cold and clammy against his skin, if I could only see out the window....
Jerked out of sleep, Celluci scrambled across the king-sized bed toward the ringing phone. The clock beside it said 7:04 P.M. Forty minutes to sunset. He'd lain down at three for a half-hour nap but was obvi?ously more tired than he thought. The dainty, ladylike receiver almost disappeared in his hand, but eventu?ally he got the right end to his ear. A quick glance at the call display showed him a familiar number. "What've you got for me, Dave?"
On the other end of the line, his partner, Detective-Sergeant Dave Graham, sighed deeply. "I'm fine, Mike. How are you? I got the names and addresses you wanted."
"Thanks. How come you're calling from home?"
"Maybe I was on my way out of the office when you called. Maybe pulling these things off the system took a little time and I wanted to spend what was left of the evening with my family. Maybe I thought you didn't want the whole office wondering why you were suddenly interested in Vancouver gangs and real es?tate salesmen. You choose."
Celluci grinned. "What were those options again?"
"Fuck you, too, buddy. Got a pencil handy?"
"Hang on." He hit the hold button and headed into the kitchen where he'd seen a pad and a jar of pens beside an extremely expensive replica of an old-fash?ioned wall phone. "Okay. Go ahead."
"You'll notice I'm not asking why you want these things."
"And I appreciate that, Dave."
"I mean, I'm willing to believe that you're just mak?ing some exciting vacation plans and are not being drawn into one of Vicki's weirdo, made for Fox TV investigations.''
"Thanks, Dave."
"Yeah, well, I'm gullible that way. Try not to get yourself killed."
The first half of the list, from the firmly entrenched to the up-and-coming, was longer than he'd thought it would be. There was nothing about Ronald Swanson at all. The man didn't have so much as an outstanding parking ticket.
Henry woke angry, but that was to be expected as Vicki's scent-the scent of an intruder, a competing predator-still clung to the bedroom. He'd been lying with his upper lip half lifted in a snarl, and it took him a moment to peel the flesh off air-dried teeth.
"I bet Brad Pitt never has this problem," he mut?tered, reaching for the light.
The handless ghost waited impatiently at the end of the bed. The body in the morgue had been less disturbing-it was only dead. This spirit had moved beyond death, and shadows clung to it. Eldritch shad?ows, Henry found himself thinking and shook his head to dislodge the thought. Oh, that's just what I need-now I'm channeling adjectives from H.P. Lovecraft.
The ghost began to lift its mutilated arms, but be?fore it could open its mouth to scream, Henry snarled, "That was you at the morgue, wasn't it?"
Arms still uplifted, its expression bordered on petu?lance as it disappeared.
Alone again, Henry swung his legs out of bed, then, as they touched the carpet, he paused. The lingering scent of a second vampire had been acknowledged if not dealt with. The ghost had been banished for one more sunset. And yet, an uneasiness remained. There was something more.
Or more precisely, something less.
Tony.
Although he could hear the throbbing heartbeat of the surrounding city, no bloodsong called from within the limits of his sanctuary. With so many other things there, Tony's absence stood out in sharp relief.
Henry stared at his reflection and realized it felt surprisingly good to be alone.
"What're you looking so excited about?"
"Me? Nothing."
With the denial the gleam of antici?pation in Vicki's eyes switched off.
Celluci frowned. The things she thought she had to hide from him were never good-in fact, most of the time they were very not good. He watched her care?fully as she crossed the living room, pulled out a slat-backed chair, and straddled it but could see nothing that might give him any explanations. "That chair's a Stickley," he grunted as she tipped it forward on two legs and reached across the table for his notes. "Try not to break it."
"Chill, Michael. I don't know why you think you can't trust me with expensive furniture. What've you got?"
He pushed a sheet of paper toward her groping fin?gers. "The reasons Ms. Chou thinks the missing kid?ney is our motive."
Vicki scanned the familiar handwriting. "She's pretty convincing."
"I didn't know you needed convincing." Before she could answer, he handed her another page. "The rea?sons Mr. Ronald Swanson thinks it's impractical."
"You spoke to him?"
"No. It's what I remembered from the cable