eye she saw Mrs. Kopolous expressing a silent and not very favorable opinion of her unwillingness to save forty-nine cents. She grabbed a jug and brought it back to the counter. "Papers not out yet?"
"Yeah, yeah, they're right here, dear." She bent over the bundles, her stocky body hiding the headlines. When she straightened, she slapped one copy of each morning paper down by the cash register.
"SABERS DOWN LEAFS 10-2."
Vicki let out a lungful of air she hadn't known she was holding. If the tabloid made no mention of another murder-besides the slaughter in the division play-offs-it looked like the city had made it safely through the night.
"Those terrible things, you're mixed up in them, aren't you?"
"What terrible things, Mrs. Kopolous?" She scooped up her change, then put it back and grabbed an Easter cream egg instead. What the hell, there was reason to celebrate.
Mrs. Kopolous shook her head, but whether it was at the egg or life in general, Vicki couldn't tell. "You're making faces at the paper like you did when those little girls were killed."
"That was two years ago!" Two years and a lifetime.
"I remember two years. But this time it's not for you to get involved with, these things sucking blood." The register drawer slammed shut with unnecessary force. "This time it's unclean."
"It's never been clean, " Vicki protested, tucking the papers under her arm.
"You know what I mean."
The tone left no room for argument. "Yeah. I know what you mean." She turned to go, paused, and turned back to the counter. "Mrs. Kopolous, do you believe in vampires?"
The older woman waved an expressive hand. "I don't not believe," she said, her brows drawn down for emphasis. "There are more things in heaven and earth. . . ."
Vicki smiled. "Shakespeare?"
Her expression didn't soften. "Just because it came from a poet, doesn't make it less true."
When Vicki got back to her apartment building, a three-story brownstone in the heart of Chinatown, it was 7:14 and the neighborhood was just beginning to wake up. She considered going for a run, before the carbon monoxide levels rose, but decided against it when an experimental breath plumed in the air. Spring might have officially arrived, but it'd be time enough to start running when the temperature reflected the season. Taking the stairs two at a time, she thanked the lucky genetic combination that gave her a jock's body with a minimum amount of maintenance. Although at thirty-one who knew how much longer that would last. . . .
Minor twinges of guilt sent her through a free weight routine while she listened to the 7:30
news.
By 8:28 she'd skimmed all three newspapers, drunk a pot and a half of tea, and readied the Foo Chan invoice for mailing. Tilting her chair back, she scrubbed at her glasses and let her world narrow into a circle of stucco ceiling. More things in heaven and earth. . . . She didn't know if she believed in vampires, but she definitely believed in her own senses, even if one of them had become less than reliable of late. Something strange had been down that tunnel, and nothing human could have struck that blow. A phrase from Wednesday's newspaper article kept running through her head: A source in the Coroner's Office reports that the bodies of Terri Neal and DeVerne Jones had been drained of blood. She knew it was none of her business. . . .
Brandon Singh had always been at his desk at the Coroner's Office every morning at 8:30.
He had a cup of tea and a bagel and was, until about 8:45, perfectly approachable.
Although she no longer had any sort of an official position to call from, coroners were government appointments and she was still a taxpayer. She reached for her address book. Hell, after Celluci how bad could it be?
"Dr. Singh, please. Yes, I'll hold." Why do they ask? Vicki wondered, shoving at her glasses with her free hand. It's not like you have a choice.
"Dr. Singh here."
"Brandon? It's Vicki Nelson."
His weighty Oxford
"Yeah, yeah, they're right here, dear." She bent over the bundles, her stocky body hiding the headlines. When she straightened, she slapped one copy of each morning paper down by the cash register.
"SABERS DOWN LEAFS 10-2."
Vicki let out a lungful of air she hadn't known she was holding. If the tabloid made no mention of another murder-besides the slaughter in the division play-offs-it looked like the city had made it safely through the night.
"Those terrible things, you're mixed up in them, aren't you?"
"What terrible things, Mrs. Kopolous?" She scooped up her change, then put it back and grabbed an Easter cream egg instead. What the hell, there was reason to celebrate.
Mrs. Kopolous shook her head, but whether it was at the egg or life in general, Vicki couldn't tell. "You're making faces at the paper like you did when those little girls were killed."
"That was two years ago!" Two years and a lifetime.
"I remember two years. But this time it's not for you to get involved with, these things sucking blood." The register drawer slammed shut with unnecessary force. "This time it's unclean."
"It's never been clean, " Vicki protested, tucking the papers under her arm.
"You know what I mean."
The tone left no room for argument. "Yeah. I know what you mean." She turned to go, paused, and turned back to the counter. "Mrs. Kopolous, do you believe in vampires?"
The older woman waved an expressive hand. "I don't not believe," she said, her brows drawn down for emphasis. "There are more things in heaven and earth. . . ."
Vicki smiled. "Shakespeare?"
Her expression didn't soften. "Just because it came from a poet, doesn't make it less true."
When Vicki got back to her apartment building, a three-story brownstone in the heart of Chinatown, it was 7:14 and the neighborhood was just beginning to wake up. She considered going for a run, before the carbon monoxide levels rose, but decided against it when an experimental breath plumed in the air. Spring might have officially arrived, but it'd be time enough to start running when the temperature reflected the season. Taking the stairs two at a time, she thanked the lucky genetic combination that gave her a jock's body with a minimum amount of maintenance. Although at thirty-one who knew how much longer that would last. . . .
Minor twinges of guilt sent her through a free weight routine while she listened to the 7:30
news.
By 8:28 she'd skimmed all three newspapers, drunk a pot and a half of tea, and readied the Foo Chan invoice for mailing. Tilting her chair back, she scrubbed at her glasses and let her world narrow into a circle of stucco ceiling. More things in heaven and earth. . . . She didn't know if she believed in vampires, but she definitely believed in her own senses, even if one of them had become less than reliable of late. Something strange had been down that tunnel, and nothing human could have struck that blow. A phrase from Wednesday's newspaper article kept running through her head: A source in the Coroner's Office reports that the bodies of Terri Neal and DeVerne Jones had been drained of blood. She knew it was none of her business. . . .
Brandon Singh had always been at his desk at the Coroner's Office every morning at 8:30.
He had a cup of tea and a bagel and was, until about 8:45, perfectly approachable.
Although she no longer had any sort of an official position to call from, coroners were government appointments and she was still a taxpayer. She reached for her address book. Hell, after Celluci how bad could it be?
"Dr. Singh, please. Yes, I'll hold." Why do they ask? Vicki wondered, shoving at her glasses with her free hand. It's not like you have a choice.
"Dr. Singh here."
"Brandon? It's Vicki Nelson."
His weighty Oxford
Similar Books
Conflicted (Undercover #2)
Helena Newbury
Ask Me to Stay (Honky Tonk Angels #4)
Ciana Stone
Farmer Boy
Laura Ingalls Wilder
Now You See Me
Emma Haughton
Look After Us
Elena Matthews
Time Spell
T.A. Foster
Bobbi Smith
Heaven
Quiet Strength
Tony Dungy, Nathan Whitaker
The Devil of Nettlewood (The Anarchy Tales)
Louisa Trent
Skinny Bitch
Rory Freedman