Derek wound up making two more drinks for each of them before the movie was over, Lydia passing out around the time the young boy Sam was sneaking past airport security to say goodbye to his crush Joanna. He covered her up with a cashmere blanket that'd been folded up on her armchair and finished watching the movie purely out of principal of the thing, and on the off-chance she woke up before it ended. When she hadn't risen when the end credits began rolling, he ended the movie and switched off all the devices. He silently moved about as he put on his leather jacket then gathered the glasses and remains of the Trop 50, cutting off the light and shutting the door as he slipped out.
Natalie was passed out on a couch in the living room, allowing him to safely put the OJ in the fridge and the glasses in the dishwasher before leaving the house entirely. The drive home was made in silence, mind relaxed and thoughts dulled from the alcohol. He knew it was only temporary though, the warm fuzziness he originally gained from it already fading thanks to his Werewolf metabolism. Annoying, but also good since it allowed him to safely drive home.
His building was still awake as people stretched their holiday celebrations into the night, joyous music blasting from doors, toys being played with, video games enjoyed, couples rejoicing in more carnal ways. He blocked those sounds out, partially out of privacy and respect, partially for his own sanity as he tried to keep his alcohol buzz from morphing into an aroused one. Last thing he needed to do was booty call his ex.
Who was currently sitting back against his door.
Derek paused at the end of the hall upon sighting Stiles seated there, one knee cocked up, elbow resting on it as he repeatedly ran his hand through his hair. He imagined his own fingers being able to do just that, tried to conjure up how it would to feel to have soft locks sifting between the digits rather than short fuzz tickling his palms.
He shoved the thought away, snapping back to reality. Head tilted down, he sorted out his keys, finding the one for his loft as he scuffed his way over. He had no idea why his ex was there, especially after they'd seen each other only a few hours before, wondered if this was part of his plan to make things up to the Werewolf and earn his trust back.
Stiles rose to his feet, wiping off the ass of his jeans as he stepped to the side. "Know what I don't get?" he questioned, not bothering with any sort of greeting—typical Stiles really—rubbing his hands to get rid of the dust and dirt.
"Why you're at my apartment?" Derek deadpanned as he unlocked the door and slid it open, leaving it that way, knowing the younger man was gonna follow him inside whether Derek wanted him to or not.
"Nope," Stiles replied, popping the "p" as he did exactly what Derek predicted he would do, stepping inside and shutting the door behind himself. "How'd they know Parrish was a Supe?"
The Werewolf deposited his keys and jacket on the kitchen counter before snatching two bottles of water out the fridge, handing one to his guest. "What are you talking about?"
"The killers," the younger man clarified, plopping down into one of the stools. "They killed Daehler because he was a witness, right? Wrong place, wrong time. Any other deputy in that position would've met the same fate."
Derek nodded as he leaned back against the counter by the fridge, following the logic so far. "Right."
"Parrish on the other hand was abducted and taken somewhere else to be set on fire while some bigoted asshole ranted about Supes being an abomination and they had to rid the world of them or whatever bullshit it was Haigh spouted," the Kitsune continued, hands flailing as he spoke. "Why didn't they just shoot Parrish on the spot to get rid of another witness? Why this specific death with an anti-Supe speech?"
The older man raised his eyebrows, his Mate having made a good point. There was no way anyone in the group of killers could've known that Parrish had latent Kitsune powers, not when the man himself had no clue about it. He'd believed he was a regular human, and everyone else thought the same thing about him. How exactly could a group of anti-Supes who more than likely didn't even know Parrish be aware of what he really was?
"Something else to ask when we get the bastards," Derek declared, drinking from his water bottle. "But I don't think you came all the way over here to ask that, not when you could've just called or text." He gave the other male a pointed look, one that said he knew Stiles better than that.
His ex shifted in his seat, scratching the back of his neck. "I also came with info and I didn't wanna say it over the phone."
Derek raised an eyebrow at that, then set aside his bottle before folding his arms over his chest. "Go on," he prompted, narrowing his eyes as he focused.
Stiles stared at his own bottle, spinning it on the counter as he spoke. "I stopped by Scott's earlier and talked to his beta Liam, the one I told you about earlier?" He glanced up at the older man to make sure he knew who he was referring to. "Liam mentioned there was a new kid on his team named Garrett who was an anti-Supe prick, constantly using slurs and making derogatory comments towards Liam, and targeting any Supe on the field during games or even scrimmages and roughing them up more than human players."
Derek frowned at him. "Being a prick doesn't make him a killer," he pointed out. And while Stiles had theorized that one of the perps they were looking for possibly played lacrosse for Beacon Hills High, that didn't automatically mean any bigoted asshole with a crosse was their doer.
Stiles bobbed his eyebrows and nodded his head in a "true" fashion, before peering up at the other male with a pointed look. "Garrett also keeps bragging about recently being adopted by a smoking hot blonde who taught him how to shoot a shotgun and skin an animal, as well as bought him a set of knives as a recent birthday gift back in November."
The Werewolf had flashes of Laura's Mating ceremony and the one member of Argent's family—besides Allison, of course—who'd shown at the reception: a blonde woman with sharp features and a love of sharper knives, proving claws weren't needed to eviscerate someone.
"Kate," he snarled, remembering her come-ons to him, how she'd used derogatory comments regarding him being a good lil doggy and servicing her like the bitch in heat he would be in winter. Her cutting smile had made his wolf whimper and her biting remarks had left him nauseous. Argent himself had to be the one to get her to leave, she smirking wickedly on her way out, telling her brother to enjoy his new pet.
She'd left town soon after, when a Pack the next town over had been killed in a fire. No suspects were ever brought in, no charges ever brought up, no evidence ever found. People suspected her, gossip swirling over the timing of her sudden departure, but since there was no proof, all it'd been were rumors and whispers.
Stiles nodded as he drank his water, lips surrounding the entire mouth of the bottle. "Most likely, yeah," he agreed, twisting the cap back on. "Liam said he had no clue what her name was and that Garrett was still going by his original surname, although he was thinking of changing it to his new mom's."
Pushing away from the counter, Derek snatched up his keys and jacket, plan swirling in his head. Stiles straightened in his seat, brow furrowing, confusion and excitement flooding his scent.
"Where're you going?" he questioned, sliding off his stool as the Werewolf rounded the counter.
"My sister's," he informed him gruffly, slipping his jacket on. "I need to ask Argent if he recently acquired a teenaged nephew."
"I'm coming with you." The younger man fell into step with him, the two striding towards the door.
"I figured," Derek muttered, leaping up to the platform by the front door and forgoing the steps altogether, Stiles doing the same. He turned to his ex, noticing he was in the same flannel and tee as earlier, the Werewolf's brow drawing in concern. "Where's your jacket?"
Stiles scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Don't need one. I run at a higher temp than you these days. And even if I did get cold, I can make fire." He grinned widely, eyebrows wagging, scent full of pride as he puffed out his chest.
Derek's eyes flicked down, once again curious as to what was hidden beneath better fitting shirts, shaking his head to snap out of it. Slipping off his jacket, he held it out to his Mate, growling at him to put it on. Stiles huffed but did as he was told, holding his arms out to the side and making a face that wordlessly asked if the Werewolf was happy. Nodding once, the older man kept his features flat, hiding just how happy the sight of his Mate in his clothes, wearing his scent, made him.
But from the way his heart began pounding and his scent flooded with happiness and Stiles smiled warmly, he figured the Kitsune knew anyway.
Argent was the one to answer the door, eyebrows raising in surprise as he took in both his guests. "Derek," he greeted flatly, peering around him. "Stiles. What brings you here?"
"We need to talk about your hunch," the deputy insisted, arms folded over his chest and eyes narrowed, just daring the human to say no.
Argent didn't say anything, but his Mate called through from the interior of the apartment, stating there was no work on Christmas.
"Killers don't take holidays off, Laur," Derek replied, not bothering to yell since she'd hear it anyway.
She let out an annoyed groan, followed by the sound of something big hitting fabric and foam. Knowing how dramatic his sister was, she had probably flopped over on the couch to show how hard things were for her and how totally unfair this all was.
Her Mate shrugged a shoulder before inviting his guests in with a sweep of the arm, instructing them to go into the office. Once all three were in the room and the door was shut, he explained the move.
"This room is soundproofed against Supes, for the rare occasion I'm working on a case that's need-to-know only," he informed them, rounding the desk and standing behind it. "Bedroom's the same way."
"But I doubt any work is getting done in there," Stiles commented with a smirk. "Just someone getting worked over." He winked as he rocked in place, earning two glares, his face falling into an expression of innocent confusion. "What?"
Derek rolled his eyes and smeared a hand over his face before turning to his brother-in-law, choosing to ignore his Mate and his idiotic—and inappropriate—reference to his sister's sex life. "This morning you told me you had a hunch regarding my case," he started, moving to stand opposite the older man across his large desk, Celtic five-fold knot on full display in the mix of woods. "It wouldn't happen to have anything to do with your family, would it?"
Argent tipped his chin and folded his arms over his chest, body tensing up in a defensive manner. "It's a possibility," he admitted, taut jaw making his words more of a rumble than usual.
Derek noted the steady heartbeat, the calm exterior of the man across from him, but didn't take it to mean anything. As a Hunter, Argent had been trained to control his emotions, to remain calm and stoic in all situations, to escape imprisonment and handle torture. If he was feeling protective of his family—even a family he'd turned his back on and cut all ties to—he'd be calling upon that training to cover up any misdoings on their part, meaning taking visual or auditory cues to detect lies or any subtle giveaways wasn't an option.
"Would it involve your sister and a teenage boy she recently adopted?" Derek inquired, cocking an eyebrow.
The older man's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, a barely there tick Derek only saw due to Supe eyes and intense concentration. "Garrett," Argent clarified stoically. "But I have a feeling you already knew that."
Stiles glanced at Derek, the Werewolf noticing the movement out the corner of his eye. "You think they have something to do with these murders, don't you?" Leaning forward, he rested his hands on the desk, getting closer to the older man.
Argent didn't flinch, except for a shrug. "Like I said, it's just a hunch," he stated, not agreeing or denying. "There's no proof of it, just like there's no proof Kate set that fire five years ago."
"But you think she did it?" Stiles chimed in, stepping closer.
The ex-Hunter leveled his cold eyes on the Kitsune and Derek felt the overwhelming need to hide Stiles behind his back and protect him. He had to remind himself that his Mate could take care of himself and that Argent was no longer a threat.
As far as Derek knew anyway.
"Wouldn't surprise me," the older man admitted before turning back to the deputy. "My father raised us with very narrow-minded beliefs, teaching us that Supernaturals were all abominations and that it was up to us to cleanse the world of these monsters. I never fully bought into it, but Kate worshiped him like a god and took his word for absolute truth. It's not much of a stretch to believe that she'd set a house on fire to kill an entire Pack in one sweep, or that she'd adopt a child with the sole purpose of raising him to be a killer like herself and use him like a weapon."
"Mother of the year right there," Stiles muttered, Derek snorting in amusement and agreement.
"You find evidence that my sister is behind all this and I'll help you haul her in," Argent offered, pointing to his desk for emphasis. "People like her, my father, and their little group of killers, they're the real monsters in this situation and the world would be better off without them."
Derek nodded once in agreement, jaw gritting in determination. A million ideas were running through his head and if all went according to plan, he'd be able to solve this case before anyone even so much as thought the phrase "they found another body".
"I'm gonna find proof," he vowed, tone as grave as his promise. He thanked Argent for his help before leaving the room and the apartment, Stiles trailing behind and hollering a goodbye and a Merry Christmas to both residents of the apartment.
The elevator doors opened as soon as the "down" button was hit, both men stepping inside the cart and Derek depressing the button for the lobby.
"If my theory is correct," the Werewolf began, scowling at the closed doors as the elevator descended. "Then Gerard Argent was the old man Parrish saw when he was set on fire."
"I'm glad I know he's a Kasai like me, otherwise that would make zero fucking sense," Stiles pointed out, smirking slightly before getting serious. "What now?"
"We're heading to the station to check some shit out and make sure Garrett really is the lacrosse player we're looking for."
The smirk returned, whiskey eyes sparkling as they focused on Derek, scent bright and happy. "'We'?" he double checked, amusement and joy evident in his voice.
Derek sighed, rolling his eyes. "It's either I willingly let you tag along where I can keep an eye on you or you follow me anyway and I have no way of knowing if you're okay or not," he explained, giving the younger man a pointed look.
Stiles simply grinned, elbowing him in the ribs in a playful manner. "Just admit it, Liar Wolf: you know we make a great team."
Derek rolled his eyes again as the elevator stopped with a ding and the doors slid open. He wasn't admitting to anything like that, no matter how true it might've been. Besides, he really was trying to keep an eye on Stiles. The guy was a Supe now, and even if he wasn't, these killers somehow seemed to know people had latent Supe powers—as evidenced by the attempted murder of Parrish. Whether he realized it or not, Stiles had gotten a target painted on him the second he came back to town. And Derek wasn't about to lose his Mate, not again and not on a permanent basis like that.
They ended up taking a detour before heading in to the station, Derek having called up Boyd—who he knew was currently on duty—and gotten some info out of him. Security cameras from the store where the prepaid cells had been purchased didn't show the kid's face, a dark hood pulled up to hide his features. He'd been trained well, Derek had to admit it, a fact that wasn't all that surprising considering who his adoptive mother was.
Stiles managed to find Garrett's Facebook and the twosome headed to the store Boyd named as the one the phones had been purchased at. Slipping on his sheriff's jacket, he lucked out by finding Heather behind the counter, flashing his badge to show he was official and asking if the boy displayed on the phone screen was the one his fellow deputy had inquired about earlier. The quick "yes" she gave was all he needed and he thanked her before hurrying out to his car and a waiting Stiles, driving them to the sheriff's department.
The station was sparsely populated when they arrived, Derek thanking whoever was upstairs that Boyd seemed to be the only other one around. The beta tended to mind his own business, although he'd been known to raise a judgmental eyebrow or two when the situation called for it.
Derek pulled up a chair next to his desk for Stiles, ordering him to sit and stay put. The Kitsune mock-saluted and did as he was told, peering at the deputy's screen as he logged on.
"Wanna tell me what that phone call was about?" Boyd questioned from his desk across the room, turning to look at the other beta with a raised eyebrow.
He mouthed the word "lead", not wanting to say it out loud for fear of McCall having spies planted in the station who would run off to their boss and tell on Derek for not sharing info as ordered. Boyd nodded once, stoic features betraying nothing, then turned back to his own work, minding his own business.
A quick Google search allowed Derek to find a good shot of Gerard Argent in no time and he snapped a pic with his phone before sending it to Parrish, asking if that was the old man he'd witnessed. He got an immediate "yes" and he threw his arms in the air in victory. Finally! A fucking lead that didn't end with them slamming into a brick wall.
"Wanna tell me what you're doing here when I sent you home six hours ago?"
Derek shifted his victorious move into a stretch as a cover, looking over his computer monitor to find his boss glaring down at him. Stiles flailed as he turned to his dad, plastering a grin on his face.
"He-ey, Pops!" he greeted, voice shaky with nerves at being busted. "We were waiting on you so we can escort you home."
Stilinski pinched the bridge of his nose as he sighed, sounding like he couldn't believe he'd had a part in creating that. "Son, for a fox, you are a terrible liar," he commented as he crossed his arms.
"Whaaaaat?" The Kitsune in question dropped his mouth open as he faked offense, hand flying to his chest. "I'm offended, Dad. You hurt me in my soul. I don't think I'm ever gonna get over this. It'll take years of thera—"
Derek slapped a hand over his Mate's mouth and effectively ended his ramble. "We found a possible lead and wanted to investigate it as soon as possible," he explained, using the truth this time.
Stiles licked his palm and pulled a face, not happy with the older man's actions. Derek glared at him. Stiles flipped him off.
The sheriff sighed again, muttering about how he'd forgotten how much trouble the two of them were together.
"In my defense, sir," Derek objected. "Stiles and I together are nowhere near as bad as Stiles and Scott together."
Stilinski bobbed his head as he conceded the point. "Stiles, break room," he ordered, pointing to the hall behind him with his thumb then turning to his deputy. "You, my office."
Both men rose and headed straight where they were told to go, the sheriff following Derek into his office, leaving the door open.
"What lead could you have potentially stumbled upon while at home?" Stilinski questioned dubiously as he rounded his desk and sank down into his chair.
Clasping his hands behind his back, Derek stood opposite him, trying his best to maintain that balance between assertive and submissive, knowing he was right and not wanting to step on his boss' toes. "Remember Stiles' belief that the perp was a lacrosse player at Beacon Hills High?"
The sheriff narrowed his eyes, bottom teeth showing as he bobbed his head on a "yeah".
"Upon receiving an anonymous tip," he sated carefully, cautious not to get his Mate in trouble by saying he broke the law by conducting his own investigation and interviewing someone under false pretenses. "We did some research and found a player named Garrett Smith who is known for spewing anti-Supe epithets and just so happens to have been recently adopted by Kate Argent."
His boss' eyebrows raised at that and he leaned back in his chair, folding his arms in a casual manner. "She doesn't strike me as the maternal type," he deadpanned, getting a snort out of his deputy.
"No kidding," he muttered, scratching at his jaw as he continued. "We showed his picture to the cashier who sold the prepaid cells, getting a positive ID, and Parrish identified Gerard Argent as Haigh's accomplice at the fire."
Stilinski nodded, repeatedly smearing his hand over his mouth and jaw, the rasp on a day's worth of stubble loud in Derek's ears. "And you got all of this from a so-called anonymous source?" he double-checked, leaning forward and resting his arms on his desk, one hand aimed towards his deputy. "And just so we're clear, I'm well aware of Stiles' habit of getting involved in criminal investigations rather than doing his homework, so don't think for a second that you're successfully covering his ass."
The Werewolf felt the tips of his ears heat up as he was busted, but kept his features flat. Years of getting his ass kicked at cards by Cora had honed his poker face and he put that practice to good use at that moment.
"Your silence says more than you think," Stilinski commented, only receiving a shrug. He let out a sigh, head hanging, hand working the back of his neck. "As glad as I am to see you two actually talking and spending time together and as thankful as I am that you guys have found a huge lead that has potentially solved this case." He paused, raising his head and holding his hands out in a helpless manner. His scent was defeated and apologetic, blue eyes full of sadness, lips curved down at the corners. "We can't use it. Any good defense attorney would have the discovery thrown out based upon the fact that a non-law enforcement agent obtained the original information."
A long sigh made its way out of Derek, his head hanging off slumped shoulders as he nodded. "I get it," he muttered. And he did. He understood how the legal system worked and that the sheriff was completely right in what he'd said.
Didn't mean it didn't completely suck ass though.
"McCall looked for Brunski earlier," his boss switched topics, leaning back in his seat and clasping his hands on his stomach. "Guy's in the wind. We can't find him anywhere."
The deputy raised his head at that, frowning slightly. "Think someone tipped him off that we were looking for him?"
Stilinski shrugged. "That, or he realized we'd be after him when he heard the news that we'd made an arrest."
"Anyone search his place?"
"Only to see if he was hiding in a closet," his boss stated, reaching for his Beacon County Sheriff's Department mug and drinking deeply. "Can't look for any evidence without a warrant."
Another nod was his response, several swears echoing in his mind. He really hated the system sometimes. Made it hard as fuck to do his job of bringing in the bad guys and helping protect the good ones, getting justice for victims and putting away those who wished to do harm to even more of them. It was really putting a damper on his childhood dream of being hero.
Reality was the worst sometimes.
"Go home, son," Stilinski suggested, voice dripping with concern. "Get some sleep. You look like hell."
He let out a weak "yes, sir", shuffling his way out his boss' office, shoulders slumped in defeat. His mind kept running over all the evidence he and Stiles had ascertained over the past couple hours, hating that it was all being tossed to the side, trying to figure out how they could rediscover it in a more legal way that would allow them to put the bad guys behind bars.
Shoving it all aside, he headed to the break room to meet up with Stiles and give him a ride home. Only he wasn't in there. Scenting the air, Derek found him across the room in the locker room, straddling a bench, drumming an absent tune on the wood. His shoulders were slumped, head hanging, scent of defeat and upset rolling off him.
"You don't have to fill me in," he stated lowly, smearing his hand under his nose. "A fox's hearing is actually more powerful than a wolf's."
Derek raised his eyebrows, impressed by the fact, shuffling over and leaning back against a row of lockers to his Mate's left. "The system fucking sucks," he muttered, roughing over his face with both hands. "You need evidence in order to obtain a warrant, but you need a warrant in order to look for evidence." He leaned his head back against the metal, sighing as he stared at the ceiling. "And we were so fucking close to wrapping this whole thing up."
"So we need to find another way to connect Garrett to this whole thing, right?"
"Yeah," he answered then swallowed. "But Haigh isn't talking without a lawyer and we don't have a good enough reason to talk to any lacrosse players that would hold up in court."
The Kitsune breathed out a swear, the word muffled by his hand smearing over his face. "Maybe we can find some way to connect Garrett to Brunski," he suggested, sounding hopeful.
"Can't find Brunski though. And I already looked into his background and there's no connections between him, lacrosse, or Beacon Hills High."
Silence descended over the two down and defeated men, Stiles fingers now drumming on his thighs, head turning as he gazed around the room. His scent turned to something hopeful, causing Derek to lower his head and look at him with a cocked eyebrow.
"Lockers aren't private property," the younger man stated thoughtfully, wagging a finger, eyes narrowed as he contemplated something. "They belong to whatever building they're located in: schools, sheriff's departments, hospitals."
Derek pushed away from the lockers, feeling his own hope grow. "You don't need a warrant," he added, following the other man's train of thought, smirk forming on his face. "Just an administrator's permission."
Stiles beamed up at him, naughty glint in his eyes, scent full of joy and excitement once more. "Think Eichen House has a locker room?"
"Only one way to find out."
At that, he strode out the locker room, Stiles hot on his trail, a Plan B already being set in motion.
Derek's loft was on the way to Eichen House so he quickly stopped in and changed into a clean uniform, figuring things would work in his favor better if he looked more professional and legit.
The administrator they needed was a petite dark skinned woman with short black curls and a take-no-shit attitude named Rhonda. She didn't seem all that surprised that Brunski was in trouble with the law, rolling her eyes as she crossed her arms and cocked her hip out.
"Figured that when a guy from the SRB showed up lookin' for him," she stated. "Not to mention the fact that he's a prick. Ego bigger than this entire hospital."
Stiles muttered that he wasn't surprised, Rhonda giving an agreeing "mmhmm".
"Anyway, I'd love to help you boys out, but Brunski doesn't have a locker."
Derek sighed as his body slumped in disappointment, that all too familiar feeling of ramming into a dead end taking over. He turned to Stiles, ready to tell him it'd been worth a shot but they should really just call it a night and head home, only to be cut off by Rhonda.
"He's got an office I can letcha in, though."
Derek wanted to kiss the woman.
The office in question was barely bigger than a closet, walls a sterile white, a low row of file cabinets lining the back wall, underneath a window of double-paned glass with chicken wire between the layers, a metal desk and chair in front of it. Piles of paper lay scattered about, desk covered with more of it along with dirty mugs, chewed on pens, and various pieces of trash. The air was thick with the scents of dust and mold, along with anger and disgust, hatred so strong Derek could practically taste it.
He turned to see Stiles burying his nose in the collar of his borrowed leather jacket, eyes crinkled at the corners from his nose scrunching up. The older man gave him a sympathetic smile, rubbing a soothing hand over his shoulder blades. It was easy to commiserate, to feel his pain, Derek barely able to resist burying his own nose in his ex's hair in order to fill his lungs with something more pleasant.
A laugh snorted out from behind, the deputy turning to see an amused smile on Rhonda's face. "Smells like a landfill, huh?"
"You have no idea," Stiles muttered through his leather shield, kicking at an empty paper coffee cup laying in the ground.
She wished them luck before leaving them to it, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum floor. The two men turned to face each other, the younger raising his eyebrows in question.
"What now, Boss Wolf?"
Derek glanced around the room again, honestly not entirely sure where to start. Really the best plan was to just dive right in, no matter how terrible the smell, and hope they find buried treasure somewhere deep within the ocean of mess.
Or some sorta metaphor like that.
"Desk first," he suggested, thinking it was as good a place as any. "File cabinets are probably off limits since they more than likely contain patient information."
His Mate gave him another mock-salute before they both headed over to the mentioned furniture item. Derek sat in the chair and took the top drawer on the left, Stiles crouching down and going for the large bottom one on the right, only to be unable to open it.
"Must be hiding something good if it's locked," he commented, reaching into his back pocket to slide out his wallet and grab the lock-picking kit the Werewolf knew he kept in there.
The older man let out an agreeing hum, finding a cheap day-planner with a fake black leather cover, the gold lettering partially scratched off. A red ribbon attached at the spine was holding Brunski's place towards the back of it and the deputy used it to flip the book open. The two pages were broken down into seven columns, one for each day, blocks created for every hour of the day.
He quickly scanned scribbled notes, finding his work schedule and noting that Brunski was actually supposed to have gone in that day. A red star was drawn over the date of the Wolcott murders, "BH Mem" scrawled the next day, in the hour block when Parrish was scheduled to start his guard duty.
As if it wasn't already obvious he was the guy who'd abducted the deputy.
The sound of a lock opening caught his attention and he peered down to see Stiles sliding the drawer out, grinning in victory. "Thanks, Pops," he stated with vigor, referring to the man who'd taught him how to pick open locks "only in case you lose your keys and can't get into the house when I'm not home".
The Werewolf snorted, turning back to what he'd been doing. "I'm sure he's real proud right now," he deadpanned with an eye roll.
"Shut it, Snark Wolf."
Derek didn't even dignify that with a response, focusing solely in his own task and blocking out the sounds of rustling papers.
Flipping back through previous pages, he caught sight of a recurring appointment, not surprise to find it there in the slightest. "This guy is a member of ALPH."
Stiles popped his head up at that, frowning in confusion. "Why does that sound familiar?"
"The American League for a Pure Humanity," Derek reminded him, sneering. "They hold meetings and demonstrations where they discuss how all Supes are abominations and are responsible for all the evil in the world, getting away with it by hiding behind the First Amendment and claiming they're non-violent so they have a right to their opinion."
The Kitsune snorted and rolled his eyes. "They need to add 'Assholes' to the end of their name," he snarked before breaking out in a grin and barking out a laugh. "Their initials would be ALPHA then. It would be too perfect and ironic."
The deputy just shook his head at the terrible joke, flipping through the day-planner and not finding anything else incriminating. There was no mention of any Argent, just ALPH meetings and stars by dates he was pretty sure where when the murders took place. But any lawyer could argue that the marks were made after news broke of the killings and being a member of ALPH didn't make one a murderer, just a close-minded jackass.
"Maybe I should go undercover at one of those meetings," Stiles suggested, eyes focused on going through a shoebox marked "receipts" in barely legible chicken scratch handwriting. "I could get some dirt, find out what they know, see if it's ALPH or some sorta radical subgroup, ya know?" He peered up at Derek from where he was now sitting on the dirty floor, legs crossed in front of him. "I'm a trickster now. I could totally do it." He grinned mischievously, wagging his eyebrows, scent full of excitement and hope.
Derek considered it for about two seconds before going with a no. He wasn't about to risk Stiles' life and safety like that. Even if he were the best trickster on the planet, there was always the chance he could be found out and the group of anti-Supes would tear him apart, insistences that they were non-violent or not.
Besides, there was no time for that. Undercover jobs like that could take weeks, months, sometimes even years before they gathered enough info to make their case and who knew how many Supes would be killed by them in the meantime?
He shook his head, explaining his reasons and trying not to react at how Stiles lit up over his concern for his safety, his wolf wagging its tail excitedly.
"Besides," Derek added on, searching through the drawer and finding an ALPH flier. "You're too recognizable. Anyone who sees you would instantly know you're the sheriff's kid and it'd raise a lotta suspicions." He flipped the flier over, finding two phone numbers scrawled in Brunski's handwriting, a "K" beside one and a "G" beside the other. Interesting.
Stiles rubbed a hand over his hair repeatedly, mussing it all up. "Really? But I grew my hair out and everything," he pouted.
"Moles, Stiles," Derek pointed out, closing one drawer and opening another. He got a "humph" in response, papers shuffling beside him again, and he gave in to the urge to ruffle his hand through the guy's hair, luxuriating in the feel of soft strands sifting between his fingers. "Why did you grow your hair out?" he questioned, not finding anything of any use in the second drawer. "Thought you liked the buzzcut."
The younger man shrugged, still sorting through various receipts. "Nah. I kept the buzzcut 'cause you liked it."
Derek paused at that, turning to his ex, eyes wide in surprise. A warmth flooded his chest, feeling touched that Stiles had put his opinion above his own and did whatever made the Werewolf happy, even if it wasn't what he himself wanted.
Mates.
"I never said that," he whispered absently, barely aware he was even talking. "I actually like it longer like that."
Stiles dropped his hands onto his lap with a huff, inadvertently crinkling papers. "We really need to work on our communication."
The Werewolf snorted and muttered out a "no shit", rolling his eyes as he returned to his task. Silence fell over them as they both focused on what they were doing, Stiles unsurprisingly the one who broke it.
"What kind of gun did Parrish say Brunski had?"
"Walther with Punisher grips and a silencer," he responded, tugging out a large tan envelope that had been taped to the bottom of the drawer. "Why?"
Stiles held up a few sheets of paper, victorious smile on his face. "Firearm bill of sale for a Walther PPQ, a suppressor, and an eBay receipt for a set of Punisher grips."
"Perfect," Derek grinned back, opening the envelope and slipping out the pieces of paper held within.
"What'd you find?" the Kitsune asked, lifting up off the ground slightly so he could take a peek.
"Not sure," he murmured, looking it over. At first glance, it appeared to be a couple ordinary sheets of lined paper, the kind school kids everywhere used, a list of some sort written in an elegant cursive handwriting, much better and neater than Brunski's chicken scratch. But upon further inspection, he noticed the list was comprised of a bunch of names, the ones at the top crossed off.
DeMarco Montana.
Carrie Hudson.
Micheal Wolcott.
Christina Wolcott.
David Wolcott.
Sean Wolcott.
Alexander Ennis.
"It's a list of names," he explained, reading further, recognizing some of the names. Ennis' Mate Kali, Parrish, Lydia, Satomi and the few members of her pack that he actually remembered, Scott and his beta Liam, members of his own family, and himself.
And at the very end, scrawled in Brunski's handwriting, was Stiles' name.
His eyes went wide, heart stopping dead in his chest before dropping to his stomach. He felt his lungs freeze in his too tight chest and felt his entire body go numb with dread.
Stiles' own scent reflected his, adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. "What names?" he rasped out quietly, knuckles going white as he clenched his fingers into fists.
"Supes in Beacon County," Derek answered, pausing to turn to Stiles. "It's a list of targets. And we're on there."
The Kitsune went pale, scent reeking of fear and anxiety, causing a murderous sort of intent taking over Derek. They were gonna bring in these killer assholes and throw them in jail to rot, or Derek was gonna find them and kill them himself. Either way, he wasn't letting any of them lay a finger on his Mate.
The drive to their next stop was tense, silent, neither in the mood for talking. They didn't find anything else relevant in Brunski's office, just more paraphernalia for ALPH and a charger cord for a taser—perfectly legal, of course.
After bagging up the planner, bills of sales, receipt, and list, they got back in Derek's Toyota and headed to their next destination. Stiles didn't say anything, other than a dubious "how the hell'd they know about me?" when he first got in the passenger seat, spending the rest of the ride with his knee bouncing and his thumbnail between his teeth.
Unable to resist, Derek had reached over and placed a hand on his Mate's knee, the one that wasn't shaking, noting how some of the anxiety and tension bled out of his scent and his muscles.
He parked the SUV down the street from where he wanted to go, trying not to make it obvious what he was about to do. Stiles' frowned in confusion as the engine was killed, looking out the windows at their surroundings.
"Where are we?" he questioned.
"Down the street from Brunski's apartment," the Werewolf explained, slipping out the keys and unbuckling his seat belt before getting out the car.
His Mate did the same, waiting for him on the sidewalk, puzzled expression still on his face. "Thought we couldn't search it without a warrant or the owner's permission."
"We can't," the deputy agreed, rounding the front of the engine and heading down the street at a casual yet hurried pace, Stiles quickly and easily falling into step on his right. "But we canlook for Brunski himself. If we happen to see anything out in the open that's relevant to our case, then it's admissible in court."
A smirk formed on the Kitsune's face, mischief and joy lighting up his scent. "I like your thinking, Sneaky Wolf," he commented, elbowing him playfully, hands in the pockets of his borrowed leather jacket.
The apartment building was still, quiet, something not all that surprising given it was three am and most of the world was fast asleep. In the back of Derek's mind, he registered the fact that it was technically no longer Christmas and his eyes automatically flicked over to Stiles standing beside him in the elevator, remembering three years prior when the then-teenager had cheekily told him that he'd gotten him the greatest gift ever: his virginity.
Stiles turned his head and met his gaze, brow furrowed in confusion but lips curved in amusement, small laugh being breathed out his nose. "What're you thinking about that's got you all happy?"
Derek snapped his head back to the front, schooling his features into a neutral expression. "Just that Christmas is now over," he half-lied, adding a nonchalant shrug for an extra effect.
The younger man's face fell, eyes focused on the floor as he let out a disappointed "oh".
The elevator dinged its arrival and the Werewolf led the way out, finding the right apartment by scent. Stiles picked the lock again, muttering about neither of them narcing him out to his dad, the two of them then slipping inside.
The light switch was easily found and flipped to "on", illuminating the space. The apartment was small, old, the smells of dozens of former residents seeped into the walls. The carpet was several shades of brown—although it was hard to tell if it was patterned that way on purpose or if it was years of stains—the walls a dirty off-white. None of the furniture matched: a plaid couch that smelled of cigarette smoke from its previous owner, burgundy recliner with a poorly stitched rip down the center, a scratched up coffee table and leaning TV stand, VCR on the shelf below. ALPH posters decorated the walls, months of back issues of their periodical scattered across the coffee table. In the near corner sat a square metal folding table being used as a dining table, covered in scraps of paper, two mismatched chairs tucked underneath with stacks of old newspapers sitting on each one.
"Smells just as bad as the office," Stiles commented, nose wrinkling in disgust.
Derek nodded, handing his Mate a pair of latex gloves before slipping on a pair himself. "No fingerprints," he pointed out. "Last thing we need is some asshole attorney arguing that we planted evidence before a proper legal search was conducted."
The Kitsune nodded in agreement, putting them on with a snap and a smirk, opening his mouth to speak.
The deputy held up a finger in warning, giving him a hard look. "If the next words out of your mouth are 'bend over', I will smash your head into a wall."
He snapped his mouth shut with an audible click.
The two began looking around, Stiles glancing at the framed posters on the wall and making derogatory comments, Derek shuffling the scraps of paper around on the makeshift dining table. A ton of random receipts laid on top, some for gas, most for take-out, making it obvious that this guy probably hadn't cooked a meal in his life. Derek snorted and rolled his eyes, sliding them to the side to check out what was underneath, finding newspaper clippings.
"He's cut out all the articles about the murders," he informed his unofficial partner, eyes scanning all the headlines.
"Guess he hasn't gotten around to putting them in his scrapbook yet," Stiles quipped from somewhere behind him. "Too busy killing innocent folks."
Derek frowned at that, thinking of the Wolcotts and the game locker full of human bodies they had stashed away, some of which were still being identified. He wasn't entirely sure how innocent that family was.
"Hey, Der? Come check this out."
The deputy shuffled the receipts back on top, trying to make it less obvious that someone had been moving things about, before making his way over to where Stiles stood in front of the couch, staring at the wall behind it. Derek followed his line of sight, discovering a multi-photo frame hanging there, the ALPH logo and motto—"For Those Who Dream of a Pure World Free of Monsters"—displayed prominently in the middle.
"It's from some sorta big California ALPH get-together up in San Fran," Stiles explained, pointing to a pin attached to the top left corner. "But take a look at the photos."
Derek did just that, finding a lot of familiar faces. In one, Brunski was standing with Haigh, both wielding cattle prods like weapons. In another, a familiar blond teen was cuddling a dark skinned female, he holding a hunting knife, she displaying what appeared to be a thermal cut wire styled as a necklace.
"It's the couple from the diner earlier," Derek pointed to the teens. "We were in the same place as Garrett Smith and had no idea."
"Would explain how they knew about me," the younger man stated. "They must've overheard our convo."
He shook his head in disagreement. "Wouldn't explain why Parrish is on there."
Stiles bobbed his head in concession, Derek checking out the rest of the pics. In the top middle, in one of the biggest spaces, was a photo of Brunski and Gerard Argent framing Kate, all three looking incredibly familiar and friendly with each other. And directly below that—and below the ALPH logo—was Kate standing behind Garrett, arms wrapped around his chest, head propped on his shoulder, both beaming at the camera.
"They know each other," he muttered absently, eyes flipping between each photo. "It's the connection we need to bring Garrett in."
When Stiles didn't respond, he turned his head and glanced at him, noting he was now beside the couch, head against the wall, peering at something along the side of the photo frame.
"What?"
"This frame isn't against the wall. There's something behind it making it stick out."
Curious, Derek grabbed hold of it and carefully lifted it off the nail it was hanging on, then leaned it on the stinky couch. Sure enough, a safe was hidden behind it, the digital keypad sticking out just enough so that the frame hiding it couldn't sit flush against the wall.
"Tell me that's what I think it is," Stiles requested, voice full of hope as he pointed as the gray metal.
With one knee seated in the couch, Derek leaned closer, scenting the safe, nose as close to the gap between the door and the frame of it as possible, inhaling whatever was inside without leaving any nose prints or DNA.
A grin broke out on his face, scent full of joy, causing Stiles' to do the same. "There's a gun inside, recently fired."
The Kitsune pumped a fist in the air, biting his lower lip as he smiled. "We got the bastard!"
"Or at least a search warrant to get him."
The younger man waved him off, starting a victory dance in the corner of the living room, grinning like an idiot. Derek couldn't help but smile back, having missed the guy and his terrible dance moves and dorky behavior, the expression falling upon hearing a familiar ringtone set for one particular person.
Shit.
He'd apparently said the word out loud because Stiles immediately stopped dancing, face and scent shifting to something more worried. "What?"
"It's your dad," Derek explained with a wince as he slid his phone out his pocket.
"Shit indeed."
He nodded as he slid to answer, still wincing as he out his phone up to his ear, giving his usual "Hale" greeting and feeling thankful that his nerves weren't evident in his voice.
"Get your ass back to the station and in my office now!" the sheriff barked down the line. "And bring my son with you." Without bothering to wait on a response, he hung up.
Derek stared down at his phone, swallowing hard as the screen faded to black and locked. Stiles' scent flooded with anxiety once more, hand working the back of his neck, grimace on his face.
"This is gonna be like that time we broke my curfew because we were too busy fooling around in the back of your Camaro, isn't it?"
The Werewolf shook his head while slipping his phone back into his slacks. "No. This is gonna be much worse."
"Shit."
Phrase of the hour right there.