by Battis, Jes
Now it was time to plan. Or panic. Whichever came first.
“So it was really Patrick? I mean—really?”
“Yes, really! Do you think I need bifocals?”
“I think you may have drunk too many iced Americanos, and you know how your vision gets fuzzy when that happens.”
“Derrick, I saw what I saw. He goes to her school. I mean, Jesus . . .” I shook my head. “They’re so close. They’re practically friends. And this has been going on for almost a year!”
“There’s no way we could have known. Obviously, Caitlin has kept his whereabouts a secret from everyone—”
“But she wanted us to find him. I mean, it can’t be a coincidence, right? She’s playing with us, Derrick. She’s planning something. And after what Ben dug up at the lab, you know that she’s involved in these killings somehow.”
Derrick sat down cross-legged on the floor. “Let’s try to come at this without being too reactionary. If Caitlin’s trying to put Mia and Patrick together somehow—trying to keep them close—maybe it’s because she thinks we can help. Like, we can keep an eye on both of them or something. Maybe she needs our help.”
“She can bench-press a car, Derrick. Why would she need our help?”
He shrugged. “She obviously knows something that we don’t.”
“She’s the only one who’s been alive long enough to give us any real context on these killings. She knew him, or her, or it—that’s the word Duessa used. Whatever ‘it’ is, Caitlin’s one of the few people who ever caught the live show.”
“Well, if we can find Patrick, it stands to reason we can find Caitlin.”
“But we only found him because she wanted us to. He could be staying in a hotel for all we know.”
“Only one way to find out.” He grinned. “I’ll go get my laptop. We can get remote access to the CORE databases here.”
“You might want to call Miles, too. If we end up pulling an address, he could be useful when we visit the actual site.”
“Oh.” He looked flustery for a second. “Yeah, of course, he’s got mad skills with the spatial profiling, right? I’ll call him. I mean”—he blinked—“he gave us his number, right? It’s probably in my cell.”
“On speed dial?”
He stuck his tongue out. “Shut up.”
“Your crush is seven shades of adorable, but for now, we’ve got to focus. Is that going to be a problem?”
His eyes narrowed. “I don’t know, Tess. Maybe we should invite Lucian over. After all, there might be necromancy involved, right?”
I tried to keep my expression cool. “There might be.”
“Maybe he’ll wear that little tank top ensemble that he’s so fond of. Will that be a problem for you?”
“Point taken, betch. Now grab the computer and call Sedgwick.”
For someone who’d just eaten his weight in spareribs, he ran down the hallway with surprising speed.
Twenty minutes later, Miles arrived with Baron in tow. He’d opted to take a cab, reasoning that he could always bill the CORE later. I think he was secretly afraid of the Festiva, which made a lot of sense.
“The Scooby gang’s all here,” I said, smiling as he walked up the stairs with Baron, who looked sedate, as always.
Miles smirked at me. “How long have you been wanting to say that?”
“Since the end of Buffy season seven.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Miles sat on the couch, and Baron collapsed beside him, tongue lolling.
“Does he need any food or water?” I asked, suddenly switching into some type of cross-species mother mode.
“No. He’s my familiar, so he just feeds off my vital essence.”
We both stared at him.
Miles laughed. “He’s fine! We’re both fine. Don’t worry, he’s not a weredog or anything like that.” He made the sign for “dog,” which was mimetic: two quick pats on his right thigh, as if he were saying, “C’mere.” Baron perked up his ears.
“No, he’s just the cutest pup in the whole world.” Derrick was instantly down on all fours, rubbing Baron’s ears. “Yessir, Mr. Puppy! Aren’t you?”
“Miles, tell him to focus. Please.”
Baron rolled onto his back, paws kicking the air like he was riding a bicycle. Derrick unceremoniously buried his head in the dog’s belly. His comments after that became inaudible.
“Hey. Dog Whisperer.” Miles tapped him on the shoulder. He looked up sheepishly, and Miles made a gesture: both hands gliding together, meeting at the fingertips. Focus. He raised an eyebrow.
“Gotcha.” Derrick sat up. “I’m all ears.”
Baron looked dissatisfied for a moment, but then lost interest and curled up into a comma shape, falling asleep at the foot of the couch.
“All right.” I pushed the laptop in their direction. “Here’s what we’ve got so far. I pulled Patrick’s school records at Lord Byron, and he’s listed as living at 418 Victoria Drive. That puts him in the right school district.”
Patrick’s smiling face was displayed on his school ID. He looked like anything but a vampire magnate potential. His brown hair was messy, and I wanted to smooth it down like my mother used to do for me.
“Tracing the address was simple. It comes up as a cute little rancher. Nothing flashy, just your standard late-seventies house in East Vancouver. The kind built just before the Expo boom that went up a million dollars in price only a few years later. But . . .”
I clicked on another window. A scanned PDF document appeared—it was a rental agreement.
“I called Becka and had her trace the rental papers. As you can see, they were signed by a Lindsey Cole”—I gestured to the digital signature—“which is a dummy name for Caitlin Siobhan. I cross-checked it against Patrick’s school records, and his emergency contact is none other than Lindsey Cole. But look at the landlord’s signature on the bottom.”
“Tamara Whitehall,” Derrick read. “Who’s she?”
“That’s a good question. I searched through some real estate databases to see if she owned any other properties. And guess what?”
I clicked a third window, and another rental PDF appeared.
“Tamara Whitehall rented an apartment to someone named Katrina Glass. A two-bedroom on Nanaimo and Penticton streets. And look at the dates.”
“They’re within days of each other.” Miles peered at the screen. “Do we have anything on this Tamara Whitehall?”
“Not on her, no. But her sister has a record.” I pulled up a CORE datasheet. “Brynn Peterson. She was arrested four years ago under the Communicating Act. She used to work out of the Sawbones. And Tamara posted bail for her.”
Brynn Peterson looked rough. Thinning blond hair, bleary eyes, a few scattered sores on her face. Her lips were cracked and slightly parted in the image. She looked ancient and far away, despite her recorded age of twenty-two.
“Meth-head,” Derrick observed.
I nodded. “So, it seems that Tamara Whitehall has some skeletons in her closet. Maybe she owed Caitlin a few favors?”
“Maybe Caitlin helped her out with Brynn,” Miles added. “Or she made sure that Tamara never ended up in a CORE holding cell.”
“And Caitlin knows all about the mystical sex trade.” Derrick leaned forward. “She’d know how to get Brynn out of the game. Maybe she even called in a favor with Duessa.”
“Either way, this apartment has got to be where Patrick’s living. A two-bedroom on Nanaimo, just out of the school district, but close enough for a bus ride?” I shook my head. “There’s no way it could be a coincidence.”
“So, what do you think? Should we call Selena?”
“Not yet. I want to drive by the place first.”
Derrick gave me a level look. “Oh, so we’re breaking policy again. And what will our story be this time?”
“There’s nothing wrong with driving by someone’s house. It’s not against any CORE directives.”
“Oh, and if Mile
s happens to pick up a vibe from the place—what—that’s just icing on the cake? And we’ll file it with Selena in the morning?”
“Don’t get all Deputy Dog on me. It’s a preliminary sweep. We’ll talk to Selena once we find out more.”
Miles shrugged. “I actually agree with Tess. Driving by a house doesn’t really constitute a full-scale investigation. And wouldn’t Detective Ward want us to gather as much information as possible before reporting back to her?”
“Tess has a history of neglecting to report back to Detective Ward,” Derrick clarified. “In fact, we’re both on her permanent shit list.”
“Well then.” Miles grinned. “If you’re already in trouble, it can’t hurt you much more, can it?”
“I love how you think, Miles.” I smiled at him. “Did you bring your piece?”
He patted his jacket. “I’ve got a permit to carry concealed. I hope it’s still valid in British Columbia.”
“Nobody’s going to be pulling us over tonight.”
“Hey! Hold it!” Derrick spread his arms. “Not to rain on your SWAT parade, but let’s just take a moment to consider this.” His eyes were steely. “Caitlin signed the dummy rental for a reason. She’s hiding, and she doesn’t particularly want us coming by for a nightcap. Do we really want to piss her off?”
“She’s hiding well enough from normates, but Caitlin’s smart enough to know that we’d find her pretty quick if we tried. I think she wants to establish contact.”
“The problem is, I don’t want to establish contact with her fangs. She may not be magnate anymore, but she’s still a centuries-old vampire. And from what you told me about Patrick, he’s got a lot of power as well. Dangerous, unfocused power. So what happens if they catch us snooping around their apartment?”
“If Caitlin wanted to kick our ass, I think she’d have done it by now.” I gave him a reassuring smile. “Derrick, we’ll play it safe. I promise. If any of us gets a bad feeling, you have my permission to turn the car around. We’ll drive straight to the lab.”
He ground his teeth. “What about Mia? I’m not leaving her alone.”
Miles shrugged. “I don’t mind staying here and watching her.”
“Well, she’s fourteen, so it’s not like you’d be baby-sitting. She’ll probably be asleep the whole time. But just in case . . .”
“Totally. I don’t mind at all.”
“Mia’s going to freak out if she wakes up,” Derrick said. “What if she maces him, or gives him a head injury?”
“I can hold my own.” Miles smiled. “And if something else comes knocking, I’ve got the Sig Sauer.” He looked at Derrick. “My abilities wouldn’t be much help unless I was practically on her doorstep anyway. You should be able to read the scene yourself. I’ve got complete confidence in you.”
Derrick blushed a little. “Thanks. But you’ve got me whipped in that department. With your powers, I mean.”
Miles grinned and signed something quickly: Both hands moved past each other in the O position; then he placed the knuckles of his right hand to his chin, pinkie and thumb extended, and shook his head lightly. He brought both hands together in a thumbs-up sign, and concluded with what was quite obviously a whipping motion. He stuck his tongue out mischeviously at Derrick, whose blush deepened. I didn’t need a cerfificate in ASL to translate:
Nothing wrong with being whipped.
The drive to Nanaimo was short and tense, as Derrick fiddled with the radio and I watched the dark, serpentine expanse of Hastings Street gliding by like a river of asphalt. Vancouver’s answer to the Nile. We passed the Native Community Center, along with scattered cafés and restaurants that were like outposts on some strange journey between pockets of the city proper. Traffic jammed up as we got closer to the intersection of Nanaimo and Hastings. Residents crowded into Donald’s discount supermarket before it closed, and I spied a few couples sitting at the Sweet Tooth Café, sharing one of their epic cinnamon buns (they also served pretty decent Thai food, incidentally). The Roundel was packed with young hipster parents, spearing forkfuls of organic greens and braised tofu while their kids lounged in SUV-sized prams or shoulder Björns. The cook there yelled at me once because I didn’t finish my tempeh steak. A few skater punks loitered outside the liquor store, rubbing their hands and smoking to keep warm, hoping that someone might buy them a six-pack of Coors. Music drifted indolently from a side street. It sounded like Eva Cassidy.
We turned down Penticton, just past the London Drugs, and everything went quiet. Magnolia trees flamed silently out the windows. A stray tricycle was parked against the curb, and the elementary school across the street was empty and still. Derrick pulled up to a small church on the corner of the block, which advertised Christian yoga. He cut the engine and shifted in his seat.
“Why park by the church?”
He shrugged. “Holy ground? Maybe she can’t get us here.”
“I think that’s only true in Highlander.”
“Oh. Shit.” He sighed. “Well, the apartment’s in plain sight, at least.”
It was one of those disorganized multistory East Vancouver houses that had been partitioned into apartments years ago. Not the kind of place I’d expect Caitlin to live, but then again, I really didn’t know anything about her. Maybe she appreciated old, idiosyncratic things. And bad plumbing. Maybe the place had been gutted and completely redone. I suddenly pictured her on an episode of Trading Spaces, explaining why she’d gone with eggplant walls for the living room. Come to think of it, with that brilliant red hair, she did look a bit like Laurie Hickson-Smith. Why did vampires and designers always have such great hair?
“What now?” Derrick asked. “Should we have stopped by a Tim’s?”
“Ugh. No, I don’t want any more coffee. Let’s just wait.”
“Can we listen to music?”
I glared at him. “Haven’t you ever been on a stakeout before? We have to stay tense and keep our concentration razor-sharp.”
“Goldfrapp helps me concentrate.”
I rolled my eyes. “Fine. Put the radio back on.”
Ten minutes passed. Not a single person walked by, and the house remained still. I tapped my fingers against the car window. Maybe we should have grabbed a coffee.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Derrick said.
“That’s because you’re a telepath.”
“But it’s no less true.” He raised an eyebrow. “I saw a newspaper dispenser at the corner of Nanaimo.”
“Crossword?”
“They had 24. The good crossword, not the pansy one.”
“But we’ll need coffee.”
“Roundel’s still open.”
I sighed. “Derrick, we may be the worst cops ever.”
“We’re not cops. We’re OSI investigators. Our pension is much better.” He smiled. “Besides. I’ll only be gone for a few minutes, and you can stay here. On The Wire, they always have coffee and newspapers.”
“And Omar.”
“I loves me some Omar, true.”
I exhaled. “Fine. But hurry. And be careful.”
“It’s less than a block away. I’m not going to New Westminster.”
“You know what I mean.”
He nodded. “Got any money?”
“Oh, for . . .” I rummaged through my purse and pulled out a crumpled twenty. “Get me a Twix while you’re at it.”
“Then I have to go to the corner . . .” He blinked when he saw my look. “Right-o, chocolate on demand. See you in a bit.”
I watched him lope down the street. Derrick had a certain kind of affable walk, as if his whole body exuded a kind of gentility. He was a good person. You knew he was a good person just by looking at him. I didn’t have that. I didn’t know how to get it. These days, I didn’t know much of anything except for how to work the TiVo.
Who knew if Caitlin would ever come outside? In a few moments, Derrick would be back, and we’d tear into a crossword. That was my life. And it was a good life. Someti
mes I felt stabbed with joy whenever I thought about my life, about how full it was and how confusing at the same time. But a small, persistent part of me wondered if I hadn’t opted out of a very different dream. What if I’d really concentrated on dating and meeting new friends and all of that shit that’s supposed to make you happy? What if I hadn’t bailed on that nice, normate banker guy who lived in the West End? It wasn’t his fault that his name was Lorne. Just because I couldn’t picture myself yelling out “Lorne” in the bedroom—that was my bad, not his. And who yelled out stuff anyways? What had I been expecting?
I met Derrick when I was just starting college. Those were premium dating years, and during the course of our friendship, I’d barely been out on more than a dozen blind dates or setups. I’d slept with a few guys, nobody special, most of them forgettable, like those sentences in a manuscript that you cross out later once you’re thinking more clearly. Nothing like that almost-night with Lucian. We hadn’t even got to the good stuff. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t still think about it. Frequently.
Was Lucian Agrado the closest thing to a “normal” guy in my life? How sad was that? Why was it so hard to meet a nice bookstore clerk or barista or waiter? I was twenty-five years old, and I didn’t have a single friend who wasn’t paranormally inclined.
Maybe I just wasn’t trying hard enough. The city was full of normal people, right? I mean, statistically, it had to be true. So why wasn’t I meeting any of them? Did I have to stand in the street and wave my arms?
I thought about the possibility of Derrick and Miles. They could be really good for each other. So why did I feel the sharp edge of jealousy whenever I pictured them together, like something nibbling at the base of my spine? Derrick had given up a lot in his life. Unlike me, he’d actually been in a real, committed relationship. But he broke the rules. He said too much, and the guy bolted. It seemed like a shitty payback for one moment of honesty.
Derrick should be happy. Miles seemed genuinely interested in him, and Derrick was obviously into Miles, given how his brain dissolved like tapioca whenever the dude was nearby. I pictured them doing a crossword together. Miles laughing and pointing to a horizontal clue, the cap of the pen dangling from his mouth. Derrick nodding, leaning forward, pressing his lips to Miles’s forehead as he spelled out VERNAL. Miles in blue jeans and a rumpled T-shirt, bare feet resting on Derrick’s lap. Matching iced coffees sitting together on the end table by the couch.