Bite My Fire: A Biting Love story.

by Mary Hughes

  The look on Moss’s face—white shriek with a dollop of barf—said that was the last thing he wanted to do. But it wasn’t a request. Moss turned reluctantly downstairs. Dirklet traipsed after, babbling on about cable TV, cheap restaurants and Oprah.

  “This way, Detective O’Rourke.” Stark led me upstairs to a hushed, old-fashioned office. The funeral home had been here since the founding of Meiers Corners. They were on their fourth Moss. This Stark might be the original. His office certainly looked like something from the eighteen hundreds.

  Stark might be hundreds of years old. It was daunting. Except…my boyfriend was a thousand. A few hundred years was practically nothing. With greater confidence I said, “We’re investigating the death of Napoleon Schrimpf. You’ve probably heard he was drained of blood.”

  “Yes. The amusing Dolly Barton. Curl Up and Dye.” He chuckled.

  Obviously some sort of undead joke. “Uh, yeah. We’re following up on a lead. I know you sell blood to Nieman’s Bar. Pretty high-priced stuff, from what I’ve heard. I want to know if you sell it to anyone else.”

  Stark steepled his long, slender fingers. “You think someone who buys blood at a high price will sell it even higher? Perhaps black-market high? A good conjecture, but I am sorry to have to disappoint you, Detective O’Rourke.”

  “You don’t sell blood?”

  “No, we sell it. Off the record. And we make a good profit too.”

  Blood money. “I bet you do.”

  Stark only looked amused. “Before you scorn us, let me assure you we don’t keep the profits.”

  “Goes to the orphanage, does it?”

  “I admit our largesse isn’t totally selfless.” Stark smiled, revealing large, even white teeth. “We donate equally to the American Red Cross and the local blood bank.”

  “Then who buys your blood, besides Nieman’s? And how do you know they aren’t turning around and selling it at a huge profit?”

  “Because I know who’s buying it and why. Vampires purchase most of our blood. Besides the bar, we supply many of the larger households in Chicago. Occasionally we sell to the passing unhouseholded one.”

  Which I translated to homeless vamps. “Drusilla?”

  Stark laughed outright. “With her trade? Drusilla has more blood than she can handle. Men beg her to bite them. Women too.”

  “She’s never bought blood?”

  “Once. When a fledgling needed a complete infusion. A Steve Johnson. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

  The hooker with the heart of gold. “Yeah. So you’re saying there’s no black market on blood in Meiers Corners?”

  “There was.” Stark folded his hands on his desk. His long, elegant fingers made the gesture quite pleasant to watch.

  Like Bo’s fingers folding over my naked breast…whoops. Apparently the lust itch was something that actually got worse after getting scratched.

  “You said ‘was’. There was a black market.”

  “People were killed, their blood sold. Not by my kind, I might mention.”

  “Let me guess. Nineteen twenties?”

  “You’re very well informed. Yes.”

  “But there’s no black market any more. What happened?”

  “Bo Strongwell happened, Detective O’Rourke. He started personally patrolling the streets. Waiting. Watching. Though the killer was cautious, Strongwell caught him.”

  “And?”

  Stark shrugged. “Let me put it this way. A crematorium was not needed to finish the job.”

  Meaning the pieces were too small to burn. That sounded like Bo, all right. Thorough and conscientious.

  But it killed the black-market theory for Schrimpf’s murder. The only reasonable alternative meant vampire, which narrowed down the suspects but meant the case could never be officially closed. Not an option I liked. “Are you sure? I mean, couldn’t the black market have started up again? With new people?”

  “Not without Strongwell knowing. There’s a network of our kind. We keep very close watch on the goings-on of our world.”

  “Then why doesn’t Bo know who killed Napoleon Schrimpf? Because if it wasn’t some black-market ring, it has to be one of your kind.”

  “I suspect he does know.”

  Bo knew? That rattled me. He hadn’t said a thing.

  “Do not upset yourself, my dear. He will no doubt do something about it as his schedule permits. He is rather overburdened, you know.”

  “So I keep hearing. Why don’t you help out?”

  “I do as much as I can. Protecting the blood here is already a fulltime job, not to mention the additional chores of my chosen profession.”

  Bo’d get around to it when he could. Stark helped out when he could. Neither was good enough for me. I had to solve this case and figure some way of bringing the perp to justice, vampire or not.

  And that meant another very hard look at the only two suspects left—Vlad Dracula and Drusilla Strongwell.

  I stood. “Well, thanks for your time.”

  Stark rose too. “I wish you luck, Detective O’Rourke.”

  The door banged open. “Detective Ma’am!” Dirk rushed into the room. “Mr. Moss showed me the crematorium, and I accidentally started it, and do you want to guess how fast a solid walnut coffin burns…?”

  I sighed. Interview Dru, yes. But first, I would have to get rid of Mr. Bigears-Littlebrain.

  –—

  Dirk was like those last five pounds. Ungainly, uncomfortable and impossible to lose. I tried everything I could think of. I even went back to the cop shop and pulled the bathroom trick again. He scrambled through the window and followed. With his lumbering gait, he looked like The Mummy shambling after me.

  And like The Mummy, he just kept coming.

  It was impossible to take him along. I had to ask Drusilla some very pointed questions. Pointed tooth questions so direct even Dirk wouldn’t believe we were discussing a root canal. But how to grill her alone? A mental perusal of both Elena’s Book of Rules and Midwest Police Monthly articles came up empty.

  A thought hit me. Desperate, but it just might work.

  I lured Dirk to Nieman’s Bar. Customers thumped their chests and saluted me as I came in. I smiled and nodded and cast around frantically for Buddy.

  The bartender was swabbing glasses with a crisp white towel. I sidled up to the bar, put my head close to his. “Is there a back way out of here?”

  Buddy glanced at Dirk. “Past the end of the bar there’s a doorway to the back corridor. First door’s the gent’s, second is the ladies’. Third goes out.”

  I thanked him. He quirked a finger at me, to lean back in. “Don’t go east,” he said. “Straight or left once you’re out the door. If you want to lose someone.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s a window. Big picture window, has a perfect view of the east parking lot.”

  I snapped a frown. A view of the lot where Schrimpf was killed? Then not only Dru or someone randomly stumbling outside had opportunity. Someone stumbling to go to the bathroom would as well. “North or west. Got it.”

  After that, I only needed a diversion.

  I’m not proud of what I did. In fact, I still feel a little guilty. I was hoping Granny Butt would be dancing, and that would be diversion enough. But the Butt was missing and the bar was unusually quiet. Not even any music playing. So I had to. Really, I did.

  I bought a couple sodas and led Dirk to the end of the bar. Sipping, I waited until there was a knot of customers between us and the front door.

  “Omigod!” I stood up. “I can’t believe it.”

  “What? What is it, Detective Ma’am?”

  “Look, Dirk. Look!” I pointed at the knot.

  Still seated, Dirk craned his neck. “What? Detective Ma’am! What do you see?”

  “I don’t believe it. It’s…it’s Oprah!”

  “Oprah? Where?” Dirk shot to his feet. His muddy brown eyes were actually glowing.

  “There! The front door.” />
  “Really?” He did his kangaroo impression, bouncing around, trying to see over the clump of people in the narrow bar.

  “Straight from Chicago. Go catch her before she leaves.” I gave him a little push. “Maybe you can get her autograph.”

  “Oh boy, oh boy!” Dirk bounded toward the front door, to catch sight of his hero.

  Like I said, I felt guilty. But it didn’t stop me from dashing into the back corridor and heading out the door.

  I hoofed west a block before circling back around. Drusilla would be in or near the Nieman’s parking lot. The east end of the alley was decently dark. I prowled it, hand on my gun, my Spidey-sense tingling. She was near.

  “Detective O’Rourke, how nice to see you.”

  I jumped. Apparently “near” meant “right on top of”. Damn. I was going to have to schedule a Spidey-sense tune-up, right after I got my lie meter fixed.

  Unless the problem wasn’t me. Maybe vampires were just white noise on the Psychic Network. Huh. That was a thought.

  “How is your lovely sister?” Drusilla stepped from the shadows, a gorgeous vampy princess of the night, complete with cleavage-baring, pavement-sweeping gown.

  Lacy violet underwear, I reminded myself, gifted by an outrageously handsome male. I did not have to feel inadequate. “Gretchen’s good. And Steve and Stella.” And then, because I did feel just a teensy bit inadequate, “Bo’s great.”

  Dru smiled, ruby lips glossy in the moonlight. “So I heard. You wanted me?”

  “I have a few more questions. Now that I know the real score.”

  “Yes. Welcome to our world, Detective O’Rourke.”

  That threw me. Was she the vampire Welcome Wagon lady? Handing out night-school tips, and coupons like two-for-one Bloody Marys? “The night Napoleon Schrimpf died, you bit his balls.”

  “Yes, Detective. As I explained. Nappy liked sex on the edge. And, as you have perhaps discovered, it is exceptionally pleasurable.”

  “Um, yeah.” I shivered. “But I’ve also discovered biting doesn’t leave marks.”

  “It does not have to.” Casually Drusilla examined her inch-long scarlet fingernails. “I never do. So sloppy.”

  “Never? Here’s my theory. You bit him for a little fun, a little profit. He got carried away, you got carried away. He died before the bite could heal. Once the body’s dead, the skin can’t heal.”

  “That’s not quite true. Skin cells live after the corpus dies—”

  “And then,” I said, overriding her because I did not want one more cherished legend torpedoed (bad enough you couldn’t stake a vampire and make it poof). “And then you sucked out all Schrimpf’s blood, because you were thirsty, or because no use letting good blood go to waste—”

  “But I did not, Detective. I was not thirsty. I get plenty of blood from my johns. More than I need.”

  So Stark had said, but I hated to hear it.

  “And I never drink more than a sip from Nappy.” Dru leaned in. “In truth, I didn’t really like his taste. Too many steroids and too much alcohol, you know?”

  Well, hell. It was such a good theory too. But I believed her. Besides, there was that damn male DNA. Too many things argued against Dru being the killer.

  Which meant I was down to one suspect, and not one I wanted to pursue alone. Because Vlad had already almost mesmerized me twice—albeit once when I didn’t know any better, and once when I was reeling with a hangover. Hopefully Bo’d get back soon.

  “Fine, Drusilla. You’re free to go. But stay avail—”

  “Psst. Dru!” The high, tight whine of a jet engine startled me. “Where are you?”

  Jumping SWAT teams, what the hell was Tight-ass doing here?

  Drusilla looked as horrified as I felt. “You must hide.”

  Footsteps rang, closing in. “Where?” I spun frantically. The area was pathologically clean and empty, nothing but pavement and back walls. Even the garbage cans were all stowed for the night.

  “Here.” Drusilla raised her voluminous skirts.

  I choked.

  Titus said he’d fire me if he caught me in one more compromising position. Hide between Dru’s legs? Majorly compromising.

  But being caught with a hooker—in any position—was a surefire end of my career. No. I could not let Titus see me here.

  I dived under. Crinoline settled over me. “Over here, Titty,” Dru called sweetly.

  Titty?

  “There you are.” Tight-ass’s voice came nearer. “Where’s your one o’clock?”

  I could hear in my hiding place but couldn’t see worth a damn. It was dark and warm under the skirts, and mortifying. Boy, when they said undercover police work was tough, they had no idea.

  “Canceled. The DA’s wife came down with the flu. He needed to stay home and take care of her.”

  “You have nothing until two?”

  “Yes, Titty. My weekly session with Diana Prince.”

  Diana…? Sweet cream donuts, I would never drink a latte again without thinking of Diana and Dru. But next Tight-ass would ask for a free blowjob.

  “You have the money?”

  Huh?

  “Five hundred.” I felt Dru reach in her pocket. “Mr. Moss paid by credit card.”

  “Idiot.” A rustle announced bills being passed. “He’ll get caught one day.”

  A shrug from Dru, rippling through the crinoline. “Not as disastrous to his business as some.”

  “Hearing his dick has some life after all? It might actually increase it.”

  “Life, yes.” A purring sound started. “Quite a bit of life, actually. He paid for two sessions.”

  “Just make sure I get my percentage.” Tight-ass was heading toward soprano again.

  The purr stopped. “I would have had it ready for you, but I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow. Why tonight?”

  “Lana needed a new mattress. And Luci lost another set of handcuffs. You know, Dru, running a stable of part-time whores is a costly business.”

  “Poor Titty.”

  I sat in my dark tent as the truth smacked me in the face like brass knuckles. Ernest Titus, third shift police captain, always worried about the department’s reputation.

  Tight-ass was a pimp.

  No wonder he insisted Dru hadn’t killed Schrimpf. He didn’t want his star hooker accused of murder. Now that I thought about it, Titus had done everything he could to push me in any direction but Dru. Maybe he’d even hid the paperwork for the vampire dust from Charlie Ignatek, thinking it was connected with the Schrimpf case.

  Titus’s voice came again, high and tight. “Uh, Dru. You haven’t, uh, bitten anyone lately, have you?”

  “Titty. I told you I didn’t kill Nappy. I told you I saw someone at the big window in the back of Nieman’s Bar, watching us, who is probably the murderer. Why won’t you believe me?”

  “I believe you, honey.” Titus’s coloratura soprano told me otherwise. He thought Dru did it. That was why he had tried to blame Josephine Schrimpf for the murder. Why he assigned me Dirk. Why he took me off the case and assigned Dirk as primary.

  Tight-ass didn’t want the case to be solved. If Dru took the witness stand, her occupation would come out—and Titus’s connection to it. Which would ruin his reputation, making a bid for Chief of Police impossible.

  “Thanks for the cash, Dru. You’ll have the rest for me before dawn?”

  “Of course, Titty. Are you collecting from the others now?”

  “Yes. You wouldn’t believe how costly a good set of handcuffs is.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  After Tight-ass left I thanked Dru for her quick thinking and headed for the cop shop. I was sort of scared that I’d run into “Titty” there (how the hell could I keep the smirk off my face?) but apparently he was still out collecting.

  I sat at my desk and tried to keep busy. Only one suspect was left, Vlad, a.k.a. Dracula. He had the means, his fangs. He had the opportunity, being at the bar that night. I didn’t know wh
at his motive was, but did vampires need a motive to suck a human dry?

  I wanted to make the arrest so bad I had to staple my shoes to the floor. But Vlad scared me a little, and I’d promised Bo I wouldn’t go looking for trouble. So I waited, chafing all night, Saint Dirkson glaring a hole in my back. I cleaned my gun, even though Saturday wasn’t my usual night any more than Wednesday was. “Detective Dirk” called, asking if I’d gotten any leads. Four times, at an hour a pop. I was actually kind of glad for the distraction.

  Morning finally came. At home I stripped out of my violet lace and stuck it in the sink with delicate soap. As I was rinsing, I smiled. Bo had given me sexy underwear in my size, near B. He liked me just the way I was. It surprised me how good that felt.

  All those articles. Endless reading, trying to change into the woman I thought men wanted. And I hadn’t had to change at all. I laughed. All those rules, and really all I had to do was be me.

  My cell rang. I snapped it open. “O’Rourke.”

  A pause was followed by that annoying hollow voice. “Elena O’Rourke. I have news for you.”

  “Ruthven, how’s it hanging? Hey, I met up with one of your cronies. Long-haired guy, high cheekbones? Looked like a Boris? Don’t bother waiting for a check-in from him. Bo took care of it.”

  There was a short silence, the kind that says gotcha.

  But Ruthven bounced back with alarming speed. “I called Captain Titus, Elena O’Rourke. He seeks a murderer.” His voice sharpened. “I named Strongwell.”

  “What? But you have no evidence!”

  “I did not require evidence to accuse, Elena O’Rourke. The good captain is desperate. He will believe whatever I tell him.”

  About to yell, You’ll never get away with it, Ruthven, I blinked. Talk about hokey. “You’re an ass, Ruthven.” Much better.

  “And your mouth is foul, Elena O’Rourke.” Ooh, hit a nerve. “But it does not matter. When Strongwell returns to town from his little jaunt, he will be arrested, tried and convicted for the murder of Napoleon Schrimpf.”

  “No way. Bo’s not the killer. And Titus won’t just take your word for it.”

  “Ah, but I am a respectable businessman. Ernest Titus was more than willing to believe me, Elena O’Rourke. After all, it solves so many things. For the good captain, for the people of Meiers Corners. And, oh yes, for me.”