Vampire Moon (29 page)

 
      
 
“So you took it well.”

 
      
 
“About as well as any dad would.”

 
      
 
“You love him, though.”

 
      
 
Sherbet reached inside the bag again. “In a weird way, I think I love him more.”

 
      
 
“Oh?”

 
      
 
He pulled out an apple fritter. Remnants of the pink frosting donut were smeared on the fritter. Sherbet licked the remnants off.

 
      
 
He said, “The kid’s going to have it tough in school, and everywhere else, for that matter. He’s going to need someone strong by his side.”

 
      
 
I patted his roundish knee, hidden beneath slacks that were stretched tight. I think Sherbet had gained 10 or 15 pounds since I’d last seen him. He didn’t sound very healthy, either. As he ate the donut, I reached over and gently took the greasy bag from him. He watched in mild shock as I held my hand over the balcony railing.

 
      
 
“Sam, don’t,” he said.

 
      
 
“You’re gaining weight, detective. And you sound like you need a respirator. These things aren’t helping.”

 
      
 
“You sound like my wife.”

 
      
 
“You should listen to her.”

 
      
 
I let the bag go. Five seconds later, I heard it splat nine floors below.

 
      
 
Sherbet winced. “I should give you a ticket for littering.”

 
      
 
“Then give me a ticket.”

 
      
 
He went to work on the rest of the fritter. “My hands are too sticky to write. Besides, I’ve got some news for you.”

 
      
 
“Go ahead.”

 
      
 
“We got a call from a guest staying here at the hotel.”

 
      
 
Sherbet licked his fingers. I waited.

 
      
 
“She reported that a strange man had been watching the hotel for a few days now. So we sent one of our guys around and talked to him. The guy’s story didn’t sound kosher, and so we picked him up for questioning.”

 
      
 
“And did he answer your questions?”

 
      
 
“Not at first, but, believe it or not, I can play bad cop pretty damn well.”

 
      
 
“Bad cop? You? Never!”

 
      
 
Sherbet grinned. There was pink frosting in his cop mustache. I should have told him there was pink frosting in his cop mustache, but he looked so damn cute that I decided not to. “So I shake this guy down and he finally tells me his story.”

 
      
 
“He’s a hired killer,” I said.

 
      
 
“You know the story?”

 
      
 
“I can guess some of it.”

 
      
 
“So what else can you guess, Sam?”

 
      
 
“He was hired by Ira Lang.”

 
      
 
Sherbet raised his thick finger and shot me. The finger glistened stickily. “Bingo.”

 
      
 
Chapter Forty-one

 
      
 
Detective Sherbet sat back and folded his hairy arms over his roundish stomach. I mostly wasn’t attracted to roundish stomachs and hairy arms—or, for that matter, hairy anything. But on Sherbet, the longish arm hair and extra stomach padding seemed right. On him, oddly, both were attractive. If he had been single and I had been another twenty years older, there was a very good chance I would have had the
hots
for him.

 
      
 
He seemed to be noticing me looking at his stomach and unconsciously adjusted his shirt over, not realizing that his padded stomach was adding to his manliness. At least for me. I can’t vouch for every woman.

 
      
 
I suspected I had daddy issues, whatever that meant.

 
      
 
“He also said something else,” said Sherbet. As he spoke, he looked through the sliding glass door at Monica, who was sitting on the edge of the bed and wringing her hands and rocking slightly. I couldn’t be sure, but I think she was mumbling something, or singing something. The woman was tormented beyond words, and my heart went out to her.

 
      
 
I looked back at Sherbet, “What else?”

 
      
 
“He told me that Ira Lang would never give up trying to kill her, that Lang had approached many, many people in prison, and that just because we caught him once, didn’t mean we were going to catch the next killer that Ira hired, or the next, or the next.”

 
      
 
“He’s going to keep coming after her,” I said. “Forever, until one or the other dies.”

 
      
 
“Which, for him, is sooner rather than later, since he’s on Death Row.”

 
      
 
“Still a few years away, though.”

 
      
 
“Or longer,” said Sherbet. “Unless, of course, you visit him again, in which case he might not survive the meeting.”

 
      
 
“He threatened the kids.”

 
      
 
“You are a mama grizzly.”

 
      
 
“I’m a mama something.”

 
      
 
Sherbet looked at me, seemed about to say something, paused, then seemed to go a different direction. “Anyway, he’s out of the hospital and back on Death Row.”

 
      
 
“Where he belongs.”

 
      
 
“I couldn’t agree more.”

 
      
 
We were silent. Sherbet’s overtaxed digestive system moaned pitifully as it went to work on the greasy donuts.

 
      
 
“Which reminds me,” said Sherbet, reaching down and opening his briefcase. He extracted a smallish electronic gizmo thingy. “I want to show you something.”

 
      
 
“Your new DVD player?” I asked.

 
      
 
He grinned. “Sort of. It’s a loaner from the department.”

 
      
 
I watched with mild amusement as his sausage-like fingers tried to manipulate the small piece of electronic gadgetry. He picked it up and examined it from every angle.

 
      
 
“Everything’s so damned small,” he grumbled.

 
      
 
“Let me have a look, detective,” I said. He gratefully handed it to me. I took it from him, and flipped a switch on the side and the player whirred to life.

 
      
 
“Should I press ‘play’?” I asked.

 
      
 
“Yes,” he said.

 
      
 
I set the player on the table between us and pressed ‘play’, and a moment later I saw a sickening scene. It was footage from a security camera, looking down on two people conversing in a jail visiting room. Both were on the phone, speaking to each other through a thick, bulletproof glass window.

 
      
 
Sherbet was watching me closely as the video played on the little screen. I hate being watched closely. My first instinct was to turn the damn thing off and fling it over the balcony railing like I had with the donuts.

 
      
 
My next instinct was to make a joke or two about the video, perhaps something about the camera adding ten pounds. But there was no joking my way out of this.

 
      
 
I had been wrong: there
was
a camera in the jail’s visiting room, perhaps hidden.

 
      
 
Besides, I felt too sick to joke, so instead I watched the tape with horror and curiosity. After all, it was a rare day that I actually got to see myself.

 
      
 
Of course, I had worn a lot of make-up that night, knowing there would security cameras everywhere, and wanting to make sure I didn’t show up as partially invisible. In fact, anytime I was anywhere that had heightened video security, I made it a point to wear extra make-up.

 
      
 
Anyway, the video was grainy at best. No sound, either. On the tiny screen, I watched as I sat forward in the chair, speaking deliberately to Ira. Ira was leaning some of his weight on his elbows and didn’t seem to blink. Ever. I hadn’t noticed that before. Then again, that could have been a result of this grainy image. The camera had been filming from above, in the upper corner of the visitor’s side of the room.

 
      
 
From this angle, I could see some of my profile, and I watched myself, fascinated, despite my mounting dread over what was about to come.

 
      
 
In the video, I looked leaner than I had ever looked in my life. A good thing, I guess. I also looked strong, vibrant. I didn’t look like the stereotypical sickly vampire. But I knew that wasn’t always the case. This was early evening. I always looked better in the early evening. Or so I was told.