"More unusual than Michael Celluci?"
"Mother!"
She could almost hear her mother's brows rise. "Honey, you may not remember this, but you've dated a number of unusual boys in your time."
"I'm not dating boys anymore, Mom. I'm almost thirty-two years old."
"You know what I mean. Remember that young man in high school? I don't recall his name but he kept a harem... "
"I'll call you, Mom."
"Soon."
"Soon," Vicki agreed, rescued the towel again and hung up. "Dated unusual boys in my time... " She snorted and headed back toward the bathroom. All right, a couple of them may have been a bit strange but she was over one hundred percent certain that none of them were vampires.
She turned the water back on and grinned, imagining the scene. Mom, I'd like you to meet Henry Fitzroy. He drinks blood. The grin widened as she stepped under the water. Her mother, infinitely practical, would probably ask what type. It took a lot to disrupt her mother's view of the world.
She'd just dumped a pan of scrambled eggs onto a plate when the phone rang again.
"It figures," she muttered, grabbing a fork and crossing into the living room. "Damn thing never rings when I'm not doing anything." Sunset wouldn't be for a couple of hours yet - it wasn't Henry.
"Vicki? Celluci." With so many Michaels on the Metropolitan Toronto Police Force, most of them had gotten into the habit of perpetually referring to themselves by their last names, on duty and off. "You remember the name of Quest's alleged accomplice? The guy who never got charged."
"Good evening, Mike. Nice to hear from you. I'm fine thanks." She shoveled a forkful of egg into her mouth and waited for the explosion.
"Cut the crap, Vicki. He had some woman's name... Marion, Maralyn... "
"Margot. Alan Margot. Why?"
Even over the sounds of traffic, she could hear the self-satisfied smile in his voice. "It's classified."
"Listen you son of a bitch, when you pick my brains 'cause you're too lazy to look it up, you don't come back with 'it's classified.' Not if you want to live to collect your pension."
He sighed. "Use the brain you're accusing me of picking."
"You pulled another body out of the lake?"
"Mere moments ago."
So he was still at the site. That explained the background noise. "Same pattern of bruises?"
"Near as I can tell. Coroner just took the body away."
"Nail the bastard."
"That," he told her, "is the plan."
She hung up and slid into her leather recliner, eggs balanced precariously on the arm. Two years ago, the case had been hers. Hers had been the responsibility of finding the scum who'd beaten a fifteen-year-old girl senseless and then dropped the unconscious body in Lake Ontario. Six weeks of work and they'd picked up a man named Quest, picked him up, charged him, and made it stick. There'd been a another man involved, Vicki had been sure of it, but Quest wouldn't talk and they hadn't been able to lay charges.
This time...
She yanked her glasses of her nose. This time, Celluci would get him, and Vicki Nelson, ex-fair-haired girl of the metro police would be sitting on her duff. The room in front of her blurred into an indistinguishable mass of fuzz-edged colors and she shoved the glasses back on.
"Shit!"
Breathing deeply, she forced herself to calm. After all, what mattered was catching Margot - not who made the collar. She scooped up the remote and flicked on the television. The Jays were in Milwaukee.
"The boys of summer," she sighed, and dug into her cooled eggs, giving herself over to the hypnotic accents of the announcers doing the pregame show. Like most Canadians over a certain age, Vicki was a hockey fan first but it was almost impossible to live in Toronto and not have baseball make inroads into your affections.