Jordan scowled, crossing his arms. “Sasquatch also doesn’t exist.”
“That remains to be disproven, actually.” Again, that calm, almost blank look without a hint of any expression. It made him want to do something to see if he could shake her up.
“Hasn’t been proven,” Jordan added.
DiNero gave him a look. “Something came over our walls, Jordan. And you said yourself it wasn’t human.”
“I didn’t say it was Bigfoot, either!”
“That’s what Ms. Blackship is here to help us figure out. She works with an organization that studies this sort of thing.” DiNero, who could be a pain-in-the-ass wisecracker most of the time, looked serious. “You know animals, dude. You know this is some kind of animal that keeps doing this.”
Jordan involuntarily thought of the first slaughter he’d found three months ago. The scent of blood, the patches of fur. It was more than the loss of the animals, or even the money they’d cost. It was how they must’ve suffered that made his stomach tense and churn. He wasn’t convinced whatever had killed the zoo animals didn’t wear boots and kill with knives.
“Something didn’t just kill them,” DiNero continued, now facing the woman. “It ate them, we’re pretty sure.”
Jordan shook his head. “You don’t know that.”
Monica nodded. “I’ve seen similar cases. I’m thinking it might be something like a chupacabra...”
“The hell...?” Jordan snorted derisive laughter. “What the hell is that?”
“They’re usually found in Puerto Rico and Mexico,” Monica went on as though he hadn’t spoken, and damn, if there was one thing Jordan couldn’t stand, it was being dismissed as if he were nothing. “But there have been cases of them moving north, more and more often now. They typically prey on smaller animals, but several of the cases my colleagues have worked on dealt with what looks to be a different breed of chupacabra, maybe...”
“Hold on. There’s more than one breed?” Jordan shook his head. “Please.”
“Like dogs,” Monica said. “Or wolves.”
DiNero had watched the interchange with rapidly rising brows, but now he held up a hand. “Jordan, listen. Monica was sent here by a friend I trust. He’s dealt with things like this before, and I want to know what’s going on. What’s breaking in here, what’s eating my pets.”
“So you can kill it,” Monica said softly.
“Hell no,” DiNero said. “So I can put it in my collection.”
It was better than a sleeping bag on the ground or a bedbug-ridden hotel room, that was for sure. DiNero had put her up in one of the guest bungalows scattered throughout the private zoo. Kind of a safari experience for his guests, she supposed and curled her lip. Monica had never liked zoos, seeing the animals in cages. Lions pacing and miserable. DiNero’s menagerie was housed in better habitats than any she’d ever seen, but they were still kept captive. Not free.
In her lifetime before, when she’d been attending veterinary school, Monica had dreamed of getting a job at a big zoo. Maybe a circus. She wanted to work with exotic animals, not just dogs and cats. She hadn’t finished school, because the attack had screwed that up for her, big-time. Yet she’d ended up working with exotic animals just the same, hadn’t she? The deadliest ones, too, nothing soft or fluffy, because people never called for help when they came across a mewling, fuzzy bundle of fur with big eyes. Nope, the Crew got the calls only for the things that chewed your head off and spit down your neck.
Damn, she was tired.
She’d been up for most of the night because of the dream. Then she’d been on a plane from her place in Pennsylvania with a layover in North Carolina and this final stop in Louisiana. Then another four hours or so driving through the bayous to get here. Where here was, she didn’t exactly know. Vadim had told her that DiNero demanded secrecy so he could avoid getting caught with his illegal collection. Personally, Monica had no interest in fucking with his animals, so long as they were cared for.
Which made her think of Jordan Leone. That long, tall drink of water was in charge here, and he’d made sure to let her know it. Not that it mattered, really. She was here to figure out what had killed a silver fox, four prairie dogs, a couple chimps and, more frighteningly, a tiger. The tiger had been, by Jordan’s account, old and blind in one eye. Raised in captivity, it had come from another collection, where it had been treated like a house cat and overfed, allowed to live with its owner in a tiny two-bedroom cottage until it had pissed one too many times on the couch. It hadn’t been full of much fight, Jordan had told her. But still. What could attack and kill a tiger and also drag it half a mile and through or over a ten-foot-high brick wall topped with barbed wire?
After pouring herself a glass of what turned out to be very good whiskey, Monica turned out the lights in the small kitchenette and then the equally compact living room. On bare feet, she crossed the bamboo floors with her glass in her hand and made her way out onto the small terrace. She’d brought a book but didn’t feel like reading. The mosquitoes were going to eat her alive out here, she thought, but settled into one of the comfortable chairs and put her feet up anyway.
From here she had a good look directly across into Jordan’s bungalow. She hadn’t been given her choice of places to stay, and if she had, she wouldn’t have picked one so close to his. He was a man who cherished privacy, she could tell that right off. He wasn’t going to be popping over asking to borrow some sugar, that was for sure. And there were other guesthouses—she’d seen them when DiNero gave her the tour of the estate. So why this one, then?
It had something to do with Jordan protecting her, she thought with a low chuckle and a shake of her head. DiNero hadn’t said as much, but he might as well have patted her on the head when he called her honey. She’d figured it out. He didn’t seem to have a problem believing in her credentials or ability to find out what was stalking and killing his pets, but he didn’t think she could defend herself. Monica gave an internal shrug. She hoped she wouldn’t have to, but if she did, she doubted she’d need Jordan Leone’s help.
Never mind those long, strong arms and legs. Those big hands. Never mind the muscles cording in his back and shoulders, clearly visible even through his shirt when he bent or lifted anything. Never mind that mouth...
Monica stopped herself. She wasn’t here for that. Sure, he pushed just about every one of her buttons, aside from the fact he didn’t seem to have a sense of humor. Oh, and that he obviously didn’t like her at all, was suspicious of her being here and had no faith in anything she’d already proven to herself as truth. She could get over him not believing in Sasquatch, but Jordan had been blunt and up-front about his utter lack of even an inkling of belief in anything other than what he could read about in a textbook. A man like that wasn’t for her. No way.
Still, it couldn’t hurt to admire the shape of him through the sliding glass doors at the front of his bungalow as he moved around inside. Cooking dinner, judging by the good smells of onions and garlic in olive oil. She’d eaten at the main house with DiNero, slabs of steak as thick as her fist and wine she bet cost more than her rent. He’d have someone stock her fridge for her tomorrow, he’d promised. Until then, if she wanted a late-night snack, she was out of luck.
At least if she wanted food, Monica thought, watching Jordan’s silhouette, and then she reined in her hormones and went inside.
* * *
Jordan woke early, as he always did, though this morning he’d actually needed his alarm to rouse him. He’d been dreaming, jumbled images that made no sense. Nothing he could remember, really, but for the first time in forever, he couldn’t seem to shake away the sleep.
Breakfast didn’t satisfy him, either. Granola and