Death Warmed Over - By Kevin J. Anderson Page 0,10

eyes, long fangs, and a cranky disposition.” With his foot, McGoo scuffed some of the broken glass on the sidewalk. “Around here, that doesn’t narrow the field of suspects by much.” McGoo looked hard at me. “You’re my inside man now, Shamble. Any clue what the perp might be or where I should start looking?”

By now, the crowd had dispersed like a puff of smoke from an amateur wizard’s spell; Sheldon Fennerman hung back under an awning for shelter. I stepped up to the mission’s broken window, looked inside, and saw minimal damage to the interior of the building. “Can’t imagine why anyone, or anything, would want to do this to a Good Samaritan who’s trying to help down-and-out unnaturals. Could be just a random act of vandalism.”

McGoo gave me the same expression of scorn and skepticism he’d used when I told him I dated a centerfold model once. “Random act of vandalism? Riiight. I’ll put that in my report—case closed. Let’s go have a drink.”

“I’ll see you at the Goblin Tavern later.” I gestured Sheldon forward, and the vampire shuffled toward us with great reluctance, pulling his hat down. I said, “I’ve got a favor to ask—new case.”

McGoo was not impressed. He made a rude sound. “Sure, add more duties to my job description. I’ve got nothing else to do here.”

I ignored his sarcasm. “This is my client Sheldon Fennerman. He’s been receiving death threats, and I’m assisting him with personal security.”

McGoo became more businesslike. “What kind of death threats? Credible ones?” He talked as if Sheldon wasn’t right there listening to every word.

“Mr. Fennerman says other vampires in his neighborhood have disappeared, and he suspects they’ve been murdered. Heard of any troubles down in Little Transylvania? Missing persons reports?”

“Not that I know of. Why does he think he’s a specific target?”

“Inflammatory graffiti on the walls, sharpened wooden stakes left on his doorstep.” I noticed that Sheldon was shivering. “Could be Straight Edgers.”

“Straight Edgers?” McGoo rolled his eyes, made a skeptical assessment of Sheldon, and finally addressed him directly. “So, you’re an undead guy who can turn into a bat, has the strength of ten men . . . and you need Dan Shamble to protect you from a bunch of juvenile delinquents? Can’t you just do the evil eye?” He raised the first two fingers of his left hand, crooked them, and toyed with the air. “Use your Bela Lugosi thing and glamour them?”

“I’m, uh, not very good at that,” Sheldon said. “Never was.”

“I believe Mr. Fennerman has good reason to be nervous, so I’m looking into the matter. I’d consider it a personal favor if you kept your eyes and ears open. For old times’ sake.”

That sparked a smile. “Will do, Shamble. Scout’s honor.” His smile became a sneaky little grin. “And I’ve got something for you—for old times’ sake. What goes ‘Ha-ha-ha . . . plop’?” He didn’t give me time to answer. “A shambler laughing his head off!”

“You’re not funny,” I told him, although that one was better than most of his jokes.

He cinched up his lips. “You don’t appreciate deadpan humor.”

Lately, McGoo had adapted his off-color jokes so that various unnaturals were the butt of the humor. In his early career, he had been reprimanded for his clueless non-PC ethnic jokes; nobody in regular human society took offense if a zombie felt insulted, however. Not so long ago, when I was still human myself, McGoo’s jokes had seemed hilarious. And now I was one of his targets.

Did you hear the one about the zombie PI, dead set on solving his cases?

McGoo read the reticence on my face. “Yeah, I miss the old days, Shamble, when we were just everyday guys, you and me. But now that you’re, you know, dead, it’s awkward talking to you.” He looked serious again. “Did you get the ballistics and autopsy report I sent over? Any clues?”

My own autopsy report. “I read through it, but nothing rang any bells.”

I’m not a squeamish person, but I had a tough time even looking at the crime scene photos: my body sprawled facedown in the alley, blood pooling all around my head. Some bastard had done that to me. . . .

“If I come up with any leads, I’ll let you know.” I stepped closer to my client. “Right now Mr. Fennerman’s my priority.”

Sheldon gave me a thin-lipped smile, and his tiny fangs protruded. We headed off to his place.

CHAPTER 5

It would be hard to say what section qualified as the “seedy”