A Taste Of The Nightlife Part 3

I could probably have made him get a warrant to search the premises for the undead, but that didn't occur to me until much later. It's embarra.s.sing to find out how much you'll do just because somebody with a badge asks. O'Grady followed me through my dining room into my kitchen. The place seemed to have expanded, like in a bad dream sequence. And, for the record? Yes, you really can feel the weight of someone's gaze on the back of your neck. Maybe it's a thing they learn in cop school. How to Unnerve Witnesses from Behind 101.

Unless they learn it in How to Unnerve Suspects from Behind.

I tried not to look at anything as we pa.s.sed through the silent kitchen. I didn't want any more familiar sights mixed up with this nightmare than absolutely necessary.

"Must be a pain having the fridge down here," he remarked as we headed down the steps to the cellar.

"Actually, we were lucky we could get a s.p.a.ce where the kitchen is on the same floor as the dining room."

When we reached the bottom, I hit the code on the security pad, fished out my keys and unlocked the vault-like door to our walk-in.

"Secure water supply?" O'Grady bent down to get up close and personal with the pad for the security system on the wall. Antivamp groups had been known to smuggle priests into restaurants to bless the bottled water, so we have to keep it locked up.

There's nothing in here. There's nothing in here.

I pulled the walk-in door open and snapped the light on to reveal wire shelves loaded with cardboard boxes, wooden-slat crates and row upon row of dated and labeled plastic bins in every size known to man.

"You should probably know, Detective, we keep a lot of blood in here."

O'Grady didn't even blink. "Any of it human?"

I shook my head. "Strictly animal."

"Not even . . . volunteer?"

I thought about Pamela and suppressed a shudder. "Not even. Too many sanitation issues. I can show you our s.h.i.+pping manifests." The words were out before I could stop them and I bit my tongue. You never volunteer information the sanitation inspectors haven't asked for. Too much information made them look at you funny. I had to a.s.sume the same rule held good for cops-even aging, iconic Irish detectives with good-cop att.i.tudes.

"Hopefully that won't be necessary," said O'Grady, but he did make another d.a.m.ned note in that d.a.m.ned book.

Detective O'Grady strolled between the shelves, touching nothing, eyeing everything. It was like having somebody go through my closet at home, and I found myself hovering near the panic b.u.t.ton we'd installed along with the lock. He paused by one of the five-gallon buckets and pried open the lid to peer inside. I angled myself so I could see the label scrawled in black Sharpie on the side. Ox blood. O'Grady pressed the lid back into place and then straightened up to make a few more notes and flip a few more pages in his book.

"Thank you. And the freezer?"

That was easier. I didn't even have to consider the possibility we might find Chet inside. He didn't sleep in the freezer, as he had no desire to turn into a vamp-sicle. There was very little to see there at all, in fact, except big bricks of meat, both raw and prepped, bundled in aluminum foil and plastic wrap until it could have sat through a Siberian winter without getting frost burn, alongside row upon row of Styrofoam coolers, all labeled and dated. We kept only some of the blood thawed. The rest was stored in here.

"Thank you, Chef Caine. We can go back upstairs now."

Detective O'Grady waited for me to move, and I suddenly didn't want to. I knew what I saw, but I couldn't tell what he saw with his cop eyes and cop brain. A dead body followed immediately by piles of frozen meat and buckets of blood-even if it is all neatly labeled-might just make a cop's imagination run off in the wrong direction. But there was nothing I could do, and no question I could ask that would make things look any better.

Back upstairs, Dylan Maddox's corpse was gone, but the other cops were still standing around talking. Detective O'Grady went over to join them, leaving me alone by the bar. The three of them paced the foyer, pointing, crouching, gesturing. I had no idea what they were doing. There was no camera with cuts and pans and close-ups to show me what was really important and no microphone so I could follow the dialogue.

Real life can be so inconvenient.

Detective O'Grady lumbered back over, flipping through his notebook one more time. "All right, Chef Caine. I think we're done here. Here's my card." He handed it over. "Call if you have any questions, or if you think of anything new. Officer Randolph is going to give you a ride home."

"It's all right. I can take the subway." I really wanted to get out in the fresh air.

He sighed heavily. "Chef Caine, this is already out on FlashNews. You're going to have cameras on your doorstep by the time you're halfway across town."

I stared at him. How come I didn't think of that? Our names were out there-mine, Chet's, and Nightlife's-in connection with the murder of a member of one of the most prominent warlock clans in the state, if not the country.

I natched my cell out of my pocket. I keep it turned off on the job, and had switched it back off reflexively after I called 911.

126 messages.

Make that 127.

128.

Oh.

129.

s.h.i.+t.

4.

All things considered, the trip home could have gone a lot worse.

Officer Randolph drove me in an unmarked car and I phoned my building super, Georgie "Big Man" Manizotti. After quizzing me for twelve blocks about "what the h.e.l.l really happened," Georgie agreed to meet me around back. A quick check of FlashNews showed they were mostly using the photo from our write-up in NYC Bites, which featured me in my cla.s.s A chef's uniform and the tightly braided hairstyle that Chet calls my "Swedish helmet" look. So I ditched my white coat and took my hair down.

When we pulled up to the back of the building, Georgie-a mountain of shaved-head white guy from Jersey-stood by the door with his heavily tattooed arms folded. Beside him on the sidewalk lay a smashed smartphone, a crumpled wad of bills, and a much skinnier white guy with highly gelled hair and an impressively b.l.o.o.d.y nose.

"I wan' do rebord 'n a.s.sauld!" shouted the gelled guy as Officer Randolph opened the car door for me.

I looked at the wad of bills and then at Georgie. "What'd he offer you?"

"Twenty bucks!" snorted Georgie. "Can you believe this cheap s.h.i.+t?"

Running footsteps sounded from around the corner. Officer Randolph jerked his chin toward the door.

As Georgie hustled me inside, Randolph pulled out a ticket book. The door closed as I heard the word "loitering."

I wondered if Officer Randolph liked lasagna. I make a killer lasagna.

"Sorry about the fuss," I said to Georgie.

"S'okay." He pulled the grille shut on the ancient service elevator and worked the switches. "Gives me something to tell the guys. And don't worry." My super cracked his knuckles and poured on the Jersey accent slowly, like melted b.u.t.ter. "n.o.body gets in here for under a hundred. You know what I'm sayin'?"

"Thanks, Georgie." Tuna hot dish for Georgie. With the green peas mixed in with the mushroom soup and potato chip crumbs on top. He'd probably like Velveeta in there too, but even the heights of grat.i.tude had their limits.

He grinned at me as the car lurched to a halt. "Your stop, Chef C."

Georgie hauled the door open to reveal the hallway and Patricia Lehner-otherwise known as Roommate Number One-who stood in front of the open door to our apartment.

"At least you were smart enough to come in the back."

Trish is an attorney in midtown. She lives with two roommates in Queens so she can squirrel away enough money to get her own practice going. Her pastimes include eating Instant Ramen even when it's not strictly necessary and questioning my common sense.

"What're you doinge?" I demanded.

"What do you think?" Trish shoved me through the door and slammed it behind us. "Sit," she ordered in a voice that has been known to make wiseguys think twice, and proceeded to slap, turn, click and chain all the bolts.

I sat.

Trish has a frame to match her personality. She's tall and strong, with a figure that would have brought Rubens to his knees. She dressed to impress, even on the weekend. Just then, she wore immaculate black slacks, an emerald green silk sweater and a heavy gold locket. She looked like she was about to very elegantly rip somebody's head off.

"So." Trish folded her arms. "What the h.e.l.l really happened?"

She'd also clearly been spending too much time with Georgie.

My cell buzzed against my hip. I checked the number, didn't recognize it and let it go. Trish raised one eyebrow.

You know the feeling that comes over you when your mother uses your middle name? Trish could induce that with a single c.o.c.ked eyebrow.

So, she got to hear the saga of Cousin Pam the Fang Tease and Cousin Dylan the Drunk, alive and dead. If I played down the Warlock vs. Vampire incident, that was my own business.

My phone buzzed again. Again, no name with the number.

"Why'd somebody dump this on you?" Trish asked with a straight face and in total seriousness.

"How should I know!"

"Remember that look of shocked innocence. You may need it."

"What could I know! I'm just a cook!"

"Just a cook?" Now in addition to the brow being raised, her perfectly made-up mouth puckered. One of Trish's few faults was being a walking billboard for Roommate Number Two, Jessie-the-Mary-Sue-Cosmetics-Saleswoman. "You're a New York restaurateur, sweetie, which makes you a bigger shark than I am. But bewildered little sister will play well on FlashNews."

"I'm the bewildered big sister." My cell buzzed again. "And I think we should maybe get a lawyer."

Trish plucked the phone out of my fingers and thumbed it on. "Yes? No. No comment. None. You may contact Ms. Caine's lawyer for any additional information. Yes. Annette Beauchamp at Piziks, Popkes, and Percival. In Manhattan, yes. Thank you. Good-bye."

I blinked. "Trish, did you just give false information to a member of the media?"

"Certainly not. You are distraught and must have misheard me. Do not under any circ.u.mstances answer that." She handed me back my cell with one hand and hit a b.u.t.ton on hers with the other. "And yes, you're going to need a lawyer."

"Is this the part where I give you a dollar as a retainer?" My smile was pretty weak, but at least it was there.

Trish snorted. "No way am I your lawyer. Too much conflict of interest."

"We're just roomies."

"You got me into a rent-controlled apartment."

She was right. Too much conflict of interest.

"Don't worry." Trish leaned back, crossing one long black-clad leg over the other and circling her ankle thoughtfully. I could all but hear the Rolodex flipping her brain. "We'll get you in with Rafe Wallace. Best paranormal lawyer in the city."

"Um, do we tell him I don't have any money?"

"We save that for later." She took my hand and held it tight. "It's going to be okay, Charlotte."

I decided to try to believe her.

"Oh my G.o.d!"

A good chunk of daylight had pa.s.sed since my police-and-super escort into my own building when Jessie Van-Reebek-Roommate Number Two-catapulted through the door with her arms full of party bags that looked like they'd come from the same manufacturer as Dorothy's ruby slippers.

"Oh my G.o.d, Charlotte! Oh my-" Jessie pulled up short and stared at me from behind a ma.s.s of tissue paper points, white ribbon curlicues and a dozen sparkly bags proclaiming SHOW THEM THE REAL YOU! "What are you doing?"

"I'm cooking."

In point of fact, I was in the kitchen whacking on half a helpless pomegranate to get the seeds out while keeping one eye on my pan of gently simmering shallots.

Jess rounded on Trish. "What are you doing?"

Trish had her stockinged feet up on the coffee table and a chunk of dipped bread halfway to her mouth.

"I'm eating." She held out the crock of asparagus Parmesan dip. "You should eat too. It's amazing."

Jessie looked for a place to dump her armload of bags and found our dining table covered with food; there was the lasagna for Officer Randolph and the tuna hot dish for Georgie plus a few other things I'd thrown together.

Despite Trish's insistence and my exhaustion, I'd been able to manage only a brief sort-of nap. After giving up on sleep, I alternated between phoning the Nightlife staff to lie my chef's fundament off about how everything was going to be cleared up Real-Soon-Now, calling Chet even though I knew he couldn't pick up during the day, and clicking through the FlashNews stories, blog posts, and comments. All of these were stupid beyond belief, especially the ones calling for revamping . . . er . . . reworking the paranormal registry laws.

The worst, though, carried the name stamp of Lloyd Maddox, Brendan's grandfather.

"How much longer are we going to permit the undead lobby to blind us to what's really going on in this country?" The news clip showed a powerfully built man, for all that his hair was pure white and his weather-beaten face had more lines than a map of the Jersey thruway. The media called him "the current head of the Maddox warlock clan, one of the oldest magic-working families active in the United States." "We are under siege! Our families, our values, our very ident.i.ty of a country which cherishes life and the right to life is being constantly undermined by permitting this so-called 'death-style.' Death-style! This style of death caused my nephew to be mercilessly drained of his blood and his corpse thrown aside. . . ."

Any normal person would consider it natural to get a little loud while taking in this ignorant, vitriolic c.r.a.p. At the end of hour three, however, Trish actually dangled my smartphone out the window and declared it was taking the direct route to the ground floor if I didn't, in her words, shut the h.e.l.l up.

Effectively cut off from the outside world, I did the only other thing I could think of.

"You found a body, your brother is under suspicion for murder, and you're cooking?" said Jessie.

"I made those cheese straws you like."

Trish helpfully rattled the basket on the coffee table. "They are really good with the asparagus dip."

"Asparagus dip?" Jessie leaned sideways toward the steaming crock. "Wow, that smells . . . No." She jerked herself upright. "No!" She dumped her goodie bags beside the coat closet and held up both hands. "This is not right!"

I sighed and turned down the burner under the shallots. "The cops have the body. I can't talk to Chet until sundown, which isn't for another fifteen minutes and thirty-three seconds. I've already left six messages for Elaine, our PR rep, but I think she's avoiding me. The only other thing I'm good for right now is sitting around staring like a deer in the headlights. You want to support me in my hour of need? Eat something." I gestured toward the plates laid out on the coffee table-crostini with olive tapenade, a Mediterranean couscous salad with chicken and green grapes beside a plate of toasted pita triangles, and sliced apples with this killer sour cream, spice and honey fruit dip.