Dave Carver (Book 1): Thicker Than Blood (7 page)

“One last thing, Captain,” Flavian said as Rob and I backed towards the sidewalk. “If you ever come into my home again and accuse me of murder, I’ll not be so polite.”

“Ambassador,” I said, “if I find out that you’re responsible for McCreary’s death, neither will I. And I don’t make empty threats.”

Flavian smiled. It may have been a trick of the light, but his teeth seemed to grow and sharpen. “Nor do I, Captain. Nor do I.”

Rob and I left the warehouse, keeping our eyes on the vampires until we were fully embraced by the warmth of the sun. The junkie closed the door and headed back towards his coffeehouse, presumably to take another hit of vamp venom. We were silent until we were back in the Mustang and cruising away.

“What do you think?” Rob asked. “Did he kill Jack?”

It took me a moment to calm my screaming emotions. Try as I might, I couldn’t shake the scent of blood from my brain. It reminded me way too much of Guyana. “No,” I finally said, “but he’s lying about something. I think he knows more than he’s saying.”

Rob was thoughtful as he merged onto the Expressway. “So now what?”

I laughed. “Hell if I know, man. I guess we go back to the office and start investigating.”

Chapter 9

Real detective work, I was discovering, was a hell of a lot harder than television made it appear. I needed to find out who killed Jack McCreary, and I had no freakin’ idea where to start. The enormity of the task stretched out before me, twisting and gaping like a canyon.

So, forty-five minutes after leaving Flavian’s warehouse, I convened my first team meeting.

Off of the main bullpen in the Table’s office, there was a room I hadn’t noticed before. It was separated by a glass wall and covered with horizontal blinds. According to Madison, the researcher/receptionist, the room didn’t have an official name, but everybody called it the “round table room.”

Every regional office in the organization had a piece of furniture that was modeled after the original table, the one that had given us our name. The giant piece of oak, ten feet in diameter and carved into a perfect circle, was crammed into a tiny square room. With a dozen chairs arranged around it, their backs pressing up right against the walls, getting into the furthest corners was an interesting experience. But it was impossible not to feel cool sitting at this table. It wasn’t the original, obviously, but it was an exact replica of
the
round table, the one that had been made by Merlin. The one that had sat Arthur, Lancelot, Gawain, Galahad, and Guinevere. It was like a baseball player getting the chance to swing a bat that had belonged to Babe Ruth.

Once everyone was seated, I folded my hands in front of me in what I hoped was a wise, leaderly manner, and said, “So who has an idea of where to start?”

Nobody spoke.

“Come on, guys,” I said. “I’m really asking. New York’s my home, but I haven’t been here in almost ten years and I don’t know the supernatural community the way you guys do. And I’m really knew at this whole investigation thing.”

Madison raised her hand, exactly like a schoolgirl, toying with the end of her pink hair, nervous that she needed to ask a question. “Uh, Captain McCreary never asked us what to do. He just told us.” I saw Earl nod in agreement. Kim’s and Rob’s faces stayed cold and impassive.

“I’m not Jack McCreary,” I said. “By the time most of you guys met him, I’m betting he’d been in the business for twenty years or more. He already knew what he was doing. I need some help, folks. Brainstorming time. No such thing as a bad idea. Let’s go.”

Kim Larsen spoke up, after a long silence, saving me from the embarrassment of my first meeting falling on its face. “We should probably speak to the neighbors around here. It’s a quiet neighborhood, but there’s usually someone around in these buildings. Someone might have seen something.”

I nodded. “Good idea. What else?”

Earl looked at Rob. “What about Dallas? He’s usually got a good ear to the ground. Maybe he heard something.”

The older knight shrugged. “He’s still pretty pissed at me about that thing in Tribeca last year. Maybe he’d talk to you, but I can’t be sure. It’s hard to tell with that wizard. He’s easy to make mad.”

“Uh...” Krissy said as if she wasn’t sure she should be speaking at this meeting. I motioned for her to go ahead. “What about the cops? Like, the regular cops. They’re probably trying to figure out what happened, right. I mean, maybe we can help each other.”

“Anybody have a source in the NYPD?”

Earl shook his head. “Captain McCreary always said the mortal cops weren’t worth the tin they used to make their badges.”

I snorted. That was such an old-school Round Table attitude. “They usually know less than a newborn troll, I’ll admit that, but they’re not stupid. They’re not clued in to the supernatural world usually, but they know when something isn’t right.” I shook my head. “But if nobody’s got a contact, we’ll have to back-burner that for now. Good idea, though, Krissy.”

She beamed, obviously proud to have contributed to her first meeting.

“Okay,” I continued, “what’s next?”

We came up with a three-pronged plan of action that I thought would be effective.

Prong one: Kim Larsen would go knock on doors around the office, asking the neighbors if they’d seen anything the day that McCreary had died. She looked motherly, almost grandmotherly, so I figured she’d be better at wheedling information out of nervous straights than anybody else in the office.

Rob Haney had been in the New York office longer than anybody, now that McCreary was gone. He had more contacts than anybody else. So prong two of the plan was for him to head uptown to talk to the patrons of a bar he knew that was popular with former vampire venom junkies.

Prong three: Earl would take Krissy and me into the city proper to talk to this guy, Dallas, the guy who apparently kept his ear to the ground and was quick to anger and who everyone agreed probably knew something.

I walked out of the round table room feeling confident. I’d organized my team quickly and efficiently. For the first time since Guyana I felt like I was doing something right.

In my time with the Knights of the Round Table I’ve seen things that are amazing. I’ve walked the underwater streets of Atlantis, ridden a ghost ship through a hurricane, spoken with spirits, and killed creatures out of nightmares. That late morning, though, I witnessed something that put all of them to shame.

Lieutenant Elmore “Earl” James got us from Queens into Manhattan in less than fifteen minutes.

Mostly, I think, he accomplished it with a total lack of concern for his car, a beat-up old Toyota that looked like it had enough mileage to tie a bow around the globe. He weaved in and out of traffic on the Queensboro Bridge, seemingly oblivious to horns, jeers, middle fingers, and swears. Even more amazingly, he managed to carry on a perfectly rational conversation while he did it.

“This guy we’re going to see can be a little intense, sir,” he said. “He runs a magic shop.”

“A magic shop.” I tried to keep the skepticism out of my voice, but I guess I didn’t quite succeed.

“I know what you’re thinking, sir, but he’s the real deal. A wizard. He just uses the shop to make money.”

“I guess even wizardry can’t compete with capitalism,” I said. “He’s good?”

“Rob says he’s the best. Most of the magicians in the tristate use him for their supplies. Anyway, he’s a good person for you to know, sir. He’s got almost as many supe contacts as Rob does, and some of them are in places where the Table generally doesn’t go. He’s legit, though—Magic Council member and stuff. He’s a good guy.”

“Rob didn’t seem to think he’s such a good guy,” I said, remembering the grimace that had crossed the older knight’s face when Dallas’s name came up.

Earl laughed. “That’s just ‘cause last year they were both trying to fu—” He seemed to spot Krissy in the rearview mirror then. “Hook up with this elf chick at the Tribeca festival.”

“Who won?” Krissy asked.

“Rob never told me, so I guess that’s your answer. Anyways, it’s not like he doesn’t like the Table, sir, he just doesn’t get along with Rob. He’ll help us if he can.”

Less than five minutes later, Earl slammed the Toyota into a parking spot at the base of the steel canyons of a Manhattan street. He had to cut off a twenty-something guy in a muscle car to do it. The guy rolled down his window, but when he caught a glimpse of Earl’s powerful build, he cruised away, looking for a new parking space. Ah, New York. Pollution and parking wars.

From the street, the Rabbit’s Hat didn’t look like much. In fact, if you hadn’t known it was there, you wouldn’t have noticed it, so easy was it for it to get lost in the shadows of the skyscrapers that neighbored it. The windows were covered with purple curtains. The only thing that suggested the little shop was a place of business was an “Open” sign hanging in the glass of the front door.

A bell overhead tinged when Earl opened the door and led us inside. The store was lit—poorly—by dozens of candles, in brass sticks on glass counters, with flames of various strange colors: purples and greens and blues. The counters were the kind you’d see in a jewelry store, open so that you could see the wares inside. They contained various gear and ingredients that could be used in magic spells: powders, liquids, crystals, small animal bones and organs, satchels of salt, and dull knives made of iron and silver. Many magicians, I knew, eschewed technology, preferring to focus on the mystic arts of lore. The only concession made by this store to the post-Industrial age was a state-of-the-art computer and cash register set up on the back counter in a corner.

A half-dozen kids, mostly in their late teens or early twenties, were making a show of looking at items on counters, at the books on the shelves that lined the walls. Mostly they hunkered together, whispering urgently and staring at us with unconcealed nerves. A college-aged man with dyed black hair and a knee-length duster took a cautious step forward and raised his hand, fingers spread wide. I recognized a warding gesture when I saw one. This kid was preparing to work a defensive spell. His forehead was scrunched with the effort, and I could see others in the store, mumbling incoherently.

These kids were afraid of us.

“Can I help you folks with something?” a voice called from the back of the store, near the cash register. “Ah. Earl. You guys got here fast.”

Earl grinned, cocky and assured. “When you got skills, you don’t need spells, Dallas.”

“If you say so,” the other man said. “I prefer magic. More reliable. Who’re your friends?”

“Steve Dallas,” Earl said, “this is Krissy Thomas and the new captain, Dave Carver.”

The man looked exactly nothing like pop culture’s version of a magician. He was short and round, his eyes were tiny dark dots. His hair was a black and curly mop, and his only facial hair was an alcoholic’s five o’clock shadow. He wore a sweat-stained Mets jersey.

“Nice to meet you.” I smiled.

“You’re kidding.”

“About it being nice to meet you? No I was pretty serious about that.”

“This is Dave Carver?”

I frowned and rolled my shoulders. My body was still keyed up from the visit to the vampire warehouse. “We got a problem here?”

Dallas shook his head. “I just expected the guy who kick-started the apocalypse would be taller.”

“Dallas,” Earl began, but I cut him off with a raised hand.

“Hold on,” I said. “I didn’t start the war. The vampires did.”

“True or false: the vampires only declared war after your girlfriend invaded their territory to pull your ass out of the fire.”

“Listen, friend,” I said. “You’re on dangerous ground.”

“The whole world’s on dangerous ground,” Dallas replied. “And it’s because of you.”

“Dallas, you got your facts wrong,” Earl said. “Captain Strain didn’t go get him because he’s her boyfriend. She did it because he was one of ours and he needed help. You know I volunteered for that mission, right? I didn’t do it because I wanted to sleep with him.” He shot a look in my direction. “No offense, sir.”

“None taken. You’re not my type.”

Dallas raised his hands in surrender, forcing a smile. It looked unnatural on his face, like it was an expression he wasn’t used to making. “Hey, I’m sorry. The Art knows, I don’t object to anybody frying up some vamps.” He leaned across the counter to offer his hand. “We good?”

He seemed sincere enough. I shook his hand. “Yeah. Fine.”

“So,” Dallas said, forcing a smile. “What can I do for you fine knights of the Round Table?” His customers, who’d been obviously eavesdropping, hurried to busy themselves with merchandise.

“You can help us figure out who killed Jack McCreary,” I said.

Dallas frowned. “I...I, uh, figured it was vamps.”

“Almost definitely.”

“So?”

“So there are at least two factions of vampires in this city. I want to know which one it was.”

“Flavian. You think he had something to do with it?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I was hoping you would.”

Dallas shrugged. “Sorry. I haven’t had much contact on the vamp side since the war began. Solidarity and all that.”

I grimaced. It looked like this trip was a bust. I was wondering just when I was gonna get a break on this case. “Well, we appreciate that,” I said. “I guess we’ll be going.”

“Wait,” Krissy said suddenly. “He’s lying.”

Dallas exploded. “What are you talking about? Who the hell are you, anyway?” The temperature in the room suddenly leaped up a few degrees. The windows shook and the flames on the candles trembled. Krissy’s eyes widened and she took a few steps towards the door.

I raised my hand, feeling like a traffic cop. “Easy,” I said. “Krissy, what are you talking about?”

“Can’t you tell? He knows more than he’s saying.”

“Bull,” Dallas snapped.

I rubbed my chin. “That was a pretty strong reaction for an innocent man. You have something you want to tell me, Mr. Dallas?”

He kept the enraged expression for a moment, then dropped it as easily as taking off a mask. “Fine. I wasn’t gonna bring this up ‘cause I don’t know what it means, but maybe you can figure it out.” He led us through a door behind the counter into a back office.

A small desk was the only furniture in the dark, cramped room. It was covered with old newspapers, beer cans, and a pizza box. Dallas knocked over an empty Starbucks cup as he sat down. He handed me a sketchbook. “Look at the back page,” he said. “Two weeks ago, I had this dream. It was weird, but I didn’t think too much of it. I have strange dreams all the time. But then I had it again, every night since.”