by Jackie May
“Uh-oh,” he jokes. “Does the FBI have a file on me?”
Hillerman continues her interrogation. “Why’d you decide to move here?”
“Oh, you know…” He ponders it but soon appears to be stumped. “I guess I don’t know, really.”
“You don’t know, or you can’t remember?” Hillerman doesn’t wait for him to answer. “Park,” she commands me.
We’re in the casino’s enormous lot, and even though there are closer spots open, I pull into the nearest space. As soon as I turn off the car, Hillerman whirls on Brenner and orders, “Stay here.”
He raises his hands in surrender.
Hurrying out of the car, I join Hillerman at the back bumper, where she snags my elbow and pulls me in close. “Do you see now?”
I tear free of her grip. “What the hell are you? If you’re human, why do I feel dominance?”
She blinks, surprised, and takes a step back. After a calming breath, she speaks in a much gentler tone. “Why is it that since we met him all he’s talked about is his sister?”
“Huh, maybe because I asked. There’s this thing that normal people do called small talk.”
“Would you say he has a good relationship with her?”
“Obviously he does.”
“He knows what kinds of books she reads. He’s wearing the clothes she bought him, even though he admitted he’d never choose to dress that way himself.”
“They’re close, yeah. It’s cute.”
“Do you know where DePaul University is?”
“Chicago.”
“That’s right. So if they’re close, why’d he move away? Why can’t he remember a reason for moving out here?”
“You’re saying that’s part of the compelling, or the compulsion, whatever the word is?”
“He can’t remember, because it’s related to his knowledge of the underworld.” She lowers her voice. “His sister is dead. That’s why he moved away, and that’s why he started wearing the clothes she bought him, and that’s how he found out vampires are real.”
“Okay, I apologize for before, for being insensitive to your past, which I’m sure was no picnic, but don’t you think that’s a pretty big leap—he mentions his sister a few times, so she must have died horribly by vampires?” Hillerman starts to speak. I put a hand up and talk over her. “But irregardless, or regardless, or whatever the hell the word is, even if you’re right—let’s say you’re right—are you telling me he’s better off not knowing? I’m not trying to fight you on this, I swear. Obviously there’s a human element here that is a little outside of my…whatever. So I’m asking you. Are you telling me you wish you could forget everything you know about the underworld?” If I had slapped her in the face, she couldn’t look more stricken. More conflicted.
“My case is different.” There’s much less conviction in her voice now.
“Different, how?”
I see the exact moment when she decides I’m not worth an explanation. Her face returns to stone. She pounds a fist two times on the trunk and calls in to Brenner, “Out.”
Despite the darkness of this early hour, the lobby of Monolith is already (or still?) fairly busy. Steady foot traffic moves in and out of the sliding glass doors to the casino floor and the din—the buzzers and fanfares and cascading tones—of electronic gambling.
“This guy’s a big deal,” Brenner says to me.
“Henry Stadther? Yeah, let’s just say that he’s been a big name in Detroit since before either of us was born.” Or Detroit was born.
“He’ll be locked up in some penthouse on the millionth floor.”
“Yeah, but you have a special key to that room.”
He scoffs. “I’m pretty sure your badge will open more doors than mine.”
“Don’t need your badge. Just your face.” I’m scanning the clerks behind the front desk of the hotel. One lady notices us, doesn’t care. A guy looks up, looks down. Another lady, nothing. And then I see a younger clerk, maybe twenty, petite. She looks at me with no response, but when her eyes fall on Brenner, her mouth opens, then shuts, and she looks left and right, probably searching for her boss, or maybe security. “Here we go. This way.”
Brenner follows me toward the girl’s station at the counter. Hillerman lags behind, buried in her phone, texting, which I have already learned can be a great thing. Maybe the President himself will call this time.
I lean in close to Brenner. “Hey, listen.”
“All ears.”
“Some stuff I’m about to say is going to sound weird to you. I’ll explain later, but the gist of it is that these people are going to think they’ve seen you here before.”
“Me?”
“Yes. Look at this girl. See? Probably because you came in here a while back and made a big scene.”
“But I didn’t.”
Yes, you did. You just don’t remember. “I know, but she thinks you did. Just go with it.”
Before we’ve even reached the counter, the clerk blurts, “I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”
“He’s baaaaack,” I taunt.
“I can’t talk to you,” she insists to Brenner. “You need to leave. Now.”
I say, “We just want to speak with a supervisor, that’s all.”
She folds her arms in defiance. “No.”
“Any supervisor. The higher, the better. How about Henry Stadther? Is he in tonight?”
With lips pressed together, she steps back.
“I mean, I can call him, that’s fine. I just thought I’d try you first. No?”
She arches her brow in a dare. “Go ahead, then. Call him.”
“Be right back,” I assure her before leading Brenner toward the casino’s poker room. “Nice job, face.”
He rubs his cheek. “I shaved this morning.”
“Impressive.”
“Can you really call him?”
“Only collect. You know what a collect call is?”
“You make the call, but the guy on the other end pays.”
“Good deal, huh?” Stopping at the cashier’s booth, I exchange Ben’s two hundred dollars for poker chips while the anxious floor manager hovers nearby. On top of being naturally irritable, this guy (I still don’t know his name after all these years) has an unnaturally sharp pointer finger, which he often uses to jab me on the shoulder during live hands of poker, typically before delivering some complaint from the more “recreational” players about me taking their money, and would I please consider moving to another table? What he really means to say is, “My vampire bosses know you’re underworld and are somehow using powers to an unfair advantage (I wish), so please leave, or you’ll be escorted out.”
“I see an open chair,” I say to the manager, “so I’ll seat myself.”
His face contorts with an uneasy smile. “Yes, Miss Davies, and sir?” Meaning Brenner.
“Officer,” I correct. “Police escort. Has to be within five feet of me at all times, court mandate. That lady there is FBI, and I don’t think she can play on the clock, but still, you could send a waitress over. We’re not leaving anytime soon.”
Before he can say a word, I’m off to a table with five players and an empty chair on the end. The dealer pretends not to recognize me, but I see her jaw tense up. One of the players does a double take at me, hastily gathers his chips, and leaves the table. I’m pleased to overhear the floor manager chasing after him with profuse apologies.
“Pull up a chair, Brenner. Right next to me, there. You play?”
“Uh…” He winces.
“Got it. Little bit in college, right?”
“Something like that.”
“Except you didn’t go to college,” I guess.
“Right, no.”
The dealer slides two cards to each player, and is about to notify the starting player to open up the round of betting when I immediately shove all two hundred dollars’ worth of my chips into the center of the table. As expected, my action is met with dumbfounded stares.
The dealer takes a steadying breath. “Ma’am.”
“All in,” I say, and I give her two big thumbs up.
“I understand, but it’s not your turn. Perhaps—”
“All in is all in, whether I go first or last, right?” I clap my hands. Big smile. “Wheel of Fortune! Spin that wheel. Big money, big money.”
“Okay, it’s just…” She’s having a hard time believing that she has to say this, but… “Would you like to look at your cards first?”
“Oh!” Silly me. I peek at my cards and flash a comical nail-biting look around the table.
After a collective pause, everybody folds at once, tossing their cards away. Three of them snatch their stacks of chips and leave.
“And then there was one,” I say with a hint of muahaha to the only remaining player, a retiree with his cheek resting on a fist. He’s the lifetime gambler type I see so often at these tables. A grinder, can sit here all night long, content with losing so long as it passes the time. “I promise to look at my cards first,” I assure him.
He gives a barely perceptible raise of the shoulders. The dealer prepares a new hand as we ante up.
“So, no college,” I resume with Brenner, “because you went straight into the police force out of high school.”
His brows raise. An easy smile, light as air. “So you’re one of those profilers, huh? Take one look at me and know stuff even I don’t know about myself?”
“Nah. A simple read, is all. You’re, what, thirty? And already made detective?” After a quick look at my cards, I toss in a chip.
“Nah, nothing special.” He shakes his head. “Detroit is losing people like crazy. They’ll take anybody they can get right now.”
“I’d say. Even you.” I wink, and my heart kicks into a higher gear. I can’t help it. The vibe of this Brenner is so different from last night. I’ve never seen such expressive eyes before. So completely unguarded.
“Even me, I know.” His brow lowers into a frown, but his mouth is grinning, as though he’s caught somewhere between amusement and bewilderment. I know the look—usually from sweetheart types who never seem to get accustomed to insult flirting, especially from someone they just met. It’s one tiny downside to sweethearts—they’ll take it but never dish it out. “But what about you?” he says. “You gotta be younger than me, and already a special agent?”
“Oh, I’m not FBI. I’m something else that’s way more cool, but super top secret, so don’t even ask. In fact, I’m not allowed to tell you anything about me. But hey, you still get points for trying.” Okay, now I’ve lost him. Total gridlock in his eyes. Better keep moving. “Before here, then, in Chicago, you weren’t Homicide?”
The light in his face dims. “No,” he says quickly, and his eyes go to my chips.
Hit a nerve? I’m intrigued. “It’s good you don’t play poker.”
“Now you sound like my sister.”
Her again! The dealer has placed three cards face up on the table. Time for a new round of betting. Without pause, I tap my fingers twice on the table, signaling to the dealer that I’ll pass.
“I worked Narcotics in Chicago.”
“Ah.” Watching him, I see a fleeting hint of the harrowing eyes I remember from our first encounter.
His gaze is locked on my chips as he talks. “It was bad. Not…it was just bad.”
“Too much.”
“Too much, too young, too stupid.” His mind goes somewhere dark, I can tell, but he doesn’t elaborate.
Hmmm. A sweetheart with complications, baggage? That might be a new one for me. It fits him, though, this inner-city narco with neck tattoos who rocks a white shirt and tie. I’m not sure what to say, which is obviously a rare thing. It’s just so odd—very welcome, very refreshing, but still odd—to sit down with a stranger, a man stranger at that, and have him open up like this, so easily, an open book. It occurs to me now—as it occasionally does—that maybe I could do with a little less cover in my life. Less bluffing, less deflecting the real, less working an angle, less dog-eat-dog. But we all know that’s never going to happen. In my world, the weak dog will literally be eaten by the stronger dogs. So sleep with one eye open. Don’t let your guard down.
Don’t be so…human.
“Haley tried for years to get me to leave Narcotics. Leave Chicago, leave everything.”
“And you did.”
He seems surprised. “I guess I did.”
More red flags. The blank is showing in his memory again. The underworld compulsion at work. “What finally convinced you?”
He has time to mull it over as the dealer places another card and turns to me. I knock the table again. Pass.
“I don’t know,” he says, and I believe he genuinely doesn’t. “I guess I finally decided Haley was right. She always is. I’m feeling good now. I feel…clear. More clear than I have in a long time.” His eyes narrow at me. “What?”
He means Why are you looking at me like that? And the answer is Because in order to catch demon terrorists before they blow up a building, I have to get memories returned to you that just might ruin your life. Ruin it again. Just might change you back to the neurotic, paranoid, emotional wreck I first met. “Your sister sounds pretty cool,” is my lame reply.
The dealer turns over the final card. I pass once more, earning a grimace from the old gambler. He’s just sure I’ve not paid any attention this whole time. I’m easy prey. He bets with a short stack of chips. I keep my focus on Brenner. “When’s the last time you talked to her?”
As I feared, the question is met with a confused, labored stupor. “I don’t know. I guess too long, if I can’t even remember.” A faint twinkle returns to his eye. “Maybe I should call her collect.”
And with that, we’re back to work. “The collect call, I’m telling you, a great deal. You make the call…” I throw in my chips, and we show our cards. My hand wins. “…and the guy on the other end pays.”
The old gambler relinquishes his chips as my ears pick up on the crackle of a walkie-talkie at the entrance behind me. Hearing the heavy tread of what must be a very large man approaching, I toss a chip to the dealer. “That’s for you. My ride’s here.”
Standing, turning, I’m not surprised by the sight of a tall, filled out suit crowned by a face with Grecian good looks, though generic, forgettable. Vampires, in general, are pleasing to the eye but rarely striking. This vamp is instantly recognizable to me. He’s one of the stooges who tracked Brenner to Dario’s last night.
“Miss Davies, there have been some complaints,” he announces in a tone which promises a stern but rote invitation to leave the casino. However, when Brenner stands and faces him, the vampire’s eyes widen, and he rocks back on his heels.
I just love surprises. So satisfying. “It’s actually Agent Davies now, Double D, FUA, sometimes ADHD. And you can take me now, or Nick Gorgeous later, so…” I make the gesture of weighing tough options with my hands.
On our way to the elevator, I make sure to give a snide little wave to the front desk girl. I told you about me and confrontation. Bratty.
The penthouse is dim in these final moments before dawn. Just enough light spills beneath the ornate shades of Victorian lamps to create silhouettes of people with dull glints in their eyes. The décor is gothic, yes, cliché for vampires, yes, but still impressive, since all of it—the chaise lounges, the claw-footed oak desk, the red damask chairs and curtains—is literally 18th and 19th century, immaculately preserved. Just like the people in the room.
Henry Stadther is angled into a highback chair, one leg crossed over a knee, his head resting against plush upholstery. The low light gives soft form to his cheekbones and shadow across his eyes. Seated and standing and lounging about him are a dozen vamps, men and women. Evidence of their Old World mentality is on full display: the men wear suits, hold tablets displaying charts and statistics, and stare menacingly at me; the women wear next to nothing, drape themselves across the shoulders of the men, and gulp
from cocktail glasses.
Walking into a high-roller penthouse full of downtown Detroit’s most powerful vampires is neither a typical nor a desirous activity for me, and so I attempt to soothe my nerves with many words in as officious a tone as I can muster. “Henry Stadther, Master of the vampire clan for which I don’t know an official name, on behalf of the FUA Double D, as well as both the human authorities of the Detroit Police Department and the Underworld Task Force of the FBI, but mostly because if you don’t comply, Director Madison West will be mad at you, I order the release of Detective Brenner from the bondage of your unnatural and unwarranted compelling, and/or compulsion, and/or brain freeze thing.”
Henry Stadther doesn’t even blink, but the majority of the others suddenly pack up their things and silently file out of the apartment. One of the women, obviously drunk, needs steadying. She leers hungrily at Brenner as a man muscles her away. Brenner gives me a look—what the hell is this?
“Murder mystery dinner,” I reply. Behind me, seemingly oblivious, Hillerman continues the texting assault on her phone.
When the front door clicks shut behind us, Stadther is left with only his security detail—the two goons from last night. They regard Brenner with smug satisfaction. It just tickles them to see his clueless awe.
“Have we met?” one of them asks Brenner, and the other laughs.
Suddenly they both go silent. Stadther speaks. “Several hours ago, I phoned Director West myself to give a full account. As a courtesy, you understand.”
“Oh, I know, how courteous of you to call with your own story after erasing the guy who knew the actual facts.”
“He was a human with knowledge of the underworld, in which case I am authorized to compel ignorance. In fact, I have been called upon in the past, by Director West herself, to render just such service.”
“For which service I am authorized by the Agency to extend an official thank-you, and we now authorize you to uncompel him.” I can feel Brenner’s eyes on me. What a bunch of crazy talk this must sound like to him. He sticks to the plan, though, and doesn’t say a word.
“As I said, Director West and I spoke extensively on the subject. Why did she not protest at that time? Why did she, in fact, opine that I had acted in the matter with admirable discretion?”
