Zerbrowski was peering at the aquarium. He glanced my way. “These are the biggest freaking angelfish I’ve ever seen. You could fry some of ‘em up in a pan.”
“Leave the fish alone, Zerbrowski,” I said.
He grinned. “Sure, just a thought.”
Back in the kitchen Dolph sat with his hands folded on the tabletop. His face unreadable. If he was upset that I’d almost cashed it in tonight, he didn’t show it. But then Dolph didn’t show much of anything, ever. The most emotion I’d ever seen him display was about this case. The killer zombie. Butchered civilians.
“You want some coffee?” I asked.
“Sure.”
“Me, too,” Zerbrowski said.
“Only if you say please.”
He leaned against the wall just outside the kitchen. “Please.” I got a bag of coffee out of the freezer.
“You keep the coffee in the freezer?” Zerbrowski said.
“Hasn’t anyone ever fixed real coffee for you?” I asked.
“My idea of gourmet coffee is Taster’s Choice.”
I shook my head. “Barbarian.”
“If you two are finished with clever repartee,” Dolph said, “could we start the statement now?” His voice was softer than his words.
I smiled at him and at Zerbrowski. Damned if it wasn’t nice to see both of them. I must have been hurt worse than I knew to be happy to see Zerbrowski.
“I was asleep minding my own business when I woke up to find a zombie standing over me.” I measured beans and poured them into the little black coffee grinder that I’d bought because it matched the coffee maker.
“What woke you?” Dolph asked.
I pressed the button on the grinder and the rich smell of fresh ground coffee filled the kitchen. Ah, heaven.
“I smelled corpses,” I said.
“Explain.”
“I was dreaming, and I smelled rotting corpses. It didn’t match the dream. It woke me.”
“Then what?” He had his ever present notebook out. Pen poised.
I concentrated on each small step to making the coffee and told Dolph everything, including my suspicions about Seсora Salvador. The coffee was beginning to perk and fill the apartment with that wonderful smell that coffee always has by the time I finished.
“So you think Dominga Salvador is our zombie raiser?” Dolph said.
“Yes.”
He stared at me across the small table. His eyes were very serious. “Can you prove it?”
“No.”
He took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. “Great, just great.”
“The coffee smells done,” Zerbrowski said. He was sitting on the floor, back propped against the kitchen doorway.
I got up and poured the coffee. “If you want sugar or cream, help yourself.” I put the cream, real cream, out on the kitchen counter along with the sugar bowl. Zerbrowski took a lot of sugar and a dab of cream. Dolph went for black. It was the way I took it most of the time. Tonight I added cream and sweetened it. Real cream in real coffee. Yum, yum.
“If we could get you inside Dominga’s house, could you find proof?” Dolph asked.
“Proof of something, sure, but of raising the killer zombie...” I shook my head. “If she did raise it and it got away, then she won’t want to be tied to it. She’ll have destroyed all the proof, just to save face.”
“I want her for this,” Dolph said.
“Me, too.”
“She might also try and kill you again,” Zerbrowski said from the doorway. He was blowing on his coffee to cool it.
“No joke,” I said.
“You think she’ll try again?” Dolph asked.
“Probably. How the hell did two zombies get inside my apartment?”
“Someone picked the lock,” Dolph said. “Could the zombie...”
“No, a zombie would rip a door off its hinges, but it wouldn’t take the time to pick a lock. Even if it had the fine motor skill to do it.”
“So someone with skill opened the door and let them in,” Dolph said.
“Appears so,” I said.
“Any ideas on that?”
“I would bet one of her bodyguards. Her grandson Antonio or maybe Enzo. A big guy in his forties who seems to be her personal protection. I don’t know if either of them have the skill, but they’d do it. Enzo, but not Antonio.”
“Why cross him off?”
“If Tony had let the zombies in, he’d have stayed and watched.”
“You sure?”
I shrugged. “He’s that kind of guy. Enzo would do business and leave. He’d follow orders. The grandson wouldn’t.”
Dolph nodded. “There’s a lot of heat from upstairs to solve this case. I think I can get us a search warrant in forty-eight hours.”
“Two days is a long time, Dolph.”
“Two days without one piece of proof, Anita. Except for your word. I’m going out on a limb for this one.”
“She’s in it, Dolph, somehow. I don’t know why, and I don’t know what could have caused her to lose control of the zombie, but she’s in it.”
“I’ll get the warrant,” he said.
“One of the brothers in blue said you told him you were a cop,” Zerbrowski said.
“I told him I was with your squad. I never said I was a cop.”
Zerbrowski grinned. “Mmm-huh.”
“Will you be safe here tonight?” Dolph asked.
“I think so. The Seсora doesn’t want to get on the bad side of the law. They treat renegade witches sort of like renegade vampires. It’s an automatic death sentence.”
“Because people are too scared of them,” Dolph said.
“Because some witches can slip through the fucking bars.”
“How about voodoo queens?” Zerbrowski said.
I shook my head. “I don’t want to know.”
“We better go, leave you to get some sleep,” Dolph said. He left his empty coffee cup on the table. Zerbrowski hadn’t finished his, but he put it on the counter and followed Dolph out.
I walked them to the door.
“I’ll let you know when we get the warrant,” Dolph said.
“Could you arrange for me to see Peter Burke’s personal effects?”
“Why?”
“There are only two ways to lose control of a zombie this badly. One, you are strong enough to raise it, but not to control it. Dominga can control anything she can raise. Second, someone of near equal power interferes, sort of a challenge.” I stared up at Dolph. “John Burke might just be strong enough to have done it. Maybe if I’m helpful enough to take John down to go over his brother’s effects--you know, does any of this look out of place, that type of thing--maybe this Burke will let something slip.”
“You’ve already got Dominga Salvador pissed at you, Anita. Isn’t that enough for one week?”
“For one lifetime,” I said. “But it’s something we can do while we wait for the warrant.”
Dolph nodded. “Yeah. I’ll arrange it. Call Mr. Burke tomorrow morning and set up a time. Then call me.”
“Will do.”
Dolph hesitated in the doorway for a moment. “Watch your back.”
“Always,” I said.
Zerbrowski leaned into me and said, “Nice penguins.” He followed Dolph down the hallway. I knew the next time I saw the rest of the spook squad they’d all know I collected toy penguins. My secret was out. Zerbrowski would spread it far and wide. At least, he was consistent.
It was nice to know something was.
Chapter 18
Stuffed animals are not meant to be submerged in water. The two in the bathtub were ruined. Maybe spot remover? The smell was thick and seemed permanent. I put an emergency message on my cleaning service’s answering machine. I didn’t give a lot of details. Didn’t want to frighten them off.
I packed an overnight bag. Two changes of clothes and one penguin with his tummy freshly scrubbed, Harold Gaynor’s file, and I was set. I also packed both g
uns: the Firestar in its inner pants holster; the Browning under my arm. A windbreaker hid the Browning from view. I had extra ammo in the jacket pockets. Between both guns I had twenty-two bullets. Twenty-two bullets. Why didn’t I feel safe?
Unlike most walking dead, zombies can bear the touch of sunlight. They don’t like it, but they can exist with it. Dominga could order a zombie to kill me in daylight just as easily as moonlight. She wouldn’t be able to raise the dead during daylight, but if she planned it right, she could raise the dead the night before and send it out to get me the next day. A voodoo priestess with executive planning skills. It would be just my luck.
I didn’t really believe that Dominga had backup zombies waiting to jump me. But somehow I was feeling paranoid this morning. Paranoia is just another word for longevity.
I stepped out into the quiet hallway, glancing both ways as if it were a street. Nothing. No walking corpses hiding in the shadows. No one but us fraidy-cats. The only sound was the hush of the air-conditioning. The hallway had that feel to it. I came home often enough at dawn to know the quality of silence. I thought about that for a minute. I knew it was almost dawn. Not by clock or window, but on some level deeper than that. Some instinct that an ancestor had found while hiding in a dark cave, praying for light.
Most people fear the dark in a vague way. They fear what might be out there. I raise the dead. I’ve slain over a dozen vampires. I know what’s out there in the dark. And I am terrified of it. People are supposed to fear the unknown, but ignorance is bliss when knowledge is so damn frightening.
I knew what would have happened to me if I had failed last night. If I had been slower or a worse shot. Two years ago there had been three murders. Nothing connected them except the method of death. They had been torn apart by zombies. They had not been eaten. Normal zombies don’t eat anything. They may bite a time or two, but that’s the worst of it. There had been the man whose throat was crushed, but that had been accidental. The zombie just bit down on the nearest body part. It happened to be a killing blow. Blind luck.
A zombie will normally just wrestle you to pieces. Like a small boy tearing pieces off of a fly.
Raising a zombie for the purposes of being a murder weapon is an automatic death sentence. The court system has gotten rather quick on the draw the last few years. A death sentence meant what it said these days. Especially if your crime was supernatural in some way. You didn’t burn witches anymore. You electrocuted them.
If we could get proof, the state would kill Dominga Salvador for me. John Burke, too, if we could prove he had knowingly caused the zombie to go ape-shit. The trouble with supernatural crimes is proving them in court. Most juries aren’t up on the latest spells and incantations. Heck, neither am I. But I’ve tried explaining zombies and vampires in court before. I’ve learned to keep it simple and to add any gory details the defense will allow me. A jury appreciates a little vicarious adventure. Most testimony is terribly boring or heartbreaking. I try to be interesting. It’s a change of pace.
The parking area was dark. Stars still glimmered overhead. But they were fading like candles in a steady wind. I could taste dawn on the air. Roll it around on my tongue. Maybe it’s all the vampire hunting I do, but I was more attuned to the passage of light and dark than I had been four years ago. I hadn’t been able to taste the dawn.
Of course my nightmares were a lot less interesting four years ago. You gain something, you lose something else. It’s the way life works.
It was after 5:00 A.M. when I got in my car and headed out for the nearest hotel. I wouldn’t be able to stand my apartment until the cleaning crew got the smell out. If they could get the smell out. My landlord was not going to be pleased if they couldn’t.
He was going to be even less pleased with the bullet holes and shattered window. Replace the window. Replaster the walls, maybe? I really didn’t know what you did to repair bullet holes? Here I was hoping my lease couldn’t be challenged in court.
The first hint of dawn was slipping over the eastern sky. A pure white light that spread like ice over the darkness. Most people think dawn is as colorful as sunset but the first color of dawn is white, a pure not-color, that is almost an absence of night.
There was a motel, but all its rooms were on one or two stories, some of them awfully isolated. I wanted a crowd. I settled on The Stouffer Concourse which wasn’t terribly cheap but it would force zombies to ride up in elevators. People tended to notice the smell in an elevator. The Stouffer Concourse also had room service at this ungodly hour of dawn. I needed room service. Coffee, give me coffee.
The clerk gave me that wide-eyed-I’m-too-polite-to-say-it-out-loud look. The elevators were mirrored, and I had nothing to do for several floors but look at my reflection. Blood had dried in a stiff darkness in my hair. A stain went down the right side of my face just below the hairline and trailed down my neck. I hadn’t noticed it in the mirror at home. Shock will make you forget things.
It wasn’t the bloodstains that had made the clerk look askance. Unless you knew what to look for, you wouldn’t know it was blood. No, the problem was that my skin was deathly pale, like clean paper. My eyes that are perfectly brown looked black. They were huge and dark and...strange. Startled, I looked startled. Surprised to be alive. Maybe. I was still fighting off the edge of shock. No matter how together I felt, my face told a different story. When the shock wore off, I’d be able to sleep. Until then, I’d read Gaynor’s file.
The room had two double beds. More room than I needed, but what the heck. I got out clean clothes, put the Firestar in the drawer of the nightstand, and took the Browning into the bathroom with me. If I was careful and didn’t turn the shower on full blast, I could fasten the shoulder holster to the towel rack in the back of the stall. It wouldn’t even get wet. Though truthfully with most modern guns, wet doesn’t hurt them. As long as you clean them afterwards. Most guns will shoot underwater.
I called room service wearing nothing but a towel. I’d almost forgotten. I ordered a pot of coffee, sugar, and cream. They asked if I wanted decaf. I said no thank you. Pushy. Like waiters asking if I wanted a diet Coke when I didn’t ask for it. They never ask men, even portly men, if they want diet Cokes.
I could drink a pot of caffeine and sleep like a baby. It doesn’t keep me awake or make me jumpy. It just tastes better.
Yes, they would leave the cart outside the door. No, they wouldn’t knock. They would add the coffee to my bill. That was fine, I said. They had a credit card number. When they have plastic, people are always eager to add on to your bill. As long as the limit holds.
I propped the straight-backed chair under the doorknob to the hallway. If someone forced the door, I’d hear it. Maybe. I locked the bathroom door and had a gun in the shower with me. I was as secure as I was going to get.
There is something about being naked that makes me feel vulnerable. I would much rather face bad guys with my clothes on than off. I guess everyone’s like that.
The bite on my shoulder with its thick bandage was a problem when I wanted to wash my hair. I had to get the blood out, bandage or no bandage.
I used their little bottles of shampoo and conditioner. They smelled like flowers are supposed to smell but never do. Blood had dried in patches on my body. I looked spotted. The water that washed down the drain was pinkish.
It took the entire bottle of shampoo before my hair was squeaky clean. The last rinse water soaked through the bandage on my right shoulder. The pain was sharp and persistent. I’d have to remember to get that tetanus booster.
I scrubbed my body with a washcloth and the munchkin bar of soap. When I had washed and soaked every inch of myself, and was as clean as I was going to get, I stood under the hot needling spray. I let the water pour over my back, down my body. The bandage had soaked through long ago.
What if we couldn’t tie Dominga to the zombies? What if we couldn’t find proof? She’d try again. Her pride was at stake now. She had set two zombies on me, and I had wast
ed them both. With a little help from the police. Dominga Salvador would see it as a personal challenge.
She had raised a zombie and it had escaped her control completely. She would rather have innocent people slaughtered than to admit her mistake. And she would rather kill me than have me prove it. Vindictive bitch.
Seсora Salvador had to be stopped. If the warrant didn’t help, then I’d have to be more practical. She’d made it clear that it was her or me. I preferred it to be her. And if necessary, I’d make sure of it.
I opened my eyes and turned off the water. I didn’t want to think about it anymore. I was talking about murder. I saw it as self-defense, but I doubted a jury would. It’d be damn hard to prove. I wanted several things. Dominga out of the picture, dead or in jail. To stay alive. Not to be in jail on a murder charge. To catch the killer zombie before it killed again. Fat chance that. To figure out how John Burke fit into this mess.
Oh, and to keep Harold Gaynor from forcing me to perform human sacrifice. Yeah, I almost forgot that one.
It had been a busy week.
The coffee was outside the door on a little tray. I set it inside on the floor, locked the door, and put the chair against the doorknob again. Only then did I set the coffee tray on a small table by the curtained windows. The Browning was already sitting on the table, naked. The shoulder holster was on the bed.
I opened the drapes. Normally, I would have kept the drapes closed, but today I wanted to see the light. Morning had spread like a soft haze of light. The heat hadn’t had time to creep up and strangle that first gentle touch of morning.
The coffee wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t great either. Of course, the worst coffee I’ve ever had was still wonderful. Well, maybe not the coffee at police headquarters. But even that was better than nothing. Coffee was my comfort drink. Better than alcohol, I guess.
I spread Gaynor’s file on the table and started to read. By eight that morning, earlier than I usually get up, I had read every scribbled note, gazed at every blurry picture. I knew more about Mr. Harold Gaynor than I wanted to, none of it particularly helpful.
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