A Bloody Deal, page 8
***
The Hellmouth lay ahead, another block or two. Her hands still shook from the kill, the ash in her mouth caught in her throat.
“Your turn,” Diavolo said.
She bit her tongue, his words startling her. Her turn? She held up her hand. Of course, he was going to kill her. The deed was done.
But he only watched her, expectant.
“My turn?” she asked.
“For a question. A deal’s a deal.”
She almost laughed in his face. He couldn’t be serious. What possible question could she ask that was worth the gray flecked flesh on her hands?
But he stared at her, fingers fidgeting, like he was an eager school boy waiting to impress his teacher.
He wanted a question? Fine. Why hadn’t Diavolo killed the vampire himself?
She opened her mouth to ask, then hesitated. Some part of her, some piece deep down, that still called itself a reporter, held her back.
How about: Who was the young vampire? No, she couldn’t bear to find that out. Humanizing him would only make her feel worse. She needed to think bigger.
Why was she here? Too vague.
Who was Diavolo? Again, vague. Too easy to dodge.
How did he know Christie Mancini? That had potential but too much risk. Besides, she could research it herself.
What did she need to know? The question that had been bugging her since she woke up in this godforsaken place. “What’s the Quarter’s connection with the Russian mafia?”
A fine question, but as she thought of it now, from the comfort of her tiny office, her insides twisted. This was the moment she had started compartmentalizing the murder.
“Do you ever wonder,” he’d said in a gruff tone that echoed off the houses surrounding them, “how much they spend on electricity in here?”
“What does that have to do—”
“I’m getting there. Work with me for a moment.”
She sighed and tried to recall her proposal. “The city uses almost seventeen percent of taxes on the Quarter’s electrical grid.”
He chuckled. “That they do.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“You were near the fence last night,” he said. “Was it on?”
A cold jolt traveled up her spine. “You can’t be suggesting…the Green Beret helped kidnap me?”
Diavolo shrugged. “These are the people who got assigned to watch over sickly undead freaks. Turning off the fence, selling little blackouts to the highest bidders. It breaks up the monotony. Plus it keeps the city clean of all those pesky dead bodies the cops would have to spend too many resources on during these recessive times.”
“We’re not in a recession.”
“We’re always in a recession.”
Grace shook her head. "This makes no sense. They’d be caught for sure. Besides, why would the Green Beret need to do that with the tunnel network?”
“Tunnels?” Diavolo’s brow furrowed. It was the first time he looked genuinely confused.
“How the victims get in. Fanatics dig tunnels under the fence.”
Diavolo tsked. “Amazing. So that’s what a well informed populace believes. I had thought, with the newspaper so close… Ah, I guess, I shouldn’t be surprised.”
"No tunnels? At all?” Gods, the implications. “So you're saying the mafia buys time slots to dump bodies, funneling money to the Green Berets?” She shook her head. “This reeks like a conspiracy theory." She said this not because she didn't believe him, but because she found people responded with the truth more if they had to prove their honesty.
But he simply shrugged once more, shirking her bait. "Research it yourself then."
***
So here she was, typing at a snail’s pace. Her hands ached like ants nibbled at her joints and forced her to stop. It had only been an hour since she started, but already her muscles were stiff. Gods, her body must have taken more of a beating than she thought. She took a break to stretch.
Her hands had bent into hooks. Sort of like the sign language Diavolo used. He’d told her there were no gatherings, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t communicate.
Infinite trial and error. The vampires had their own language. Perhaps one not even the guards knew about. If she wrote down what she remembered and consulted a language expert—
A knock accompanied by an all-too-cheery, "You're back!" interrupted her thoughts. Tracy darkened her doorway with a massive bouquet.
Grace rubbed the back of her neck. "I'm here, yes."
Tracy placed the flowers on two near-level piles. “They tell me flowers are best for the sick and injured. In Alaska, I'd just pick you out like a super nice icicle.”
The joke made Grace grin. Dang it.
"You sure you should be working?"
"I need to, so I am."
"…okay."
Grace finally looked at her. Dark circles lined Tracy’s eyes. She regretted her bitchy tone. “I'm sorry. Come in.”
Tracy glanced over her shoulder before shutting the door. "Don’t worry about our date. You should take some time. For yourself. You look…haggard."
If one more person tells me to go home, Grace thought. "I'm fine.” She tried not to sigh. Tracy was…well, Grace didn’t know, but a friend at least, or something close to it. “Really. I need to focus on something, otherwise…I appreciate your sympathy."
She turned back to her laptop. Sympathy. Perhaps there was someone sympathetic in the city or the utility company that might give her access to records because of her—
A squeak. Tracy was leaning against her office door, face suddenly ashen.
"Are you okay?" Grace asked. “Is it your mom?”
"It's nothing. Or—"
"Hey, Grace!” Perry shouted with an accompanying knock.
Tracy jumped a little. There was more she wanted to say, Grace could tell. But instead, Tracy opened the door.
Perry strolled in. "Got a moment? Oh, Tracy! I’ve been looking for you. Can you wait for me out there?"
Tracy glanced at Grace, eyes wide—no, pleading.
What was that about?
Perry shut the door behind her. He waved his glasses around. "I didn’t want to say anything in front of everybody, Grace…"
Grace’s thoughts drifted to Tracy. The woman had been terrified. Had Perry done that? Was he threatening her?
Or was it something worse? He’d been involved in kidnapping Grace. Perry wasn’t a bodybuilder but truth be told, it didn't take a strong person to lift her one hundred and sixty pounds. Perry could do it easily. In fact, almost any man in this office…
"Grace? Are you hearing me?"
She started. “What?”
“It's just, you gave me a heart attack when you didn't text.” The pencil behind his ear was chewed halfway through. “A second one when you walked in here. I know you don’t like people harping on you. But will you go home? Rest up? For me.”
“I’m sorry.” She looked away, cheeks flushing. “You’re one of the few people who—I’m just a bit out of it, is all.”
Grace offered him a sad smile. However, the warmth in his face was gone, replaced by a sudden harshness. Gooseflesh streaked across the back of her neck. She had known Perry for years, since she'd moved here. He didn’t look worried for her. Was this an act? Stopping by her office, checking on her. Playing the good guy.
Or trying to get her alone.
Well, two could play at this game. “You're right, Perry.”
“I am?”
“Yes. I'm heading home,” she lied. She gathered her things, stuffing whatever fit into her laptop bag. “Forward me any info you want me to take a look at.”
“I’ll do that.” Perry gave a toothy, wolfish grin. “Don’t do what I wouldn’t.” He winked and left, closing the door behind him.
Grace waited until she heard muffled voices on the other side, then crept over. She inched the door open a crack.
Perry whisper-screamed at Tracy, his face twisted with rage. Tracy shrunk under the thundering Perry. He jabbed a finger into her shoulder like an assassin with a dagger. Grace rubbed the same spot on her own shoulder.
She couldn’t hear exactly what he said. Whatever it was, Tracy started to tremble. Grace should stop this. Perry couldn’t bully his subordinate in broad daylight.
But then Tracy might take that as a sign of affection. And Grace couldn’t have that. Not right now. Not with Diavolo hanging over everything.
While she drifted on the edge of decision, a sharply dressed East Asian man stepped in front of her door and blocked her view.
"Miss Blackwell?”
Oh, for fuck's sake. “Yes?” she asked.
"Hi.” He waved. Actually waved. “Detective Eugene Yukawa with Cleveland PD.”
“I remember. You worked a couple cases last year I reported on.”
“Uh, right. Do you have a moment?"
"I already told the other cops everything. I'm not in the mood to repeat myself a seventh time."
Eugene nodded and stepped inside, ignoring her. Without watching where he was going, he tripped over two piles of folders stacked along the wall.
“Won’t you come in,” she mumbled.
While picking up, he motioned to one of the awards hanging on her office wall. "That an Ohio AP award here?"
She drummed her fingers on her desk. Gods, to be a man and always expect to get your way. "I keep forgetting to box those." She went back to gathering her stuff.
"And the George Polk award? Impressive. How many awards do you have?"
"I'm not sure," she replied in a flat tone.
"Humble. Now, can you recall—"
"412.”
“—what?”
“Awards. 412.”
"That many? There can’t be more than half a dozen here."
"I know the number."
He humphed. "Nominations then? Still pretty impressive consi—”
"People, detective. 412 people.” She set her bag down with a soft thud. “That’s how many I've pressured the police to keep investigating. 412 families who no longer have to wonder 'Where?' or 'Why?' 412 given justice. 412 who weren’t forgotten. I know the number, detective. I count it every day."
Detective Yukawa blinked, his stance quavering.
She held him under her gaze and waited for him to shrivel. When he didn’t, she picked her bag up again. "I'm leaving, taking a few days at home. So if there isn't anything else…"
"Miss Blackwell." The detective cleared his throat. "I handle all things vampire related at the department as well as missing persons."
"Odd,” she said, lifting a stack of folders. “Have the police always put those two together?"
He continued as if she hadn't spoken. "I’m only here to ask if there’s anything else that stuck out to you? Your account is very…sparse."
The pile wobbled between her hand and her brace. A folder slipped off the top and thunked onto the desk. "Can we please do this later?"
"Of course.” He frowned, his mouth settling into worn grooves. “Oh, and here." He set an evidence bag on the desk. A beat up leather purse was inside. "Forensics just cleared this half an hour ago. Should probably change the phone’s PIN from your birthday."
She bit back a retort and set everything down. The phone tumbled out into her hands. A cold tingling trickled into her fingers, the plastic case alien to her own flesh.
"You missed a few calls. Your mom, I think."
She crammed the phone back into the bottom of her purse. "I'll walk you out."
Once the detective stepped outside, she glanced at the plaques along the wall and made a mental note to pick up garbage bags later in the week.
10
Grace spent the rest of the day at various bars, losing any tail she might have. Not that she ever spotted one. Finally, after a few days of entering her apartment via the fire escape, she admitted she might be a bit paranoid.
Still, Grace spent Friday and Saturday diving into research at different local libraries. Sore, she tried her best to relax: a mountain of ice packs, Jane Austen adaptations, hot baths, and a plethora of comfort food.
Diavolo had given Grace two leads: the electric company and Christie Mancini. The electric company would take the most time, so she started there. After she reached out to potential whistleblowers, chased down blueprints of the power grid, verified Diavolo’s claims, and almost became a certified electrician, she came to a well thought out and unavoidable conclusion: She’d still have to do that thing for Diavolo by Wednesday.
No one talked. Not at the electric company, not in the retirement community, not in city hall. Even the city archives no longer took her calls. The city archives! They were practically begging people to break the monotony.
By Sunday, she was ready to bang her head against the bars on her windows. If that was how they were going to be, fine. She slapped her laptop shut and headed out. She made it as far as her front door.
Outside, the dim light of the hallway stretched on and on until it ended in a pool of darkness. An old tingle crept up the base of her spine, one she hadn’t felt since the day she decided to crawl inside a closet for the first time.
Grace slammed the door shut and locked it. Her hand shook on the knob. There’s no one out there, she told herself. She’d looked into her neighbors the week she’d moved in. Cat ladies, poor college women, an elderly man with advanced ALS. No one could hurt her.
Perry wasn’t waiting for her. He was cold, an unemotional dinosaur. With a penchant for micromanagement. Not a stalker.
Not a stalker.
But her hand continued to tremble. She took a deep breath, then went to her nightstand. She loaded five of the seven pepper sprays inside into various pockets, and two of the four knives into her sock and purse. The shaking stopped. Assured, she left down the fire escape.
***
On a good day, the Tavern was rife with dozens of horny men, and about half as many women willing to get drunk enough to sleep with them. Grace cared little for that. She was a connoisseur of the oldest sport in the world: the bar debate. When the mood was right, two morons would start shouting at each other about something they knew almost nothing about for hours on hilarious hours. If anything could get her out of her head, it was that personal little slice of heaven.
However, today was Sunday. A half-dozen bloodshot eyes settled on her when she entered. Sighing she wound her way through empty tables and stiff bodies that lumbered about like planks despite the near empty beers in their mitts.
She took a seat at the bar with enough space to work and ordered some food, her voice carrying too much in the jilted silence. A dry socket opened in her throat.
Settling in took an eternity. She only pulled out a laptop and notebook but every bump sounded like the demolition crew. Finally, the patrons turned back to each other.
"All I’m saying is," a man in a plaid trucker hat huffed out between swigs, "we should move on China after wrapping up North Korea. It's right there! We got all the manpower right at the border."
"And all I'm saying is, that's suicide." The woman in a Little League team jersey motioned for another Guinness. "They have us beat in population like five to one."
The man nodded. "Okay, sure, but are they mobilized? Do they have the strength of eighty-six other countries behind them?"
"Those countries won't support a war with China."
"They will if we divide it up with them. Sit down with a pen and paper for a few months–”
“You sound like a racist six-year-old.”
“Fine, Janine, what do you think we should do then?"
"Only one thing to do: Iran."
Grace groaned. She knew this argument well enough to mouth along with the woman: Take out Iran for making nuclear weapons, then Syria, then back on to Russia to stick it to them for trying to stand up to us in the first place.
Where were the great debates? Like which Disney princess would win a wrestling royal rumble or how churches should offer sin incentives for showing up (AKA sin-centives)? Not this regurgitated poli-slop.
Freaking twenty-four-hour news.
Tuning the conversation out — at least until it got interesting — Grace got to work. She pulled up her old article on Christie Mancini using the public library’s newspaper database.
Forgotten details clicked into place as she went. Christie Mancini was thirteen years old when her stepfather had laced her iced tea with a low dose of a sedative called GHB. After a few minutes, she was suggestible enough that he simply asked her to walk into the Quarter.
At the time, the fence was basic chain link, not electrified sheet metal. Simple bolt cutters got them inside. After Grace’s article, the government invested in improved security measures.
Christie had little to no family outside her stepfather and mother. Her real father died of a heart attack when she was two after his fifth double shift as a transit driver. Besides her mother, an overnight nurse, Christie only had a distant great uncle in Sicily but he had never traveled to the United States, as far as Grace could tell.
For Diavolo to be related to her, Grace would have to dig into records from before his imprisonment in the Quarter. That was at most sixty-five years ago, before the Cold War ended in `72. A lot of records from that time were still sealed but genealogy websites usually kept a good number of the declassified ones. Christie’s family was no exception.
Near the bottom of the results, Grace reached Reconstruction Era descendants. Surprisingly, a decent number of pictures were included. One of the black-and-white photos showed a dirt field filled with sharecroppers, a couple overseers, and a businessman standing in a circle holding shovels.
Grace zoomed in on their faces, the businessman in particular. He held a plow in one hand, jacket off, suit and tie drenched as if he’d weathered a storm. A carpet of beard shrouded most of his face underneath the rim of a gray fedora, but his black eyes caught her attention. They bore into her out of the grainy dark. The light of the bar dimmed around her. It was him.
The caption underneath stated his name as simply ‘Prince.’ She scoffed, shaking her body loose from the hypnotic glare. No way that was a real name outside of Minnesota. A quick search told her it meant ‘the first to take.’
