Hunger Moon Rising Read online

  My mind was working a hundred miles a minute. Theodore Savage had to be Thrash Savage. The guy who'd hit on me in The Cloven Hoof the night before had mentioned him as being connected with McKinsey. The guy Ben had beat to a pulp…but I didn't need to go there. I needed to find a lead.

  “What can you tell me about Thrash Savage, Mister Cullen?” I asked him. “Have the police cleared him in the disappearance of your daughter?”

  He gave another short, harsh laugh. “Sure, they cleared him. He had a rock-solid alibi—he was with another woman at the time. Two of them, in fact. The bastard.” He sighed. “And all I really know about him is that he's kind of a biker—dresses in leather and chains—long hair, tattoos, the works. You'd know him if you saw him—he looks like seven miles of bad road. At least that's what I tried to tell McKinsey. But she was so set on him—she said he told her…told her he could make her special.” He gave a dry little sob. “As though she wasn't already special. Oh, my baby.” He put his face in his hands and his shoulders shook.

  “Mister Cullen, I am so sorry.” I patted his arm, feeling helpless. All the digging I had done, and I couldn't even add a piece to the puzzle. I was no closer to getting McKinsey Cullen back than I had been when her father first came in with her picture.

  “It's all right. I'm all right.” He took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped at his eyes. “I really should go now, Ms. Linden. My wife is taking this even harder than I am, and I didn't help her any with my outburst the other day.”

  “It's completely understandable, Mister Cullen.” I patted his shoulder again. “I don't blame you a bit.”

  “It's the worst thing in the world,” he said, getting up to leave, “losing a child. I pray to God you never have to experience it yourself, Ms. Linden.” I held out my hand to him again, and he shook it rather limply. “Thank you again for being so kind,” he said.

  “You're welcome,” I said. “If there's anything at all I can do, please, don't hesitate to call me or drop by again.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger as though trying to drive back tears or tension. “I'm afraid there's nothing anyone can do at this point, Ms. Linden, except pray.”

  I nodded him out of the conference room, but inside I was seething. Ben had told me to drop the case because it was dangerous, but now more than ever I knew that I couldn't. What had started as a harmless way to kill time on a slow news day had turned into a quest. I had to find McKinsey Cullen.

  I dug in my purse and pulled out my phone, dialing a number by heart. The boyfriend was the obvious place to start, and if anyone would know any dirt on Thrash Savage, it would be my main snitch, Daryl Platinum.

  * * *

  Daryl Platinum's real name was Daryl Stevens, and he was addicted to cosmetic dentistry. He'd gotten his nickname because of his teeth—every single one of which was platinum plated. Gold was good enough for most people, but not Daryl—he always had to have one step above the best, at least when it came to his teeth. He had, to say the least, a blinding smile.

  I met him on a street corner downtown, not far from the hot-dog cart where he ate most of his meals. For the money he'd spent on his smile, he could have been eating filet mignon every night, but Daryl, or DP as he preferred to be called, opted for an expensive mouth over expensive food to go in it.

  “Hey, Daryl, how're you doing?” I asked, as we sat together on the bus stop bench, and he tore into the hot dog I'd bought him—extra relish and onions, hold the mustard.

  “Not too bad,” he said around a mouthful. He settled his lanky form more comfortably on the green wooden bench and looked around. “Say, where's your shadow?”

  “What?” I frowned at him and took a tiny bite of my own hot dog. I hadn't been able to eat a thing at the office that day, what with my stomach constantly tied in knots, and I had to keep my strength up.

  “You know—Ben—your other half. Where is he?”

  “He's not my other half,” I said stiffly. “And you ought to know that you probably won't be seeing us together any more.”

  Daryl shook his head and made a tsking sound around another bite. “That's a shame. What'd he do to get in the dog house?”

  I nearly choked on my hot dog. Could Daryl somehow know about Ben's…condition? But, no, it was impossible. “That's none of your business,” I said.

  “Ooo—touchy!” He took another bite. “Seems like a shame though—you two are such a good team. Like Batman an' Robin. Or…” He paused to consider. “Lois and Clark.”

  “You mean Lewis and Clark, who made the expedition to the Pacific Ocean?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

  Daryl gave me a disgusted look. “No! Like Lois and Clark as in Lois Lane and Clark Kent. You know—Superman's secret identity in the comic books? I mean, what with you both bein' reporters and all…”

  “Oh, right,” I mumbled. Well, Ben sure had the secret identity thing down pat, I thought. Mild mannered reporter by day, werewolf by night. “I never would have pegged you as a comic book buff,” I said.

  “Hey, I used to have a kick-ass comic book collection.” He put a hand to his chest. “I mean, I had it all. Superman, Batman, Aquaman—you name the man, I had the book.”

  “So what happened to your collection?” I asked.

  He grinned, flashing his platinum smile. “Sold it. Had to pay for some necessary expenses.”

  “I bet,” I said.

  Daryl shrugged and popped the last bite of hot dog into his mouth. “So what did your man do? You catch him with another lady?”

  “Of course not.” I threw away my own half-eaten hot dog and brushed the crumbs off my lap. “Besides, it was never like that between Ben and me. We're just friends—were just friends. Now we're nothing. Co-workers, I guess.” I sighed.

  Daryl laughed. “That what you really think?” He pointed at me. “You might have been ol' Ben's friend, but that man was gone on you. Why else you think he was always hangin' around puttin' up with your shit?”

  Okay, this had gone far enough. “I came here to ask questions, not answer them,” I told Daryl pointedly. I dug in my purse and came up with a fifty.

  He took the fifty, sniffed it, and handed it back. “Huh-uh, sorry. My man Grant don't do it for me no more.”

  “What?” I looked at the bill he'd tossed back at me as though it was defective.

  He nodded. “Yup—my price has officially doubled.”

  “What? Why?” I'd been dealing with Daryl for years, and his price had always been the same—a hot dog and a fifty bought anything he knew. It was one of the last real bargains in the city, and I felt like he'd just yanked the rug out from under me when he told me he was suddenly charging more.

  He shrugged. “Call it inflation. I'm getting some new work done on my teeth and it ain't cheap.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him skeptically. “I thought you already had every single tooth platinum plated—even the molars.”

  “I do.” He grinned. “But now I'm onto something new. Emeralds. Look close.” He leaned forward and opened his mouth, pointing out his two front teeth. The right one was absolutely plated with tiny, flawless emerald flakes. The left one was halfway finished.

  I thought that it made him look like he had some leftover salad stuck in his teeth, but I didn't say so. I can be diplomatic when I have to be. “Why emeralds?” I asked. “I thought most people put diamonds in their, uh, teeth when they had them done.”

  Daryl shrugged. “That's the problem—I ain't most people. I wanted something new, a little bit of flash and a whole lotta bling. Besides, emeralds are my birthstone. Lots of people have one or two diamonds or just one or two teeth done, but I'm gonna do my emeralds all that way. Forget about Daryl Platinum—they gonna call me Emerald Daryl when I'm done,” he assured me, sitting back with a satisfied smile.

  I thought it was more likely that people would call him “Mister Green Teeth” or something even ruder, but who was I to say? I shook my head. “What does y