The murder of a human may break the truce between the living
and the undead in Chicago, and Tom Jurgen’s investigation opens old wounds as
he discovers a mysterious—and deadly—club for vamps and humans.
Thomas Hale Jurgen. I used to be a reporter. Now I’m a private detective. I’m not very courageous. I try to stay out of trouble. But my cases, like my news stories, keep taking me into strange supernatural territory . . .
Sunday, June 18, 2017
The First Rule, Part One
The corpse was covered in bruises and blood. Male, early
thirties, his face was white from blood loss, but bending down I could see two
small punctures in his neck.
“Vampire.” Detective Anita Sharpe
pulled me back to let the tech team in.
“Yeah.” I sighed. This was going to
cause problems.
The Chicago CP and the Chicago
vampires had a shaky truce. One that I’d helped negotiate. No indiscriminant
killing of vamps by the cops, in exchange for no large-scale attacks on humans.
Vampires needed blood to survive, but they couldn’t slaughter humans like Huns
rampaging the countryside. As long as the blood was kept to a minimum, we could
live uncomfortably together.
Now I was on the deserted top floor
of a four-story parking garage on the west side of the city at 2:30 a.m., with
Sharpe—my partner on the Silent Force, my name for the vampire squad—looking at
a body that clearly violated the treaty.
And I was the go-between—the
liaison between the vamps and the CPD. The vampire ambassador.
I’m Tom Jurgen. A private
detective. I used to be a reporter. And I’ve been getting involved in cases and
stories involving vampires, demons, aliens, and other paranormal beings for
longer than I can remember.
“You’re going to have to call her.”
Sharpe pointed to the pocket of my windbreaker.
Anenome. The queen of vampires in
this part of the city. She and Clifton Page, another long-undead vampire, had
split the map apart to deal with the treaty. But something all the problems
seemed to lie on Anemone’s side of the line.
“Right.” I pulled out my phone.
“Any idea who he is?”
“Once the
techs are done we can go through his clothes.”
“Okay.” I pulled out my phone.
“She’s probably awake. Maybe writing her poetry.”
Sharpe rolled her eyes. “Riiight.”
“Tom? How are you?” Anenome’s voice was a soft whisper. “I’m
just doing a painting of the moon. I hunted earlier.”
She likes
to hunt in the early evening, preying on older people who can’t fight back. As
far as I knew, she hadn’t actually killed anyone in months. At her age she
didn’t need as much blood as a younger vampire to keep her undead.
I sat in my
Honda on the street, watching the ambulance the body away. “I need to ask about
a dead human. Found in a parking garage in your territory. Tonight.”
“Oh, great.”
She sighed. “I suppose you expect me to do something about it?”
“It looks
like a clear violation of the treaty. Neck wounds, drained of blood. My people
are going to take this seriously.”
“I don’t
know anything about it.” Her voice rose. “But in the spirit of the truce, I’ll
make inquiries.”
“Thank you.”
Telling a vampire queen what to do is scary, but it’s now part of my job. “I’ll
have to call Clifton, too. Just so you know.”
Anenome
groaned. “Give him my best.”
I shivered
as we hung up. We aren’t friends, or even allies, but we’d reached a kind of
equilibrium in our relationship. We sort of trust each other. But it’s a narrow
balance.
Dealing
with vampires is always precarious.
Rachel and I had been up late watching Orange is the New
Black when Sharpe’s call had come. She was working at her laptop on my
kitchen table as I came in.
“So?” She
saved her work as I locked the door. “What’s going on?”
“Vampires.
Again. You didn’t have to stay up.”
“I had too
much coffee.” She shrugged. “Plus, I didn’t want to get ahead without you.”
Rachel’s my
upstairs neighbor. And my girlfriend. Red hair, hazelnut eyes, sort of psychic.
“Let me get a beer.”
Back at the
table I told Rachel everything I knew about the murder. “I have to call Clifton
Page. Just to keep him informed.” I pulled out my phone. “You staying?”
“Let me
work on this brochure a while. We’ll see.”
Page was
awake. Of course. “Tom. What can I do for you?”
“There’s
been a murder. A human. In Anemone’s territory, but I thought you ought to
know.”
He paused.
“What can you tell me?”
“Not much.”
I gave him what I’d seen. “I’ll probably know more tomorrow.”
“This
sounds . . . I don’t know. I’ll contact some people myself. I probably don’t
have anything. But I’ll call you if I do. Before sunrise or after sunset.”
“Right.” I
wasn’t going to get much sleep tonight. “Thank you.”
“Of
course.” Clifton Page was more than 100 years undead, but still a gentleman.
“Good night.”
Rachel
closed her laptop. “Bed.”
“Good
idea.” I finished my beer.
She stood
up and stretched. “Don’t get any ideas. I’m going to fall asleep in two
seconds.”
“Whatever.”
I turned out the lights.
When I woke up at 8:30 the bed was empty. I took a quick
shower, dressed, and checked my messages.
Nothing
from Anemone or Page. A quick one from Sharpe at 5:32 a.m.: “Call me at eleven.
I’m getting some sleep.”
So I ate
some cereal and worked on my other cases for a few hours—mostly phone calls and
internet searches. Sharpe called me at 10:46.
“Jurgen? We’ve
got a name on the vic.”
I switched
pages on my laptop. “Okay. Good morning, by the way.”
“Yeah,
happy Wednesday to you. Listening? Adan Shank, address in Lincoln Park, 32
years old, fifteen parking tickets and three drunk and disorderlies. His car
was in the garage on a lower level. I’ll send you the data. We’ve already had
people talk to his parents and a girlfriend. You get to do the in-depth stuff. Let
me know what you find out.” She hung up.
That was
the kind of relationship we had. So I sipped my coffee and checked my email.
There it
was: a dossier on Adan Shank. The details were sketchy. Born in Oklahoma, his
parents immigrants from Greece. Graduate of a community college. Employed at a
car rental agency in Chicago, two years ago to the present. His address. Cell
number. No landline number. His parents, and a girlfriend. License plate
number, belonging to a nine-year-old Subaru. Various cards—library card, gym
club membership, discount cards for Walgreen and Jewel and others.
I started
with an internet search of his name, using a few resources available only to
private detectives. After filtering out all the results for “Adam” Shank and
other variations, I found a credit report on the low side, a complaint from a
past landlord, and two addresses in Chicago associated with his name.
But
internet searches will only take you so far. After copying the information, I
picked up my cellphone. I started with Adan’s employer.
The manager
sounded annoyed. “I already talked to the cops. You want to rent a car?”
“My Honda’s
fine right now. Is there someone who knew him I could talk to?”
“We don’t
have time for that. I asked Tina, she’s his friend, and she doesn’t know
anything. Sorry, I’ve got someone here.” The manager hung up.
I found
numbers for landlords at both addresses. The most recent one barely knew Adan,
although he said the checks usually came on time. The previous landlord ranted
that Adan had run out on his last month’s rent, and the security deposit barely
covered the cost of the damage to the carpet in the apartment.
Okay. I
thought for a moment, then realized I was putting off the two most obvious
places to start: Adan’s parents and his girlfriend.
As a
reporter I’d had to call up grieving parents and partners more than I liked. I
didn’t enjoy it, and neither did any other good reporter, but it was part of
the job. So I took a deep breath.
Adan’s
parents didn’t answer, so I left a message. His girlfriend Jenny Calvano picked
up. “Hello?”
“Ms.
Calvano? My name’s Tom Jurgen, I’m a consultant with the Chicago Police. I’m
very sorry to disturb you—”
“It’s about
Adan, isn’t it?” She sounded tense and close to breaking.
“I’m afraid
it is. If this is a bad time—” Well, that was a stupid thing to say. “I can
call you later if you want.”
“No. I can
. . . a few minutes maybe. I already talked to some detectives.”
“I know,
and I’ll probably go over the same details. I’ll try to keep this brief. Adan
was . . . on the top floor of a parking garage. Do you know any reason why—”
“He wasn’t
buying drugs.” Her voice was ragged. “That’s what those cops asked me. We smoke
a little weed, that’s it. Nothing that would get him involved with anything
violent.”
“Okay. Are you aware of anyone who’d want to
hurt him?”
“No. No,
we’ve got a bunch of friends. He likes the people he works with. You might talk
to Tina, she works there with him, she knows some of his friends better than I
do. I don’t know everyone. Sometimes he goes out without me, with guys from
work or whatever.”
“Did he
tell you he was going out last night?”
“Yeah, but
he didn’t say with who. We don’t live together. Well, weekends, but I don’t see
him every day.”
“Would it
be possible for you to give me a list of some of his friends he might have been
out with?”
She sighed.
“I suppose. Give me your email address?”
Half an
hour later I had an email with six names and phone numbers—including Tina,
Adan’s co-worker at the car rental agency.
I poured
myself a cup of coffee and started punching numbers.
The First Rule, Part Two
Tina answered my call but couldn’t talk, so she promised to
call me later. I left messages at two other numbers, talked to two friends who
were shocked by Adan’s murder but didn’t have anything to offer, and got hold
of Will Hernandez, the last name on the list.
“Yeah, I heard about Adan on the
internet.” Will kept his voice low, as if he wasn’t supposed to be talking at
work. He worked at an electronics store, selling computers, TVs, and assorted
gizmos. “I talked to him a day ago.”
“What did he say?”
“Look, I don’t know you.” He didn’t
sound hostile, just skeptical. “So I don’t know what I should say.”
“I understand that. You can call
detective Anita Sharpe at the Chicago Police—”
“I don’t want to talk to cops.” He
hesitated. “I’m not sure if I should talk to you, but maybe—look, Adan used to
be a boxer. In college, a little bit afterwards. He wanted to keep it going,
but he couldn’t. So he started looking for ways to fight. Not professionally,
just . . . fight.”
“With who?”
“I don’t know. Look, I haven’t talked
to him in weeks, all right? He’s not an angry guy, he just likes to show off.”
“Okay.” I added “boxing” to my notes.
“Thanks for talking to me.”
“I’ve got to go.” He hung up.
I looked at the time on my phone.
One o’clock? What happened to the morning? I went into the kitchen to make a
sandwich.
Rachel called me as I was eating.
“Anything on the new vampire thing?”
“Not yet.” I set it down. “Lots of
phone calls, waiting for calls back. The usual glamorous life of a P.I. How’s
that brochure coming?”
“Oh, it’s done. I’m working on a
web page for a startup selling frozen tuna and salmon and fish like that. It’s
boring.”
“Want to come down for lunch? I’ve
got—” My phone buzzed with another call. “I’ve got another call. Come down if
you want.” I switched. “Hello, Tom Jurgen speaking.”
“Hello? It’s Tina Kolb. You called
me? About Adan?” She was whispering. Maybe she was in the rental agency’s break
room, with the manager close by.
“Yes, thanks for calling me back.”
I clicked on my laptop. “I apologize for bothering you today. It must be
difficult—”
“Yeah, I can’t believe it.” Tina groaned.
“But what can I do? I’m taking a late lunch.”
“Me too.” I
shoved my sandwich back. “So I’m trying to find out why Adan was on the empty
top floor of parking garage with his own car parked on a lower level. Can you
give me any ideas?”
“I’m not
sure what I should tell you.” She kept her voice low. “I don’t—I didn’t know
Adan that well. We were friends, but I don’t want to get into any trouble.
You’re with the police, right?”
“I’m a
consultant. Mostly I’m a private detective, but I work with them on certain
cases.”
“What kind
of cases?”
I couldn’t
talk about vampires. Not yet, anyway. “Unusual cases. I’ll try to keep whatever
you can tell me confidential. But in all honesty, I can’t promise that.”
I half
expected her to hang up. Instead she took a long deep breath. “Okay. All I know
is that Adan used to be a boxer, or wrestler, or something. Sometimes he’d come
in with a bruise on his face, and when I asked about it, he’d sort of laugh and
said he had a few good rounds last night. I don’t know what he meant, but it
sort of sounded like he’d been fighting. For fun.”
Fun.
She swallowed. “I’ve got to go back
to work. Can I call you later?”
“Of course. Thanks for talking to
me.”
Rachel opened my door as I set the
phone down. “You said something about lunch?”
I looked at
my sandwich. “I’m having turkey and swiss cheese. Let me see what I’ve got.”
Rachel’s a vegetarian.
“That’s
okay. Just give me some coffee. I’m not sure I slept last night. Or the night
before.” She yawned. “So what’s with the vampires?”
“I’m not
sure.” I looked at the clock. “Six hours until sundown. I might get some
answers then.”
Then my
phone buzzed.
“Hi, I’m
Jeff Tollin.” One of Adan’s friends that I’d left a message with. His voice
quivered. “You called me?”
“Yes.
Thanks for calling back.” I introduced myself. “I only called to see if you
could give me any information about Adan Shanks. I got your name from a friend
of his. He’s, uh . . .”
“Dead. I know.”
He swallowed. “Look, I can tell you some stuff, but not on the phone. Can we
meet somewhere? Tonight?”
“Sure.” I
tapped at my computer. “Where? When?”
“My place.”
He gave me an address on the west side. “Uh, around 8:00?”
“That’s
great.” It was 2:00 now. “I’ll be there. Thanks.”
“What’s
that?” Rachel cocked an eyebrow.
“Jeff
Tollin. Friend of the victim. I’ve meeting with him at 8:00. But before that
I’ve got phone calls at sundown. You want to hang out here?”
“I’m going
to take a nap.” She kissed the top of my head. “Upstairs, so don’t get any ideas.
Call me before you go anywhere.”
I checked out a few other cases, made some phone calls and
sent a few emails. Then I napped too. Vampire cases keep me up all night, and I
needed the extra sleep.
I woke up
around 5:30 and waited for the sun to drop. I checked my email., drank some
lukewarm coffee, and made sure twilight filled the sky before making my first
call. Anenome.
“Tom.” She
laughed. “Can’t you give a girl a few minutes to dry off from a shower? I’m
naked here.”
Vampires
take showers? I tried to keep my mind on business. “Adan Shank. The guy in the
parking garage? You had all night to ask questions.”
“Just give
me a minute.” I heard rustling noises. “I’d send you a selfie right now, but I
really want to go out and hunt.”
I squirmed.
“I don’t need any selfies, but thanks for the offer. Have you got anything for
me on Adan Shank?”
“Actually,
no.” She sounded surprised herself. “No one is talking to me.”
“No one?
You’re the vampire queen. You’re the toughest vamp in Chicago, aren’t you?”
“You should
hope I am. But it’s not like I can send a group email to every vampire with a
cellphone and expect an instant response.”
“So will
you keep asking?”
Anenome
sighed. “After I hunt.”
I pretended
not to hear that.
Clifton
Page called me a few minutes later. He didn’t have anything either.
I was
feeling frustrated. “You and Anenome have been able to keep the truce going for
months. How do you communicate? I assume you don’t have town hall meetings
every month.”
He
chuckled. “We do have email. Some of us, anyway. And we have—other methods of
communicating that I’m not going to share with you. But we really don’t have
thousands of vampires living here, or even hundreds. Maybe just dozens, especially
since Asmodeus was killed.”
I
shuddered. Asmodeus—the vampire king who launched the war on Chicago. Yeah, he
was dead. I’d killed him, after he’d slaughtered Detective Elena Dudovich, my
one sort-of friend in the CPD. Killing Asmodeus had led to the truce, so at
least something positive came out of all the deaths.
I still
missed Dudovich.
“So you
should be able to get the word out to all of them, though, shouldn’t you? Or
most of them?”
He sighed.
“This ‘king’ and ‘queen’ thing is mostly a fiction for you humans to feel
better. The only authority we have is fear. As long as they’re afraid of
Anenome and me, the truce will hold. If that stops . . .”
He didn’t
finish. He didn’t have to.
“Will you
keep asking?”
“Of course.
I’ll be in touch.”
Jeff Tollin opened the door. “Hi. Tom?”
“Yes.” I
stepped aside for Rachel. “This is Rachel. She works with me.”
“Okay.” He
backed up. I tried to ignore him checking out Rachel’s tight jeans and boots.
“Come on in.”
The two-bedroom
apartment was small, neat, and clean. The window looked across at the street at
a Mexican restaurant.
“I work over there.” Tollin lowered
the shades. “My roommate’s gone for now. He works down the block.”
Tollin was
heavyset, with a blond beard and a thick nose. He offered us sodas and then sat
down with one of his own.
“Here’s the
thing.” He sipped. “Adan used to be a boxer. In college. I think he got a
partial scholarship, but he wasn’t interested in going pro. But he missed it, so
he started boxing at this one gym where I met him.”
“Do you
box?” Rachel asked.
He grinned,
embarrassed, as if Rachel was flirting with him. “A little. Mostly I lift
weights.” Then he glanced at me and went back to the point. “Anyway, he was a
pretty good boxer, but he told me once he was into something a little more . .
. extreme.”
“Like krav
maga?” Rachel looked at me. “What? I took a class once. It almost killed me.”
Good. I
didn’t need her to get any better at slugging me.
“No.”
Tollin looked at the floor. “Did you
ever see that movie ‘Fight Club’?”
“Only the
trailer.” The first rule about Fight Club is, you don’t talk about Fight
Club. Or something like that.
“I did.”
Rachel sighed. “Brad Pitt. I’ll rent it for you sometime.”
I leaned
forward, “Is that what Adan was doing? Fighting with . . .” Vampires?
Tollin
shook his head. “I don’t know. He was really like, ‘You don’t talk about Fight
Club.’” He shrugged. “That’s why I didn’t want to talk on the phone.”
I nodded.
“Okay. Anything else?”
Tollin
shook his head. “Just that it’s weird, what they said about him being found in
a parking garage. Like that might have been one place to meet. And fight.”
I nodded.
“Yeah.”
Back at my apartment I called Clifton Page again. “Do
vampires have fight clubs with humans?”
He didn’t
ask what a fight club was. Maybe he’d seen the movie. Maybe I was the only
person in the city, human or undead, who hadn’t.
“Some
humans seem to enjoy the idea of testing themselves against us.” He hesitated.
“And a willing victim is rare. So it happens.”
“Are you
aware of any going on right now?”
Another
long pause. “It’s the kind of thing I’d try to stop. My people might enjoy it,
for obvious reasons. Some of your people might for their own reasons. But
there’s too much risk of a backlash if it goes to far or happens to often.”
“Bad for
business.” I have watched “The Sopranos.” I thanked him and hung up.
“So?”
Rachel gave me a beer.
I shrugged.
“Human-vampire fight clubs are apparently a thing. Who knew?”
“Nothing
surprises me anymore. You calling Sharpe?”
“Yeah.” I had
to report, even if I didn’t have anything more than a theory.
“Jurgen.”
She answered on the first buzz. “How did you know?”
“Know
what?” My blood pressure jumped. Rachel’s the psychic, not me, but—
“There’s
another one.”
The First Rule, Part Three
This one was in an empty house on the south side. Cops had
cordoned off the yard with yellow tape, flood lights illuminated the property,
and curious neighbors watched as I pulled up in my Honda and showed the cops my
ID.
Rachel was
with me. I couldn’t talk her out of it.
Sharpe was
inside, once again impatiently waiting for the crime scene techs to finish
their work. She nodded at Rachel. “Your boyfriend brings you on some fun
dates.”
Rachel patted
my arm. “That’s why I love him.”
I tried to
focus my mind on business. “Who is it?”
“Hispanic
male, early 30s. Won’t have a name until we get him out of here.” She patted a
tech’s arm. “Take your time, guys.”
I leaned
forward. Wounds on the throat. Bruises on the face and chest—his shirt lay in a
corner. Bloodstains on the wooden floor.
“Look at
his hands.” Rachel’s breath whispered in my ear.
His
knuckles were red, as if he’d hammered his fists at a door a dozen times. Like
a boxer.
I stepped
back. “Want to hear my theory?”
Sharpe
pulled me back into a corner where the techs couldn’t hear us. “What?”
I glanced
at Rachel. She nodded.
“Fight
club.”
“Oh.”
Sharpe looked over my shoulder at the corpse. “Yeah. That makes sense. Great
movie, by the way.”
I’d gone
from cops telling me I was crazy to not even having to explain what I was
talking about. “Yeah. I’ve got to watch it one day.”
The lead
tech motioned to Sharpe. “We’re done for now. I’m calling the M.E. in to take
him out.”
“Thanks.”
She jammed her hands into her pockets. “I’ve still got to wait until they get
him to the hospital before we can find out who he is. Or what’s in his pockets.
Damn it.”
Rachel
stepped forward again. “Give me a second.”
“Back
away.” Sharpe raised her arms.
The techs
were packing up. Some of them watched Rachel, although they were probably just
checking out her butt.
I was
surprised that Sharpe actually seemed willing to listen to Rachel. But I guess
a few months dealing with vampires had opened her mind.
Rachel
closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. “He wasn’t scared. Until the end. He
thought he could win. It hurt, but he thought he had a shot. Then he couldn’t
breathe. Hands on his throat. Then . . .”
She
staggered backed. I caught her. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
She pushed my hands away and stood straight. “It was a fight. The vamp’s name
was Victor. It was the last thing he thought. Except for . . .”
Rachel
sagged. Sharpe and I grabbed at her arms and shoulders. One of the techs came
over to help.
After a few
minutes we helped Rachel out to my car. She laid back, gasping, but managed to
fastened her belt as Sharpe held the door. “Get home safe.” She zeroed a glare
at me. “I guess I need both of you.”
I pulled
away from the house. “Are you okay?”
“No.” She
grabbed a water bottle from the holder between our seats. “I mean, yes. The
last thing he thought was ‘Daddy.’”
I waited a
few minutes while Rachel caught her breath. Eventually I was back on Lake Shore
Drive, heading home. “I didn’t know you could do that.”
“I’m not
doing it all the time.” She gazed out the window at the lake. “I just felt it.
Maybe because he wasn’t . . . dead . . . for very long. I just thought I could
help.” She rubbed her eyes. “I haven’t slept in two nights.”
“You helped.
Victor.” Maybe Page or Anemone knew that name. In the meantime . . . “I’ll get
you home. Thanks.”
Rachel
slugged my arm. Weakly. “Anything for the team.”
I got Rachel home and put her to bed. Alone. In her
apartment. Then I looked for something to eat in her refrigerator.
Rachel’s a
vegetarian. I’m not, although I try to respect that. Still, the pickings were
slim. I managed a sandwich with tomatoes, avocado, and mayo.
I was
wiping tomatoes off my shirt when my phone buzzed. Sharpe.
“Victim’s
name is Will Hernandez. And here’s a thing—he’s got a card for a gym that Adan
Shank belonged to.”
Wait—what?
“Okay, Will Hernandez? I talked to him today. He was a friend of Adan.”
“So what
did he tell you?”
“Not much.”
Damn it. Could I have gotten more from him? Or told him enough to keep him from
getting killed? “What gym is it?”
“It’s
called Champions. On Belmont. It’s open 24 hours. Want to come?”
I looked at
the clock on Rachel’s wall. Minnie Mouse’s little hand pointed to 10. Her
little hand pointed down.
I looked at
my sandwich. “I’ll be right there.”
Sharpe hung
up. I took another bite, looked at my phone, and then called Jeff Tollin.
“Sorry to
call so late.” I didn’t know what kind of hours he kept. “But I have to ask you
a question.”
“No, it’s
okay, I’m just waiting for Jimmy Kimmel. What’s going on?”
“The gym
you go to—where you met Adan? What’s it called?”
“Champions.
It’s on Belmont. Why?”
Oh hell.
“You might want to stay away from there for a while.”
“Why? Oh.”
He gulped. “I never noticed anything weird there.”
“Is there a
guy named Victor?”
“Uh, yeah.
He runs the place. Tall guy, long arms. Big ears. Friendly. He spotted me with
the weights a bunch of times. He doesn’t smile much, but he seemed all right.”
“Okay.” I
stood up. “It’s probably nothing. Sorry to bother you.”
“No
problem. I’ve got tomorrow morning off.”
We hung up.
I checked
on Rachel. She was still asleep, snoring loudly the way she does when she’s
really tired.
I kissed
her cheek. She rolled over and swatted me away.
So I left a note on her table. I
signed it “Love, Tom,” and drew a heart with an arrow through it.
She’d hate
it. But maybe I could get back before she saw it.
Champions was a small storefront gym with wide windows and
half-lowered blinds. I could see deserted treadmills and one spinning exercise
bike as I walked past the police car parked at the corner. “Is Detective Sharpe
here?”
The officer
peered at my ID. “I’ve never seen that one before.” She looked me over.
“I’m a
consultant.” I’d gotten better at saying it lately.
“Oh. I hate
you guys.” She waved me past. “Go on.”
The
interior of the gym smelled like sweat and disinfectant. The spinning exercise
bike stopped as I walked forward. I saw Sharpe at the back, talking to a tall
African-American man as two other men in shorts and T-shirts lifted weights and
one short, sinewy woman in a tank top worked a stairmaster, ignoring everyone
else.
Sharpe
turned as I approached. “He’s not here.”
“Victor?”
“He’s the
owner.” She pointed at the guy she’d been talking to. “This is Jason. Assistant
manager. Jason, this asshole is Tom Jurgen, and he’s not a cop, but you’d
better answer his questions the same way you answer mine. Only better.”
Jason
looked nervous. I didn’t blame him. “I just don’t know—I only work here . . .”
“Where’s
Victor?”
“She asked
me that! I don’t know.” Jason tried to keep his voice low, to avoid alarming
the few people in the gym. “Like I said, I don’t know anything about those
guys. Hernandez, Shank . . . I never thought . . .”
I felt bad
for Jason. Maybe he was an innocent human, just working for a living. But I
couldn’t ignore the other possibilities. I looked at Sharpe. “Did you ask him
where Victor lives?”
She smiled.
“I was just getting to that.”
I watched
Jason as he led us into the back office. His face reflected clearly in the
mirrors on the walls. So, not a vampire.
Jason
slouched behind a desk and hit a keyboard. “Okay, give me a minute.”
Sharpe
pulled me back toward the door. “What have you got?”
“You’re way
ahead of me. Victor owns this place, whoever he is. I got that from a guy who
works out here and knew Adan.” I pulled put my phone. “I can call my contacts—”
“Here it
is.” Jason looked up from the computer. “His home address. Only I don’t know if
I should—”
“You
should.” Sharpe leaned over the desk. “Because we need to talk to him for a
murder investigation.”
“Well . .
.” He tapped a key. “Here. I can—”
“Stop.”
We turned.
The man in
the doorway was tall, with long arms and big ears. He lifted one lip in a
crooked smile. “Are you looking for me?”
Victor.
He waved an arm. “Go home, Jason. Right now.”
Jason stood
up. “But—but—we’ve got people out there . . .”
“Tell them
to go home. Emergency water problems, gas leak, whatever. Just go.” Victor
smiled. “Have a good night.”
Jason fled.
Leaving Sharpe and me alone with the vampire.
Victor
walked around the desk and sat down. “What is going on?”
“You know.”
Sharpe made her way next to me, ready to shove me to the ground. She didn’t
necessarily like me, but she was going to protect me. “Two humans dead in two
nights? Your little fight club? You really thought you could get away with
that?”
Victor
leaned back in the chair. His lips lifted in a smile, and I could see the fangs
inside his jaws. “It was a game. It’s all a game. Everyone come of their own
free will. And you know what? Sometimes the humans actually win. Vamps dead,
staked through the chest. That’s what makes it interesting.”
“I don’t
care.” Sharpe had her handgun out, pointed at his chest. Did she have silver
bullets? It didn’t matter. Even lead bullets would slow a vamp down until we
could drive a stake through its chest.
“Jurgen?” Sharpe’s
voice was steady. “Make a call. I’ve got a squad car outside, and I can get ten
more in thirty seconds.”
My hands
fumbled for my phone. “Should I just call 911, or—”
Victor moved
faster than any vampire I’d ever seen. One moment, behind the desk. Then he
jumped, and the next moment he pressed his body against Sharpe, one hand on her
wrist, his jaws trembling against her throat.
“Yes,” he
murmured, licking his lips. “Let’s fight, you and me. You think you’re strong
with your gun? I can—”
“Wait!” My
shout wasn’t very loud. Not loud enough to hide the crunch as Victor broke
Sharpe’s wrist.
Her pistol
dropped to the floor.
“Jurgen!”
She twisted her face. “Get backup! Now!”
Victor
snarled. “Yes. Do that. By the time they get here, she’ll be dead. And I’ll be
gone.”
I looked at
Sharpe. “Okay. Sorry.”
She closed
her eyes.
I’m not
very brave. Not at all actually. But I couldn’t let another vampire kill one of
my friends. Not after Dudovich.
So I
dropped my phone and spread my hands. “Come and get me, you bastard.”
I had nothing. Not a stake, not even a smart wisecrack.
Victor knew that. He let Sharpe go and turned on me, his jaws wide in a
bloodthirsty smile.
Oh hell.
Now what? I lurched back. “Maybe we could just talk? I’m good friends with—”
Victor
lunged at me. I twisted away, my arms up, protecting my throat, but his hands
had turned to claws and they ripped at my flesh as he leaned down, laughing,
his long fangs searching for my neck.
I kicked. I
punched. I squirmed. I managed to sink a knee into his crotch, and he grunted,
but it didn’t stop him. I could smell his breath, rancid and moldy against my
face, and slammed a fist against his chest.
I should
have studied krav maga, I guess. Rachel would be mad at me for getting killed.
I reached
up, pushing Victor’s face away. I twisted his lip. Somehow that worked. He
howled and yanked back, his eyes red.
“Yes,” he
muttered. “Take it and enjoy it, human—”
Then he
jerked up as Sharpe shot him left-handed straight through the side of his
skull.
“Ahh!”
Victor lurched away, clutching his head. “Uhh . . .”
Sharpe
kicked at his shoulder, knocking him to the floor. Victor rolled, moaning, and
Sharpe fired two more shots straight into his head.
Victor’s
eyes went black. “You can’t—you can’t—”
Sharpe
staggered. “Jurgen, find me a stake.”
Sharpe glared at me. Her right arm was already wrapped up. “Don’t
you ever do something like that again.”
We sat on
the curb outside, sipping coffee from a nearby shop. I had bandages over my
chest. My shirt was in shreds. “Yeah. Rachel’s going to kill me.”
“I might
kill you! What the hell were you thinking, asshole?”
I looked up
at the cloudy night sky. I was still alive. Somehow. But other people weren’t.
“Dudovich.”
I set my coffee in the sidewalk. “I let her die. I just—damn it . . .”
I felt a
hand on my shoulder. I couldn’t look up.
“Look.” I
wiped my eyes. “I know you don’t like me. That’s okay. Let’s just leave it
there, all right?”
Sharpe
patted my shoulder. “I like you just fine, Jurgen. Thanks for saving me there.”
I kicked my
coffee into the street. “Just glad I could help. This time.”
So I called Page and then Anenome. Page was angry—at Victor,
not me. He asked if I was okay. Anenome just seemed bored.
“I knew
Victor,” she told me. “Arrogant prick. He would have tried to take over, so I
suppose I owe you a favor.”
I wasn’t
sure I wanted a vampire owing me anything. But it might come in handy sometime.
Back home I
checked on Rachel. She was still asleep, but she woke up and came out as I was
drinking a beer. “Wow. I don’t usually pass out like that.”
“Probably
just as well. You want anything? Beer? Soda?”
“Just some
water. And what do you mean?”
I took my
time getting a glass of ice water from her kitchen, mostly because I didn’t
want to tell her I’d almost gotten myself killed. Again. But in the end I had
to.
I expected Rachel
to kick me. Instead she sighed. “It wasn’t your fault. About Dudovich.”
“I know. I
just didn’t want it to happen again.” I still have nightmares. Asmodeus, his
fangs stained with blood. Dudovich, her body on the grass. Me, stabbing the
vampire over and over again.
Rachel
grabbed my hand. “You’re alive, Tom. That’s a good thing.”
“Yeah.” I
nodded. “Sorry.”
“Come on.”
She lifted me up. “You need to sleep. Don’t get any ideas. I’m going to be up
for the rest of the night after this.”
I let
Rachel push me down into her bed, and in a few minutes I was fast asleep.
Dreaming of vampires. Fight clubs. And Dudovich.
The first
rule . . .
# # #
Saturday, June 10, 2017
Firestorm
A seemingly routine surveillance case explodes when Tom Jurgen's subject bursts into flames. When a woman starts burning criminals to death up and down Chicago, Tom and Rachel know they're in for some serious heat.
Firestorm, Part One
I watched the couple park and stroll into a small house,
holding hands and laughing with each other. The woman unlocked the front door.
I drove slowly past, stopped half a block down, waited, and turned around to
park across the to watch the house.
Nine thirty
on a Thursday night in Oak Park. Nothing unusual about the couple’s behavior.
They’d eaten Mexican food for dinner and taken a walk in a nearby park before
coming back to the woman’s home. They weren’t even cheating on anyone.
The man was
Evan Cassidy, 26 years old. His father, Martin Cassidy, was my client, an
investment banker with more than enough money to pay my cable bill for the
year. The woman was Chelsea Johnson. She worked for Martin, but Evan didn’t.
She was also African-American, and although Martin didn’t seem obviously racist,
I couldn’t help but wonder if that was the real problem.
After
months of dealing with the vampire wars, I was happy to handle a standard,
routine case, even boring surveillance case.
Me? Tom Jurgen,
ex-reporter, now a private detective. I’d met with Martin in his office yesterday.
Martin had gray hair and bushy eyebrows, his blue necktie tight but his sleeves
pushed up. His left arm was mottled with scars.
“I don’t
know how serious it is.” He tapped a key on his computer, checking his email as
we talked. “My concern is that she’s dating my son to get influence in the
office. He’s 26 and he’s never had a serious girlfriend before. Or any
girlfriend that I know about.”
I agreed to
follow the couple for a few days. He sent another email and wrote me a check.
I didn’t
plan on spending the whole night in my car. Just long enough to see if Evan had
gone in for a nightcap and a quick kiss goodnight or was staying longer. I
figured an hour would do it.
I kept the
radio on low and sipped a little water. Not too much—the wide-necked bottle I
keep in the back seat was awkward to use. After half an hour a light turned on
upstairs. Well, that was probably an indication. Still, I waited a little
longer.
I felt
uncomfortable spying on the son. Evan was an adult, after all, and even if
Chelsea was his first girlfriend—that his father knew about—it was his
business, not Martin’s and definitely not mine. But I’ve got bills to pay, and
I wasn’t doing anything illegal. I’ve learned to rationalize a lot of things.
Not that I’m proud of it, but I have to eat.
After
another 45 minutes the light upstairs went dark and I decided I could go home. I
started the car—
And then
the front door burst open.
At first I
thought his clothes were on fire. Then I saw that he was naked, howling in
pain. I opened my door with one hand and punched 911 into my phone with the
other.
The runner
dropped to the grass. It was Evan. He rolled around, gasping, curling up into a
fetal position. His skin was—charred. All over. I lurched back, then forced
myself to crouch down next to him as he groaned in agony.
“Yes,
what’s your emergency?” The operator sounded very far away.”
Evan’s eyes
flared. “No . . . no . . .”
“I’m at . .
.” I looked up at the address on the house. “There’s a guy here with severe
burns. Send an ambulance. Send . . .”
Evan
shuddered and dropped down. “Ch-chelsea. Chelsea . . .”
Martin Cassidy rounded the corner of the hospital waiting
room, looked around, and found me. “Jurgen. What the hell happened?”
Evan was in
a medically-induced coma in intensive care at Northwestern Hospital. I had a
cup of lukewarm watery coffee from a machine. An elderly woman in a chair
across from me flipped through last week’s People magazine with a photo of
Justin Bieber on the cover.
Martin
slouched at the corner of a couch, breathing hard. “They say—I don’t know. Just
tell me what happened.”
So I went
through what I’d seen: Dinner, a walk, lights going on and then off—and then
Evan, burning. “I called 911 right away.”
He looked
up. “What about her?”
“Chelsea?
She wasn’t there. The paramedics went into the house. I don’t know where she
is.”
“Goddamn it.”
He hung his head. His voice was a whisper. “I thought it stopped with me.”
Yesterday he’d been confident, assured,
convinced his money could buy anything he wanted. Tonight he seemed lost.
“I’m sorry?” I wanted to go home.
But he was my client. And he obviously needed help
Martin
looked up. “It happened to me. I—I’ve started fires. A couple of times.”
Spontaneous
human combustion? Well, that was different.
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
Martin shook
his head. “Not really.”
But he lurched up and rubbed his
face. “I was 17. I was arguing with my best friend. I don’t remember what, but
I grabbed his arm, and he screamed. His arm was burning. He had to go to the
emergency room. I didn’t know what happened.”
An older
man trudged into the waiting room, holding onto a weeping woman. They sank down
into a couch next to us. The man shuddered, barely holding himself together as
he tried to comfort his wife.
I picked up
my coffee and tried not to look at them.
Martin
groaned. “I was in college, studying for a final exam. I was so stressed out,
and then—I don’t know—suddenly the bed was on fire. The dorm room almost burned
up, except my roommate grabbed a fire extinguisher down the hall. That’s how
this happened.” He held up his scarred arm, showing me the scars.. “It was over
half my chest. I told everyone I’d been smoking in bed. Except I don’t smoke.”
I put my
coffee down. “Does it happen a lot?”
Martin
looked up. “I burned my first wife. Evan’s mother. Not because we were
fighting, but because my business was crashing down and I was angry. It’s not
why we got divorced, but—it didn’t help. Anyway . . .” He ran his hands over
his scalp. “I thought it stopped. Maybe ten years ago. I never told anyone. I just
hoped . . .”
“It was all
over?”
“Yeah.”
Martin leaned back on the couch. “But I guess it’s not.”
“You think
your son has inherited the same, uh, traits?”
“What else
can I think?” Martin groaned. “You’ve got to find her.”
I looked
around. The elderly woman on the other side of the room had picked up a new
magazine. The man on the couch next to us was crying now, and his wife held
him, trying to keep her shoulders steady.
I hate
hospitals. The smell, the constant noise, the memories of people I’ve lost. But
I tried to stay professional. My client needed me. “Chelsea?”
“She might—make
trouble. I want to control that.”
To avoid a lawsuit—or worse?
I stood up.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks.”
He lurched to his feet and shook my hand. “I need this. Just . . . do whatever
you can.”
I glanced
at the weeping couple. “Of course.”
I got home late, so I slept late—8:30. Eating my cereal and
listening to the radio, I checked the news on my laptop.
Evan was in
the news: “Man burned outside Oak Park house.” But he wasn’t alone.
A story on
a local news website reported that Daniel Marquez, 32, had gotten into an
argument at a convenience store with an African American woman who alleged that
he’d been stuffing boxes of Pop-Tarts into his jacket. The argument
“escalated,” according to a witness, and Marquez pulled a knife.
“Then it
was like napalm,” an unidentified witness said. “He screams, and his clothes
were burning, and it smelled like a gas fire, and then he’s on the floor,
screaming, and the woman is standing there like she doesn’t know what happened.
Then she turned around and ran away while I was screaming for the manager to
call 911.”
Oh hell.
The
reporter linked Marquez, pronounced dead at the local hospital, to Evan, found
burned but alive in the front lawn of a house on the north side. The story
didn’t mention Chelsea by name or identify her as Evan’s girlfriend, but the
reporter quoted a paramedic saying that the house’s owner wasn’t home when they
checked.
I called
Martin, but he didn’t answer. Asleep from exhaustion, or too worried to pick up
his phone? It didn’t matter. I left a message.
Then I called
Rachel. She’s my upstairs neighbor, my girlfriend, and kind of psychic. She
also keeps odd hours like me.
She was up,
and sounded like she’d been drinking coffee for hours. “What?”
“Good
morning to you too. What do you know about spontaneous human combustion?”
She
snorted. “Are you trying to get me hot?”
“Is it
working?”
“Are there
vampires?”
“Not this
time, thank god. It’s another case.”
“Okay. I’ll
be right down.”
Rachel opened
my door three minutes later. She has red hair and hazelnut eyes, and she was wearing
a long black T-shirt that drooped to her knees. “Yeah, I woke up at three and
couldn’t get back to sleep, so I’ve been working. I am wearing underwear, just
in case you were wondering.” She sat down at my table. “Coffee?”
“I always
wonder.” I turned my laptop toward her. “Take a look at this.”
Rachel
skimmed the story while I poured her some coffee. “Wow. What’s going on?”
“I’m not
sure.” I told her about Evan’s father.
“Well,
that’s different.” Rachel sipped her coffee and pulled her legs up under her. “Did
you ever read Bleak House? That’s about all I know.”
“I read the
Classics Illustrated comic book in college. A Tale of Two Cities burned
me out on Charles Dickens.”
“Jerk.” She
punched my shoulder. “But there’s always something. I can make some calls.”
Rachel has
lots of contacts in Chicago’s paranormal community. Like I said, she’s kind of
psychic.
She
stretched. “I need to take a shower.”
I shrugged.
“Use my bathroom.”
She slugged
me again. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“You’ve got
clothes here.”
Rachel stood
up. “All right. But don’t get any ideas.”
I stood up.
“Who, me?”
Some time later Rachel went back up to her apartment, her
hair still wet. At least she was wearing cutoffs now. “I’ll call you.”
“Any time.”
I kissed her and then checked my phone. Martin had called back.
“Where the
hell have you been?” He sounded hoarse from lack of sleep. “Have you seen
what’s going on? What the hell is happening?”
“I was
taking a shower.” I didn’t think the circumstances were any of his business.
“And yes, I’ve seen the news. What’s happening is still up in the air.”
“The police
came to the hospital!” Martin’s voice was a fierce whisper. “I’ve been up for
36 hours. But it was her. You have to find her. She hurt my son.”
Was he
looking for vengeance? “I’ll do the best I can, sir.”
“I’ve had
my secretary email you the information we have on her. Call me as soon as you
know anything.”
I checked
my email: There it was—all of Chelsea’s personal info, including family
contacts. I wasn’t entirely sure Martin had the right to share it with me, but
at least it gave me the basis for some phone calls.
I started
with Chelsea’s parents.
They lived in Tennessee. A woman answered the phone.
“H-hello?”
I spoke
slowly and carefully. “Ma’am, my name is Tom Jurgen, and I’m a private
detective in Chicago. I’m trying to reach your daughter Chelsea Johnson.”
“Oh god.
The police just called. Who are you again?”
At least I wasn’t breaking the news
to them. I hated it as a reporter, and it wasn’t gotten any easier since then.
“Thomas H. Jurgen, ma’am. I’m working for Chelsea’s employer, Martin Cassidy. He’s—eager
to find out what happened. What did the police tell you?”
“I can’t—I don’t think . . .” She
sounded about to hyperventilate. “Vern!”
A second voice came on the line:
“Hello, this is Vern Johnson. Who—I mean, what’s going on?”
Once again
I gave my name and who I was working for. “What have the police told you?”
“I don’t
know if we should talk to you, but . . .” He hesitated. “All right. They’re
looking for her because of two people who got burned to death. They somehow
think—think she did something. I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Only one
person is dead. The other is in the hospital. It’s Evan Cassidy.”
“Evan? That
doesn’t make any sense. Why would she—I mean, we haven’t met him yet, but he
sounds okay from what she says.”
“She likes
him.” The mother sighed. “And she says he treats her right. It’s hard, I know.
But you find the right guy . . .”
“He’s a
good kid, as far as I can tell.” Vern coughed. “I can’t believe Chelsea would
hurt him.”
I wished I
could tell them Evan was going to be all right. But he was in a coma. Maybe
he’d wake up and tap dance. But in the meantime, I had a job to do. “So if you
haven’t heard from her, can you think of any friends she might call?”
“Well . .
.” Vern sighed. “Her best friend is Andrea Tompkins. I don’t know her phone
number or anything. She talked a bit about a girl—excuse me, I mean a woman
named Mona. She worked in her office. I don’t know her last name.”
“And Guy.”
Her mother perked up. “Guy . . . something. I don’t know. Oh god, this is a nightmare.”
“Is that
all?” Vern sounded annoyed. I didn’t blame him. “I’m going to have to call the
police back after we’re done.”
“That’s
fine.” Smart, even. “I’ll be in touch.”
I called the main number of Cassidy & Associates and
asked for Mona. I got connected in a few moments.
She gasped.
“I heard about it online. Can’t believe it. I mean, Chelsea and I are like best
friends, at least at work. I never . . .”
“So you
haven’t heard from her? Do you have any idea where she’d go if she felt she was
in trouble?”
“No. I
think they said the police might come in asking questions, but I haven’t seen
anyone yet. You could ask Andrea. We hang out all the time outside work.”
Mona gave
me Andrea Tompkins’ number. She worked in a law office. I thanked her, left my
number, and then called Andrea and introduced myself again.
“Uh, sure.”
She sounded hesitant. “Chelsea’s my friend. I like Evan. But I don’t know what
to tell you. I mean, I haven’t heard from her. And it’s not like I’d hide her
from the police. I’d tell her to turn herself in, hands up, no cell phone, no
arguing, nothing.”
That made
sense, especially in this day and age. “Can you think of anyone she’s talk to?”
The key finding a missing person isn’t looking for them, but finding the person
who knows where they are.
“Maybe
Guy.”
Mrs.
Johnson had mentioned that name. “Guy who?”
“Oh.” She
laughed. “Brad Guy. He’s a doctor for the VA hospital out in Maywood. Chelsea’s
in the reserves. Army. She joined to pay for college. She got deployed to Afghanistan.”
Something
new. I didn’t know if it would make a difference, but at least I had a new name
to check out. “Thanks.” Again, I left my number. You never know.
The
Veterans Administration has a hospital in Maywood, Illinois, next to the Loyola
University Medical Center. I checked their website. It was impressive, but I
couldn’t find a search function for doctors there. So I typed “Dr. Brad Guy”
into Google.
And I found him in .0023 seconds.
Dr. Bradley Guy, 38, affiliated with the VA hospital and several others, a
graduate of the Pritzker School of Medicine.
His specialty: Burn treatment.
That was interesting.
I called the VA hospital, got
connected to his department and then to voicemail, and left a message.
With no one else to call, I put my
phone down to make a sandwich. By the time I carried it back to the table, my
phone was buzzing.
But not from anyone I wanted to
talk to.
“Mr. Jurgen? This is Detective Mario
Beach from the Chicago Police. I’d like to talk to you about your involvement
in an ongoing criminal case.”
Sam Spade could tell the cops to go
to hell in The Maltese Falcon. I can’t exactly do that. “Sure. I’m working
for—”
“Not on the phone. Downtown.”
I looked at my sandwich. “Can I finish
my lunch first?”
“One hour.”
I’ve been to police headquarters on State Street before, of
course. Lots of times. I actually work there part-time these days with the
Vampire Squad. So I wasn’t intimidated about being summoned down. Too much.
Of course I
called Rachel to let her know. In case she had to bail me out.
Mario Beach
was a white man in his thirties with blonde hair and a nose that looked like
he’d been in a few fights. He sat me down in a small room with the traditional
two-way glass and asked me if I wanted some water.
“I’m fine
for now.” I kept my hands on the top of the table. “Look, before we start, you
should know that Detective Anita Sharpe can vouch for me. Even Commander
Hughes.” I missed Dudovich. “They don’t exactly like me, but—”
“I know who
you are, Jurgen.” Beach leaned forward. “I talked to Sharpe. And I was friends
with Dudovich, too. I don’t quite understand your position around here, but
that doesn’t mean you’re not subject to questioning.”
“Sure.” I
looked at the mirror, wondering who was on the other side. “Ask me anything you
want.”
“Who’s your
client?”
“Martin
Cassidy. Cassidy & Associates. You can call him. His son is in the
hospital.”
“Yeah.” He tapped
his tablet computer. “So what do you know about Chelsea Johnson?”
I shrugged.
“They went on a date. Dinner, a walk in the park, then back to her place.”
“You were
following them?”
“My client
wanted to know how serious they were.”
“And?”
“I didn’t sneak any videos through
the window. It looked like he was going to spend the night.”
“Until he
came running out the door on fire.” Beach grinned. “That’s one definition of
hot sex.”
I sighed. I
guess one of us had to say it.
“Did he say
anything?”
I shook my
head. “Just Chelsea’s name. Then he passed out.”
He leaned
forward. “Why are you looking for her now?”
“My client
wants her found. It’s natural.”
“We’re
going to find her. He doesn’t have to pay you.”
Another
shrug. “You’d have to ask him.”
“Are you
getting anywhere?” The question was skeptical.
“I’ve
talked to some of her friends, left messages with others. My hope is she’ll
contact someone who’ll tell her to call me. That’s usually how it works.”
“And you’ll
tell her to turn herself in, right?”
I lifted my
hands. “Of course.”
Beach
stared at me. “You’ll call us if you hear from her. Right?”
I might
call my client first. But I nodded. “Absolutely, detective.”
He looked like he didn’t believe
me. But he pushed his chair back. “Thanks for coming in. Now get out.”
Out in the hall, glad I wasn’t
getting locked up, I looked for Sharpe. I found her planted behind her desk,
pounding computer keys. She glanced up. “What the hell do you want, asshole?”
That hurt a
little. I thought we’d been starting to get along. “Just wanted to say hi. You
doing okay?”
“Oh, I’m
just ducky.” Sharpe leaned back in her chair. “I’ve got two street shootings
and an old man in a house. That one’s a real whodunit.” She stood up. “You want
coffee? I need coffee.”
“Sure.”
Never turn down a cup of coffee—that’s one of the top rules of investigation.
“So no new, uh, bloody slayings?”
We were
trying to keep news of the vampire killings quiet. Sharpe filled a paper cup
for me. “There was one attack last night. Not fatal. But nasty. You might want
to call the vamp queen about it.”
“I will.”
It was part of my job now. Vampire ambassador. But it felt good to be doing
some regular detective work again.
“You’re on
those burn cases, aren’t you?” Sharpe filled her own mug. “Beach called me
about you.”
“I hope you
told him nice things.” I sipped the coffee. Lukewarm and watery, just like
always.
Sharpe scowled. “I can’t protect
you outside of this vampire work, Jurgen. Remember that.”
“Yeah.” Nothing had changed. “I get
that.”
I’ve always had an adversarial
relationship with authority. Working with the cops on the vampire wars had been
a break from that—and it had almost cost me my relationship with Rachel—but as
time went on the old speed bumps had resurfaced.
The cops and me would never be on
the same side. And that was fine with me.
My phone buzzed as I started my Honda. Martin Cassidy.
Demanding results? I cut the engine. “This is Tom—”
“He’s waking up. Evan. Can you get
over here?”
I started the car. “Give me twenty
minutes.”
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