blair couldn’t identify Wyn even if I were willing to expose them to the danger of any supernatural shite.”

“Why not? Did they only see the first perp from the back too?”

“Oh no. They saw him full frontal for at least ten minutes while Wyn scared up the bollocks to toss the poor herring. But Blair’s got prosopagnosia.”

“They’ve got what now?”

“Prosopagnosia. Facial blindness. They can’t recognize faces.”

I blinked. “At all?”

Lachlan shrugged. “Not as a whole. Unless someone has a really unusual feature, they can’t differentiate one face from another.” He shrugged again. “And when you think about it, most people aren’t all that different. Eyes. Nose. Mouth.” He waved a hand at himself. “It’s easy for Blair to recognize me because of my size and my hair. Wyn’s pretty average size. Nice looking.” He snorted. “Pretty, when it comes to that, but his features are very regular.”

“Good to know,” I grumbled as I bundled my fingerprint kit into its spot in my bag. “Then how do you know Wyn flung the first fish?”

He smiled wryly, which added a trace of vulnerability to his face that…damn, just damn. “Wyn may not be stupid, but he’s got his blind spots. He was wearing his favorite coat—a red suede designer number with an asymmetric zipper. Blair might not recognize faces, but they can spot things that stick out, and that coat on this dock was a dead giveaway.”

I climbed up the port stairs and glanced around the deck. “Do you see anything out of place up here?”

Lachlan mounted the starboard flight, squinting around at the controls, and shook his head. He’d already checked the storage locker where Dead Herring #2 had shown up. “Guess we’d better go below. You first.” He gestured for me to precede him. “It’s your show and all.”

“Right. Thanks.” I took it slow as I quartered the deck, photographing every inch, although everything looked as pristine as if an entire fleet of brownies had just departed with their buckets and mops.

Once we got below, though, Lachlan froze, his gaze riveted on the stern. “My cabin. I didn’t dog that hatch.” He lunged past me.

“Lachlan, wait.”

He didn’t, of course. He unlatched the pocket door, slid it aside, aaaaannnd…

Whew!

Neither one of us had to wonder about what the mysterious visitor had been up to now because the dead-fish stench rolled out in an almost visible wave, along with a blast of very unseasonal heat. The blanket on the oversized bunk sported a decidedly herring-shaped lump in its center.

Lachlan cursed, long and low. He snaked one long arm into the cabin and I heard something click. “It wasn’t enough to violate my bed. Did he have to turn on the space heater too?”

“Could I…”

He stood aside as much as possible given the size of his shoulders and chest. “Do your worst. But it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? He doesn’t want to be married to me anymore, but I didn’t think he hated me this much.”

“The sundering’s going forward, isn’t it? Despite the…complications?”

He nodded. “I called to let him know that he could name the date.” His wry smile didn’t reach his eyes. “He’s not taking my calls.”

“Maybe the message went astray then. Maybe this is just a—” The incoming call beep from my cell phone interrupted me. I scrabbled it out of my pocket and saw Mal’s name on the screen. “Mal? Did you meet with Wyn?”

“No.” Mal’s tone was equal parts disgusted and apologetic. “He wasn’t at his place. Well, his and Lachlan’s. Apparently he’s moved in with his new bloke.”

I glanced at Lachlan. “Uh… You mean…?”

“Aye. He’s camped out, snug as you please, at the Martinson estate.”

For some reason, the idea of Wyn cozied up in a West Hills mansion while Lachlan made do with the cramped quarters on his boat, not to mention sharing said cramped quarters with random dead fish, really ticked me off. I backed away from where he was staring at that telltale lump, his fists flexing at his sides.

“Are you going over there to question him?” I said, keeping my voice low.

For a moment, Mal didn’t respond, which was weird. Mal always had a comeback. Working with him and Niall was like sitting center court at Wimbledon, if Wimbledon contended snark instead of tennis. “Thing is, mate, I’ve got to head into Faerie. Niall too.”

“What for?”

“Unknown. Their newlywed majesties have asked for a word, and while I’m pleased to ignore the Queen as much as I’m able, Niall has a certain affection for his brother.” Mal chuckled softly. “I’ve got a soft spot for the big blighter myself, but the summons is a tad awkward.”

I sighed. “Yeah. Especially since our fish flinger just struck again.”

“Grand,” Mal muttered. “Well, I suppose it can’t be Wyn, then, considering he’s a good hour or more from the coast.”

“Not the best alibi, since the flinging occurred around seven this morning. He could have gotten back to Portland in plenty of time.” A sort of inverse of Lachlan’s trajectory. Hell, they could have passed on the highway. Although… “Any idea if an FTA driver made a drop off at the Martinson estate this morning?”

“Who knows? Niall’s kingly brother is a stickler for client confidentiality, but since we’re answering his call, maybe I can put in request for a little quid pro quo and get him to pull the logs.”

“Good.”

“Listen, mate. I don’t think we should dawdle overlong on Lachlan’s case. I’d like to get it sewn up before their majesties drop something dire on our heads. Could you head over to the Martinson place and interview Wyn?”

I fumbled my phone, barely catching it before it could tumble to the deck. “You want me to handle an interrogation? Without you or Niall?”

Mal chuckled again. “Let’s not call it an interrogation. No bright lights and bad coffee needed. Just ask a few questions. If the whole thing is the result of relationship drama, then it might be simple enough to get the bloke to say Sorry, won’t happen again.”

I thought of Lachlan’s violated bed, and the bookings he said he’d lost. As a former freelance photographer, I was well aware that when you were self-employed, the only job you could count on was yesterday’s. “What about compensatory damages?”

“Eh, shite.” He sighed. “Maybe leave that on the table. We’ll get our pet advocate on the line to figure something out.”

Our pet advocate. Mal and his jokes. The only advocate we contracted with was Quentin Bertrand-Harrington, incubus.

Ted’s husband.

“Right,” I croaked.

“One other thing, boyo. Keep Lachlan far away from the place. Don’t tell him where Wyn is and for the Goddess’s sake, don’t bring him with you. He’ll do something to incriminate himself and suddenly he’ll be paying Wyn for the privilege of tossing chum all over his boat.”

“I’ll try.” Although considering Lachlan’s size and that I was human and he wasn’t, the best I could hope for was misdirection until I could get back to Ted’s cave above Dewton and call my FTA driver.

“You’ll be brilliant.”

I blinked and held the phone away from my ear for a moment to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. “I will?”

“Hugh. Matt.” Mal’s voice gentled on my real name. “You’re a good bloke. You do a good job. Niall and me…well, we’re lucky to have you on our team.”

I swallowed hard. “You are?”

“Couldn’t do without you.” A voice rumbled in the background. “I’ve got to go. I’ll keep Zeke in the loop about our progress. But you’ve got this, mate. We’ve got faith.” He hung up.

I took a moment to stop hyperventilating, then tucked my phone in my pocket. They’ve got faith. I glanced at the vast expanse of Lachlan’s back. I’m not sure I do. He hadn’t punched a wall or anything, which probably had more to do with not wanting to damage his boat than any kind of self-restraint. But the guy was enormous. How was I supposed to keep him away from the upcoming “interview” if he decided he wanted to be there?

Get over yourself, Steinitz. I squared my shoulders and marched the two steps it took to reach him. “I know you probably want to get the bed cleaned up, but I should really document the scene beforehand. Then I can get out of your hair.” Lachlan didn’t respond, other than to curl his enormous hands into fists the size of hams. “Lachlan?”

He whirled, and I stumbled back a step. My face must have given away my fear because his crumpled. “Ah, shite. Sorry. I didn’t mean to…” He covered his face with both hands, his big shoulders rising with an enormous breath. Jeez, he must have three times my lung capacity. Then he dropped his hands and gave me a look that was almost apologetic. “I can’t… Will you be all right here to do your”—he gestured toward the berth—“whatever you need to do? I’ve got to”—another gesture, this time in the vague direction of the ocean.

“Oh. Right.” I flattened myself against the wall, and a smile tugged at his grim mouth.

“That won’t fly, lad. Duck into the head there, if you wouldn’t mind.”

I got out of his way and he snagged his pack off the compact dining table and surged up onto the deck.

Sue me, okay? I couldn’t resist creeping up and peering through the hatch to see what he was doing. And what he was doing, you ask?

Well, besides extracting a bulky folded something out of the pack, he was stripping. All the way down. Should I have ducked below again and gotten on with my job? Yes. And before you think I only wanted to ogle his ass and…other things, that’s not the reason. In fact, I kept my eyes focused firmly above his waist.

Really. I’m not kidding. Because if you haven’t picked up the two major things about me, here they are. One: My heart belongs to Ted Farnsworth, even though he doesn’t want it. And two: I am utterly captivated by anything or anybody supernatural.

So what I wanted at that moment was to see what a selkie did to comfort himself when his life was imploding. An invasion of privacy? Yes. But I needed to understand Lachlan if I was going to help him, and his selkie nature was a big part of that understanding.

Once he was naked—no, I didn’t look!—Lachlan shook out the bundle. When you hear about a selkie shedding his skin, it sounds kind of creepy, right? Like, well, the skin should look like a seal with its insides scooped out, maybe with empty eyes and sagging jaw and flopping flippers and now I’m creeping myself out. But it wasn’t like that at all.

It was almost like Lachlan was donning a wetsuit, albeit one covered in a layer of short, glossy brown fur. And no, it didn’t have a merman-ish tail. Two legs, two arms, just like an ordinary wetsuit, and the hood that hung down his back as he made his way to the stern didn’t look like a creepy seal mask at all.

He slipped over the side with not even a splash. I hurried up the stairs and over to the rail in time to see a seal—a really big seal—head out into the bay.

“Well,” I muttered, “that takes care of keeping him away from the interview.”

Which was why I felt comfortable staying on deck and watching until the seal finally dove out of sight under the waves.