Blood Debt (10 page)

Brows raised at her phrasing—he'd just bet the Vancouver police would love to hear what they
should
be doing—he indicated she should continue.

“They should be showing the photographs around at different hospitals, hoping someone can ID him from the kidney perspective.”

“And I'm sure they've thought of that,” Celluci muttered. “Can't be a lot of places around that take out kidneys.”

“Depends on what you're calling
around
,” Vicki reminded him. “This guy could've been anywhere in the world just hours before he came to Vancouver and got killed.” Grinning, she smacked him on the chest with the file folder. “Fortunately, we know something the police don't. The body was naked when they pulled it out of the water, but according to Henry's description, his ghost is wearing a T-shirt advertising a local band. We can ignore everything outside this immediate area.”

“Then shouldn't we tell the police this guy's local? In case you've forgotten, withholding evidence is a crime.”

“Okay. Let's tell them.” She mimed dialing a phone. “Hello? Violent crimes? You know that handless John Doe you've got in the morgue? Well, he's local. How do I know? His ghost is appearing to this vampire friend of mine, and he identified a T-shirt.” Hanging up an imaginary receiver, she snorted. “I don't think so. Anyway, they should also be investigating this tattoo.” She passed over a page of photocopied pictures.

He sighed, turned on a light, and studied the collection. “He's pretty beat up. Henry ID from the tattoo?”

“I didn't ask.”

Since her tone suggested he not ask why, he merely handed back the page. “Looks like a street job. Not much to go after. And thing three?”

“They should be checking out the gang connection.”

“The what?”

“Well, why do
you
think they took off his hands?”

Celluci shrugged. “Somewhere his prints are on file.”

“Then so's his picture.”

“Not looking like that it isn't.” He fanned the photocopies. “The computer isn't going to spit out a match to a face like that and looking through mug shots takes so much time no one has that it becomes real
low
priority.”

“
I
think they took off his hands because they wanted to use them.”

“Dead man's prints?”

“It's a possibility. And organized crime ties into your organ-legging theory.”

“Hey! It's not my theory,” he protested. “I just repeated what I heard on that cable show.”

“It adds up, Mike. Organized crime's always looking for new ways to make a buck. They provide bodies so that the rich can buy organs for transplant, then, in their own warped version of reduce, reuse, and recycle, they use the hands to print weapons for hits. It even explains why the body was found in the harbor. The Port Authority is fully unionized, and unions have always had ties to organized crime.”

“What? When Jimmy Hoffa disappeared, he moved to Vancouver?” Celluci tossed the papers down on the bed and jerked both hands back through his hair. “You're really reaching, Vicki.”

“All right, forget the unions. But I still say the simplest explanation is usually the right explanation.”

“You think that's a simple explanation?” he asked, the incredulous tone only slightly exaggerated. “And in case you haven't noticed, there's only been one body. Not many bucks made there.”

“There's only been one body
found
. Either they're just getting started and their disposal's still a bit sloppy, or this one got caught in the wrong current. Either way, no one's going to set up something so complicated for just one kidney.”

“If the kidney has anything to do with the murder and isn't just a coincidence. You remember those, don't you Vicki?”

She ignored him. “Besides, we have to start somewhere, and God knows, we've got bugger all else to go on. I'll look into the gang aspect tomorrow night. Given the recent rise in Chinese immigrants, odds are good there's a triad presence at the very least.”

“Unfortunately, I can't argue with that . . .”

Her mouth made a sarcastic moue. “Poor baby.”

“. . . but I think perhaps if all this is what the police
should
be doing, maybe we should leave it to the police. You know as well as I do, that the last thing the investigating officers are going to want is some out-of-town PI—and an out-of-town cop on vacation,” he added hurriedly when her eyes started to silver. “—butting in where they don't belong and screwing up the case.”

“Normally, I'd agree with you.” She frowned at his expression of patent disbelief. “I would. Unfortunately, Henry's ghost seems pretty specific about Henry avenging him, so we have to find the murderer before the police do or Henry could be playing twenty questions with the dead for eternity.”

“I'm willing to risk it,” Celluci snorted, rather enjoying the possibility of Henry Fitzroy backed into a corner.

“I'm not.”

And that was that.

“So why should a ghost care who avenges him?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“I won't allow Henry to play vampire vigilante.”

“No one's asking you to.”

“It's too early in the morning for that argument.” He half-covered a yawn. “But we'll have it, I promise. Hell's going to freeze over before I let Henry take the law into his own hands.”

“Again?” Vicki asked dryly.

“Just because he's done it before, doesn't make it right.” Prodded by his conscience, Celluci shifted uncomfortably in place. The lines between justice and the law had a tendency to blur around Henry Fitzroy—he didn't like it, but so far he'd done absolutely nothing to stop it.
Where
, he wondered,
do I draw the new line?

Sighing deeply, he peered up at Vicki, wishing she'd move into the circle of the light so he could see her expression instead of just the pale oval of her face. “I take it that I'm to run a few daylight errands for you?”

She nodded, one finger tracing lazy circles in his chest hair. “I want you to ask that cable interviewer
why
she thinks it's organ-legging. What's she basing her theory on? Maybe she knows something, or has heard something . . .”

“Or maybe she's making it up as she goes along.”

“Maybe. And you're right . . .” She smacked him as he recoiled in pretend shock. “. . . the missing kidney could be coincidence, but I'd still like to hear her reasons for bringing it up.”

“And if her reasons had more to do with ratings than facts?”

“Then we still have the gang angle to work on.”

The gleam in her eyes evoked another deep sigh. “You're looking forward to doing some shit-disturbing, aren't you?”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“You're still a lousy liar, Vicki.” Reaching out, he enclosed her hand in his. “Try to remember you're immortal, not invulnerable.”

Vicki leaned forward and covered his mouth with hers. A few heated moments later, she pulled back just enough for speech. “I'll be careful if you'll admit my theory might be valid.”

“You know me, I always keep an open mind.”

She flicked his lips with her tongue. “If you weren't such a good liar, I might even believe you.”

The alarm went off at 5:00. Ronald Swanson reached up to slap it off before he remembered it wasn't bothering anyone but him. Sinking back against his pillows, he smoothed nonexistent wrinkles out of the far side of the big bed and thought about the phone call he was about to make.

Basic groundwork had been laid for months. Details had been worked out by a trusted employee back East last night. This morning, he would close the deal.

It would probably be safer to distance himself from that as well as from the donors, but he couldn't. A personal touch, his thumb never leaving the pulse of the company, had made him an obscene amount of money, and successful habits were hard to break.

“If it ain't broke, don't fix it,” he muttered, throwing back the single blanket and swinging his legs out of bed. His feet imprinting the plush carpet with each step, he strode into the en suite bathroom, habit closing the door behind him before he switched on the light.

In the dark, empty bedroom, the clock said 5:03.

“Tony? It's Mike Celluci. I didn't wake you up, did I?”

Tony blinked blearily at the clock on the bookshelf and dragged himself up against the back of the sofa bed. “Yeah. You did. It's only eight. What's up?”

“Only eight.” The repetition arrived complete with an implied and weary,
kids
. “Aren't you working today?”

“Yeah, but not till ten.” He yawned and scratched at the near stubble covering his head. “I got lots of time.”

“Good. I need to know the channel of the cable show I was watching yesterday.”

“Cable show?” Staring across the den at the multipane window partially hidden behind hanging plants, he got lost in an attempt to figure out if the ripples were in the glass or in his vision.

“It was on yesterday evening before Henry came home. Patricia Chou was interviewing a businessman named Swanson about kidneys.”

“Oh, yeah.” Beginning to wake up, he decided the ripples were in the glass. “So?”

Celluci's voice came slowly and deliberately over the phone line. “What channel was it?”

“The number?”

“No, the name, Tony.”

Tony yawned again, suddenly remembering why he'd never liked Detective-Sergeant Celluci very much. “I think it's called The Community Network. Anything else? You like want me to make an appointment for you?”

“No, thanks; but keep your ears open today. If, as Vicki's current theory insists, there's a gang actually organ-legging . . .” His tone made it clear he considered that highly unlikely. “. . . there'll be a buzz of some kind on the street.”

“Sure, but I'll be spending eight hours in a video store, and the only buzz I'm likely to hear today is while I'm rewinding weekend tapes returned by inconsiderate assholes who can't read the contracts they signed.”

“You've got to get there and get home. And you've got to eat lunch. Vicki says you're the best, Tony. If there's a buzz out there, you'll hear it.”

Cheeks hot, Tony mumbled an agreement.

“My apologies to your hosts if I woke them as well.”

Dropping the receiver back on the cradle, Tony stretched and wished he could erase his personal tapes as easily as the ones at the store. In spite of how far he'd come, some reactions still seemed impossible to control. “I get a pat on the head and I'm just like a fucking stray dog.” He sighed, drew in a lungful of air redolent with the aroma of freshly brewed hazelnut cream coffee, and decided he might as well get up since either Gerry or John was obviously in the kitchen. Pulling on a T-shirt to go with the boxer shorts he'd slept in, he realized he was going to enjoy having someone to share breakfast with.

Especially since he wasn't on the menu.

The Community Network was in the basement of a three-story, sloped-roof building on the corner of Tenth Avenue and Yukon Street just in back of City Hall. Which made a certain amount of sense, Celluci figured as he cruised slowly along the block looking for parking, since most of their business seemed to be concerned with broadcasting city government.

“Might as well stay close to the source,” he muttered, adding, “Lousy son of a bitch,” through clenched teeth as a smaller and infinitely more maneuverable vehicle nipped in front of him, taking the only empty spot he'd seen. While not as kamikaze as drivers in Montreal, Vancouver drivers were anything but laid back. Although he hated to do it, he ended up leaving the van in a municipal lot and only cheered up when he remembered that Henry'd be paying the bill.

Nine steps down, more at half-ground than basement, The Community Network reception area had been painted a neutral cream and then covered in flyers, memos, messages, and posters of every description. The woman at the desk had four pencils shoved through her hair just above the elastic securing a strawberry-blonde ponytail and was taking notes with a fifth. It sounded as though she was dealing with a scheduling conflict, and her end of the phone conversation grew less polite and more emphatic as the call progressed. From what he could hear, Celluci had to admire the amount of control she managed to maintain.

“So, bottom line, what you're saying is that the councillor won't have time for an interview until the current session is over?” Her notes disappeared behind heavy black cross-hatching. “But after the session is over, we won't need to speak with the councillor about the zoning change because it'll be over, too. Well, yes, I'd appreciate it if you'd get back to me.” The receiver went back into its cradle with a little more force than necessary. “You sanctimonious little kiss-ass.”

Taking a deep breath, she looked up, smiled broadly at Celluci, and said, “I don't suppose you'd consider forgetting you heard that?”

He returned the smile with a deliberately charming one of his own. “Heard what?”

“Thank you. Now then, what can we do for
you?”

“I'm here to speak to Patricia Chou.” When her expression started to change, he continued quickly. “My name's Michael Celluci. I called earlier.”

“That's right, she mentioned you.” Standing, she held out her hand. “I'm Amanda Beman. Her producer.”

She had a grip that reminded him of Vicki's—Vicki's before she gained the unwelcome ability to break bones. “Do producers usually work reception?”

“Are you kidding? With our budget, I also work the board and empty the wastebaskets. Come on.” Pencils quivering, she jerked her head toward a door adorned with only two sheets of paper. Given the coverage on the surrounding walls, it was essentially bare. The upper piece read:
If there's no one at the desk, please ring the bell
The sign underneath it declared, in pale green letters on a dark green background: BELL OUT OF ORDER. PLEASE KNOCK.