"I thought cops only did stuff like that in the movies," Doc said. "That's fucking amazing, Stan."
Since I knew that Doc had inherited some big bucks, it wasn't hard to work backwards and look for signs of affluence. But I had no intention of telling him that.
I followed Karl to the door, then turned back. Looking at Doc with what I hoped was a straight face, I said, "It was quite elementary, my dear Watson."
Doc's building isn't in a high crime area, and I wasn't worried about the police-issue Buick we drove getting stolen or stripped. As we came outside and turned the corner, I saw that I'd been right – the car was still there, and wasn't missing anything. But something had been added, in the form of the ghoul who was leaning against the driver's door.
I can recognize a ghoul on sight. I don't even need to smell his breath, although you can usually do that from several feet away, and it isn't pleasant. Their diet has what you might call a distinctive odor. They're all short, too. Not dwarf short, but I've never seen a ghoul who topped five foot six, and this one was no exception. He had a goatee like Doc Watson's, but where Doc looked suave and a little sinister, this flesh-muncher came across like a beatnik that had wandered through a 1950s time warp. I half expected to hear him call me "Daddy-o."
Karl and I braced him from about six feet away, where his breath wasn't too bad. "You leaning on our ride because you got no place else to be?" I asked him. "Or do you want something?"
He took his time straightening up, as if it was his own idea and not a strong suggestion from a representative of law and order. He stared at Karl for a couple of seconds, then turned to me.
"You'd be Sergeant Markowski," he said.
"Tell me something I don't know," I said. "Like who you are, and what's on your mind."
"You may call me Nikolai, if you wish," the ghoul said. "As to my purpose, it is to tell you that an important man would like to see you."
"If the president sent you, tell him I'm busy," I said. "I didn't vote for him, anyway."
He gave me a tight little smile. "Not someone quite that important, perhaps. But he is – or rather he represents – a man of substance, who has an interest in your current case."
"We usually have several cases going at once," Karl told him. "Which one does your 'man of substance' have in mind?"
The ghoul looked at Karl again, his eyes narrowed. After a moment he said, "Interesting. I was not told that the police employed nosferatu."
"My name's not nosferatu, it's Renfer. Detective Renfer. And I asked you a question, punk."
Karl's a James Bond nut, but now it sounded like he'd been watching one of Clint Eastwood's old "Dirty Harry, Monster Slayer" movies.
He didn't seem to scare Nikolai. The ghoul looked Karl up and down before turning his gaze back to me. "I refer to the case of those… unsettling… DVDs, and the persons who are making them."
Calling those DVDs "unsettling" was like telling a Jew that the Holocaust had been an "inconvenience". I guess Nikolai hadn't been affected by those horror shows the way Karl and I had. Maybe he'd even enjoyed them.
"What do you know about those?" I asked him.
"I?" The ghoul touched fingertips to his chest in an exaggerated show of innocence. "I know very little. But the man who sent me knows rather more. That is why he wishes to speak to you… officers."
"And what's his name?" Karl asked. From the tone of his voice, he was getting ready to go all Dirty Harry on this little prick – for real. I was tempted to let him.
"I'm sure he would rather tell you that himself, in person," the ghoul said. "I have a car parked down the block. If you would accompany me…?" He reached one hand into his pants pocket, but before he could withdraw it, the barrel of my Beretta was pressing against his forehead. "Don't," I said.
The ghoul became as still as if he'd just been exposed to a Gorgon statue. My weapon was loaded with a mix of silver and cold iron, either of which would decorate the roof of the car with Nikolai's brains. Ghouls live a long time, but they're not immortal – and they sure as shit aren't invulnerable.
"Two things," I said. "One: we're not going anywhere with you. Tell us where your mysterious employer is, and we'll consider paying a call on him sometime. Two: unless you're just real glad to see us, I'm pretty sure that pocket you're reaching into contains a good-sized knife, probably a switchblade, which is illegal in this state. If your hand comes out holding anything but car keys, I'll give you a third eye – right between the two you have now. Understand me?"
The little bastard's eyes were wide now, and instead of another smart-ass remark, he just said, "Uh-huh."
"Not to worry, though," Karl said, and I could hear the nasty smile in his voice. "If things don't work out for you, there's a real nice funeral home here in town, run by a guy named Barney Ghougle. That's not his real name, but it's what we all call him. Maybe he's a relative of yours? I bet he'd find you real tasty."
Although ghouls eat human flesh, they are terrified by the idea that someone might do the same to them after death. That's why every ghoul I've ever known has standing instructions for cremation when they die. Go figure.
Even in the feeble light from a nearby street lamp, I could see that the ghoul was sweating now. He said, "I – I meant no offense, I assure you."
"Of course you didn't," I said, without moving the gun a millimeter. "Now – where does your boss hang out?"
"Radisson hotel, room 431." It was like he couldn't get the words out fast enough.
"And his name?" I pressed the muzzle against his skull a little harder.
"Milo. His name is Milo."
"Milo what?"
"We just c-call him Mister Milo. Dunno his first name."
I took the gun away from his forehead and stepped back. "Tell Mister Milo that we'll be around to see him sometime, and if he gives us any shit I'll make him regret it. Follow me?"
A slight nod, as if he was still afraid to move his head. "Yessir."
"Now blow."
He blew.
I made no move to get into the car. Instead, I stood watching the ghoul as he rapidly walked down the street.
After a couple of seconds, Karl looked at me. "What?"
"I want to see what he's driving," I said. "Here's hoping he didn't park around the corner."
I needn't have worried. About half a block away now, Nikolai was unlocking a car parked at the curb. As he pulled away, I got a better look at his ride: a big sedan that looked like an Oldsmobile, probably rented.
"Can you get his license number?" I asked Karl. Not only do vampires see in the dark, but their distance vision is a lot better than a human's.
Karl got up on his toes for a better look. "Pennsylvania plates PLV 198," he said.
"Good, thanks." I reached for my car keys. "Get in."
Inside the car, Karl looked at me again. "You've got something cookin', don't you?"
"Despite what I told Nikolai, you know there's no way we're waiting a couple of days to follow up on a possible lead. Not for this case."
"Yeah, that's what I figured."
"And I wanna brace this Mister Milo when he's not expecting us, try to catch him off balance. I want every edge we can get."
"But he'll know we're coming sometime," Karl said. "You already told his pet ghoul."
"Yeah, but he doesn't know it yet."
I reached for the police radio.
"Dispatch, this is Markowski."
"Read you loud and clear, Sergeant," the female voice said crisply.
"Is there a patrol unit anywhere near the 700 block of Taylor Avenue?"
"Wait one."
She was back within ten seconds. "Roger that, Sergeant. A black-and-white is three blocks away, on Prescott. Do you want them directed to your location?"
"Negative, but patch me through to their unit, will you?"
"Roger. Wait one."
It wasn't long before I was listening to a male voice saying, "This is Four Baker Nine. Over."
"Is that
you, Bradshaw? It's Markowski."
"Yeah, it's me, Stan. What do you got?"
"A dark green Olds heading north on Taylor from downtown, Pennsylvania license PLV 198. You have reason to believe that the driver is wanted for questioning."
"Is he? Wanted for questioning, I mean."
"Better you should be able to say you never knew the answer to that," I said. "But if you frisk the driver, who's a ghoul calls himself Nikolai, you'll probably find an illegal weapon, which will allow you to bring him in."
"What kind of weapon? Is he packing?"
"Just a switchblade, far as I know."
"OK, Stan. But you owe Meyer and me a cold beer."
"I'll buy you two apiece," I said. "Thanks."
As I put the radio back in its bracket, Karl said, "So, Nikolai isn't going to be reporting to his boss anytime soon."
"That's the idea." I started the engine.
"He might've done it already, by phone."
"Could be." I was watching the traffic, waiting for a gap to pull into. "But if this Mister Milo is a big enough player to have a ghoul as an errand boy, he might be too paranoid to talk business on the phone. A lot of them are, you know."
Karl fastened his seat belt. "So, I guess I don't need to ask where we're heading now."
"Not unless you've started eating Stupid Flakes for breakfast."
"I don't eat breakfast anymore, Stan. Strictly speaking."
"Just an expression." I pulled away from the curb, made an illegal U-turn, and headed for the Radisson hotel.
The Radisson is in what used to be the old Lackawanna train station. They've kept the basic architecture of the building, but spent a lot of money on the interior to make it the best hotel in town. All modern conveniences at the Radisson.
The fifth floor is known as "Floor V" – which means it's specially designed to accommodate guests of the undead persuasion. Each of the rooms has two layers of blackout curtains, and when you click on Do Not Disturb from inside, it triple-locks the door. Room service has a special "Midnight Menu" that's heavy on Type A and Type O, either whole blood or plasma. If you prefer your nourishment directly from the source, the hotel has certain employees who will pay a discreet visit to your room, and depart a pint or two lighter – in return for a very good tip. It's interesting that selling your body's still illegal, but taking money for your blood isn't.
Mister Milo was on Four, which meant that whatever else he was, he wasn't a vamp.
I gave the door to 431 the three hard raps that most cops use, although I don't know why. I guess it's supposed to send a message to those inside that somebody in the hall wants your attention, and wants it now.
The door opened a little. It was on its chain and through the six-inch gap I could see what I was pretty sure was another ghoul looking out at me. I had my ID folder ready, and I made sure the guy inside got a good look at my badge. "We're here to see Mister Milo," I said. "Open up."
"Well, I'll have to see–" the ghoul began.
"No," I said. "What you have to do is close that door just long enough to drop the chain, then open it again. Because if that door isn't open three seconds from now, I'll kick it down on top of you. Do it."
The door was new-looking and solid, and I probably couldn't have kicked it down on the best day I've ever had. But I bet Karl could've, even if he wouldn't be able to go inside afterward, without an invitation.
The ghoul looked at me for a second, his eyes widening. I heard a voice from somewhere behind him say, calmly, "Do as the man says."
The door closed hastily. A moment later, I heard the sound of the security chain being disengaged, then the ghoul opened up, all the way this time. I walked right at him, figuring he wouldn't want to play linebacker with me. He scrambled aside and I said over my shoulder to Karl, "Come on in."
We were in the living room of what was obviously a suite. It contained a coffee table, big-screen TV, a desk, some overstuffed chairs and a sofa where a man had just been seated. As he stood up, I saw that Mister Milo was human, or appeared to be.
He was below average height, which still made him taller than his ghoul gofer. He had slicked-down brown hair, a thin mustache, and a suit that probably didn't cost much more than my car when it was new.
He walked toward us, a pleasant expression on his face, and extended a hand. I'm not usually inclined to shake with lowlifes, but this time I thought I might learn a couple of things so I went along.
As he grasped my hand I said, "Sergeant Markowski, Scranton PD." When he let go and turned to Karl I said, "And this is Detective Karl Renfer."
The handshake backed up my conclusion that Mister Milo was human. His skin was too warm to be a vampire, and he lacked the small patch of hair on his palm that is characteristic of weres. Of course, that didn't rule out the possibility that he was a practitioner of some kind.
He let go of Karl's hand, stepped back, and said, "The fact that you're here means that you already know who I am."
"I was told the name was Milo," I said. "But I don't know if that's first or last."
He gave me a tight smile. "It's both, actually."
"Your name's Milo Milo?" I didn't let the humor I was feeling touch my face or voice, I hope.
"That's correct. My parents had an unfortunate affection for the novel Catch-22 by Joseph Heller. They thought it would be… amusing to name me as they did."
"No offense," Karl said, "but I'd want to have a long talk with my parents about that when I grew up."
"Oh, I agree with the impulse, Detective, but I never got the chance," Milo said. "When I was fifteen, our house caught fire in the middle of the night. Both Mommy and Daddy were burned to death. It was very sad." He might have been discussing something that happened to people he'd read about in a book on ancient history.
He made a gesture toward the armchairs. "Shall we sit down, gentlemen?"
When we were all seated, I looked toward the ghoul, who was still standing near the door. He was pissed off and trying not to show it.
"Do you want to talk private business with him here?"
"I trust all of my associates implicitly," Milo said; then, with barely a pause, told the ghoul, "You can go for a walk, Winthrop – but don't go too far. I'll call you when I need you."
The ghoul left without a word, but he still didn't look happy. "You ever wonder why all ghouls have such fancyass names?" I asked Milo.
"No, I haven't actually," he said. "But, tell me – what would your reaction be if you met one who called himself Rex, or maybe Spike?"
"I'd probably laugh out loud," I said.
"That may be the reason, then." Milo, who was back on the sofa, leaned forward. "Let me get to the reason I wished to have a conversation with you officers, which is the same reason that brought me to your… charming little town."
Snotty little prick. "Brought you here from where?" I asked him.
"I live in Los Angeles," he said, as if it meant something. Maybe to him it did.
"What was it you wanted to talk about?" Karl asked him.
"These DVDs that have been circulating that show a demonically possessed man torturing and murdering another man."
"What's that got to do with you?" I asked. "I don't suppose you're here to confess that you're responsible."
Mister Milo gave me a tight little smile. "No, not hardly." The smile disappeared as if it had never been there at all. "I represent certain interests in the Los Angeles area who are very concerned about these videos. It is feared that eventually knowledge of them will become public, causing an outcry against an industry that is utterly innocent of any wrongdoing."
It took me a moment to figure out what he was saying. "You represent the porn business."
"We prefer to call it the adult entertainment industry," he said.
"You can call it the fucking Girl Scouts, for all I care," I said. "I still don't think the term 'utterly innocent' is a good description of your business."
"I meant innocent of involvement in t
hese so-called 'snuff films'," Milo said. "Feel free to moralize to your heart's content, Sergeant. But the same laws that guarantee your right to wax indignant about adult entertainment also give your fellow citizens the right to choose it as their own private form of amusement – and they do, in very large numbers."
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