Tales of the Otherworld (41 page)

One person who would doubtless disagree was Billy Arnell.

I didn’t get the opportunity to speak to the widow herself. I was met at the door and told she was tired of talking to reporters and asked to be left alone to grieve. I couldn’t say I blamed her.

Arnell’s coworkers were more inclined to talk. According to everyone I spoke to, Billy Arnell was an “all-round great guy.” A fine epigraph, but not terribly useful in a murder investigation.

I
’LL BE DONE WITH EXAMS ON THE SIXTEENTH,”
Bryce said. “Then I’ll fly home the next day. You guys haven’t given away my office yet, I hope.”

Sean laughed and leaned back in his office chair. “Never. You know how Granddad is. We get our name on an office door at sixteen and it’s ours for life, whether we want it or not.”

Silence. Sean wondered whether he’d injected more frustration into that statement than he meant to.

“Not even going to ask how my exams are going, are you?” Bryce said. “You don’t dare.”

Sean winced. There was no right way to handle Bryce’s school situation. Ask how it was going, and Bryce would get short-tempered and defensive. Don’t ask, and it sounded as if Sean knew he wasn’t doing well and didn’t expect that to change. Bryce was a smart enough kid, but he had no head for, or interest in, political science. His chances of getting into law school dimmed with each passing semester.

“Sorry,” Sean said. “I’ve been preoccupied. Some internal problems here.”

“Nothing you can’t handle, though, right? You’re the golden boy. Going to make VP by Christmas. I’d lay bets on it.”

Again Sean hesitated, replaying Bryce’s voice, assessing his tone. Were the sentiments spoken with brotherly pride? Sibling envy? Or simply a statement of fact? Any of the three were equally possible.

Bryce had always been a difficult one. No, Sean thought with a smile; the “challenging” one, as Dad always said. Since their father’s death,
Bryce’s moods had grown more volatile, fueled by the frustration of failing at a career path Bryce was convinced their father would have wanted for him.

They talked for a few more minutes, making plans for Bryce’s summer at home. When Sean hung up, he heard Bryce’s words again. The golden boy. Already on the path to VP. Did he want either distinction? Not particularly. He worked hard because that’s how he’d been raised—to do a job to the best of your ability. But if he didn’t care about making VP anytime soon, if at all, wasn’t that all the more reason to come out? To show Bryce that he was far from the perfect CEO son?

But how could he help Bryce find his place in the Cabal if
he
no longer had one?

Oh, come on. Do you really think they’ll kick you out for being gay? Lose their golden boy?

Honestly, he had no idea what would happen. The few Cabal sons he’d heard of who had declared their homosexuality had been disowned.

His grandfather doted on him, but the old man had immovable views on right and wrong. His treatment of Savannah proved that. He’d lost his eldest son, yet refused to take any solace in the discovery of a new grandchild. He would even allow her to be raised by his rival’s son. All because she was a witch.

The thought of Savannah, and by extension, Lucas, made Sean’s gut twist. There was no disguising
that
act as common sense. He had been a coward. Pawning off his problem on someone else, pulling out his checkbook to solve it, preying on his target’s sense of moral decency and need of money.

Worse, he’d done it to someone he liked. He didn’t fully understand what drove Lucas. The Cabals could be corrupt, but wasn’t corruption best fought from within? Without leaving the family? Whatever his feelings about Lucas’s life choices, though, he’d had no right to take advantage of them.

A lousy thing to do.

A cowardly thing to do.

Was this what living a lie would mean? Not just deflecting questions about his love life and avoiding blind dates, but turning into the kind of man who had to sneak into gay bars on business trips, then pay off friends to cover it up when things went wrong?

A tap at the door. Without waiting for a response, his Uncle Josef popped his head in.

“Sean? We need you in the boardroom.”

“Come in, Sean,” his grandfather said, waving to the empty seat to his left.

Sean stepped inside and closed the door as his uncle returned to his chair at his grandfather’s right—Sean’s father’s old seat.

Sean surreptitiously scanned the table as he crossed the room, seeing his grandfather, both of his uncles, the head of security, and his second-in-command, plus the AVP of special accounting. It must be a security issue, then, something requiring budget considerations.

“We’re hoping you can help us with something, Sean,” his grandfather said. “You were in Tacoma last Friday, meeting with the investors for the Domtar project.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then perhaps you can tell us more about this.”

His grandfather opened a folder and passed it over. It was a file of newspaper clippings. The top one was from a Seattle tabloid. Sean read it.

“Chupacabra Attack in Middleton?”

T
HERE WASN’T A TRUE CORONER’S OFFICE, PER
se, simply Dr. Bailey’s regular office in the county hospital. When I asked to speak to him, I expected to be told that he, like Ms. Arnell, had done enough press conferences. The nurse
did
give me a “not another one” look, but told me to go downstairs to the morgue, speak to the attendant there, and Dr. Bailey would be with me momentarily.

I found the morgue attendant—Greg Regis, according to his name tag—sitting at his desk reading a medical journal.

When I announced myself, he pushed reluctantly from his seat.

“I expect you’ve seen more than your share of journalists these past few days,” I said as he led me down the hall.

“Oh, yeah. Doc’s in his glory. Biggest case of his career.”

He ushered me into what looked like the actual morgue. An odd place to entertain reporters, and uncomfortably chilly, but if the coroner was enjoying the attention, I supposed he liked some theatrics to go with it.

“Guess you want to see the photos,” Regis said.

“If I can. I’d love to see the body itself, but I imagine that’s out of the question.”

Regis shrugged. “Me, I wouldn’t care, but the widow’s already claimed it.”

He pulled out a folder and opened it to the photos. I examined them, comparing the corpse’s condition with the research I’d done into exsanguination. As a cause of death, exsanguination simply means that
enough blood was lost to cause death. What I saw supported that conclusion.

Close-ups of Arnell’s throat showed two holes. Both in the jugular. Both more like tears than a vampire’s precise fang pierces. Yet, on closer examination, the tops of the holes appeared neatly made, with the tears at the bottom, as if fangs—or some instrument—had perforated the jugular, then ripped down to make the tears.

There were any number of explanations. A vampire disturbed from his feeding, ripping and accidentally leaving his meal to die. A vampire covering up a victim, making it look like an animal or chupacabra attack. Someone with little knowledge of true vampires staging an attack.

“Cops are trying to say some guy did it.” Regis gave a derisive snort. “Those look like anything a person could do? They’re clearly animal bites.”

“And Dr. Bailey agrees?”

“Said they look like animal bites to him. Took molds and shipped them off to a lab.”

I considered how to best phrase my next question, without sounding either incredulous or mocking. Finally, I went with the simple, emotionless “Chupacabra?”

Regis shrugged. “Why not?” His gaze met mine, defiant and defensive. “Maybe it’s just a real animal, something that lived deep in the jungles and only came out when they started clear-cutting, taking away its habitat. I’ve heard of things like that happening.”

“That would make sense.”

Regis relaxed. “It would, wouldn’t it? These things originate in Latin America, then catch a ride on the rails. Happens all the time with other animals. Why not these?”

I could point out that no rendering of the chupacabra gave it opposable thumbs, therefore making it impossible for any such beast to open two doors and dump Billy Arnell in a storage room. But if Regis thought he had a convert for his theory, then I had a valuable contact in the coroner’s office.

Dr. Bailey arrived soon after. As Regis had said, the man was clearly “in his glory,” puffed up with self-importance, spelling his name three times to make sure I got it right. On the subject of Billy Arnell, he was far less helpful—though, I suspected, not for lack of enthusiasm.

Death by exsanguination. Presumably caused by the neck injuries. The exact cause of those injuries was still under investigation. He wasn’t ruling out an animal attack, but neither was he ruling out murder, suicide, or even accident. In other words, while Dr. Bailey liked having his name in the paper, he had enough pride and common sense not to make himself look a fool by speculating.

Unable to provide very much medical information made him quite willing to answer questions about evidence that a more experienced coroner would have told me to get from the investigators and crime scene. The drained blood had not been found at or near the crime scene. No spilled blood had been found, and evidence indicated that Arnell had been moved postmortem. No defensive wounds. That could suggest a sedative. Toxicology screens were being run. Time of death indicated he’d been killed the same evening he’d been discovered. The wounds were similar to those found on the animals, but that was also pending laboratory confirmation.

Before I left, he offered me a photograph of himself. I accepted it and slid it into my briefcase, alongside the picture of Arnell’s wounds I’d pilfered from the file.

When I left the coroner’s office, it was nearing five. I called Paige. She answered on the second ring, slightly breathless.

“Done yet?” she asked, before I could say a word.

“No, I believe I have a few more hours’ work here, which was why I was phoning. I will attempt to arrive before midnight, to conduct the break-in if required, but you should make plans for a lengthy stakeout with Cassandra.”

She let out a curse. Then, after a moment of silence, she said, “That’s not funny.”

“I couldn’t resist.”

“So are you on your way?”

“Do you want me to be?”

“What do you think?”

“Hmm, it’s difficult to tell. Perhaps we should discuss this further, discover exactly
how
much you want me there, what you’re willing to do to get me there …”

“Three hours until dark, Cortez. Then I’m breaking in, with or without you.”

“Ah, in that case …”

“You’re on your way?”

“I am.”

I stopped in the local copy shop first and faxed Arnell’s autopsy photograph to a contact—a former Cabal forensics expert whom I’d helped leave the organization after a dispute with his employers. A common case, the sort I handle with disturbing frequency. When a Cabal employee balks at doing something that violates his professional code of ethics, he’s reminded that his job is at stake. Then if he decides to quit, he discovers that’s not as easy as it might seem. For someone like me, who knows the inner workings of Cabal structure better than any employee, it’s an easy enough matter to resolve, but it earns me enough gratitude to have a contact for life.

Minutes before I arrived, Paige phoned back to say Geddes had come home.

“Do you want us to wait for you?” she asked.

“Yes, but only as backup. Having me accompany—”

I stopped as I heard Cassandra’s voice in the background.

“Cassandra thinks you should come with us,” Paige said. “Geddes isn’t likely to know who you are, so that isn’t a problem. With the older vampires, sometimes they’ll take a message more seriously if a man delivers it.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Paige and I stood on Geddes’s porch, Cassandra behind us. I rang the bell. The door opened. A man stood there. Early forties, with dark hair graying at the temples. He wore slacks and a dress shirt, tie discarded, top buttons open, brandy snifter in one hand, looking like any other businessman after a long day.

With the storm door still shut, he surveyed us. His gaze fell to our
hands, looking there for an explanation—a briefcase, sales folder, charity envelope, or petition.

“We should’ve brought our Bibles again,” Paige murmured.

“Mr. Geddes?” I said, raising my voice to be heard through the screen door. “Spencer Geddes?”

“Yeah.”

“We’d like to speak to you.”

“Not interested.”

He started closing the door.

“We aren’t selling—” I began.

“Actually, we are,” Paige said, flashing her most winning smile.

Geddes stopped, door half closed, gaze on her, wary but curious.

“We’re offering anti-Cabal insurance,” she continued. “We believe you may be in need of it, and we’re here to offer it at no cost or obligation to you.”

Geddes’s gaze turned cold. “Not interested.”

“I think you will be, if you’ll just hear us out—”

“I don’t care what the fuck you’re selling, little girl. Get off my goddamn porch.”

I bristled, but Paige’s fingers wrapped around my forearm.

Cassandra stepped in front of us, her gaze out-freezing Geddes’s. “My name is Cassandra DuCharme. I am your interracial council delegate—”

“I don’t care if you’re fucking queen of Sheba. I said, get off my porch.”

“As your delegate, it is my responsibility—”

Geddes leaned into the storm door, nose touching the screen. “You are not my delegate for anything, Ms. DuCharme. I didn’t elect you. I don’t want any part of your ‘responsibilities’ or your protection or your goddamn community barbecues. Is that clear?”

“So you wish to be left alone?”

“Got that impression, did you?”

“I’m simply clarifying, for the record, that you do not wish any information we may have regarding a potential problem, or any warning—”

Geddes slammed the door.