Evil Dark (9 page)

  "Milo
what
?"

  "We just c-call him Mister Milo. Dunno his first name."

  I took the gun away from his forehead and stepped back. "Tell Mister Milo that we'll be around to see him sometime, and if he gives us any shit I'll make him regret it. Follow me?"

  A slight nod, as if he was still afraid to move his head. "Yessir."

  "Now blow."

  He blew.

 

I made no move to get into the car. Instead, I stood watching the ghoul as he rapidly walked down the street.

  After a couple of seconds, Karl looked at me. "What?"

  "I want to see what he's driving," I said. "Here's hoping he didn't park around the corner."

  I needn't have worried. About half a block away now, Nikolai was unlocking a car parked at the curb. As he pulled away, I got a better look at his ride: a big sedan that looked like an Oldsmobile, probably rented.

  "Can you get his license number?" I asked Karl. Not only do vampires see in the dark, but their distance vision is a lot better than a human's.

  Karl got up on his toes for a better look. "Pennsylvania plates PLV 198," he said.

  "Good, thanks." I reached for my car keys. "Get in."

  Inside the car, Karl looked at me again. "You've got something cookin', don't you?"

  "Despite what I told Nikolai, you
know
there's no way we're waiting a couple of days to follow up on a possible lead. Not for this case."

  "Yeah, that's what I figured."

  "And I wanna brace this Mister Milo when he's not expecting us, try to catch him off balance. I want every edge we can get."

  "But he'll know we're coming sometime," Karl said. "You already told his pet ghoul."

  "Yeah, but he doesn't know it yet."

  I reached for the police radio.

  "Dispatch, this is Markowski."

  "Read you loud and clear, Sergeant," the female voice said crisply.

  "Is there a patrol unit anywhere near the 700 block of Taylor Avenue?"

  "Wait one."

  She was back within ten seconds. "Roger that, Sergeant. A black-and-white is three blocks away, on Prescott. Do you want them directed to your location?"

  "Negative, but patch me through to their unit, will you?"

  "Roger. Wait one."

  It wasn't long before I was listening to a male voice saying, "This is Four Baker Nine. Over."

  "Is that you, Bradshaw? It's Markowski."

  "Yeah, it's me, Stan. What do you got?"

  "A dark green Olds heading north on Taylor from downtown, Pennsylvania license PLV 198. You have reason to believe that the driver is wanted for questioning."

  "Is he? Wanted for questioning, I mean."

  "Better you should be able to say you never knew the answer to that," I said. "But if you frisk the driver, who's a ghoul calls himself Nikolai, you'll probably find an illegal weapon, which will allow you to bring him in."

  "What kind of weapon? Is he packing?"

  "Just a switchblade, far as I know."

  "OK, Stan. But you owe Meyer and me a cold beer."

  "I'll buy you two apiece," I said. "Thanks."

  As I put the radio back in its bracket, Karl said, "So, Nikolai isn't going to be reporting to his boss anytime soon."

  "That's the idea." I started the engine.

  "He might've done it already, by phone."

  "Could be." I was watching the traffic, waiting for a gap to pull into. "But if this Mister Milo is a big enough player to have a ghoul as an errand boy, he might be too paranoid to talk business on the phone. A lot of them are, you know."

  Karl fastened his seat belt. "So, I guess I don't need to ask where we're heading now."

  "Not unless you've started eating Stupid Flakes for breakfast."

  "I don't eat breakfast anymore, Stan. Strictly speaking."

  "Just an expression." I pulled away from the curb, made an illegal U-turn, and headed for the Radisson hotel.

 

The Radisson is in what used to be the old Lackawanna train station. They've kept the basic architecture of the building, but spent a lot of money on the interior to make it the best hotel in town. All modern conveniences at the Radisson.

  The fifth floor is known as "Floor V" – which means it's specially designed to accommodate guests of the undead persuasion. Each of the rooms has two layers of blackout curtains, and when you click on Do Not Disturb from inside, it triple-locks the door. Room service has a special "Midnight Menu" that's heavy on Type A and Type O, either whole blood or plasma. If you prefer your nourishment directly from the source, the hotel has certain employees who will pay a discreet visit to your room, and depart a pint or two lighter – in return for a
very
good tip. It's interesting that selling your body's still illegal, but taking money for your blood isn't.

  Mister Milo was on Four, which meant that whatever else he was, he wasn't a vamp.

  I gave the door to 431 the three hard raps that most cops use, although I don't know why. I guess it's supposed to send a message to those inside that somebody in the hall wants your attention, and wants it
now
.

  The door opened a little. It was on its chain and through the six-inch gap I could see what I was pretty sure was another ghoul looking out at me. I had my ID folder ready, and I made sure the guy inside got a good look at my badge. "We're here to see Mister Milo," I said. "Open up."

  "Well, I'll have to see–" the ghoul began.

  "No," I said. "What you have to do is close that door just long enough to drop the chain, then open it again. Because if that door isn't open three seconds from now, I'll kick it down on top of you.
Do it
."

  The door was new-looking and solid, and I probably couldn't have kicked it down on the best day I've ever had. But I bet Karl could've, even if he wouldn't be able to go inside afterward, without an invitation.

  The ghoul looked at me for a second, his eyes widening. I heard a voice from somewhere behind him say, calmly, "Do as the man says."

  The door closed hastily. A moment later, I heard the sound of the security chain being disengaged, then the ghoul opened up, all the way this time. I walked right at him, figuring he wouldn't want to play linebacker with me. He scrambled aside and I said over my shoulder to Karl, "Come on in."

  We were in the living room of what was obviously a suite. It contained a coffee table, big-screen TV, a desk, some overstuffed chairs and a sofa where a man had just been seated. As he stood up, I saw that Mister Milo was human, or appeared to be.

  He was below average height, which still made him taller than his ghoul gofer. He had slicked-down brown hair, a thin mustache, and a suit that probably didn't cost much more than my car when it was new.

  He walked toward us, a pleasant expression on his face, and extended a hand. I'm not usually inclined to shake with lowlifes, but this time I thought I might learn a couple of things so I went along.

  As he grasped my hand I said, "Sergeant Markowski, Scranton PD." When he let go and turned to Karl I said, "And this is Detective Karl Renfer."

  The handshake backed up my conclusion that Mister Milo was human. His skin was too warm to be a vampire, and he lacked the small patch of hair on his palm that is characteristic of weres. Of course, that didn't rule out the possibility that he was a practitioner of some kind.

  He let go of Karl's hand, stepped back, and said, "The fact that you're here means that you already know who I am."

  "I was told the name was Milo," I said. "But I don't know if that's first or last."

  He gave me a tight smile. "It's both, actually."

  "Your name's Milo Milo?" I didn't let the humor I was feeling touch my face or voice, I hope.

  "That's correct. My parents had an unfortunate affection for the novel
Catch-22
by Joseph Heller. They thought it would be… amusing to name me as they did."

  "No offense," Karl said, "but I'd want to have a long talk with my parents about that when I grew up."

  "Oh, I agree with the impulse, Detective, but I never got the chance," Milo said. "When I was fifteen, our house caught fire in the middle of the night. Both Mommy and Daddy were burned to death. It was very sad." He might have been discussing something that happened to people he'd read about in a book on ancient history.

  He made a gesture toward the armchairs. "Shall we sit down, gentlemen?"

  When we were all seated, I looked toward the ghoul, who was still standing near the door. He was pissed off and trying not to show it.

  "Do you want to talk private business with him here?"

  "I trust all of my associates implicitly," Milo said; then, with barely a pause, told the ghoul, "You can go for a walk, Winthrop – but don't go too far. I'll call you when I need you."

  The ghoul left without a word, but he still didn't look happy. "You ever wonder why all ghouls have such fancyass names?" I asked Milo.

  "No, I haven't actually," he said. "But, tell me – what would your reaction be if you met one who called himself Rex, or maybe Spike?"

  "I'd probably laugh out loud," I said.

  "That may be the reason, then." Milo, who was back on the sofa, leaned forward. "Let me get to the reason I wished to have a conversation with you officers, which is the same reason that brought me to your… charming little town."

  Snotty little prick. "Brought you here from where?" I asked him.

  "I live in Los Angeles," he said, as if it meant something. Maybe to him it did.

  "What was it you wanted to talk about?" Karl asked him.

  "These DVDs that have been circulating that show a demonically possessed man torturing and murdering another man."

  "What's that got to do with you?" I asked. "I don't suppose you're here to confess that you're responsible."

  Mister Milo gave me a tight little smile. "No, not hardly." The smile disappeared as if it had never been there at all. "I represent certain interests in the Los Angeles area who are very concerned about these videos. It is feared that eventually knowledge of them will become public, causing an outcry against an industry that is utterly innocent of any wrongdoing."

  It took me a moment to figure out what he was saying. "You represent the porn business."

  "We prefer to call it the adult entertainment industry," he said.

  "You can call it the fucking Girl Scouts, for all I care," I said. "I still don't think the term 'utterly innocent' is a good description of your business."

  "I meant innocent of involvement in these so-called 'snuff films'," Milo said. "Feel free to moralize to your heart's content, Sergeant. But the same laws that guarantee your right to wax indignant about adult entertainment also give your fellow citizens the right to choose it as their own private form of amusement – and they do, in very large numbers."

  Getting this scumbag to admit that he was a scumbag was a waste of time, and we had bigger fish to fry.

  "So, if your 'industry' has nothing to do with these snuff videos, what are you doing in Scranton – protesting your innocence? You could've just sent an email. Quicker and cheaper."

  The smile made another brief appearance. "But then I would have been denied the pleasure of making your acquaintance, Sergeant," he said, and I wondered if I could just shoot him and get away with it. Maybe if I called it "pest extermination".

  "I'm here to act as a go-between, Milo said. "A liaison, if you will, between the local authorities and my employers."

  Karl snorted. "And what fucking good do you figure that's gonna do?"

  Milo spread his hands and shrugged at the same time. I wondered if he practiced it in front of a mirror. "I hope to serve as a conduit for information, Detective. I could pass on to you anything relevant that might be discovered back on the West Coast, and I hope you officers would reciprocate by sharing with me developments in the case as they arise."

  I was about to get all hard-ass and tell this creep that the police didn't share confidential information with scumbag civilians, when my brain finally got out of first gear. So I asked him, just to see what he'd say, "And suppose we did share information about the case with you, what purpose would it serve? What would you use it for?"

  Another elegant shrug. "Well, that's impossible to say at this point, of course. But I find that all information proves useful, sooner or later – don't you?"

  He was good, I'll give him that. I figured that Milo had been lying from the cradle and only got better at it with each passing year. The fact that some porno king had sent him out here was probably a testament to his skill as a bullshit artist. He was lying like the pro he was, and I knew it.

  He was looking at Karl when he finished speaking, but for what I was about to do, I wanted him looking at me. "Milo," I said quietly.

  When he turned his innocent-looking gaze my way, I leaned forward in my chair, to bring my face as close as possible to his. Looking closely at his eyes, I said, "You hired Sharkey, didn't you?"

  He didn't blink or turn a hair. But the pupils of those brown eyes instantly dilated, and that was all I needed to see.

  I once spent some time reading a book called
Deception Detection
. About ninety percent of it was stuff any experienced cop knows, but the chapter on pupil dilation movement caught my interest. Pupil dilation movement (or PDM) was what the author, some PhD from Berkeley, called an "autonomic response". That means it operates outside the conscious control of the will. It's like blushing when you're embarrassed, or breaking out in a sweat when you're nervous about something.

  Not everybody blushes from shame, or sweats due to tension, but every human's pupils dilate or contract in response to sudden, strong emotion. Every damn one. That's what the guy said in his book, anyway – and he's a PhD, so I figure he knows his shit.