Guilty Pleasures

19

The heat outside the doors was solid, a wall of damp warmth that melded to your skin like plastic wrap. “You're going to melt wearing that jacket,” I said.

“Most people object to the scars.”

I unfolded my arms from around the folders and extended my left arm. The scar glistened in the sunlight, shinier than the other skin. “I won't tell if you won't.”

He slipped off his sunglasses and stared at me. I couldn't read his face. All I knew was that something was going on behind those big brown eyes. His voice was soft. “Is that your only bite scar?”

“No,” I said.

His hands convulsed into fists, neck jerking, as if he'd had a jolt of electricity. A tremor ran up his arms into his shoulders, along his spine. He rotated his neck, as if to get rid of it. He slipped the black lenses back on his face, his eyes anonymous. The jacket came off. The scars at the bend of his arms were pale against his tan. The collarbone scar peeked from under the edges of the tank top. He had a nice neck, thick but not muscled, a stretch of smooth, tanned skin. I counted four sets of bites on that flawless skin. That was just the right side. The left was hidden by a bandage.

“I can put the jacket back on,” he said.

I had been staring at him. “No, it's just …”

“What?”

“It's none of my business.”

“Ask anyway.”

“Why do you do what you do?”

He smiled, but it was twisted, a wry smile. “That is a very personal question.”

“You did say ask anyway.” I glanced across the street. “I usually go to Mabel's, but we might be seen.”

“Ashamed of me?” His voice held a harsh edge to it, like sandpaper. His eyes were hidden, but his jaw muscles were clenched.

“It isn't that,” I said. “You are the one who came into the office, pretending to be my 'friend'. If we go some place I'm known, we'll have to continue the charade.”

“There are women who would pay to have me escort them.”

“I know, I saw them last night at the club.”

“True, but the point is still that you're ashamed to be seen with me. Because of this.” His hand touched his neck, tentatively, delicate as a bird.

I got the distinct impression I had hurt his feelings. That didn't bother me, not really. But I knew what it was like to be different. I knew what it was like to be an embarrassment to people who should have known better. I knew better. It wasn't Phillip's feelings but the principle of the thing. “Let's go.”

“Where to?”

“To Mabel's.”

“Thank you,” he said. He rewarded me with one of those brilliant smiles. If I had been less professional, it might have melted me into my socks. There was a tinge of evil to it, a lot of sex, but under that was a little boy peeking out, an uncertain little boy. That was it. That was the attraction. Nothing is more appealing than a handsome man who is also uncertain of himself.

It appeals not only to the woman in us all, but the mother. A dangerous combination. Luckily, I was immune. Sure. Besides, I had seen Phillip's idea of sex. He was definitely not my type.

Mabel's is a cafeteria, but the food is wonderful and reasonably priced. On weekdays the place is filled to the brim with suits and business skirts, thin little briefcases, and manila file folders. On Saturdays it was nearly deserted.

Beatrice smiled at me from behind the steaming food. She was tall and plump with brown hair and a tired face. Her pink uniform didn't fit well through the shoulders, and the hairnet made her face look too long. But she always smiled, and we always spoke.

“Hi, Beatrice.” And without waiting to be asked, “This is Phillip.”

“Hi, Phillip,” she said.

He gave her a smile every bit as dazzling as he had given the real estate agent. She flushed, averted her eyes, and giggled. I hadn't known Beatrice could do that. Did she notice the scars? Did it matter to her?

It was too hot for meat loaf, but I ordered it anyway. It was always moist and the catsup sauce just tangy enough. I even got dessert, which I almost never do. I was starving. We managed to pay and find a table without Phillip flirting with anyone else. A major accomplishment.

“What has happened to Jean-Claude?” he asked.

“One more minute.” I said grace over my food. He was staring at me when I looked up. We ate, and I told him an edited version of last night. Mostly, I told him about Jean-Claude and Nikolaos and the punishment.

He had stopped eating by the time I finished. He was staring over my head, at nothing that I could see. “Phillip?” I asked.

He shook his head and looked at me. “She could kill him.”

“I got the impression she was just going to punish him. Do you know what that would be?”

He nodded, voice soft, saying, “She traps them in coffins and uses crosses to hold them inside. Aubrey disappeared for three months. When I saw him again, he was like he is now. Crazy.”

I shivered. Would Jean-Claude go crazy? I picked up my fork and found myself halfway through a piece of blackberry pie. I hate blackberries. Damn, I treat myself to pie and get the wrong kind. What was the matter with me? The taste was still warm and thick in my mouth. I took a big swig of Coke to wash it down. The Coke didn't help much.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

I pushed the half-eaten pie away and opened one of the folders. The first victim, one Maurice-no last name, had lived with a woman named Rebecca Miles. They had cohabited for five years. “Cohabited” sounded better than “shacked up.”

“I'll talk to friends and lovers of the dead vampires.”

“I might know the names.”

I stared at him, debating. I didn't want to share information with him because I knew good of Phillip was the daytime eyes and ears of the undead. Yet, when I had talked to Rebecca Miles in the company of the police, she had told us zip. I didn't have time to wade through crap. I needed information and fast. Nikolaos wanted results. And what Nikolaos wanted, Nikolaos damn well better get.

“Rebecca Miles,” I said.

“I know her. She was Maurice's property.” He shrugged an apology at the word, but he let it stand. And I wondered what he meant by it. “Where do we go first?” he asked.

“Nowhere. I don't want a civilian along while I work.”

“I might be able to help.”

“No offense, you look strong and maybe even quick, but that isn't enough. Do you know how to fight? Do you carry a gun?”

“No gun, but I can handle myself.”

I doubted that. Most people don't react well to violence. It freezes them. There are a handful of seconds where the body hesitates, the mind doesn't understand. Those few seconds can get you killed. The only way to kill the hesitation is practice. Violence has to become a part of your thinking. It makes you cautious, suspicious as hell, and lengthens your life expectancy. Phillip was familiar with violence, but only as the victim. I didn't need a professional victim tagging along. Yet, I needed information from people who wouldn't want to talk to me. They might talk to Phillip.

I didn't expect to run into a gun battle in broad daylight. Nor did I really expect anyone to jump me, at least not today. I've been wrong before but … If Phillip could help me, I saw no harm in it. As long as he didn't flash that smile at the wrong time and get molested by nuns, we would be safe.

“If someone threatens me, can you stay out of it and let me do my job, or would you charge in and try to save me?” I asked.

“Oh,” he said. He stared down at his drink for a few minutes. “I don't know.”

Brownie point for him. Most people would have lied. “Then I'd rather you didn't come.”

“How are you going to convince Rebecca you work for the master vampire of this city? The Executioner working for vampires?”

It sounded ridiculous even to me. “I don't know.”

He smiled. “Then it's settled. I'll come along and help calm the waters.”

“I didn't agree to that.”

“You didn't say no, either.”

He had a point. I sipped my Coke and looked at his smug face for perhaps a minute. He said nothing, only stared back. His face was neutral, no challenge to it. There was no contest of egos as with Bert. “Let's go,” I said.

We stood. I left a tip. We went off in search of clues.