[Anita Blake 17] - Skin Trade (12 page)

“Bad enough to kill three of our men and put the rest in the hospital?” he asked.

“I put in my report that I thought he would resurface again. He's a serial killer, and being a vampire doesn't make that big a difference to the pathology. Most serial killers have to keep killing; they can't, or won't, stop until they die or are caught.”

“The BTK killer stopped for years,” Shaw said.

“Yeah. Bind, torture, kill—I always hated that moniker. The fact that he was able to channel that murderous impulse into raising kids and being the local monitor for how tall the grass is, is playing hell with a lot of the profilers. Everyone thought he was dead or in jail on some other charge when he stopped. We're taught that serials can't stop for twenty years. They can stop for a while, or until the pressure builds up again, but not decades. The fact that he could stop means that others could stop, if they wanted to, or it means that for him it was about control. It only looks like a sexual killing to us, but for him it was about control, and once he had enough control in other parts of his life, he could stop.”

“You sound like you've thought about it,” he said.

“Haven't you? Hasn't every cop? I mean, the BTK killer has thrown a lot of our traditional theories on these guys into the crapper. It's like because of this one guy, we know less than we did before about these fruitcakes.”

“You talk like a cop,” he said.

“You sound surprised,” I said.

“I guess I am. Let's just say I've heard some interesting opinions about you.”

“I just bet you have.”

“You don't sound surprised.”

“I told you on the phone, I'm a girl and I clean up well. That gets the gossip going all on its own. But I'm dating a vampire, and though legally no one can bitch at me, it doesn't stop the other cops from hating me for it.”

“It's not dating the vampire, Blake.”

“What is it?”

“It's moving in with him, or are you going to deny that you moved in with your Master of the City?”

“Why would I deny it?”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “You're not ashamed of it, are you?”

“You should never be ashamed of loving someone, Shaw.”

“You love him, a vampire?”

“They're legal citizens now, Shaw. They have the right to be loved just like everyone else.”

A look of distaste crossed his face, so strong that it was unpleasant to look at. That look was enough. Vampires were legal, but that didn't make them good enough to date, or love, in everyone's book. The sad thing was that a few years ago I'd have agreed with Shaw.

We'd moved me into the Circus to help Jean-Claude's reputation among the other vampires, but what we hadn't anticipated was what it would do to my reputation among the cops. I shouldn't have been surprised, and it shouldn't have hurt my feelings, but I was and it did.

The door opened, and the good cop to Shaw's grumpy cop entered, smiling. He had coffee for me, and that made me feel better. Just the smell of it helped brighten my mood.

He'd introduced himself earlier as Detective Morgan, though I suspected he was a little higher rank than a straight-vanilla detective. He had that feel to him of someone in a suit trying to mingle with the common folk, but used to giving orders to everyone else.

Morgan put the coffee in front of me and sat down in the chair that Shaw had vacated. He crossed strong, tanned fingers on the scarred tabletop. His hair was a deep, rich brown, cut short but still too close to his eyes, as if he were overdue for a haircut. I'd put him at about my age, but after an hour of looking at the small lines at his eyes and around his mouth, I'd put him closer to forty than thirty. It was a strong, well-kept forty, but he wasn't the young, friendly guy he was trying to be. But I bet the act had worked on a lot of interviewees over the years, and probably women outside the job.

He waited for me to lift the cup. I inhaled the scent, and it was bitter enough that I knew it had been on the burner too long, but it was coffee, and I'd take it.

“Now, Anita”—he'd established first names a while back; fine with me—“we just want to know why this guy is after you. You can understand that.”

I looked into his true-brown eyes and that damn near boyish grin, and wondered if they'd put him in here because I was a woman with a reputation for men. Had they thought he could charm it out of me? Boy, were they barking up the wrong girl.

“I've told you everything I know, Ed”—yeah, Ed Morgan was his name. We were Ed and Anita, and he seemed to think that would win him points. He could have called himself Tip O'Neill and I wouldn't have cared.

The door opened and Lieutenant Thurgood came back in; great. She was a woman, but she was one of those women who seem to hate other women. She was tall and moved with a muscular ease that said she kept in shape. She was older than me by at least ten years, which was how she'd gotten to be a lieutenant. Her hair was short and curled carelessly but attractively around a thin face with great cheekbones—the kind of cheekbones that people pay surgeons for, but hers were natural, because anyone who would pay for cheekbones would have worn a better skirt suit. Hers fit her like it had been borrowed, or like she'd lost a lot of weight and never bothered to replenish her wardrobe.

“Get out, both of you. I think we need some girl talk.” She said it like it was something bad.

Morgan gave Shaw a look, like
Should we go?
I was betting they had practiced this little routine before. Shaw nodded, all stoic, and the men left me alone with Thurgood. Perfect.

She leaned over the table, using her height to intimidate. She was tall for a woman, though I knew taller, but height never impressed me. I was used to everyone being taller than me.

“Did you fuck this Vittorio, too? Did you fuck him, then dump him for your Master of the City? Is that why he sent you the head? A little present about old times?” She moved around the table so the last words were hissed into my face.

Most people would have leaned away from her, but I wasn't most people. I leaned into her, carefully, just my upper body. We were suddenly close enough to kiss, and she jumped back as if I'd bitten her.

She put the table between us, which pleased me; so much reaction to such a little movement from me. She was afraid of me, genuinely afraid of me. What the hell was going on?

“I didn't think you liked girls, Blake.”

I stood up.

She moved back to the door.

Interesting, but not interesting enough to put up with it. “Have your little lesbian fantasies on your own time, Thurgood. My crime scene is getting cold while you guys dick me around. Worse yet, we're wasting daylight, and I don't know about you, but I really don't want to be hunting these vampires in the dark if I can help it.”

“If we want you here all day, then you'll sit here all day,” she said.

That was a mistake. “Are you charging me with something?”

“What do you think we should charge you with?” she asked.

I walked toward her, and she backed away. What the hell? The door opened and Morgan stepped inside, between us. Shaw followed at his heels. They were both pretty good-sized men, and without really threatening me, they backed me up just by walking toward me. I'd done a version of the same thing to Thurgood, so I couldn't really bitch.

Morgan smiled his charming smile and said, “Anita, why don't we sit down and have some more coffee.”

“No, thanks, Morgan.”

“Ed, call me Ed.”

“Look, I've had all the good cop/bad cop I can stand. Either charge me or let me go.”

They exchanged looks. “Now, Anita.”

“You know, I've changed my mind, Morgan; call me Blake or Marshal Blake. No more first names.”

“If you'll just talk to us.”

“I'm done talking. I've got a federal badge, and I have every right to this crime scene. So, one more time, charge me or let me go.”

Morgan's brown eyes lost some of that friendly shine. “And exactly what would we charge you with, Marshal?”

I smiled back at him, but it wasn't a pleasant smile. “There, that's better; I knew you didn't like me, either.”

“You said I wasn't pretty enough for you,” Shaw said from the door, “so I thought we'd add Morgan. Or is he not pretty enough for you, either?”

I looked Morgan up and down, slow, the way some men will do to a woman. I made sure to hit his face last, so he'd have time to be pissed. But he wasn't pissed; he was challenging, defiant, but not really angry. “Well?” he said.

I started to say something disparaging, but though not really my cup of tea, he was attractive enough. I sighed, tired of the games already.

“I was going to say something cutting, but you're cute enough. I just didn't know that the Vegas PD put seduction on their list of interrogation techniques.”

He looked surprised. “I don't know what you mean.”

“Why put you in here with me? Why make a point of you being all cute? What was it supposed to prove, or do?” I waved my hand at him, as if clearing the air. “Never mind, I don't care.”

I looked past him to Shaw. “Are you going to charge me?”

“We don't have anything to charge you with—yet.” He had to add the
yet
.

“Fine, then get out of my way.” I was almost touching him before he deigned to move. He opened the door and held it for me. I just kept walking.

 

 

SHAW ESCORTED ME back to my weapons. They couldn't keep me from doing my job. They couldn't keep me from having more weapons than God, but they didn't have to like it. Fine with me. I'd gone in with fewer weapons showing to try not to rub their faces in my federal badge. Grimes had said they might see it as a weakness. Next time I'd wear the full gear, and the local cops could deal. I tried to be nice, since I'd had my share of being on the receiving end of federal attitude before they grandfathered us into a federal badge. Today I was beginning to understand what might make the Feds so grumpy. Be arrogant; they don't pick on you as much.

The backpack was new, since I'd gotten more lethal toys than I could carry easily. I'd had to have the straps tailored down to fit snug at my back, and I had to keep it tight so it didn't queer the draw from my shoulder holster with the Browning BDM. When I had to wear the vest, I carried the Browning on a thigh holster. The Smith & Wesson went in straps on the front of the vest. Without the vest, the S&W went at the small of my back. I'd given up on interpants holsters when women's jeans started having so many damn styles and waistlines. I kept holy water, extra crosses, and holy wafers in little slots that had originally been for ammo, but there were enough pockets for extra magazines and other useful things. The backpack was actually pretty useful but awkward once the vest went on, which was another reason I didn't care for the vest. I had to put the guns I was wearing on me before the backpack went on. I'd carry the vest and helmet back out in the big pack like they'd come in.

It was the big knife at the back, with its sheath connected to the shoulder holster, that made Shaw widen his eyes. I did my best to ignore him. There was room for an extra magazine on the other side of the holster for the Browning, which put me at fourteen rounds in the Browning and another fourteen in the extra magazine, plus the two extra magazines in the backpack. I put the Smith & Wesson at my waist, canted forward so it wouldn't get caught in the other straps. I had a thigh holster that I'd modified to hold extra magazines for the Browning and the MP5, which would go on a tactical sling across my body once everything else was in place. In the backpack there was a Bantam shotgun with extra shells strapped to its butt, and more shells in the backpack. When it was time to hunt vampires, I'd carry the shotgun and leave the MP5 for backup, but not everything would fit in the backpack, so the MP5 just stayed out in the sling.

“If I'd seen you pack your gear, there wouldn't have been an interrogation.”

I glanced at Shaw, then went back to ignoring him while I made sure everything was where I wanted it. You did not want things to slide around, because you needed to know where things were when you went to grab them. Seconds counted.

“You going to give me the silent treatment?”

“You treated me like a perp, Shaw. What do you want me to say, that I'm happy you like the way I pack for work?”

“You pack like a soldier.”

“She had a good teacher,” a voice from the door said.

I stood up, tugging the straps into place, and smiled at Edward. “You can't take all the credit for me.”

He wasn't very tall, five foot eight, so that Shaw had him by inches. He was muscular, but not muscled. He'd never have the shoulders that the bigger man had, but I knew that every ounce of him was more dangerous than any human being I'd ever known.

“You were still wet behind the ears when I met you,” he said, and he grinned. It was a real smile that went all the way up to his eyes. I was one of the few people on the planet who got Edward's real smile. He had lots of fake ones. He made Detective Morgan look like an amateur at pretend. If Edward hadn't been so terribly blond and blue-eyed, he could have fit in anywhere, but he was just too damned WASP-looking to hide anywhere too ethnic.

“Where the hell have you been . . . Ted? I thought you said the plane ride from New Mexico was shorter than the one from St. Louis.”

The smile vanished, and his eyes had that cold winter look to them. One minute happy, the next the real Edward looking out. He wasn't exactly a sociopath, but he had his moments.