Legally Undead (7 page)

I’d suggested that we meet at Giovanni’s on Arthur. They have the second-best Italian food in the neighborhood, which is saying a lot. The best Italian food is at Roberto’s, but I’d rejected that as too date-like; the tables were small and intimate and the whole place was lit by candles. Giovanni’s back room was big and airy, with plants in the window and red-checkered tablecloths. More “family friendly” than “first date.”

Malcolm was already seated at a table in the back when I got there. He stood up and helped me into my chair.
Not a date
, I reminded myself.

We both ordered and chatted about inconsequential things as we ate. Everything seemed perfectly friendly, but I was nervous. I knew I wanted to ask him for his help, but I couldn’t figure out how to even begin to bring the conversation around to vampire attacks. I think that perhaps that’s a difficult conversational gambit under any circumstances, and I didn’t want to break the pleasant mood. But I was also beginning to fear that Malcolm did see this as a first date, so I needed to figure out some way to bring it up.

Then, as we drank our after-lunch coffee and shared a piece of cheesecake, Malcolm reached into the backpack he’d carried into the restaurant and brought out an object wrapped in a plastic grocery sack. He placed it on the table between us.

“The other night after the security guards left to take you home, I walked back across campus,” he said, nodding toward the plastic bag. “I found this on the ground over by the fence.”

Watching him warily, I unrolled the bag and looked inside. At the bottom of the sack lay my letter opener, covered in dark brown streaks.
Well
, I thought,
at least the forensic guys don’t have it
. I looked back up at Malcolm without responding.

“You want to know what I think?” he asked. I still didn’t respond. Instead, I rolled the bag back up and put it back on the table. “I think,” he continued, “that you were carrying that thing the night you got attacked. I think that you stabbed the guy with it. And I think that’s why didn’t want me to call 911.”

I sat completely still, not answering him, but not denying what he said, either.

“And what I’m wondering is this: if you stabbed the guy who attacked you, why didn’t you tell the police that? Why didn’t you tell them that this thing existed? They could have gotten a blood sample from it, maybe used the DNA or something to track him down.”

I frantically tried to think of something to say, but Malcolm didn’t give me a chance.

“So what I’m thinking is that you know more about that attack than you’re telling anyone. I think that attack wasn’t random. I think you know who that guy was. And I think that you believe carrying around things like this can help you.” And with that, he reached over and plucked out the chopstick I’d so carefully hidden in the front of my shirt—apparently, it had worked its way up sometime during lunch and part of it was sticking out above the top button.

Conflicting emotions flitted through me: embarrassment that my fabulous wooden-chopstick-turned-stake-hiding technique hadn’t worked out so well, fear that Malcolm might decide to turn the bloody letter opener over to the police, elation that he’d figured part of it out by himself and maybe I wouldn’t have to explain everything to him after all.

All of this was followed by a moment of sheer gut-wrenching humiliation. I’d been working hard to remind myself that this wasn’t a date, but I suddenly realized that it was emphatically not a date; it was an attempt on Malcolm’s part to figure out what had happened—something he’d already told me he was inclined to try to do.

I was on an anti-date.

I felt myself blush a deep red, part embarrassment, part anger.

If my life were a movie, at this point Malcolm would announce that carrying around a bunch of pointy wooden sticks clearly indicated a fear of vampires. But it wasn’t a movie, and he didn’t make any announcement at all. Instead, he just stared at me inquisitively.

“If you’ve had this since the night I was attacked, why didn’t you bring it up when I saw you at the train station?” I asked, narrowing my eyes as I stared at him. “Or turn it in to the police yourself?”

“I don’t know for sure what it is,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m just guessing. I’m hoping you can tell me what’s up.”

I looked at him for a long time, then finally went with an edited version of the truth: I told him that my ex-fiancé had worked for a law firm. That he’d gotten mixed up with some unpleasant people. That we’d broken up over it (well, we had, sort of) and that now I thought he was possibly stalking me, or maybe those unpleasant people were stalking me for him.

“I don’t know who that guy was,” I said, lying through my teeth. “I just assume he was somehow connected to whatever’s going on with Greg.”

“So why carry chopsticks”—he grinned a little as he said the word—“instead of, say, a knife? Or a gun?”

“Do you know how hard it is for a normally law-abiding person to get a gun in this city? I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“Okay. Why not a knife?”

“They scare me.” I knew that didn’t make much sense, but it was all I could come up with.

“So why not call the police and report him?”

“Greg’s a lawyer, Malcolm. He knows his way around the legal system. He’s mixed up with some very scary guys. I don’t want to make myself even more of a target.”

“So he’s mixed up with the mob?”

“Something like that.”

Malcolm still looked suspicious, but he couldn’t really think of anything to say to that, so he just stared at me. I had to fight myself to keep from babbling into the silence.

Finally he spoke again. “So other than carrying around a chopstick, what are you going to do?”

This was my chance. Maybe my only one. I knew that I had to have Malcolm’s help or I might die. But I still didn’t quite know how to broach the subject.

After a long silence, I said, “I guess I’m going to try to find out what exactly he’s gotten himself into. Once I know why those guys are willing to attack me, I’m going to try to figure out what I can do to make them leave me alone.”

“You’re going to blackmail the mob.” He wasn’t asking a question, but I answered him anyway.

“I guess so.”
I’m going to blackmail a vampire mob
, I amended silently.

“And you think that reporting them to the police will make you more of a target than blackmail?” Malcolm sounded incredulous.

“I think that reporting them to the police might be less effective.”

Malcolm didn’t say anything for a long time. He sat in his chair tracing the checkerboard pattern on the tablecloth. Finally he looked up.

“How can I help?”

I stared at him for a long time, unable to believe that he’d volunteered. “Why?” I finally asked. “You barely know me. I tell you that I’m about to start blackmailing the mob, and you want to help?”

His look became more calculating. He opened his mouth and started to say something, then shook his head and closed his mouth again. Finally, he just smiled and said, “Let’s just say I have a savior complex. Along with my need to figure everything out.”

I had met up with Malcolm planning to ask for his help, but now I found myself feeling suspicious. Sure, he could walk around in sunlight, but what if he really
was
connected to the vampires?

Not that I had much choice if I wasn’t willing to drag my friends into it. And I wasn’t.

So I took a deep breath and said, “Okay. I’m planning to break into a law office and look at files. Are you ready to do something like that? Something illegal?”

He gave me another thoughtful look. “I’ll bet we can find a way to get them to let us in, completely legally.”

“Legally?”

“Yep. And they’ll never realize why we were really there.”

He told me what he was thinking and we refined the plan over another two cups of coffee each. I had some research to do, but I was ready for it.

I had help.

I left the restaurant buzzed on caffeine and feeling prepared for anything.

* * *

Malcolm and I spent the weekend preparing for our undercover operation, which Malcolm took to calling “The Sting.”

The first thing we needed, of course, was a way to get into the law offices, and Malcolm was in charge of that. The second thing we needed was time to search without being interrupted.

I began by visiting the New York City Department of Records on Chambers Street on Friday morning. I had to show my ID and walk through a metal detector before I was allowed into the building. Good thing they didn’t have a wooden stake detector. As it was, the guard on duty looked at the chopstick in my purse with a certain amount of suspicion.

“What’s that for?”

“I use it to hold my hair back sometimes—I don’t like it in my face while I’m working.” To demonstrate, I quickly twisted the top part of my hair into a knot and stuck the chopstick through it. It held, to my great relief. This might be a great new vampire-repellent hairstyle.

Satisfied, the security guard waved me through.

It was still early, so there were a few microfilm machines left to rent. They quickly filled up, though, so I was glad I’d left the Bronx when I did. If I’d thought about it, I would have realized that lots of people do genealogical research in the Department of Records.

I spent much of the day sorting through microfilm copies of the “docket books” for the building that housed Pearson, Forster, and Sims. By the time the Municipal Archives offices closed at 4:30, I had copies of the building’s blueprints.

I stepped out of the building and turned my face up to the late-spring sunlight, stretching my arms above my head to work out the kinks from spending all day staring into a microfilm screen.

I needed to pick up a few items before I headed back to the Bronx, so I made my way to 14th Street and ducked into the “Wigs and Plus” store. I came out sixty dollars poorer but one long, curly, black wig richer. With my medium-toned skin, it made me look like any of the locals in my neighborhood—vaguely Italian or Puerto Rican or Albanian. I also stopped at a Duane Reed pharmacy and picked up a handful of makeup, all in rich, dark tones that distinctly contrasted my usual neutral palette. The wig and heavy makeup would, I hoped, complete my disguise.

When I got home, I found Malcolm leaning against the brown brick wall that made up one side of my building, his arms crossed in front of him, one booted foot kicked out in front of him, and a plastic Staples bag dangling from his left hand. He looked both completely at ease and anticipatory. I’m not sure how he managed that combination, but it was clear to me that he could hardly wait to show me something but was prepared to wait all day if necessary.

“Hey,” I said as I approached him. “What’s up?”

“I’ve got the website ready to go. And I’ve got something else to show you.” He bounced up and down slightly on the balls of his toes, looking much like a five-year-old waiting to show off his new toys. As I unlocked the double doors leading into the building and headed up the stairs, he followed, digging a t-shirt out of the bag he was carrying. Once we were inside my apartment, he grabbed the shirt by its shoulders and shook it out.

“Voila!” he said, grinning.

The t-shirt itself was an unremarkable blue. On the upper left side of the front, however, it had a small round logo with a red apple and the words “Big Apple Citywide Cleaning Service” around it. He turned the shirt around to show me a bigger image of the logo on the back.

“I’m impressed.”

“You should be.” He grinned.

“So? Let’s see the website.”

He sat down at the desk and I stood behind him, leaning over his shoulder. I could smell his aftershave—a light, clean, slightly spicy scent.

The website he pulled up was impressively professional-looking.

“So when do we get going with this?” I was almost afraid to hear his answer.

“All we need are the phones. I’ll drop the flyer with the coupon off at the office and see what I can do to sell them on the idea of a free cleaning.”

“What if it doesn’t work?” I could feel my stomach tightening with anxiety.

“We’ll deal with it if it happens.” He put his hand on my shoulder.

* * *

Cell phone stores have proliferated in the Bronx in the last few decades. There’s one or two on virtually every block; we went to one on Fordham Road next to one of the ubiquitous jewelry stores. Getting a “business” cell phone is remarkably easy.

We were ready for The Sting.

At 2:00 that afternoon, Malcolm left for the city dressed in his new Big Apple Citywide t-shirt and carrying a stack of coupons for a free cleaning. He also carried a battered-looking calendar book that we’d spent part of the night before filling up with “appointments” for Citywide’s services.

I stayed at home with my new cell phone in my hand, pacing around my one room like a caged animal.

I checked over the blueprints again and again. By 5:00, I had almost chewed a hole in my bottom lip worrying about Malcolm. By 6:00, I was certain he’d been caught in his lie and that he was either in jail or had been fed to a group of hungry vampires.

When the cell phone rang at 6:20, I jumped straight up into the air. Breathless, I punched at the keypad wildly before finding the right button. Then I froze, forgetting for a moment what I was supposed to say. Oh. Wait. Right. “Big Apple Citywide. How may I help you?”

“Elle! They went for it! We’re on for Sunday.” Malcolm sounded elated. “I’m on the train right now. I’ll be there in half an hour. We can…”

The line fuzzed and went dead. The train had probably moved him out-of-area, but I immediately thought of all the worst possibilities: vampires had found him, lawyers had gotten him, he’d fallen out of an open window and onto the track below. Okay. That last one was a bit farfetched, I realized, and started to calm down.

By the time Malcolm arrived, I had stopped pacing and was waiting at the door.

“So? How did you manage it?” I asked.

“Easy. I talked to the head secretary. That’s the secret to any business—the secretaries are always in charge, even if the people who own the business don’t realize it.”