“Okay, let’s get back to… Ted, and see if we can get the files we need from the locals.”
“If you want to eat tonight, it has to be before we see more crime photos.”
“Agreed,” I said.
We turned and started walking back toward the knot of men and the remains of Vittorio’s latest victim.
54
MORGAN WAS SAYING, “You’ll have everything you need in a couple of hours, but we have to finish up here.”
“Call someone,” Edward said.
Shaw was a little bit down the alley talking to some of the crime scene techs. It was just Thurgood and Morgan to watch us come closer and frown. Morgan just seemed generally cranky, but Thurgood had passed to hostile.
“We’ll get you the information, but you’ll have to wait until one of us gets back to the station.”
“Why?” Edward asked.
“Because you’re going to have to borrow one of our computers, and someone’s going to have to babysit you.”
“You don’t trust us with paper copies?” I asked.
“We don’t trust you,” Thurgood said.
“So much for my sisterhood.”
“I am not your sister,” she said. “Women like you make it harder for the rest of us to do our jobs. Women like you make it harder for us to be taken seriously by the other cops.”
“Women like me,” I said. “What does that mean?” I knew, but I wanted to see if she’d say it out loud.
“Anita,” Edward said.
I said, “What?”
“You know what you are,” she said.
Morgan said, “Thurgood.”
“I know what you think I am,” I said.
“That’s enough,” Edward said. “Both of you.”
“You aren’t my superior,” Thurgood said.
“We’ll see how our superiors like knowing that the Vegas PD is preventing us from doing our jobs,” Edward said. His voice was low and cold, with an edge of warmth to it. He didn’t lose control that much normally. Apparently, Edward hadn’t been able to soothe things.
“We just don’t want her and her lovers going through our files.”
“Geez,” Bernardo said, “because you’re a slut, we’re sluts, too.”
“Shut up, Bernardo,” Edward said. He started walking down the alley away from them and toward the reporters. It was where our car was parked, unfortunately. The rest of us trailed after him. We all pulled our gloves off at the entry to the alley and put them in the trash bin someone had set up for it. There was a uniform guarding the can to make sure no one tried to take a souvenir. You think I’m kidding, but people go nuts on serial cases. The glove would be on eBay that night, if they listed it right and it didn’t get pulled before purchase; eBay tried to police itself, but people put weird shit up.
Another uniform held the tape up, and we were suddenly blinded by camera flashes and the lights from handheld shoulder cams. They’d moved all the bigger equipment back, but the mobile stuff had crept forward.
We ignored all questions. It wasn’t our town, and one of the fastest ways to piss off the locals was to talk to reporters. Some of the uniforms had to actually wade into the crowd and make a hole.
The questions were about the murders at first, and then someone in the crowd recognized me. You’d think that a serial killer vampire would be more interesting than my love life with a different vampire, or maybe they just thought I might actually answer those questions.
“Anita, Anita, what does Jean-Claude think about you hunting and killing other vampires?”
I ignored it, like I had all the rest. Because I’d learned that no matter what I said, it would go worse than if I said nothing. No matter what questions I answered, the locals would see it and think I was talking about the case. They were already pissed at me; I didn’t need to help them hate me.
Olaf moved to one side of me, blocking the microphones and the reaching hands. Edward moved in front of me, and Bernardo took the back. They were protecting me from the press, the crowd. That wasn’t right. I was either a real U.S. Marshal and an equal of the team, or I was just some stupid girl who needed protecting. Fuck.
The uniforms had to escort us to the cars. The press trailed us. Jean-Claude had recently appeared in some of the major celebrity magazines. Not on the cover or anything, but inside in the little tidbits. Pictures of what you’re doing, profiled in one of the hottest vampire clubs in the country. I’d been caught twice by his side in pictures. Worse yet, he’d admitted that I was his girlfriend in an interview. The press seemed fascinated that a vampire hunter was dating a vampire. I’d turned down more interviews for that little factoid than most murders.
Why hadn’t I warned Edward? Honestly, I thought a serial killer case would make the press ignore the stupid shit. Some were still yelling questions about the murder, but in among it, like raisins in a piece of toast, were questions about dating and vampires. That would really make the Vegas PD take me seriously. Oh, yeah.
We got in the car and started easing out through the snarl of official cars. Beyond that were news vans with huge science-fiction antennas. The cops had made a corridor between it all, for anyone who was trying to leave the scene. I think we were the first.
“If Randy Sherman’s high priestess is home, let’s go see her,” Edward said.
“Yeah, but first food,” I said.
“Food would be good,” Olaf said.
“Fast or sit-down?” Edward asked.
“Fast will do,” I said, “as long as there’s meat involved.” I’d learned that protein helped keep the beast at bay, more than veggies.
“Am I the only one who doesn’t want to eat after what we just saw?” Bernardo asked from the backseat.
“Yes,” Olaf said.
“I told you, Bernardo, I have to eat.”
“When did you eat last?” Edward asked, as he moved into the bright and shiny of the Strip.
“About eight, for breakfast and the ardeur.”
“More than thirteen hours,” he said. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I need some protein,” I said.
He handed me his cell phone with the screen already lit up. “Call the number, see if she’ll see us, while I find someplace.”
I hit the button and waited for the dialing to go through.
Edward didn’t ask preference, just pulled into the first fast-food place he found. Burger King was fine with me; I like Whoppers.
I thought I was going to get a machine, but after seven rings a woman answered. “Yes,” she said. Her voice sounded cautious.
“This is U.S. Marshal Anita Blake. I’m investigating the murder of one of your coven members, Randall Sherman.”
“And all the others who died with him,” she said, voice still soft.
“Yes,” I said, “but I thought you might be able to help us with some questions.”
“I know little about vampires and shapeshifters.”
“It’s more a question of magic, and what Randall Sherman would have done in a given situation.”
“That is a different question from the ones the other police have asked me.”
“Let me guess: they thought you might be involved just because you’re Wiccan.”
“Some of them are fine men, but some do not trust a witch.”
“I’m getting a lot of that myself,” I said, “and I’ve got a badge.”
That made her laugh, just a little.
Edward got my attention, and motioned that I needed to know what I was ordering. I held up a finger.
“Do you know how to get here?”
“We’ve got the address.”
“Then come, and we will talk about magic and Randall Sherman.”
“Thank you, Phoebe Billings.”
“You are welcome, Anita Blake.” There was something to the way she said it that had a ring to it, almost of power.