Read Grimm - The Icy Touch for Free Online

my sources...” Renard picked up a coffee cup, looked in it, apparently found it empty and put it back on his desk. “What organization was it?”
    “She didn’t know. Her husband said something about ice. That’s it.”
    “Ice.” Renard nodded to himself. “Here.” He pushed a folder on his desk toward them. “This is for your eyes only. It’s all I’ve got on The Icy Touch. Ever hear about them?”
    “Nope.” Nick looked at Hank, who shook his head.
    “Not likely you’d have heard much,” Renard said. “They were out of business, for a long time. And when they were active they were smalltime, compared to the mafia. Kind of an offshoot of the Hasslich, going way back.”
    “The Hasslich...” The name struck a chill through Nick. It was an organization that existed only to kill Grimms. “Great.”
    “Grimms aren’t an Icy Touch priority, especially now,” Renard said. “They’ve got some other agenda. I keep reading between the lines on FBI reports, and Interpol—I suspect it’s gone Wesen.”
    Hank snorted. “The feds know about Wesen?”
    Renard shook his head. “They don’t have a clue what they’re dealing with. They just know Icy Touch is a growing organized crime outfit making a big move. Extortion, drugs, sex slavery, major stolen goods. But Icy Touch is Wesen—and they could have a much bigger agenda than just cashing in on crime.”
    “How many of them are there?” Nick asked.
    “Don’t know. More than I’d thought, judging by these reports. Looks like they’re making a move on Portland. I’m putting you two on it, so start digging. But report only to me. Keep your mouths shut—and your heads down...”

CHAPTER THREE
    A misty dusk. Monroe stood on his front porch and sniffed the October air.
    Across the street was Forest Park, 5,100 acres of wildness on the west edge of Portland, where shadows were gathering like flocks of dark birds. The sun was going down beyond the park; the line of firs and deciduous trees broke up the reddening sunlight into a trembling coinage of scarlet-gold. Forest Park, his second home.
    Monroe inhaled deeply, taking in the woodland’s damp exhalation, parsing the scents with a clarity an ordinary human could only dream of.
    Exquisite.
    Overtop were the distinct fragrances of evergreens, western red cedar, Douglas fir, western yew, grand fir, all mingled with the decay-rich scents of fallen leaves from black cottonwood, bigleaf maple, red alder; piquant notes of wild blackberries and salmonberries struck through like thorns on a vine. He scented dozens of varieties of mushrooms and tree fungus; he caught the smells of Oregon Grape, trillium, Morning Glory and... Hooker’s Fairy Bells. That one made him smile.
    Fairy bells. Grimm’s fairy bells? In the back of his mind Monroe wondered what Nick was doing today.
    Then the lower notes of living fauna rolled over him and he inhaled again to savor them: the Northern flying squirrel; the acrid smells of birds; the sharp tang of frogs and salamanders in Audubon Pond. He caught the rank odor of a fat old raccoon; the distinct rodent aroma of a creeping vole. There—the scent of black-tailed deer. That one made his mouth water. Imagine tasting it freshly killed...
    No. You’re a vegetarian. For a reason.
    But he sniffed again. He could smell scat—guano from bats, droppings from possum and bobcat... and there, the smell of marijuana. Probably someone harvesting it. There were a number of hidden marijuana patches in Forest Park. He chuckled. Smelled like strong stuff.
    He could see birds in the foliage, from where he stood: flitting, foraging. There, a woodpecker, getting its evening meal as it paused in climbing bark, drum-rolled its beak into an oak; there, an orange-crowned warbler, heading for its nest; there, a great horned owl, swooping between trees, hunting for a delicious mouse to start off its evening.
    Unconsciously, Monroe licked his lips.
    Vegetarian, Monroe. It’s part of your recovery