Getting this scumbag to admit that he was a scumbag was a waste of time, and we had bigger fish to fry.
"So, if your 'industry' has nothing to do with these snuff videos, what are you doing in Scranton – protesting your innocence? You could've just sent an email. Quicker and cheaper."
The smile made another brief appearance. "But then I would have been denied the pleasure of making your acquaintance, Sergeant," he said, and I wondered if I could just shoot him and get away with it. Maybe if I called it "pest extermination".
"I'm here to act as a go-between, Milo said. "A liaison, if you will, between the local authorities and my employers."
Karl snorted. "And what fucking good do you figure that's gonna do?"
Milo spread his hands and shrugged at the same time. I wondered if he practiced it in front of a mirror. "I hope to serve as a conduit for information, Detective. I could pass on to you anything relevant that might be discovered back on the West Coast, and I hope you officers would reciprocate by sharing with me developments in the case as they arise."
I was about to get all hard-ass and tell this creep that the police didn't share confidential information with scumbag civilians, when my brain finally got out of first gear. So I asked him, just to see what he'd say, "And suppose we did share information about the case with you, what purpose would it serve? What would you use it for?"
Another elegant shrug. "Well, that's impossible to say at this point, of course. But I find that all information proves useful, sooner or later – don't you?"
He was good, I'll give him that. I figured that Milo had been lying from the cradle and only got better at it with each passing year. The fact that some porno king had sent him out here was probably a testament to his skill as a bullshit artist. He was lying like the pro he was, and I knew it.
He was looking at Karl when he finished speaking, but for what I was about to do, I wanted him looking at me. "Milo," I said quietly.
When he turned his innocent-looking gaze my way, I leaned forward in my chair, to bring my face as close as possible to his. Looking closely at his eyes, I said, "You hired Sharkey, didn't you?"
He didn't blink or turn a hair. But the pupils of those brown eyes instantly dilated, and that was all I needed to see.
I once spent some time reading a book called Deception Detection. About ninety percent of it was stuff any experienced cop knows, but the chapter on pupil dilation movement caught my interest. Pupil dilation movement (or PDM) was what the author, some PhD from Berkeley, called an "autonomic response". That means it operates outside the conscious control of the will. It's like blushing when you're embarrassed, or breaking out in a sweat when you're nervous about something.
Not everybody blushes from shame, or sweats due to tension, but every human's pupils dilate or contract in response to sudden, strong emotion. Every damn one. That's what the guy said in his book, anyway – and he's a PhD, so I figure he knows his shit.
As soon as I said "Sharkey", Milo's pupils had gone from the size of a dried pea to something more like a dime.
From the corner of my eye I could see that Karl had turned his head to stare at me, but I kept looking at Mister Milo. His raised eyebrows were a study in mild surprise, and the smile made a guest appearance on his lips before he spoke.
"Sharkey?" he said. "Don't believe I recognize the name. It sounds like the title of yet another rip-off of Jaws."
I shook my head. "Nice try, Milo. You're a credit to whatever law school taught you how to lie, cheat, and steal. You are a lawyer, aren't you?"
He sounded irritated for the first time since we'd arrived. "Yes, I'm a member of the bar. So what?"
"So nothing," I said. "Just confirming a suspicion. But what I said about Sharkey – that wasn't a suspicion. That's a fact, you stupid son of a bitch."
No smiles this time. His lips were a pencil-thin line. "I repeat, I have no idea what – or whom – you're talking about. But, just for the sake of discussion, if I had hired this Sharkey, why would doing so make me, in your words, 'a stupid son of a bitch'?"
"Because Sharkey's what the Grim Reaper would look like if he had a better tailor and traded in the scythe for an Uzi. He's fucking Death incarnate."
"I would hardly have expected such poetic language from… a representative of law and order, Sergeant."
Milo walked over to the desk, where some bottles, ice, and glasses had been laid out. As he poured Scotch into a glass, I said, "If you think that was poetic, then you need to start reading a better class of poet."
"Um, perhaps." Milo took a sip of his drink, then said, "Pardon my manners. May I offer you gentlemen a drink?"
I shook my head again. "We're on duty."
Then Karl chimed in. "Stan's right," he said. "Besides, I never drink… Scotch."
I bet he'd been waiting to use that Bela Lugosi line ever since he was turned.
"You pay Sharkey for a body, you get a body," I said. "Trouble is, you sometimes get a bunch of other bodies that you didn't pay for."
"I heard a story about him not long after I started on the force," Karl said. "Sharkey was sent after some mid-level mobster named Wiley, and Wiley heard about it before Sharkey could find him. So he decided to hole up in his condo until Sharkey gave up and went away."
"What he didn't understand," I said, "is that Sharkey never gives up."
"Fuckin' A," Karl said. "So Wiley stocks up on food, keeps the drapes closed, and never answers the door for anybody. He stayed in there over a month, I hear."
When neither of us said anything for a few seconds, Milo gave a loud sigh. "I suppose I'll have to feed you the next line, if only to move things along. So – then what happened?"
"Sharkey blew the building up," Karl said. "He likes explosives – the guy he was after should have known that."
"Didn't even have to buy any TNT," I said. "He got into the basement and dug up the gas line that ran underneath the building. Then he figured out a way to make it blow. The whole thing looked like an accident, if you didn't know better."
"Sharkey got his man," Karl said. "Along with a bunch of other men, not to mention over a dozen women and children who were in the building when it blew. Now, this next part I'm not sure about, some say it's made up. But supposedly the mob boss who'd hired Sharkey got all kinds of upset over all the innocent people who'd been killed in the explosion. When he said something about it, Sharkey's response supposedly was, 'What's the problem? I didn't charge you for any of them'."
Milo finished his drink and put the glass down. "This is all fascinating – or, rather, it would be if I had actually hired this Sharkey person, which I didn't."
He sounded so convincing. If I hadn't seen his eyeballs do the hokey-pokey earlier, I might even have believed him.
"The adult entertainment industry isn't run by mobsters, gentlemen," he said. "That might not have been the case more than thirty years ago, but in Miller v. California the Supreme Court essentially decided that our product is legal. Disreputable in the eyes of some, perhaps, but entirely legal."
"What about all the human trafficking that goes on?" Karl said.
"It's regrettable, to be sure," Milo said, although he didn't seem especially sad about it. "But it has nothing to do with the people I represent."
He turned to me. "Do you actually believe, Sergeant, that the adult video studios in California have to kidnap young women off the streets of Budapest or Juarez, to force them to appear in, say, Debbie Does Dallas 19? Hundreds of girls seek work at the adult modeling agencies every month, and many are turned away for being insufficiently attractive. There is no need to kidnap anyone, even if we were so inclined."
"But human trafficking does go on," I said.
"Of course it does," Milo said. "And its victims either end up in forced prostitution or, if they are young enough, in child pornography. Neither of which has anything to do with my principals. Adult entertainment is a legal business, run by legitimate businessmen."
"And those legitim
ate businessmen are getting worried," I said.
"With good reason," Milo said. "There's no shortage of right-wing politicians eager to exploit something like this 'snuff film' phenomenon for their own benefit, to tar the whole industry with the same brush, as it were. And if these videos continue to be made, it's only a matter of time before they become public knowledge."
"And so they sent you," I said.
"They sent me to act in a legal capacity and protect their interests. My principals certainly would not countenance my hiring some… dhampir assassin to murder those responsible, tempting though the idea is."
I stood up, and Karl did the same. "Well, thanks for seeing us, Mister Milo. Since you're planning to stay in Scranton awhile, I'm sure we'll talk again."
"I look forward to it," Milo said, sounding almost as if he meant it.
We had the elevator to ourselves for the ride down. "What do you think?" Karl asked softly.
"I think a couple of things," I said. "One is, his eyeballs jumped when I said Sharkey's name."
"That PDM stuff you were telling me about."
"Uh-huh. Sudden changes in emotion produce immediate pupil dilation. And here's the other thing I think."
We reached the lobby and the doors slid open. Before leaving the elevator, I said, "I never said anything to Milo about Sharkey being a dhampir."
When we reached the street, I saw a young guy in a scraggly beard was standing on the corner trying to hand out leaflets. Even in Supe City (which some people call Scranton) there isn't a lot of pedestrian traffic at almost five in the morning, so the guy was either an optimist or a lamebrain – or whoever sent him was.
As we got closer, he held a leaflet out toward us. It was in color, printed on slick paper. Better than the usual stuff these street guys hand out, which tends to look more like crayon on a paper bag than an IPO for a software company. "Learn the truth about the Catholic Church, fellas. The time is nigh." He didn't seem very enthusiastic about it all. How can you respect a weirdo who doesn't even believe his own rhetoric?
I took one, more out of pity than anything else. We still had half a block to go, so I handed it to Karl. "You can see better in this light than I can," I said. "What truth about the Catholic Church are they peddling now?"
He gave it a quick flip through as we walked. "Looks like the Church of the True Cross is at it again."
"Figured it was them – or somebody like them."
"Let's see," Karl said. "The Mass in English is a sacrilege, supes are the devil's children, all nuns are lesbians, and…" He glanced at the back cover. "…the pope is the Antichrist."
"In other words, business as usual."
"Seems like." He dropped the leaflet in the next trash can we passed. I was glad he did that – I hate littering.
"I dunno about that lesbian thing," Karl said. "I mean, aren't nuns supposed to be the brides of Christ, or something?"
"That's what they say." I shrugged. "Maybe He likes to watch."
On the way home, I stopped at Sup'r-Natural Foods to pick up some plasma for Christine. You can buy whole blood lots of places, but plasma is considered a specialty item. It's expensive, and only a few stores carry it. For vamps, plasma is to whole blood what prime rib is to hamburger. Christine won't buy the stuff for herself because of the price, but every once in a while I'll bring some home for her as a treat – even if it means going into Sup'r-Natural Foods to get it.
Anyway, I figure if she has plenty of commercial product available in the refrigerator, she won't feel the need to tap the source, if you know what I mean. She wouldn't go around attacking people, like some vamps do – I ought to know, since I've busted a lot of them over the years. But the idea of Christine picking up some guy, or letting him pick her up, just so she can get her fangs into his neck – that makes make my skin crawl. I can't explain it; maybe it's a parent thing.
So I stop at Sup'r-Natural Foods (Open 24 Hrs!) every once in a while, but that doesn't mean I enjoy the experience. You can imagine the kinds of customers the place attracts, especially during the hours of darkness. Vamps, of course. Sup'r-Natural has the best selection of the red stuff in town – both whole blood and plasma.
You'll find some weres in there, too. Usually they're looking to pick up a double rack of goat, which is hard to find elsewhere. I don't know what it is with weres and goat meat – must be an old-country thing. I've seen trolls in the place a few times, too, buying monkey steaks. I once heard a troll tell another one, "It tastes just like children!" And you don't want to know what's for sale in the Ghoul Specialty Section.
I picked up a one-pound bag of Type A frozen plasma and turned to head for the checkout. A second later I wondered if I'd managed to walk into a wall, because something big was in my way that hadn't been there a minute before. I took a step back and saw it was an ogre, like the one Karl and I had busted earlier in the evening. In fact, I thought I saw a family resemblance. He looked down at me and rumbled, "You're Markowski, right?"
I took a couple more of steps back – not out of fear, but to give myself room to maneuver. I switched the plasma package to my left hand, and let my right hang down by my side. To get at my weapon, all I'd have to do is sweep the sports coat back and draw. Like I said before, ogres aren't generally violent – but that doesn't mean that some don't believe in payback.
I tilted my head back so I could see his face clearly. "Yeah, I'm Markowski. Who're you?"
"I'm Ivan." If he was known among his friends as Ivan the Terrible, it wouldn't have surprised me any. I lowered my gaze a little, so I could take in more of him.
Watch his body, they'd taught us in training. The other guy can fake with his head or his hands, but not with his trunk. Watch the body.
I waited for the ogre to say something more, but he just stood looking at me, his expression unreadable. After a couple of seconds I said, "Something on your mind, Ivan? I'm kind of in a hurry."
"I'm the brother of Igor."
Fuck. Looks like I was right about payback. I let my right hand drift under my jacket and push the material back a little.
"You arrested Igor tonight, yeah?" the ogre went on.
"That's right, I did. He'd busted up a bar, hurt a couple of humans, and grabbed a woman as hostage. I didn't have much choice."
"I know," the ogre said quietly – for an ogre. "I wanna thank you."
OK, that wasn't what I'd been expecting.
"Thank me? For what – doing my job?"
"Yeah, kinda. Igor drinks too much – we knew he would get in bad trouble, sooner or later. Maybe jail will teach him something, yeah?"
"Could be," I said. "It works that way, sometimes."
"And you coulda killed him, is what I hear. He gave you the excuse. But you didn't."
"There was no need to," I said. "So I didn't."
"That's why I say thank you," Ivan said. "And I owe you. If you ever need something that an ogre can do, you let me know, yeah?" He gave me a piece of paper with a phone number scrawled on it.
"I'll keep it in mind, thanks," I said. I held up the package I was holding. "I gotta get going, before this stuff thaws."
"OK, see ya around, Markowski."
When I entered the kitchen, Christine was staring intently at the screen of her laptop, which was facing away from me. Vamps have pretty acute hearing, so she must have been really focused on what she was looking at for me to surprise her when I walked in.
The movement at the edge of her vision must have caught her attention, because she looked up with a start. "Oh, hi, Daddy."
"Hi, baby. What're you doing?"
She was logging off even as I spoke to her. "Oh, just the Help Wanted section of last Sunday's paper."
"How come? You're not having trouble at work, are you?"
"No, work is cool. But I don't want to be an emergency services dispatcher the rest of my life – which is likely to be rather lengthy."
I've been a cop long enough to keep what I'm thinking off my face, if I want to. I
maintained the pleasant expression I'd worn coming in, but it wasn't easy. Vampire or not, I know when my daughter is lying to me.
I held up the bag from Sup'r-Natural Foods. "Got you something." I brought out the frozen package of plasma and said, "Type A – your favorite."
She clapped her hands together a couple of times. "Oh, Daddy, how sweet. Thank you!" She rose, came around the table, and gave me a hug. As she stepped back, I said, "Do you want some now?" Warming it up in the microwave wouldn't take long.
"I better not," she said. "Gotta go beddy-bye in less than fifteen minutes. I'll save it for breakfast."
"Sure," I said, and put the package in the freezer.
"Oh, I found out about Victor Castle for you."
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