It was the bottom of the seventh, the score three to five, the Jays behind two runs, two out and a man on second with Mookie Wilson at bat. Wilson was hitting over three hundred against right-handers and Vicki could see that the Brewers' pitcher was sweating. At which point, the phone rang.
"It figures." She stretched a long arm down and dragged the phone up onto her lap. Sunset had been at eight forty-one. It was now nine-oh-five. It had to be Henry.
Ball one.
"Yeah, what?"
"Vicki? It's Henry. Are you all right?"
Strike one.
"Yeah, I'm fine. You just called at a bad time."
"I'm sorry, but I have some friends here who need your help."
"My help?"
"Well, they need the help of a private investigator and you're the only one I know."
Strike two.
"They need help right now?" There were only two innings left in the game. How desperate could it be?
"Vicki, it's important." And she could tell by his voice that it was.
She sighed as Wilson popped out to left field, ending the inning, and thumbed the television of. "Well, if it's that important... "
"It is."
"... then I'll be right over." With the receiver halfway back to the cradle, a sudden thought occurred to her and she snapped it back up to her mouth. "Henry?"
He was still there. "Yes?"
"These friends, they aren't vampires are they?"
"No." Through his concern, he sounded a little amused. "They aren't vampires."
Greg gave the young woman a neutral nod as he buzzed her through the security check and into the lobby. Vicki Nelson, her name was, and she'd dropped by a number of times over the summer while he was on the desk. Although she looked like the kind of person he'd have liked under other circumstances he simply couldn't get over the impressions he'd formed during their initial meeting last spring. It didn't help when observation confirmed that she was not the sort who would normally answer the door half dressed, proving, to his mind, his feeling that she'd been hiding something that night.
But what?
Over the last couple of months his belief that Henry Fitzroy was a vampire had begun to fade. He liked Mr. Fitzroy, respected him, realized that all his idiosyncrasies could stem from being a writer rather than a creature of the night but one last lingering doubt remained.
What had the young woman been hiding that night? And why?
Occasionally, just for his peace of mind, Greg considered asking her outright, but a certain set to her jaw had always stopped him. So he wondered. And he kept an eye on things. Just in case.
Vicki felt a distinct sense of relief as the elevator doors closed behind her. Scrutiny by that particular security guard always made her feel, well, dirty. Still, it's my own fault. I'm the one who answered the door practically naked. It had been the only solution she could think of at the time and as it had worked, distracting the old man from his intention of pounding a croquet stake through Henry's heart, she supposed she shouldn't complain about the aftereffects.
She pushed the button for the fourteenth floor and tucked her white golf shirt more securely into her red walking shorts. The little "adventure" last spring had melted off a few pounds and so far she'd managed to keep them from finding their way back. She carried too much muscle to ever be considered slim - a secret desire she'd admitted to no one - but it was nice to have a little more definition at the waist. Squinting in the glare of the fluorescent lights, she studied her reflection in the stainless steel walls of the elevator.
Not bad for an old broad, she decided, shoving the hated glasses up her nose. She wondered briefly if maybe she should have dressed more formally then decided that any friends of Henry Fitzroy, bastard son of Henry the VIII, ex-Duke of Richmond, et cetera, et cetera, were not likely to care if the private investigator showed up in shorts.
When the elevator reached Henry's floor, Vicki settled her purse on her shoulder and put on her professional face. It lasted right up until the condo door swung open and the only creature in the entrance hall was a huge russet colored dog.
It - no, he - has to be a dog. Vicki extended her hand for him to sniff. Wolves don't come in that color. Or that size. Do they? She could have added that wolves don't generally hang out in condominiums in downtown Toronto, but given that it was Henry's condo all bets were off.
The animal's eyes were outlined in black, adding to a remarkably expressive face. He enthusiastically sniffed the offered hand, then pushed his head demandingly under Vicki's fingers.