"I'm usually in bed by then," she confessed.
"Well, you shouldn't be. Enjoy them while you can." It wasn't like me to be so serious about any particular subject, and I think she got it, because she just nodded and didn't make with the jokes.
"Before I get caught up in whatever fresh hell this is, please don't let me forget I'm supposed to baby-sit Baby Jon tomorrow night."
"Jon the Bee, Baby Jon the baby. Like that's not confusing. And don't forget your dad, John the Eternally Annoying."
"Don't give me anything new to worry about, I'm begging you."
"Me? It's not me, honey."
I got out to face the new problem. Maybe Nick was only there to break up my wedding. Sad when that was the cheerful thought I clung to.
Chapter 11
"I'm the local liaison for the Driveway Killer task force," Nick explained, fussing with his coffee and finally putting it down on the coffee table in front of him.
"Driveway Killer?"
"The one who's yanking these poor women right out of their own driveways, strangling them, and then dumping the nude bodies in public parking lots?"
"Oh, that Driveway Killer." It was embarrassing to admit, but I never watched the news and I never read the paper. Not before I died, not after. (Well, I skimmed the birth announcements, but only since the Ant's eighth month, and never since Baby Jon came squalling into the world.) I mean, seriously. Why bother? It was never, ever anything good. Even in Minnesota, which had a pretty low crime rate, even here they only wanted to talk about the bad. Only the bad. If I wanted to get depressed, I'd read an Oprah pick.
I mean, I never even checked the weather reports anymore. And I sure as shit didn't watch TV; I was a DVD girl.
So while Nick was looking amazed that I could live in the same state with rampant media coverage (was there any other kind?) of a killer, Jessica was just nodding. My massive ignorance of current events was nothing new to her.
"Yeah, I've read about him."
"Who hasn't?" I asked gamely.
They ignored me, which I deserved. "And you're on the task force?"
"Yeah."
"To catch a serial killer."
"Yeah."
She tried to muffle it, but the laugh escaped anyway. I knew why—what had we just been talking about ten minutes ago? It was ludicrous.
But not to Nick, who was blinking fast and, I could tell, about to ask Jessica just what the hell her problem was. And never mind that she was the richest person in the state.
"It's late," I said. "She's tired. We're all tired. Long day."
"Uh… yeah." He checked his watch. "After ten already."
"I'm so sorry," Jessica said quickly. "I wasn't laughing at you, and I wasn't laughing at those poor girls."
"No," Nick lied, "I didn't think so." He turned back to me. "Anyway, Betsy, I'm sorry about it being so late, but I know about the hours you've been keeping lately, so I took a chance and swung by."
"You're welcome anytime, Detective," Sinclair said from the doorway.
Nick, in the act of picking up his cup, spilled his coffee… just a bit, but enough to wreck last month's issue of Lucky. I sure couldn't blame him; Sinclair was about as noisy as a dead cat.
"Jesus! You scared me. Which is not something we hotshot Minneapolis detectives like to admit," he joked, trying to cover the fact that his pulse had gone from ba-DUMP… ba-DUMP… ba-dump to BADUMP BA-DUMP BADUMP BADUMP!
"I apologize. It's Nicholas Berry, right?"
"Nick. Yeah."
Jessica gave me a look while they shook hands and sized up each other. Nick was built like a swimmer—lanky, with lean lines and big feet. His hair was bleached by the sun—he liked to save up and go diving on Little Cayman—and he had adorable laugh lines in the corners of his eyes.
Sinclair was broader and taller, and much older, but Nick had a gun, not to mention youth on his side. So you never knew.
The problem with the polite hand-shaking and "How do you do's" was that they had met before. In fact, Nick had come to me right after I'd risen as a vampire. In a moment of extreme weakness, I'd gotten (nearly) naked with him and it had sort of driven him out of his mind.
Sinclair had had to step in and make things right, and had used his vampire mojo to make Nick forget everything about that night. That I was dead, that Nick and I had seen each other (almost) naked, that he'd been a wreck when I wouldn't bite him again, wouldn't eat, wouldn't sleep. Everything.
The problem was (one of the problems), Nick kept popping back into my life at the weirdest times. Tina suspected he knew more than he was telling. And I honestly didn't know either way. But it wasn't exactly something we could come out and ask him.
So we sat around and pretended he didn't know we were vampires. And we didn't know if we were all pretending. Usually Sinclair and Tina could smell a lie from a hundred miles away, but Nick was a cop. He lied for a living.
"I'm Betsy's fiancé," Sinclair was explaining. "Eric Sinclair."
"Oh." Nick's face fell a bit, and Jessica shot me another look. I felt like throwing my tea in my face, just for an actual physical problem.
"We're getting married on July 4th."
"September 15th," I said quickly.
"As I said," Sinclair continued smoothly, "September 15. We do hope you can join us."
"Uh, thanks. I'll—thanks." He looked down at his hands for a minute and then back at me. "Anyway. The reason I stopped by. This killer—he's targeting your type."
"He is?" I was beyond appalled. A type? Gross!
"Tall blondes," Sinclair said. "With blue or green eyes." When we all looked at him, he said, "Some of us read the paper."
"Not that they're hard to come by in Minnesota," Nick added, "and maybe it's just a, you know, coincidence of geographical type, but still."
"What does VICAP say about it?" Sinclair asked.
Nick shrugged. "The feds won't catch this guy, no matter how many forms we feed into the computer. He'll get nailed by good old-fashioned cops."
I hoped Vicap, whoever he was, didn't hear Nick running down the FBI. Besides, that's what they did, right? Catch psychos? Not that I doubted Nick's ability. But I was glad he had help on this one. And really really glad I wasn't involved.
"And I just wanted to tell you to watch your ass," Nick was saying to, uh-oh, me. Time to tune back in. "Don't get out of the car until you've got your keys organized. Don't linger in the driveway, messing with groceries and stuff. Watch the driveway. Check the hedges when you pull in. This guy, I'm sure he's snatching them while they're distracted. They don't even have time to hit the horn. Half the time, there were people in the house, waiting for her. So be alert. Pay attention."
"Okay, Nick," I said obediently. It was, of course, ridiculous and sweet at the same time. The last thing I had to worry about was a serial killer. But it was adorable that he'd come by to give me a heads-up.
Unless he was fucking with us because he knew…
No, no. That was the way Sinclair looked at the world, like it was a big ball of mean out to get him. I swore that no matter how old I got, I wouldn't always assume the worst of people. I'd try, anyway.
"Are there any leads?"
"Just between us?"
"Well, us and the Pioneer Press."
He didn't smile at my sucky joke. "We've got shit. No witnesses, nobody even out walking his dog. He's really lucky, the asswipe."
"You'll get him," I said helpfully. Rah rah, the cops!
"Yeah, we will, unless he moves on. But he's going to have to slip up first." Nick's laugh lines suddenly doubled, and he stared at the stained magazine on the table. "And for him to slip up…"
"You'll get him," I said again. "And it was, I have to say, it was so nice of you to stop by. I appreciate the warning, and I'll be careful."
"Yes," Sinclair said, walking to the doorway in an obvious gesture for Nick to leave. Awkward! "It was very kind of you to stop by and warn my fiancée. I can assure you I'll look after her very
carefully."
Now, if anybody else in the world said that, it'd seem loving and concerned. When Sinclair said it, it sounded vaguely like a threat. Certainly it was weird enough for Nick to give him the 'raised-eyebrows tough-cop' look.
Then he got up (reluctantly, it seemed to me) and said, "You just moved to the area, right, Mr. Sinclair?"
"No," Eric replied. I noticed he didn't ask Nick to call him Eric. But then, except for my roomies, nobody ever did. "I've been here a long time."
"Oh, okay. Remember what I said, Betsy."
"I will, Nick. Thank you again for stopping by."
"Jess, walk me out?"
She looked startled but gamely jumped to her feet. "Sure. You can check the driveway for us."
"Already did," he said, smiling at me, "on my way in."
Chapter 12
I had my ear jammed so tightly against the door between the parlor and the hall, I probably had splinters in my cochlea. (It was weird how things like my tenth-grade biology report on the inner ear stayed with me for, like, ever.)
"Thanks again for coming over," Jessica said, sounding resigned. I figure I knew why. Nick was about to hit her up for a contribution to the Policeman's Ball, or whatever. I felt bad—Nick's devotion to me was a little on the obvious side—but what could I do? What could she do?
"I was really glad to see you were up this late, too," Nick said. "I've been meaning to talk to you for a couple of weeks, but things—you know. Work."
"Sure," Jess said. "What can I do for you?"
"Well, the captain mentioned he saw you at the new Walker exhibit, and I know you're into that stuff. I don't know if you heard, but—you probably heard—there's a new Matthew Barney exhibit opening this weekend, and I was wondering if you'd want to go.
That'd be really mmm hmmm hmmm bmmm.
"Quite rude," Sinclair commented.
"Shhhh!"
"Bmmm mmm hmmm mmm?" Shit! They were walking through the house. There were about eight doors between me and the front door.
"Darling, whatever it is, she'll tell you about it the second she returns."
"Yeah, yeah." I turned. Sinclair was in my personal bubble, as usual, looking amused, also as usual. "I was just curious, that's all."
"Nosy."
"Probing," I insisted. "Like a reporter."
He put his hands on my shoulders and picked me up for a smooch. My feet were dangling a good six inches off the floor as I kissed him back, more a distracted peck because I was wondering what the other two were talking about. He nuzzled into the base of my throat but didn't bite, which is about as loving a gesture a vampire can make.
I guess that sounds romantic and all, and it kind of was, but it was hard to just, you know, dangle there. So I oomphed and umphed and climbed him until my ankles were crossed behind his back and my arms were looped around his neck.
"How delightful," he said. "This is bringing something more interesting than current events to mind."
"Perv. Can you believe Nick just stopping by like that?"
Sinclair's mouth went thin. "Yes."
"Wasn't that nice?"
"Yes. Nice."
"Oh, take it easy. Threatened much? Dude, take a break, go look in the mirror, and then relax, okay?"
"I didn't win you only to have you be distracted by some living meat with a shiny badge."
I gaped at him. Okay, I knew Sinclair generally felt vampires were superior to regular guys, but… living meat with a shiny badge?
"You didn't exactly win me," was the best I could come up with. "I'm not a Lotto ticket."
At my expression, he added, "You know you're attracted to shiny things. If you were a raven, you'd snatch that badge and go put it in your nest."
"Wh—uh—" Okay. One thing at a time. "Okay, listen, the reason I was trying to hear is, I just—Jessica said the dumbest thing on the way here. How sometimes she felt invisible next to me."
"Who said what?"
"Very funny. Don't you think that's dumb? I thought that was dumb."
"Dumb," he agreed.
I tried to kick him, but my feet were, of course, behind him. "This is serious! A) it's so not true, and b) it's terrible that she thinks that. But I think I know why she's got such a silly idea in her head."
"Because you're the eternally young, beautiful vampire queen no man can resist?"
"No!" Aw. But no. "She hasn't gone on a date in forever; she hasn't had a steady boyfriend since—jeez, when did she break up with dave?"
"Elizabeth."
I rested my chin on his shoulder and thought. "Was it before or after my dad threw the Ant the anniversary party at Windows? Because he—dave—came with her for that, but was that their 'we really can just be friends' date? Or were they really still living together then?"
"dave?"
"Yeah, after they broke up we decided he didn't deserve to have a capital letter in his name. Anyway, I need to fix her up. Trouble is, I'm running around with gay guys and vampires."
"That is a problem."
"Ha! So you agree vampires make rotten dates."
"That is a subject for another time. However, I think this could be very, very good for us."
"What?" I felt his forehead. "Are you all right? Because it almost seems like you're not following this at all."
"So we, and by we I do mean you, dearest, need to be supportive."
"What?"
I heard rapidly approaching footsteps, and Sinclair set me down. So things looked relatively innocent when Jessica burst into the room and yelled, "Nick asked me out!"
Then, the scowl. "I know you bums were talking about me."
Chapter 13
I recovered quickly. Which is to say, I stammered and mumbled and Sinclair had to totally help me out.
"Can you believe it?" she said gleefully.
"Of course he did, dear. Frankly, I'm surprised there hasn't been a stampede. You are a worthy prize for any man."
She beamed. "Aw, Eric. Let's gloss over how incredibly creepy that is and instead talk about the fact that I have a date."
"I'm surprised that you're surprised," he said.
"If they're rich, they don't try," she explained, "and if they aren't, they're freaked out because I'm rich. That's oversimplifying it, but…"
"I know several men who would leap at the chance to see you in a… social capacity," Sinclair said. "Really, dear, what are"—another tiny hesitation—"friends for? You should have mentioned this long ago."
"Well, I dunno. It's hard to set up a friend with a friend… it's so awkward if it goes badly."
"Wait a minute!" I cried. "Eric Sinclair! You knew when she came back in the room that—you could hear their whole conversation?"
"This is new?" Jess asked. "You guys all have ears like bobcats. Fucking creepy, is what it is."
"You could have a conversation with me, make out a little, and listen in on them, but you can't go meet the florist because you've got a conference call in Paris at the same time?"
"I think the thing to focus on," Sinclair said, "is what Jessica will wear to the opening."
She was actually jumping from one foot to another. I hadn't seen her so excited since she got her tax bill down to six figures that one time. "I was thinking my black Donna Karan."
"No, no. First, every woman there will be wearing the de rigueur little black dress."
"Good point," I admitted, momentarily distracted.
"Number two, you have wonderful coloring that you simply must play up."
Jess was hanging on his every word. "Really, Eric?"
"Dear, you've got the cheekbones of an Egyptian queen. You're a Tiger Lily. You have to, and shall, stand out among the drab little Minnesota daisies."
"Hello!" said one of the daisies.
They ignored me. "Eric, that is so nice."
"I'm not nice, dear. Now. Back to the matter at hand." He began to pace. I began to wonder why I'd gotten out of bed that night. "You could get away with, say, the orange Tracey Reese
."
"Isn't that one backless? You think that'd be okay for the Walker?"
"The Kay Unger poppy print, then," he suggested.
"I must say, Sinclair, you are not afraid of color," I commented, trying to affect a Sinclair tone and failing. "Isn't that the one with the green flowers all over it? Head-sized flowers?"
"Not every woman can wear it," he admitted.
"It cost a friggin' fortune," Jess said, watching him prowl back and forth like a big panther, "so I'd better wear it again."
"We must walk a careful line," Sinclair lectured, "between dressing appropriately for your role, but not making Detective Berry feel out of place or inferior. Which, given the disparity in your incomes, will be difficult at best."
I reeled. There were so many things wrong with that statement I hardly knew where to start with the bitching.
"So dress well, but not rich," Jess said, oblivious to the massive wrongness we were in the middle of.
"Exactly."
"Excuse me," I interrupted. "Sinclair, I haven't forgotten about the florist/eavesdropping thing. And you're weirdly interested in Jessica's date, which I've got problems with on about nine different levels. And Jess, I have to say—" What? What the hell was I going to say?
I can't believe Nick asked you out. For someone who was supposedly into me, he sure got over me pretty damned quick. How could you agree to go out with him when you were sure he liked me? I tried to find a nice way to sum up my weirded-outness in one sentence. It was tough work, being an honest friend. "—I haven't seen you this, uh, excited in a long time."
"I haven't dated since way before you died." She hugged herself and spun in a small circle. "And he's sooooo cute!"
"Exceedingly cute," Sinclair encouraged. "Quite very much cute."
I figured it out right then. Sinclair never did anything without about nine secret agendas. He wanted a cop on the string. Awfully handy. Of course, it was only a first date, but if things went well…
"I thought you didn't go out with white guys," I pointed out. It was a straw, sure, but I was desperate to clutch at anything.
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