accent-his telephone voice- lightened. "Victoria? Good to hear from you. Been keeping busy since you left the force?"
"Pretty busy," she admitted, swinging her feet up on a corner of the desk. Dr. Brandon Singh was the only person since the death of her maternal grandmother back in the seventies to call her Victoria. She'd never been able to decide whether it was old-world charm or sheer perversity as he knew full well how much she disliked hearing her full name. "I've started my own investigations company."
"I had heard a rumor to that effect, yes. But rumor . . ." In her mind's eye, Vicki could see his long surgeon's hands cutting through the air. ". . . rumor also had you stone blind and selling pencils on a street corner."
"Not. Quite." Anger leached the life from her voice.
Brandon's voice warmed in contrast. "Victoria, I am sorry. You know I'm not a tactful man, never had much chance to develop a bedside manner. . . ." It was an old joke, going back to their first meeting over the autopsy of a well-known drug pusher. "Now then," he paused for a swallow of liquid, the sound a discreet distance from the receiver, "what can I do for you?"
Vicki had never found Brandon's habit of getting right to the point with a minimum of small talk disconcerting and she appreciated him never demanding tact when he wouldn't give it. Don't waste my time, I'm a busy man, set the tone for every conversation he had. "That article in yesterday's paper, the blood loss in Neal and Jones, was it true?"
The more formal syntax returned. "I hadn't realized you were involved in the case?"
"I'm not, exactly. But I found the first body."
"Tell me."
So she did; information exchange was the coin of favors among city employees even if she no longer exactly qualified.
"And in your professional opinion?" Brandon asked when she finished, his voice carefully neutral.
"In my professional opinion," Vicki echoed both words and tone, "based on three years in homicide, I haven't got a clue what could have caused the wound I saw. Not a single blow ripping through skin and muscle and cartilage."
On the other end of the line, Brandon sighed. "Yes, yes, I know what happened and frankly, I have no more idea than you do. And I've been dealing with this sort of thing considerably longer than three years. To answer your original question, the newspaper story was essentially true; I don't know if it was a vampire or a vacuum cleaner, but Neal and Jones were drained nearly dry."
"Drained?" Not just massive blood loss, then, of the kind to be expected with a throat injury that severe. "Oh my God."
She heard Brandon take another swallow.
"Quite," he agreed dryly. "This will, of course, go no further."
"Of course."
"Then if you have all the information you require. . . ."
"Yes. Thank you, Brandon."
"My pleasure, Victoria."
She sat staring at nothing, considering implications until the phone began to beep, imperiously reminding her she hadn't yet hung up, jerking her out of her daze.
"Drained . . .", she repeated. "Shit." She wondered what the official investigation made of that. No, be honest. You wonder what Mike Celluci made of it. Well, she wasn't going to call and find out. Still, it was the sort of thing that friends might discuss if one of them was a cop and one of them used to be. Except he's sure to say something cutting, especially if he thinks I'm using this whole incident as an excuse to hang around the fringes of the force.
Was she?
She thought about it while she listened to the three-year-old upstairs running back and forth, back and forth across the living room. It was a soothing, all-is-right-with-the-universe kind of sound and she used its staccato beat to keep her thoughts moving, to keep her from bogging down in the self-pity that had blurred a good part of the last eight months.
No, she decided at last, she was not using these deaths as a way of trying to grab onto some of what she'd had to give up. She was
"Pretty busy," she admitted, swinging her feet up on a corner of the desk. Dr. Brandon Singh was the only person since the death of her maternal grandmother back in the seventies to call her Victoria. She'd never been able to decide whether it was old-world charm or sheer perversity as he knew full well how much she disliked hearing her full name. "I've started my own investigations company."
"I had heard a rumor to that effect, yes. But rumor . . ." In her mind's eye, Vicki could see his long surgeon's hands cutting through the air. ". . . rumor also had you stone blind and selling pencils on a street corner."
"Not. Quite." Anger leached the life from her voice.
Brandon's voice warmed in contrast. "Victoria, I am sorry. You know I'm not a tactful man, never had much chance to develop a bedside manner. . . ." It was an old joke, going back to their first meeting over the autopsy of a well-known drug pusher. "Now then," he paused for a swallow of liquid, the sound a discreet distance from the receiver, "what can I do for you?"
Vicki had never found Brandon's habit of getting right to the point with a minimum of small talk disconcerting and she appreciated him never demanding tact when he wouldn't give it. Don't waste my time, I'm a busy man, set the tone for every conversation he had. "That article in yesterday's paper, the blood loss in Neal and Jones, was it true?"
The more formal syntax returned. "I hadn't realized you were involved in the case?"
"I'm not, exactly. But I found the first body."
"Tell me."
So she did; information exchange was the coin of favors among city employees even if she no longer exactly qualified.
"And in your professional opinion?" Brandon asked when she finished, his voice carefully neutral.
"In my professional opinion," Vicki echoed both words and tone, "based on three years in homicide, I haven't got a clue what could have caused the wound I saw. Not a single blow ripping through skin and muscle and cartilage."
On the other end of the line, Brandon sighed. "Yes, yes, I know what happened and frankly, I have no more idea than you do. And I've been dealing with this sort of thing considerably longer than three years. To answer your original question, the newspaper story was essentially true; I don't know if it was a vampire or a vacuum cleaner, but Neal and Jones were drained nearly dry."
"Drained?" Not just massive blood loss, then, of the kind to be expected with a throat injury that severe. "Oh my God."
She heard Brandon take another swallow.
"Quite," he agreed dryly. "This will, of course, go no further."
"Of course."
"Then if you have all the information you require. . . ."
"Yes. Thank you, Brandon."
"My pleasure, Victoria."
She sat staring at nothing, considering implications until the phone began to beep, imperiously reminding her she hadn't yet hung up, jerking her out of her daze.
"Drained . . .", she repeated. "Shit." She wondered what the official investigation made of that. No, be honest. You wonder what Mike Celluci made of it. Well, she wasn't going to call and find out. Still, it was the sort of thing that friends might discuss if one of them was a cop and one of them used to be. Except he's sure to say something cutting, especially if he thinks I'm using this whole incident as an excuse to hang around the fringes of the force.
Was she?
She thought about it while she listened to the three-year-old upstairs running back and forth, back and forth across the living room. It was a soothing, all-is-right-with-the-universe kind of sound and she used its staccato beat to keep her thoughts moving, to keep her from bogging down in the self-pity that had blurred a good part of the last eight months.
No, she decided at last, she was not using these deaths as a way of trying to grab onto some of what she'd had to give up. She was
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