Blood Law (27 page)

“If you say so. I don’t remember.”

“What started the argument?”

“I said I don’t remember.”

Varik pursed his lips and remained quiet. He waited to speak until Gibson wriggled with impatience. “Here’s my problem, Owen. I have a warehouse full of witnesses who are willing to swear that you had an altercation with Gary Lipscomb, and unfortunately, Mr. Lipscomb’s dead, so he can’t tell us his version of the story.”

Gibson began shaking his head vigorously. “You’re not pinning a murder on me. I haven’t killed anybody, human or vamp. Hell, no.”

“You argued with the victim. Now he turns up dead after being missing for several days. You can see where we might find all this puzzling, Mr. Gibson.”

“I can explain that, the argument.”

Varik inclined his head slightly and positioned his pen over the notepad, waiting.

“It’s like this, okay?” Gibson sat forward, hands gesturing. “I got to Morrison Distribution to pick up a load of sporting equipment and I was running behind schedule. The vamp loading the truck—”

“Gary Lipscomb.”

“I didn’t know his name. All I knew was he wasn’t loading the stuff quickly enough. I was falling further behind because of it. I may’ve said some things in the heat of the moment, but I didn’t kill anyone, swear to God.”

Varik scribbled a few notes, buying himself time. “How do you feel about vampires in general, Mr. Gibson?”

“I, uh …”

“Do you like them? Hate them?”

“I don’t really know any. Personally.”

“But surely you have an opinion.”

“Yeah, of course, but—”

“You know what I think? I think you don’t like vampires much, and when Gary Lipscomb screwed with your schedule, you got mad.”

“Now, wait a second. You’re getting this all wrong. I—”

“You look like you’ve seen some action. I’m willing to bet you even enjoyed killing Lipscomb.”

“I didn’t kill him!” Gibson roared. “Yeah, I don’t like vamps much. I think they’re unnatural, but I
am not
a killer.”

“‘Unnatural’?” Varik asked.

“The Bible says that we—humans—are made in God’s
image, and I don’t think He’d create something that’s sole purpose is to devour, to destroy, that image.”

“If God didn’t create vampires, then who—”

“Satan,” he said, and spread his arms wide, as if that explained it all. “He created—no,
spawned
—vampires in the pits of Hell and sent you demons here, to earth, to create chaos and discord among humans.”

Varik stared at him and reassessed his previous evaluation. Instinct still told him Gibson wasn’t a killer, but he most certainly was a nutcase.

“It’s all here.” Gibson pulled a crumpled pamphlet from his back pocket and tossed it on the table.

A logo featuring a stylized samurai sword cutting through the equally stylized letters HSM glared up at Varik from the glossy paper. “Human Separatist Movement?”

Gibson nodded.

Varik picked it up and unfolded it. The cover showed a cartoon of a human mob cheering as one man drove a cross-shaped stake through a bat-winged vampire’s heart. An image of Gary Lipscomb’s body drifted before his mind’s eye. “Where did you get this?”

“I don’t have to tell you—”

“Where did you get it?” He shouted the question.

Gibson recoiled. “From a guy at a diner here in town, Maggie’s Place.”

“Who was it? What’s his name?”

“The cook. I think his name was Bill.”

Varik scooped up the pamphlet and left the room without saying another word. He saw Tasha standing in
the doorway of the video room, staring down an empty hall. “What’s going on?”

“Alex,” Tasha answered. “She just ran out of here like her ass was on fire.”

“Ah, shit,” he breathed, and sprinted down the corridor.

“HAM SANDWICHES WITH MAYO, SWISS CHEESE, AND
homemade sweet pickles make the best lunches,” Darryl Black said, settling into his recliner. He balanced the plate of sandwiches on top of his glass of Mountain Dew and worked the lever to elevate the folding footrest. Once comfortable, he punched the power button on the remote that he’d duct-taped to the chair’s arm so he wouldn’t lose it.

The small TV flickered once, then twice, before coming to life. He bit into the corner of the first sandwich and watched a replay of the Crimson Swan fire on the news.

“Authorities are still investigating the apparent arson of Jefferson’s only blood bar,” a male voice-over said.

Darryl applauded when the tower fell in a spectacular show of flames and sparks.

The video switched to a studio view of the news anchor. “In addition to Crimson Swan’s destruction,
Stephen Sabian, the bar’s owner and the son of murdered university professor Bernard Sabian, is missing. Anyone with information regarding either of these events is being asked to call the Jefferson Police Department or the FBPI’s national toll-free hotline.”

Darryl made a rude hand gesture at the reporter and lowered the volume when the broadcast cut to a commercial.

He smiled at the picture of Claire hanging on the wall next to him. “Well, what do you think, sweetheart?”

The floorboards creaked and popped behind him. A shadow passed over Claire’s photo, moved along the wall, and merged with those behind the television. The screen flickered, and the hiss of static filled the room.

He sighed and took a bite of his sandwich before looking to the portrait once more.

Claire’s brown eyes bored into him, their warmth turning to accusation.

“You’re not happy.”

The TV screen flickered.

“What did I do, or not do, this time?”

The screen became a fuzzy field of black-and-white snow. It flashed twice, accompanied by a snippet of sound.
Stake. Rest.

He swiped a hand over his face. “All right, all right. I get it. Let me finish my sandwich and I’ll take care of it.”

The screen flickered once and returned to normal.

Darryl took two more bites of sandwich. The crumbs fell onto his navy jumpsuit and turned a pale pink before changing to dark red as they soaked up trace
amounts of blood. He brushed the crumbs away, his gaze drifting back to Claire’s picture as it always did.

The accusation was gone from her eyes, leaving only the silent adoration of a wife for her husband.

Alex could feel Varik’s mind pressing against her own, searching for a way past the barriers she’d erected to block the blood-bond. She didn’t have time to deal with him. The window in which to find and recover Stephen safely was closing. After listening to Owen Gibson’s inane prattling and admission that the cook at Maggie’s Place had given him Human Separatist Movement literature, she wanted to have a little chat with said cook.

She left the JPD in her mother’s rental car and drove across town to the diner, which was still cordoned off with yellow tape, but two cars were parked in the back. She had no way of knowing if one of them belonged to the cook. She’d just have to take her chances.

She parked beside the cars and got out, leaving her cell phone behind but making certain her Glock was readily accessible beneath the denim jacket Varik had bought for her. Approaching the rear entrance cautiously, she could hear the rustling of papers coming from inside.

The heavy metal security door was open. Alex stepped into the gloomy storeroom and skirted the wall in an effort to remain in the darkest shadows. More rustling of papers filtered through the open doorway
of an office, along with the sound of struggling machinery.

“Fucking piece of shit,” a man’s voice muttered from inside the office, followed by the slap of flesh striking hard plastic.

Alex crept to the office door and peered around the corner. She instantly recognized both the smell and the girth of Tubby Jordan even though he was bent over, trying to free a stack of papers that had gotten jammed in a shredder.

Arms grabbed her from behind, pinning her own arms and lifting her off the ground.

She roared and kicked at the legs of the man holding her.

Tubby Jordan appeared in front of her, his eyes wide. “What are you
doing
? Let her go!”

Alex arched her back, driving her head into the face of the man behind her. She both felt and heard a sickening crunch and then smelled fresh blood as the man released her with an anguished yelp.

“You bitch!” her assailant cried. “You broke my fucking nose!”

She stepped out of either man’s reach and drew her Glock.

The man with the broken nose rushed her. His momentum carried them to the floor. They rolled, each trying to gain the upper hand as well as control of the gun.

Alex could hear Tubby shouting in the background. Instinct kicked in, and she sank her fangs into her assailant’s forearm.

He screamed and jerked away.

Blood filled her mouth. Memories that were not her own flooded her mind. A group of men sitting around a table. Stephen’s gold curls shining under the glow of a streetlamp as he fell to the ground, crying out in pain. Flames erupting from the shattered windows of Crimson Swan.

The visions faded, and the world around her fell silent. Mr. Broken Nose was no longer on top of her. She blinked, looked around from her supine position on the floor, and her heart stopped.

Varik stood nearby with Broken Nose, who cradled his bloody arm to his chest, firmly in hand. His golden eyes were fixed on her, his expression a carefully constructed mask of neutrality. Tubby Jordan cowered in the office doorway under the watchful glare of another Enforcer. Standing at her feet, glaring at her with barely contained rage, was Damian Alberez.

Tasha left the Municipal Center’s main lobby, pulled a set of keys from her jacket pocket, and was greeted by a mob of reporters armed with microphones.

“Lieutenant!” one shouted. “Is it true that the FBPI is replacing Enforcer Sabian?”

“Have there been any ransom demands made for Stephen Sabian?” another asked.

“Has the FBPI made any progress in finding the shooter of the Maggie’s Place massacre?” a third demanded.

“No comment,” Tasha answered, and repeated it several times as she tried to break out of the throng. She
finally succeeded and hurried to reach her car before the reporters caught her again.

Slipping into her unmarked cruiser, she gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. When she’d first agreed to work with Alex, she’d thought it was a perfect opportunity not only to conquer her fear of vampires but to show her hometown that human-vampire harmony was possible. Now she realized she’d been deluding herself.

Tasha started the car’s engine and backed out of the space. She turned onto Jefferson Boulevard, her mind traveling in circles. She’d learned more about vampires in the past few days than she had in the six years she’d worked side by side with Alex. It was as though someone had taken the wool from over her eyes. She’d considered Alex a friend, but she realized she’d been used, not for blood but for resources. With more Enforcers in town and their subsequent assumption of investigative powers, she was being tossed aside like an empty Vlad’s Tears vial.

She pulled into a reserved parking space close to the Nassau County morgue’s front entrance. Disgusted by her past behavior, she climbed out of the car and jammed her hands into her pockets. The rustling of crumpled paper made her pause halfway to the door.

Tasha pulled out a wrinkled note bearing the logo for the Human Separatist Movement and recalled Owen Gibson’s statements to Varik. Vampires were demon-spawn sent to create discord among humans. They’d certainly managed to disrupt her life.

She turned the note over and saw the same scrawling
handwriting as had been on her foyer mirror:
3:00 today. We’ll be in touch.

She hurriedly stuffed it back into her pocket. Someone was playing games with her. The question was who. It seemed that the only way she could find out would be to play along.

Even though her original fear of vampires was turning darker, angrier, she couldn’t label it hatred. Not yet. She wasn’t willing to align herself with HSM and jeopardize her career, even though she knew some of Jefferson’s police force were already members. She should consider distancing herself from the Enforcers after this investigation was over. Maybe that would help her to refocus her life and bring the chaos to an end.

She entered the morgue and nodded to Jeff, Doc Hancock’s assistant, seated at the front desk.

“Hey, Lieutenant,” Jeff said brightly. “I was just about to call you. Dr. Hancock’s got the results on those bodies from the high school.”

“Did you say ‘bodies’?”

He nodded. “Gary Lipscomb and Nichelle Adams.”

“Who is Nichelle Adams?”

“Security guard for the high school. She was found stuffed in an equipment locker after you left the scene. Weren’t you notified?”

Tasha sighed. How many more people were going to die before this all ended? “No, I wasn’t. It’s the Bureau’s case, not mine.”

Jeff motioned for her to follow him, and the two of them pushed through a pair of large steel doors marked
RESTRICTED
in red letters. “How’s Alex?” Jeff asked, as they entered the corridor outside the autopsy room.

Tasha shrugged. “Don’t know. Don’t care.”

Jeff glanced at her. “You two get in a fight or something?”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

He gestured to the autopsy room’s double door. “Doc’s in there finishing up some notes.”

Tasha nodded her thanks and entered the room, leaving Jeff in the hallway.

Nassau County’s coroner perched on a tall stool beside an empty steel table, pen poised over an open file folder. Doc Hancock’s owl-like eyes focused on her. “Lieutenant Lockwood,” he said, and set down his pen. “I’m glad you’re here. I was about to have Jeff fax over my reports on the latest victims.”

She took a deep breath, inhaling the chemically clean scents of bleach and alcohol, and asked, “What can you tell me?”

“Ran the prints of both victims through IAFIS and VIPER to confirm their identities. Lipscomb’s prints were on file from a DWI arrest in Natchez last year, and Nichelle Adams was a security guard for the school, so that explains hers being in the system.”