Black Market Blood

by Francis Gideon

  When they stepped off the plane at nine at night and into the neon lights and recycled air of the airport, Chaz was exhausted. The only saving grace was that Declan appeared to be ten times more organized. As they stood by baggage claim, he already had a map pulled up on his phone.

  “The main branch of the Winnipeg Police isn’t too far from here, and they’ve been told we’re coming.”

  “Any aggression on their end?” Chaz asked. “I know it sucks to lose a case.”

  “None so far. But they didn’t lose this guy. He washed up on our shore, so we got him. We may need to pry some old records out of their hands, but Jack has assured me that he’s handling that.”

  Chaz nodded, wondering how and when Declan and Jack became so chummy. When he grabbed his phone and saw no messages, he was sad for two moments before he remembered it was on airplane mode. With one swipe, seven messages and a dozen alerts from other programs stacked up.

  “Maybe you should give me the Cliff Notes version of our plan,” Chaz said. “I think I’m behind.”

  “Not behind. There are no messages from Jack yet about the tests, but I’m sure those will come tomorrow morning. Those lab tests are expensive, and I’m sure they’ll need to be redone based on how many false positives in terms of toxins they’ll get if they think he’s been bit by a vamp, since blood comingles awhile after infection.”

  “Katja likes to work at night. We run into each other a lot, so maybe she’ll work through and we’ll have something faster than we thought.”

  “Maybe. It’s nice to think. Ah. See that suitcase?”

  Chaz glanced over his shoulder at the conveyor belt. A blue bag with a sash tied on it dropped out of the carrier. “Uh-huh.”

  “Can you grab it for me? I’m going to call a car for us.”

  Chaz did as he was asked, shocked at how heavy Declan’s bag was. He must have packed a dozen books or some bricks for it to be so weighed down. He also must have paid a fortune in fees for going over the weight limit. Chaz’s bag came down the conveyor belt next, and he dragged both over to where Declan stood. He hung up the phone and declared they’d be able to pick up a Cadillac in the next hour.

  “Really? Cadillac?”

  “I figured it would be like a squad car. I’m not planning on going on any chases, but it’ll do us some good to have room. Winnipeg doesn’t have as many vehicles as I thought. So it’s easier to work incognito.”

  “Makes sense. So what’s next? Police or hotel?” Chaz asked.

  “Hotel, definitely. I’m not carrying this around anymore.”

  An hour later their stuff was slotted inside two separate small rooms at a hotel just outside of the city center called the Heart Hotel. Chaz thought it was a brothel at first, but when the man working behind the desk seemed beyond eager to help them after he’d checked their badges, he figured they were safe enough there. The thought of a brothel made his heart hurt for the victim—and then miss Sully in the same beat. He pulled up the number for Artie’s on his phone but focused on connecting with the local police with Declan. After a few clipped exchanges over the phone, Chaz was startled by a message from Jack. Declan’s phone made a similar noise, so Chaz knew they both got the same incoming information.

  Well, some good news. We got a hit off the photo in the database. Patrick Mortimer. He was a student at the University of Winnipeg. About a fifteen-minute drive from where you’re staying.

  Aren’t you supposed to be doing paperwork? Chaz teased.

  This was on a computer. Totally counts. You should head out now, though. The roommate was the one to report him missing, so he’d be a good place to start. Sending files to you now.

  Chaz waited until the hum of their phones sounded. Both Declan and Chaz pulled up Patrick’s student card, on which he seemed at least ten pounds heavier and a lot younger. His eyes were also green, not the gray-blue they’d added in Photoshop. Chaz wondered if this was the same kid until he noticed the date on the missing person’s report filed by his roommate, Wannong Chen. Wannong had seen Patrick three weeks ago, and the registrar’s office on campus had him listed as registering for fall classes two weeks ago. Since the latest boat at the docks had arrived three days earlier, that still left about ten days to account for where Patrick was missing and assumed… what? Kidnapped? Trafficked? Chaz wasn’t quite sure.

  “Do you think the roommate will even be around?” Declan asked. “It’s nearly ten now. And school hasn’t started yet for the fall term.”

  “Maybe it hasn’t here, but Frosh Week certainly has. You know, the week before school begins when everyone parties before hitting the books again. I know of no student, even if they’re not new, who would miss that.”

  “Fair point. Guess it’s been a while since I’ve been in school. Do you want to drive or should I?”

  Chaz grinned. After that long flight where he’d had no control, he took the keys without a second thought.

  The campus was unruly. Far too many kids drinking underage and playing music too loud. Declan looked as if he was about to write up a citation for everyone in the middle of the quad, but he controlled himself. When Chaz noticed his AA chip in his hand again, he understood. The partying died down as they reached the row of housing where Patrick and Wannong lived. The halls were quiet, along with each room. They reached a plaque that declared it to be the Hewitt Division, devoted to the study of Math and Science. The scholarship wing. There was no doubt in his mind now that Wannong would be there tonight.

  Wannong answered the door, wearing a college sweater and with bags under his eyes. As soon as he saw their badges, he opened his door farther and welcomed them inside. He gestured to the chair on what must have been Patrick’s side of the room since it was unkempt.

  “He’s been gone for three weeks,” Wannong repeated. “I didn’t know he was dead.”

  “Hold on a second. We have to be sure the body we found, and that you may have heard about on TV, are the same,” Chaz said, though his stomach sank as he saw more photos of Patrick. This was the kid. “Are you sure Patrick didn’t go home for summer break?”

  “No. He hated his parents. I’m pretty sure they stopped talking ages ago.”

  “Why?”

  Wannong shrugged. “Why do most kids stop talking to their parents? You disagree on something and think you can never figure out a solution. So the calls and e-mails stop coming in and you wait for someone to break the silence.”

  “Sounds like you have a lot of experience,” Declan said. “Are you close with your parents?”

  Wannong furrowed his brow. “What does that matter?”

  “This wing,” Declan said, referring to the house. “It’s for people with scholarships. People who get bursaries and grants. People who can’t depend on their parents, so they depend on the school.”

  “Not always,” Wannong said. “Patrick lost his scholarship ages ago.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Didn’t take the classes that he needed, and then the money was gone. He also used to party a lot.”

  “Like the stuff we passed by for Frosh Week?” Chaz asked.

  “No. Like in town, in the city. With different people, I’m not too sure. Sometimes they’d call him and he’d go out. He never brought them back, though. He knew I needed to study or my scholarship was gone.”

  “We know Patrick wasn’t going to drop out,” Chaz said. “He registered for classes. So how did he pay the bills for it? Do you know?”

  Wannong thought for a moment. “I think in cash. He always had some and he was guarding a box under his bed when the don came in to check on him. My guess was that he was selling drugs.”

  “Yeah?” Declan asked. “You ever look under the bed?”

  “No,” Wannong said, and Chaz believed him. “I have no time to do that.”

  “But you have time to file a police report?”

  Again Wannong shrugged. “When people go missing, it’s a big deal. Drugs in this town aren’t.”

  “Thank y
ou for your time, then,” Chaz said. “Do you mind if we look through Patrick’s things?”

  “Go ahead. I don’t know what to do with it… now that….”

  “Hey, don’t worry,” Chaz said. “We’ll send someone by to gather it. You won’t have to.”

  Wannong nodded but worried his lip. “Is Patrick going to get a funeral?”

  “Yes,” Declan said, stepping in when Chaz was struck silent. “But not for a while. His body needs to stay in the morgue, and we need to do some tests.”

  “The city will pay for it,” Chaz said. “They always do for crimes like this.”

  That seemed to be what Wannong needed to hear. When Chaz and Declan asked him to leave the room, he gathered his laptop and headphones and sat out in the hallway to work. When Wannong opened a document filled with equations, Chaz caught a glimpse of his screen and noticed the livestreaming icon of the Citizen’s Brigade for Toronto. Chaz had a feeling come morning, the mermaid boy would have some more information added to his story.

  “Why did you say that?” Declan asked, whispering close to Chaz’s ear. “About the funeral? The city doesn’t have a budget for that, does it?”

  “No. But it’s clear they were close. And I wanted to give him something to help him sleep.”

  Declan considered this for a moment, then nodded. “I don’t like lying but understand when it’s part of something like this. Shall we go searching?”

  Chaz peeled back the sheets, checking to see if anything had been caught or twisted in them, like receipts or condom wrappers—anything to piece together this boy’s life.

  After the investigation was done, his body would most likely be cremated and cut with salt. It was the new standard that all bodies went through, monster or not. When the bodies of supernaturals were found on the street, burning and cutting with salt—or quartz—was the easiest way to be sure they didn’t become problems again. For humans, well, it was just easier than burying them in a pauper’s grave for ghouls or witches to dig up. Chaz didn’t like it, but there was nothing he could do, short of burying the boy and paying for the hex-protection himself. If Chaz opened that door, too many lost souls would come through.

  Maybe the parents will shape up, Chaz thought. Even if they were upset with Patrick before, nothing reunited families as fast as a death.

  Finding nothing in the bed, Chaz slipped to his knees and looked under it. There was no box of cash, nothing but endless rolls of scrunched up papers, syllabi for classes, and unopened textbooks. Nothing that screamed drug dealer or even sex-trafficked victim. The random parties and men were suspicious, but what the hell else would a kid in university, estranged from his family, do? Patrick’s life from family reject to drug dealer who got on the wrong shipping boat only to be bitten by a vampire pimp started to make a kind of unfortunate sense.

  Declan sat at Patrick’s desk and opened up every single drawer in a huff.

  “You find anything?” Chaz asked.

  “Nope, no cash at all. Only more and more condoms. Which tells me nothing other than good for him for practicing safe sex. Oh, and some magazines.”

  “Magazines? What kind?” Chaz scooted closer to the desk. Declan flipped the magazine so Chaz could see the cover of something called Desire on Fire. The font was big and wispy and pink. Chaz’s stomach dropped.

  “It’s a sex brochure,” he said. “Flip to the back pages.”

  Declan furrowed his brow as he did so. It only took them three seconds before they found the photo of Patrick in one of the quarter-page ads. He wasn’t wearing a shirt and was posing with his arms in a laid-back stance. His lips were pink, the same shade as the writing underneath that declared a phone number and called Patrick a Cupid For Hire. He had no arm hair, stubble, or even chest hair—but looked exactly like the cherub figure he claimed to be.

  “What is this?” Declan asked, looking disgusted.

  “He’s… not a drug dealer. He’s a sex worker. This is where he was advertising.”

  “Oh. God. So he was trafficked?”

  “Probably. Chances are, if he was freelancing to pay his bills, he took out ads like this and had someone aggregate his clients. Either that person—or one of his clients—sold him to a trader from the Bloody Hearts cartel. He makes it to Ontario, but the vampire pimp doesn’t like him. Maybe makes an example out of him. And boom, there are the ten days we’re missing from his life, and then the three he had on the boat. Fuck.”

  “Fuck,” Declan echoed. “Do you… do you think?”

  “That the roomie knew? Probably not. Even if he did, chances are he’s not involved.”

  “But what if he sold him out? To pay tuition?”

  Chaz made a face. “That’s cold. I don’t think….”

  “People do things for a lot of strange reasons. Money, power, glory. This could be a simple exchange.”

  The cold and calculating nature of the hypothetical crime made Chaz’s stomach churn. Wannong hadn’t done this, he was sure, but he insisted to Declan that they’d get Jack to run the kid’s financials. If he did sell out his roomie, he’d be flush with cash. He wouldn’t be studying to keep a scholarship like he was right then as everyone else partied.

  “So that’s it?” Declan said. “Run the financials and wait?”

  Chaz was about to nod, but then he grabbed his cell. He dialed the number below Patrick’s posed body and waited. He was shocked when it didn’t lead to a phone hidden in the room or that the number wasn’t disconnected. Someone picked up instead.

  “Hello?” The voice was gruff, with a thick accent Chaz couldn’t decipher. “Hello?”

  “Hi. I was… looking at this magazine picture for the Cupid for Hire?”

  “Ah yes. Nice boy. Just turned eighteen. What do you want to do?”

  “Um… I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.” Chaz swallowed. He tried to make his voice sound nervous, knowing that if he was talking to the pimp, he’d be likelier to sell to a novice who was more afraid of being persecuted by the police. “I’m not even sure this is legal.”

  “It is. Boy only goes out to dinner, and from there you see if Cupid’s arrow makes you fall in love. I can get you date, but the rest is up to you.”

  “That sounds fair, then. Where… where can I meet you?”

  “You don’t meet me. You meet boy at diner. I’m putting you down now for date.”

  “That’s great. But how do I contact you if no one shows?”

  The phone hung up. No good-bye, no second chances. Chaz stared at the blinking number on his cell phone before it faded away. “I’m not sure if I just made a date or I was made.”

  “He’s going to know it’s a cop’s phone. Even if you weren’t pegged as one, he’s probably running the number now.”

  “True. But we can do the same thing to him. We have the number and know it’s in use.”

  Chaz dialed the crime lab’s nighttime staff in Toronto. He fed them the details on the ad, the magazine publisher, and then the number itself. The tech, Gordon, came back with it as a burner cell number; nothing they could do. But they were able to see what cell towers the burner had used to get an approximate area. Gordon spat out a couple random addresses in Winnipeg that Chaz repeated out loud so Declan could write them down.

  “All those addresses are scattered,” Declan said. “They’re too random to find a pattern.”

  “Hmm. You hear that, Gordon?” Chaz asked, then put the phone on speaker after updating him with some more details about what they’d found. “Can we go on anything else?”

  “Well, what does the ad look like?” Gordon asked. “I have the publication pulled up, but I think it’d be helpful to see what else is going on.”

  “I’ll take a photo and send it,” Chaz said.

  When Gordon came back, he told Chaz what he already figured. “Sex magazine, but you know, they don’t advertise anything that’s illegal. The distributor is in the middle of those cell towers, but so is half of Winnipeg.”

  Chaz sigh
ed. “Thanks, but we need more than that.”

  “Well, you’re thinking vamp, right? For the killer?”

  “Or the pimp who took him over. Why?”

  “There’s a known vampire den in that area. The local cops faxed us some of their reports to see if it matched up with us. There’s been a recent string of suspicious deaths in the den, like usual, but it’s never come to our attention until now.”

  “Really? Suspicious deaths don’t come to the police’s attention?” Chaz had to stifle his fury, especially when Gordon gave him the predictable response.

  “You know how it is. Police force is stretched so thin, and suspicious deaths aren’t a crime—they’re a mystery where the complainant is dead—and the police force has much better things to work on, like gang activity, than a bunch of vamps pegging one another off.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know.” Chaz had seen enough deaths in Toronto labeled “suspicious” but never investigated. It was code for “monster probably killed by another monster” and never prosecuted since convictions were too hard. “But people never think about the cost of not doing something, you know? If vamps start to peg off humans, where are we then?”

  “I don’t know, man. That’s a philosophical question, and I’m a tech man.”

  “Right. Sorry. I’m just… tired. Can you give me the exact address, Gordon?” Chaz relayed the information to Declan, who programmed the address into his phone’s mapping program. Along with the magazine outlet and the possible cell towers, they were gradually narrowing down a search area.

  “Anything else?” Gordon asked. “Something odd you remember?”

  Chaz thought for a moment before he remembered the man’s voice in his ear. “What about accents?”

  “What kind of accents?”

  “That’s the thing,” Chaz said. “I’m really bad at them. But this guy I talked to sounded… maybe Eastern European?”