Vampires: The Recent Undead (26 page)

“But five women with cut throats, multiple stab wounds in the upper bodies, and perforated uteruses! The public won’t stand for much more of this, and arrest—let alone a trial—is a long way off.” Baxter sighed. “McKenna has the story on days; if you want to take it on for nights, I won’t stop you. I’ll clear it with Sung.” Louie Sung worked the night crime desk, and was known to be territorial about his fiefdom.

Solange tried to contain her excitement. “Sung could say no.”

“Not to me,” Baxter told her.

“Okay, then. You clear it.” Eyes glistening with excitement, Solange picked up her recorder, her camera, and her tote, then reached for her coat. “I’m on it, boss,” she vowed, and tapped in her code to block access to her terminal. “I’ll call in before one, and I’ll report before six.”

“Sounds good,” said Baxter, and stood aside as Solange swept out of the city room of the Vancouver Print and Media News Corporation, bound for the parking lot and her hybrid hatchback.

At police headquarters, Solange avoided the press office and the front desk where the usual assortment of denizens of the night were gathered with arresting officers; she made straight for the squad room and the desk of Neal Conroy, who shook his head as soon as he caught sight of her. “Barendis, get out of here,” he said cordially. “You know I can’t talk to you.” He was slightly stooped, slightly scruffy: pushing forty, and forty was pushing back.

“Sure you can: here or at your house, Uncle-in-law—you know Aunt Melanie won’t keep me out. If you don’t tell me what I want to know, she will. And don’t tell me you don’t talk to her about your cases, because you do,” she said, sitting down in the old, straight-backed chair that was intended for visitors and victims of crimes. “The murders. What’s happening? And why is the DNA inconclusive? It is identifiable or it isn’t.”

“You’re too nosy for your own good, Barendis,” said Conroy.

“That’s how I earn my living,” she countered, undeterred by the frown he offered.

“Well, use a little good sense for once in your life and keep clear of this one. For your own protection. Melanie would agree with me, if you bother to ask her,” Conroy advised her seriously. “This murderer targets women alone, in their late-twenties to early-thirties, cuts their throats and then chops at the bodies, and adds cows’ blood to mess up the crime scene. You know the basics already.”

“Chops—with a knife?” Solange asked, pulling out her pen and notebook, saying nothing about her recorder in her tote’s outer pocket, already in the
on
position.

“Stop it, Barendis,” said Conroy, sounding tired. “I hate it when you fish.”

She shook her head, undeterred. “Not a knife, but it cuts throats? For all five women?”

“What can I say—the guy likes blood, lots and lots of it,” Conroy told her, deliberately harsh. “Don’t put that in your story.”

Eyes sparkling, Solange shrugged. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try not to get you into trouble.”

“It’s not getting
you
into trouble that concerns me,” Conroy riposted. “I mean it, Solange. Don’t try to make your mark on this one—it won’t do you any good, and you could become a target.”

“Not a knife, but something that slices, that’s for sure,” said Solange, paying no attention to Conroy’s last statement. “A dagger—I do know the difference between a knife and a dagger—or a poignard . . . no.”

Conroy took a long, slow breath. “If you will give me your word you won’t go after Melanie about any of this, I’ll tell you what the medical examiner thinks made the wounds, but you have to keep this out of your story, or you compromise the whole investigation.”

Solange sat upright in the chair, and managed to say, “I promise,” all the while staring at Conroy.

“It’s some kind of curved sword—a saber, a scimitar, a katana—or something like a Medieval battle-hammer, with a long, pointed claw at the back of the head—we can’t say for sure. There’s too much damage.” He had lowered his voice and now was more pale than he had been.

“That’s really . . . ” She stopped before she said something she would regret.

“Appalling,” said Conroy.

“God, what grisly stuff,” said Solange. “I wish I could use it.”

“You try and I’ll have your press-badge pulled until the perpetrator is caught.”

“You know you won’t do that. Aunt Melanie would never permit it.” She showed him a smug smile.

Conroy sat back. “You’re probably right, but that doesn’t change anything. Let Fisk and the M.E. do their jobs, and keep your two cents out of it. You can screw this investigation royally if you don’t play by the rules, and that would mean more people getting killed.”

“You mean more
women
getting killed,” Solange corrected as she got out of the uncomfortable chair. “I’ll go along for now, but you had better give me a first call on the story when it breaks.”

“Certainly,” said Conroy. “You know I’ll do that.”

“Yes. Or Aunt Melanie won’t—”

“—let me hear the end of it,” he finished for her.

The restaurant was elegant, the lights low and golden instead of brilliant and white, the upholstery heavy tapestry to match the draperies, the silverware was sterling, the napery linen, the china Spode, the glassware Reidel. Solange, in her second-best cocktail dress—a designer-label, bias-cut, cobalt-blue, bat-sleeved sheath—was trying to conceal how impressed she was while reading from the six-page menu. Finally she looked up at her host and asked, “Why did you change your mind, Count?”

“About the interview?” he countered, his demeanor urbane and genial; he was in a tailor-made black silk suit, a very white silk shirt, a burgundy-red damask tie, tie-tack and cufflinks in white-gold with discreet black sapphires for ornamentation.

“Yes,” she said, glancing at the approaching waiter. “What are you having?”

“The pleasure of your company, but do not let that deter you in ordering anything you want.” He waited for her to ask something more, and when she did not, he went on, “I fear I have a number of . . . allergies, I suppose you could call them. I must constrain my dining, and so, to avoid any unpleasantness, I take my nourishment in private. I am used to having others eat when I do not.” He signaled the waiter to take down her order. “And if you have a wine list I would like to see it.”

Solange’s eyes lit up. “Then you
drink
—” she began.

“The wine will be for you,” he said, adding, “I do not drink wine.”

She laughed aloud. “You know who says that, don’t you?”

With a swift, ironic smile, he answered, “Vampires.”

Her laughter increased, and she had to choke back her amusement in order to tell the waiter, “I’d like the cream of wild mushroom soup to start, then the broiled scallops in terrine; for an entrée, the duck with cherries and pearl onions in port, next the endive salad, and I’ll think about dessert when I’ve finished dinner.”

“Very good, ma’am,” said the waiter. “I will bring the wine list, Count.”

“Thank you, Franco.”

“So they know you here,” said Solange, her curiosity engaged again.

“I have a minor investment in this restaurant, and the hotel across the courtyard.” He held out his hand for the wine list as the waiter approached, bringing it and a basket of small fresh-baked loaves of bread and a ramekin of sweet butter.

“You are a man of surprises, Count,” said Solange, idly wondering if his investments might be a story worth pursuing at another time.

“Am I,” he said, and opened the wine-list, settling on a Cotes Sauvage. “It may not go well with the scallops, but it will compliment the soup and the duck.”

“For a man who doesn’t drink wine, you have a discriminating palette.”

He turned his dark eyes on her. “I hope so, Ms. Barendis.”

To her astonishment, she felt herself blushing, and she tried to stop the color rising in her face. “I . . . Well, thank you for ordering such an unusual wine.” This sounded lame, even to her own ears, so she made another attempt. “I’m very flattered that you’re willing to talk to me.” That was a little better.

“You’re a very persistent young woman, Ms. Barendis; I decided we might as well arrange a discussion, and if we are to discuss difficult questions, we may also be comfortable.”

“I wish all my subjects were so reasonable,” said Solange archly. She broke one of the small loaves of bread in half and set it down on the bread plate. “It smells wonderful, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does,” he said, rather distantly.

She paused in the act of cutting butter. “Will my eating bother you, considering we will be talking about murder during the meal?”

“No; it is not my appetite that could be compromised,” he said wryly, and went on, “I realize you are on assignment tonight.”

“Yes,” she said, as if she had forgotten it. “This is an assignment, and an important one.”

“That is why I agreed to the meeting,” he said.

“Then I’ll thank you for the very civilized way you have of conducting it, even to this public setting, so my reputation wouldn’t be damaged. As if gossip can damage a reporter.” She took a bite of the bread, feeling somewhat embarrassed for being hungry.

“It may be an unnecessary precaution,” he said, “but you are not the only one who could be endangered by the appearance of collusive arrangements.”

Her smile was at once worldly-wise and relieved. “You mean that you don’t want it said that you are influencing or being influenced by me—it’s not worry about people speculating what our relationship might be.”

Before he could speak, the waiter brought her soup, promising to return at once with the wine; for the moment all aspects of her story were set aside in favor of the meal.

Mid-way through the duck, Solange was able to return to the matter that had brought them there; she began to ask the Count questions about the bodies and their ties—if any—to the Blood Center. “Some so-called experts have speculated that the man is close to the investigation, and that is making the police nervous. My aunt’s husband is a cop, and he said he feels as if he’s under suspicion.”

“Do you find your aunt’s husband reliable?” the Count inquired. “Some policemen are more so than others.”

“Conroy is a model of rectitude,” said Solange, and decided the wine was going to her head—she would rarely use the word
rectitude
, especially to describe Neal Conroy; she did her best to soften her meaning. “Dependable, honorable, hard-working, responsible.”

“Commendable qualities in any man,” the Count approved.

“Yes. He let me know he has questions about the state of the investigation, including similar ones to the reservations expressed by the expert. He’s a bit worried about the kind of questions being raised in the press, as well. He wants everything in the case to be above doubt.” She was delighted with the meal, in part because it allowed her to spar with the Count while she had this excellent repast.

“Do you recall which expert said the things that bother your aunt’s husband—about the killer being close to the investigation?” the Count asked, unperturbed. He studied her face. “Did your aunt’s husband have any opinions on the current uncertainty?”

She pondered for several seconds. “Not about the investigation, not directly, no. The expert isn’t a cop: I think it was Fisk; the crime scene tech: he’s been talking to the media recently.”

“No doubt he has,” said the Count, a suggestion of a frown forming between his brows.

Now Solange was alert. “What do you mean?” She had the uneasy suspicion that the Count, not she, was guiding their conversation, and so she prepared a number of lines of inquiry to pursue.

The Count shrugged. “Unlike Fisk, I am no expert, but I find it strange that a man who is so responsible for the quality and preservation of the evidence in this case should call so much of it into question. He has an obligation to keep an open mind, but from what I have read, Fisk is doing more than that.” He took the bottle of wine and poured her a third glass.

Much struck, Solange gave this her consideration. “He is only living up to his function, and gathering evidence impartially—evidence is just that: evidence. It has no opinions, only existence.”

“That may be, but Doctor Fisk certainly has opinions,” said the Count. “He impugns his own work at almost every turn. Had an arrest been made, I would have thought Fisk was a member of the defense,”

To give herself a little time to think, Solange took a long sip of the wine, then remarked, “When you put it that way, I see what you mean.”

“Is there anything in his past to account for his behavior? Did he give testimony in a trial that was found to be—”

“That could be it!” Solange exclaimed. “He used to work in Moose Jaw, or so he says. I’ll check with the cops there.”

The Count held up his hand. “I can understand wanting not to appear too much a part of the prosecution instead of an investigator, but this man Fisk has—”

“I know,” she interrupted. “Thanks for the observation. You have a point. I’ll look into it.” Drinking more wine, she had to resist the urge to call Baxter at once; instead she asked one of her mental lists of queries, “Do you think the murder has taken away any of the community benefits the Blood Center promises?”

“For some, no doubt it has,” said the Count. “But once the murders are solved and the guilty party brought to book, then the Center will quickly show its value.”

“Aren’t you being a bit too optimistic?” She cut a little more duck. “This is very good. I’m sorry you can’t enjoy it.”

“That’s kind of you,” said the Count. “No, I don’t think my optimism is unrealistic. But time will tell, and time is often the test in these cases.”

“Then you’re thinking in the long run?” Solange asked.

“For a man in my position, it is the only perspective that makes sense,” he told her as she went on with her dinner.

Applause burst out in the city room as Solange sauntered in, twenty-six days after her first dinner with the Count. She went to her cubicle, but stood outside it to curtsy three times, smiling proudly. “Thank you, thank you. You’re all too kind.”

Baxter, who had hung back, now came up to her. “Don’t be modest, Barendis,” he advised. “Conroy says you were the linchpin in their investigation.”