Anyway, back to the case at hand, literally. I grab my coffee and four donuts and head to my office with the idea that I will be digging through three sets of phone records looking for a needle in a haystack. Not even a little. Vic 4’s records are in my In Box with the other envelope and as soon as I open them I see a pattern and it is not at all subtle. All four girls in the days before they died stopped answering calls on their cell phones and started calling the same number. All four called the same number sometimes as often as 60 or 70 times a day. Weekends, nights, all the time and just the one number over and over.
I pick up my phone and dial the number. A receptionist picks up the phone on the other end and says:
“St. Agnes University, Nursing Sciences Building, Mary Speaking, how may I direct your call?”
This is way, way too easy. I identify myself as a police officer with the San Francisco, PD and ask if she would mind answering a couple of questions. She pauses and then says it would probably be okay.
“Have you received a number of strange, repetitive calls over the last three weeks?”
“Oh my God, yes!!” apparently Mary is glad someone else is concerned about the calls. She sounds relieved.
“Can you tell me what was odd about the calls?” I ask.
Mary’s voice gets really quiet and she seems to be concerned she will be overheard. “It’s a girl. She calls over and over from the same number for days and then it just stops. A day or two later she starts again two or three times an hour from the time I get here till the time I leave. I have tried to give her his direct line but he won’t take her calls and she won’t take his number. It almost seems like she can’t. Like I am confusing her by offering.”
“Who’s direct number?” I ask.
Mary pauses, I knew it was too good to be true. She seems to realize she has said more then she should have and says that she has to go. Before I can ask anything else she hangs up. Our dead girls know someone at the school, someone in the Nursing Science building. A man. And he doesn’t want to talk to her. More then I knew before but not a name by any stretch.
I hop on my computer and access the university staffing office computer. We have the most awesome IT department ever, no need for a warrant when IT can just prop open the back door. I will buy them donuts.
The staff at the University is big but when you narrow it down to men in nursing sciences it becomes much smaller. In fact at the Nursing Science building there are only eight. If I narrow the search further to men who have been there since 1998 it goes down to three. I am not a seer but I know in my heart that the missing girl from 15 years ago is related and she is the one that will tie them all together. One of these guys knows what is happening and why. Now all I have to do is get him to tell me.
I don’t want to bother Trevor so I get a cab to the University. It is early February and it is wicked cold and damp. Plus I am once again in heals and a short skirt so I am totally not walking.
In fact maybe instead of buying the guys in IT donuts I can just go down there and drop some pencils and turn around to pick them up. That would cost less and they will probably like it more anyway. I will do it as soon as I get back. I give myself props for being so thoughtful.
I have the cabbie drop me off at the Nursing Science Building and as I walk up to the door I notice a girl standing in front staring at the building. She does not have on a jacket, she is wearing long pants, a long sleeve shirt and shades. To be specific she has on a purple sweat shirt, jeans, and house slippers with socks. Her hair looks like it has not been combed in a week. It is so foggy out that the shades are covered condensation. Who is responsible for this fashion tragedy being out in public?
There is a receptionist desk just inside the front door and a middle age woman that I bet is Mary sitting at it. I might have to talk to her latter. I have pictures of the five girls, the missing one and the four dead that I printed up before I left. I can show them to her. There is even a chance she was here in 1998. I should have checked. I look at the name plat on her desk. Mary Visardi, I can check that out latter.
I walk over and look at the office board. All three of my guys are on the second floor of the three story building. Only one flight of stairs for me…Hurray!!! It’s the small victories.
I write down the room numbers and hurry up the stairs. This will be knocked out and I will be back at the station in time to show the IT guys my panties before they leave for the day. I mentally congratulate myself because saying it out loud always draws attention.
The first door I come to is a Dr. Jonathan M. Norris, M.D., PhD. He is about a million years old and a bit hard of hearing. I finally do get his attention and he does seem happy to see me which is nice. I introduce myself and offer my hand. He rises with some effort, introduces himself and shakes my hand. I can’t really read a live person but if he feels guilty about anything I can’t feel it. I reach a little deeper and still feel nothing. He is totally clean. I ask him if he knows where Dr. Edward Murphy’s office is and after some thought he says no and offers to call the receptionist for me. I thank him and make a dash for it before he can. One down, two to go.
The second office is only two doors down from Dr. Norris. The man inside is not as old but not nearly as nice either. His door is open so I step inside and tap on the door jam. He looks at me as if I have just committed an egregious social error and he pities me for my ignorance almost as much as he hates me for existing. I smile as if I don’t notice, hold out my hand and introduce myself as Robin Williams. This confuses him just enough to shake my hand and that gives me all I need. He is an asshole but he is not our guy. He does not feel anything close to guilt. Just bitterness and a healthy dose of self loathing but nothing to indicate serial killer. Not by a long shot. I smile and walk away just because I don’t feel like being polite to Dr. Yucky.
And now there is one. Lawrence McNeal, PhD. Biology. He is in the large corner office, how very prestigious. I walk to the end of the hall and find his office dark and the door locked. It is just after 4pm. As I turn away I see a woman walking into the office next to him. She seems friendly enough and I brave a question.
“I am sorry to bother you but do you have any idea when Dr. McNeal might be in his office?”
She looks at the closed door to the dark room and shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine but I wouldn’t wait. He is not teaching this semester and he is not here on a regular basis. I saw him yesterday so today is out of the question. He never bothers with two days in a row. Tenure is a bitch. If you really need to reach him he lives just across from campus.”
I thank her and hurry off. Back down the stairs and right before I go back out into the cold wet I look up Dr. McNeal’s home address on my phone. She was right. It is across the street. As in I walk out the door and I am looking at it. I am also looking at the fashion tragedy that I passed earlier. Still standing in exactly the same place. I don’t think she has moved so much as a finger since I went inside thirty minutes ago. I am staring at her and she lowers her head and looks at me above the dark glasses. Her retina’s look milky white even from here. Her eyes look just like the ones in the coroner’s photos. Fuck.
In addition to being a fashion tragedy she is completely not there. Not even a little. She raises her head and smiles at me. Or what I assume she means to be a smile. It seems very forced and shows way too many teeth. I walk past her and give her plenty of room. She doesn’t even turn her head to watch me. When I look back she is still standing there looking at the building. The second floor corner office if I am not mistaken and I am not. I have my guy.
I just have to prove it.
I cross the street to Dr. McNeal’s house and it is for sale. It looks abandoned. The yard is overgrown and there are at least fifteen newspapers in the yard. It probably hasn’t been painted for twenty years. A realtor’s lock box hangs on the front door handle. Good luck with that.
I walk around to the side and the gate is standing open. I don’t even think about it I just w
alk though and into the back yard. The overwhelming feeling of dread hits me as soon as I pass the gate. Something is wrong here. Very, very wrong. Everything in this yard is dead. Even the evergreens. But it is more than that, the whole place reeks of evil. I can’t stay here much longer.
As I am turning to leave the panic is building in my chest and I am starting to feel sick and at just the right moment my cell phone rings. Holly shit!!! I have got to turn that down and figure out how to change my ring tone. “Crazy Frog” was a bad choice. I grab it as I walk out and it is Trevor. He is waiting out front. I ask him how he found me and he says that he looked through the auto redial on my phone and the science building was the first one. He is looking towards campus when I walk out and the girl is still there. Only now she is starting to cross the street straight for me. She stops about a foot away and says, “Smart little witch.”
I think she would have said more but then the smell hits me and I step back. Right into Trevor. She is rancid. He is glaring at her and she seems to crumble under his stare. She shuffles away talking to herself and does not look back. Holly shit. I think we just met vic 5.
Trevor opens the door and I get in. He says we are going on our date early. He already told Jan we would not be back. I am fine with that. I probably could not really think anyway. The dead girl is pissed at me. Awesome.
As we drive I fill in Trevor on what I have learned today about Mary, the receptionist, the pattern of the phone calls and the two men I ruled out. Dr. McNeil is the last person we discus and I look him up on the lap top as Trevor drives.
Dr. McNeil graduated with a PhD. in Micro Biology from the University of Berlin in 1978. He came to work at St. Agnes at age twenty four and has never left. His wife, Gretchen, came with him from Germany and they purchased the house he still resides in 1980. Gretchen McNeil died of complications due to pregnancy in 1999. Dr. McNeil was born in 1953, army brat. Gretchen Hendler was born in 1960.
Trevor nodded and said nothing. When I look up we are in the hills outside of town. I had not been paying attention while I was talking and researching and I had no idea where we were. Trevor says we will be at his house in a few minutes. I thought we were going out to dinner but that would be silly I guess. Vampires don’t eat at restaurants. We pull into a private drive that leads to an amazing home that had to be built in the early 1800’s. I don’t even know what style to call it. Federal would probably be the closest (red brick with white granite accents on the windows and doors) but it is very ornate and has tons of fancy brick work with spiral chimneys, arched windows, a huge front stair way and stained glass double doors. It’s like what the governor’s mansion would probably look like in Wonderland. It has round turrets on either side and a huge fountain takes up a large part of the front yard. It is beautiful.
When I look over Trevor is looking at me and smiling. He must be reading my mind. That needs to stop but first I have to go inside and see every closet and floor board and the cellar and attic and anything else the house might have because I think it is majik and there is only one way to be sure. I have to snoop every square inch.
Food can wait.
I jump out of the car before Trevor can and almost make it to the front door first. This has never happened before. Trevor is off his game. Good to know.
Trevor has always been overly indulgent of me and this is no exception. We tour the entire house from cellar to attic and all the closets and even two secret rooms. Who has secret rooms? It is amazing. This may be my only real date ever but it will also probably be my best. We haven’t even eaten.
When I am done examining every square inch of his personal space Trevor asks if I am hungry. I am starving. Being nosy is hard work and really takes it out of a girl. Trevor takes me to a kitchen that is so amazing I might even want to learn to cook. Probably not but maybe. He pulls out a pot of soup and some fresh bread that his staff had made that morning. It is a lobster bisque with an artisan hard loaf sourdough bread. He sets the pan on the stove and begins to heat it slowly. It is heaven. I grab a bar stool by the kitchen island to watch.
As the soup heats up Trevor moves behind me. I have known him all of my life and he has never really made me nervous. Tonight things are starting to change. Suddenly I am very aware of his presence. He puts his hands on my shoulders and slides them up to my neck. My whole being is thrown into an oven. It is scorching hot and very nearly overwhelming. I don’t want to pull away but I don’t think I can take anymore. He slides his thumbs under the sweet heart neckline of my sweater and begins to massage my shoulders.
I am having trouble breathing. Not because of anything he is doing but just because of him. The fact that he is here, touching me. I feel his strongest emotion and he feels mine. We are creating a positive feedback loop that may or may not affect him but I am going to lose it. I arch my back to press my hips into him while I reach up to grab his hair. I tilt my head to the side to offer up my neck. Then Trevor steps back.
“What the fuck? What was that? I have never felt anything like that. Ever.”
Trevor just smiles. I conceder picking up the soup pan and smacking him in the head with it. But then I would go hungry.
He must be reading my mind again because he goes back to the other side of the island to stir the soup and this time he turns the handle away from me. Whatever. I can turn anything into a weapon if properly motivated and that just about motivated me. To do what I can’t really say.
Trevor finally speaks up. “That, as you call it was me, and how I feel about you. And how I think you might feel about me if you gave us a chance. I have been watching you for four years now and I have never felt the way I feel for you with any other woman. Not in centuries. I want to give “that”, as you so succinctly put it, a chance.”
“Oh”
“Oh? I declare my undead love to Catherine the Great, the only woman I have ever loved and she says, “Oh?” You wound me.”
He is smiling the whole time and I know damn well he is not in the least bit wounded but I am at a loss for words. I always thought he was just perpetually a 23 year old dude and therefore perpetually horny. It was me or Jan because we are the only two women at the office and Jan, while awesome, owns fifty cats. One for each birthday to be replaced as needed and she probably would benefit from some mental health services. As in inpatient. Maybe even court ordered. I am kidding, about the cats, not the mental health services. She really only has about five but for a werewolf that is five more than normal.
Jan is actually very hot but completely crazy and trust me, I know crazy.
“I am a perpetually 23 year old man and “horny” as you so charmingly put it but that is not the issue here. There are literally thousands of women who would be happy to help me with that. But I don’t have feelings for them. I love you, Cate. And I want you to give me a chance.”
“Stop reading my mind. It is rude. Why are you dropping this on me all of a sudden? We have never even been on a date. I have never been on any dates. It’s not that I am adverse to giving you a chance, you are incredibly good looking, as you obviously know, and smart and funny. But you scare the living shit out of me and I don’t know why would you like me anyway. You know Gran and Auntie Charles and Molly. There is every chance that I will end up every bit as crazy as them and probably worse. Vampires mate for life. As in eternity. Who wants to be tied to an alcoholic mental patient for all eternity? It would not be fair. I would never do that to you. Ever. You are too good for that. I am too kind for that.”
Trevor continues to stare at me and stir the soup. Did I mention that vampires are patient? They are also very calm and they don’t have to blink. Ever. To be stared at by a vampire is to want to climb under the kitchen island in you very short skirt and stay there. Trevor finally answers as I am about to climb down. Close call, almost too close.
“That is exactly why I am telling you now. Yesterday you used your service weapon to kill two doors. The only reason I did not have to take you to jail was that you were sober
. You are falling apart in front of me and I can’t stand it. They put you on the force when you were 19 because they needed to use your gift. No one cares if you burn out and go crazy because of the things they show you. No one else even sees the big picture. You have seen murder through the eyes of a hundred victims. No one can handle that long term. No one ever has. You have lasted longer on this job then most and you are slipping fast. You drink too much, you are not safe and you are getting worse.”
“Is this my formal work evaluation or are you just trying to get into my pants? Please don’t sugar coat it, I can take it. I am good at what I do. In fact I am probably the best at what I do and I make a difference. If you think I am going to quit my job and stay home with Gran and slip into a quiet alcoholism you are out of your God damn mind. What I do matters.”
“What you do does matter. It matters very much. But so do you and at the rate you are going you will not be able to do it much longer. There will not be enough of you left. I can’t let that happen. I love you Cate, and I want a chance to see if you can love me. I doesn’t mean that you have to stop, we just have to change things. Scale back. Do whatever it takes to keep you whole and healthy and around for a very long time. I plan to need you for a very, very long time.”
So much for the 23 and horny theory. “Okay. Your right. I know you are right but what do we do? How can I change enough to make me not crazy? To see if we can be real together and normal enough to try? I am so afraid that I am genetically predisposed to self destruct that I don’t know what to do.”
“We will do it together. I can take some of the weight just because of what I am and you can share it because of what you are. We are a perfect match if you think about it. We can work together to figure out what we can do. The sky is the limit. Just give me a chance.”
The Bloody Mary Diet: The Detective Adele Series Book 1 Page 4