She stepped out of the arcade, out from under the awning and onto the boardwalk. Standing in the middle, she turned until the fading sun fell on her face and she closed her eyes.
A dead human on the boardwalk was bad for the tourist trade and therefore, for the sept. You didn’t have to be a wisewoman to figure out that one. And anything bad for the sept was bad for Kaleigh.
Maybe that’s why she was in such a bitchy mood today. Because she was learning pretty quickly that sometimes being the sept’s wisewoman was a bitch.
Fin’s cell rang and without looking away from the computer monitor, he picked it up. “’Lo.”
“A dead guy needs me?” Fia said in his ear.
He finished his last thought on the screen—his initial notes for the investigation—and rolled his chair back, giving his aching eyeballs a break. “I need you, Fee. I need you to put your FBI Special Agent cap on and tell me what the hell I’m supposed to be doing here.”
“I can’t believe we’ve got a dead guy in Clare Point.”
“He was just a kid.”
She swore, using St. Anthony’s holy name. It was completely inappropriate for a good Catholic like Fia. And completely Fia.
Fin rested his head on the back of the chair and closed his eyes, ignoring the commotion around him. Uncle Sean had called in all his officers, but no one seemed to be quietly going about their assigned tasks. There was less confusion on the New York Stock Exchange floor after a sharp drop in the Dow than there was in the police station right now. “He was murdered, Fee.” Fin exhaled.
“You sure?”
“Eight to ten inch long cut in his neck. Bled out. And he was moved. Posed. Oh, we’ve definitely got a homicide here.”
She swore again, more colorfully than before. Now St. Anthony was involved in unnatural acts…at least not ones becoming of a holy saint of the Catholic Church.
“And you say he was posed?”
“I can e-mail you pictures. He’s posed, all right.”
He could almost hear the wheels of her mind turning.
“You know who he is?” she asked.
“Not yet. He’s barely more than a kid. Twenty-one, maybe twenty-two. I was hoping someone would show up saying their son, boyfriend, brother, someone was missing. Nothing all day.”
“So what’s Uncle Sean going to do? Identifying the body is pretty important to finding the killer.”
“That’s part of the problem.” He opened his eyes. There was an officer sitting right next to him, trying to load a stapler. Fin got up and walked through the bullpen, out into the hall. “Uncle Sean’s not doing anything.” He leaned to see around the corner. The chief’s office was off the bullpen, a glass wall separating him from his men. Fin could see him staring at his computer monitor, his hand moving rhythmically on his mouse. Computer solitaire. He played it by the hour while on duty, according to Pete.
Fin stood up again, speaking into his phone. “He’s not doing anything. He got me out of bed at dawn. Crying, carrying on. You know how he gets himself worked up emotionally. He says he can’t run another murder investigation. He says he’s not up to it.”
Fia was quiet on the other end of the phone and Fin knew she was feeling the pressure in her chest that he’d been feeling all day. Pain for their loved one’s sorrow. Pain for the sorrow of the entire sept. The beheadings and loss of their own two years ago was still heavy on their hearts.
“So what has he done?”
“He’s put me in charge of the investigation.”
“You don’t know anything about solving a murder.”
He laughed but without humor. “So tell me something I don’t already know, sis.” He rubbed his hand across his face. He was feeling light-headed. Probably needed to eat something. That cup of coffee he had around ten a.m. just wasn’t cutting it. “But who else is going to run the investigation? Pete? Tony? How about Hilly Jr.?”
“Okay, so how are you going to identify this poor guy?”
“I printed some photos, just a head shot. I have a couple of officers trying to discreetly show them around the boardwalk. I told them just to check with our people. Not to involve any tourists if we can help it. Maybe someone will recognize him.”
“And you’re sure he’s a tourist?”
A dispatcher carrying two cups of coffee walked past Fin in the hall. He waited until she was out of earshot to speak. “Who else could he be? He wasn’t wearing a UPS uniform. He wasn’t picking up garbage. The only humans who step foot in Clare Point are the few from the outside who work here, and tourists.”
“Good point. You have a good mind for this. So—”
Fin saw Pete round the corner, his face flushed. “Hang on a sec, Fee,” Fin said, lowering the phone to his side.
“There you are,” Pete panted, running his hand across his broad, sweaty forehead. “I was going to look in the men’s room next.” He stopped in front of Fin. “We’ve got a positive ID.”
Chapter 5
“And you’re sure it’s a positive ID? Absolutely sure?” Fin stood in Sean’s office with Pete, the door closed. Sweat prickled under his suffocating, tight collar. He could feel the officers and few civilians in the station watching him from beyond the glass, waiting for word on the identity of the dead man. Telepathic thoughts bounced off the walls. Eyes bored holes in his back. Fin didn’t want to be there. He didn’t want to be this person in this position right now.
“Sure as a man can be. Woman,” Pete corrected himself. He stood with his arms awkwardly at his sides; armpit stains crept downward on his light blue uniform shirt. “Liz Hillman identified him from the picture you took. Name’s Colin Meding. Twenty-two years old. A Pennsylvania resident. Just graduated from the University of Delaware. Liz said Joe hired him Memorial Day weekend. Caramel popcorn boy. He was doing a fine job, according to Liz, then he didn’t show up for work this morning.”
“It’s four o’clock in the afternoon. Why didn’t she call us this morning when she realized he was missing?” Fin demanded, slamming the back of a chair with the palm of his hand. “Why did it take us all freakin’ day to show the photos around town?”
Pete stared at the floor. Sean just sat there behind his desk as if he hadn’t heard a word of the exchange.
Fin took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, something he’d learned in anger management therapy. “I’m sorry, Pete. I don’t mean to take this out on you. It’s just that now someone has to tell his parents that their son is dead and that he’s been dead for at least eleven hours and we’re just getting around to contacting them.” He took another breath, feeling a little more in control of himself. “You said Liz identified him from the photo?”
Pete nodded, slowly lifting his gaze. He was such a good guy. A simple man, but with one of the biggest hearts Fin had ever known. He didn’t deserve to be spoken to harshly.
“I went by Lizzy’s this morning,” Pete started slowly. “But Liz and Joe were out. Just kids working the stand. You said you only wanted the photos shown to our own, not humans. I forgot I’d skipped the caramel stand, things being crazy and all, and then when I remembered, I went back.” He lifted his chin until he was finally looking Fin in the eyes. “Liz didn’t think he was missing. That’s why she didn’t call us, even after she heard about the murder. When the kid didn’t show up for work and didn’t call, she wasn’t worried. She just figured he’d either quit and not bothered to call her, or he was sleeping off a hangover and he’d be in tomorrow, begging her not to fire him. She said it happens all the time with her summer help. She was pretty upset, Fin. Said it just hadn’t occurred to her that the dead blond boy she heard about this morning could be her blond caramel corn boy.” He looked away. “She said he was a”—Pete’s voice caught in his throat—“said he was a sweet kid.”
“You get an address on him?”
“Like I said, he’s from P-A, but I got a local one. One of Victor’s dumps on First. He was living with a bunch of guys for the summer. I was going there next
, but I wanted to tell you the news in person.”
“Colin Meding.” Fin tasted the name. The dead kid had looked like a Colin. A college graduate. A sweet kid. His whole life ahead of him. It was such a shame. He walked to the office door and opened it for Pete. “Go to the rental house, round up whoever’s there and bring them to the station. You can ask them some questions, but don’t tell them anything. The parents have to be notified first.” The phone rang on Sean’s desk.
Sean ignored it.
It rang again. Fin glanced back. “You going to answer that?”
Sean reached for the phone. “Chief Kahill.” He listened, then covered one end of the phone with his hand. “It’s Doc Caldwell.” He lowered his hand. “Uh-huh.”
Fin returned his attention to Pete, who was walking out the door. “You need another officer to go with you?”
Pete shook his head. “I don’t need to be babysat, Fin.” This time he didn’t hesitate to look at Fin straight-on. “Just because I’m not hero material like you doesn’t mean I can’t do my job. You tell me what to do and I’ll do it. It’s not that I’m a screwup. I’m just not you.”
Hero material? Pete had to be kidding. This was yet another reason why Fin hadn’t wanted to be in charge of the investigation. He was bad with people. He worked better alone. “I’m sorry,” Fin said quietly. And he meant it. You know I didn’t want this job, he telepathed, assuming Sean was too busy with his phone call to pay attention. Sean wasn’t a multitasker, even on a good day. Even if he did catch a word or two, Fin didn’t care. I didn’t want to be a police officer for the summer. And I certainly didn’t want to lead a murder investigation. You’re a good cop, Pete. Everyone knows it. And you’re more a hero than I’ll ever be. You keep out of the limelight. You do your job, keep your family, our family, safe better than anyone I know.
Just doing what needs to be done for the greater good, Pete returned kindly.
The greater good, Fin repeated, still speaking telepathically.
“I’ll bring the roommates in.”
“Thanks, Pete.” Fin closed the door behind him, turning to Sean, who had just hung up the phone. He looked pale again, his cheeks flushed, like he had earlier in the day on the boardwalk. “What did the doc have to say?” He knew very well from the look on Sean’s face it wasn’t good. “He have anything concrete for us?”
“He wants me to come down to the office.” Sean swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in the flabby flesh of his throat. “Something on the body he wants me to see.”
Fin was only half listening to Sean. The other half of his brain was composing the conversation he would have with Colin’s family. A Pennsylvania state police officer would be sent to the home to give the parents the dreadful news, but then the family would come to Clare Point and Fin would have to answer their questions. Only right now, he didn’t have any answers. “So go,” he told his uncle, switching gears again. “Bring back the autopsy report if he’s got it done, otherwise—”
“I can’t go.”
Fin stared at his uncle for a moment. He might have thought Sean’s comment was unbelievable, but today had passed unbelievable hours ago. “You’re the chief of police.” Fin walked around the side of the massive gunmetal gray desk, wondering how they had ever gotten it in the building. The office must have been built around it. “Get out of that chair. Get in your police car. Drive to the coroner’s office and see what needs to be seen.” His gaze flickered to the computer monitor on the desk. Solitaire. He looked back at the thickset man in the office chair. “Uncle Sean, you have to.”
The chief rose slowly. “If I have to go, then you have to go with me. I can’t do this. I…I don’t like dead people.”
“For sweet Mary’s sake, Uncle Sean. You’re a vampire. You suck people’s blood to survive. How can you—”
“Not human blood,” he interrupted, holding up his finger as he walked from behind his desk. “I don’t do that anymore.”
“Let’s go, Uncle Sean. We’ll take your car.”
“You…you can’t drive?”
“No, Chief. I don’t have a car. I’m a foot patrolman. Not a real policeman, remember?” He held the office door open for him. “I don’t even have a gun.”
Sean halted in the doorway, looking up earnestly at his nephew. “I could get you a gun.”
“I’m not sure that would be all that wise right this minute,” Fin said cynically, under his breath. If he had a gun, the question was, who would he shoot first, his uncle or himself?
The thought was moot, of course. Neither would die, no matter how many .45 caliber bullets ripped through their flesh.
Perpetual life sucked sometimes.
“Technically,” Dr. Caldwell explained, “the young man died of exsanguination.”
They stood in a narrow hallway outside the exam room where the ME had performed Colin Meding’s autopsy. His was the first human autopsy Dr. Caldwell had done in at least a hundred years. The only bodies brought here anymore were those of sept members. With sept members in high political places, the town had been able to keep their own medical examiner, even when other small towns gave them up, and thus keep their secret. Sept members’ bodies were brought here, declared legally dead, then transported to the funeral home a block down the street. Joseph Hillbert, Clare Point’s only undertaker, had never embalmed a body in his life. It was another front to keep up appearances. He simply prepared vampires for their ritual wake and then their rebirth, which always came three days after their death.
“The blood loss due to the trauma to his neck, specifically to his carotid artery, is what killed him,” the doctor continued. Patrick, sporting a short white beard and kind eyes, was dressed in blue scrubs and looked like a TV doctor. “I’m a little rusty on my human anatomy, but I would suspect he lost consciousness before his throat was slit and he bled out in minutes.”
“He lost consciousness?” Fin asked, confused.
“Come and see the body. It’ll make sense to you then.”
Fin glanced at Sean. The police chief seemed more interested in the seascape hanging on the wall than what the doctor was telling them. “We haven’t found a weapon so far,” Fin said. “Any thoughts on what we’re looking for? I’m guessing a knife, obviously, but serrated, smooth? Big? Small?”
“I’ve got to do some reading on the Internet, but I’d have to say small-sized blade, smooth cutting edge. There was nothing unusual about the wound except that it appeared…” He hesitated. “Precise.”
Precise. Fin didn’t like the sound of the word. It conjured up other words he disliked even more. Experienced. Premeditated.
“What about the rest of the body?”
“Nothing stands out.” Dr. Caldwell moved toward the closed door to the autopsy room. “There was evidence that he engaged in some form of sexual activity close to the time of death.”
“Some form of sexual activity?” Fin questioned, not feeling as if he had time for euphemisms.
“There was evidence of body fluids, but I can’t tell you male, female, or both. I’ve taken samples, but there was some saltwater residue on his suit, which could compromise the samples.”
Fin was trying hard to think, but his thoughts were scattered, heading in a hundred directions at once. “Had he been in the water recently?”
“No way for me to tell. No salt water on his skin, though. I’ll send the evidence off to the state lab tomorrow morning, but you know how that goes. Results could take weeks or even months.”
The fact that a twenty-two-year-old good-looking college graduate got laid on a hot Friday night in June at the beach didn’t seem all that remarkable to Fin, but he knew that right now his job was to collect all the information he could. Later, he’d sift through it all, determining what was important and what wasn’t.
“So, it doesn’t sound like we have much to go on, as far as who might have done this.”
“Well, there is one thing.” Patrick rested his hand on the doorknob. “This is what I
needed you to see.” He opened the door and stepped back to let them pass. “Chief?”
Sean held up his hands, palms out. “I have complete trust in my officer, Doc. Room’s small, anyway. I’ll just see you in the car, Fin.” He made a beeline for the waiting room door.
Patrick didn’t seem surprised by the chief of police’s exodus. He followed Fin into the room without comment, closing the door behind him.
The dead kid lay on a metal examining table in the center of the small room. It was the same room where Fin had been examined by Doc Caldwell as a kid and then over the years.
Colin Meding looked similar to before with his tousled good looks and pale skin. Only now he was naked, his buff chest marred by the sutured Y incision from the autopsy. Thankfully, his blue eyes were now closed.
“Here.” Patrick walked to the head of the table and bent the neck of a floor lamp closer. “Look here.” He touched the pallid flesh at the site of the gaping neck wound. “I almost missed it, but look closely.”
Not wanting to, but knowing he must, Fin leaned over until his face was close enough to the dead man’s to feel the coolness of his chilled flesh.
At first, Fin didn’t know what he was supposed to be looking at. The cut was now clean of what little dried blood had been left behind. He didn’t notice anything else, except that the kid needed a shave.
“Here,” Patrick instructed. “See them?”
Suddenly, it was as if the ME had drawn a red bull’s-eye around the telltale wounds. Fin stood up, feeling slightly dizzy. “Two puncture marks,” he murmured, falling into that pit of beyond disbelief again.
“Puncture marks,” Patrick repeated. “Another millimeter lower and the incision would have cut them in half. The way flesh tears, even with a sharp knife, I’d never have seen them. No one would have.”
“It would almost seem that the perpetrator cut him that way on purpose.” Fin leaned over again, just to be sure he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. He stood again. “No possibility those could be anything but what they appear to be?” he asked, hoping against hope.
Immortal Page 5
