Midnight Redeemer

by Nancy Gideon

  "Call me if you get anything else of interest."

  "Yeah, yeah.” But he smiled on the receiving end of her quick kiss. “Next Friday night,” he reminded her. “You and me?"

  "If I'm not swamped with work, you got it."

  But what exactly did she have tucked away in her bag? Stacy wondered as she hurried out of the building. The possibilities were thrilling. And dangerous. Very dangerous if word leaked out to the wrong parties.

  To her thinking, there were certain parties who should never be trusted with the safety and security of the America people. The government was on the top of her list.

  She didn't draw a deep breath until her apartment door was deadbolted behind her. Then the shaking set in—deep, bone rattling, teeth chattering tremors of delayed shock and adrenaline overload.

  Feeling suddenly as if she were one of the Rosenberg's with a bag full of atomic secrets, she wobbled across the dark room to collapse upon her favorite rocker/recliner. Kicking up the footrest, she lay back, ugly purse clutched to her chest. Long moments passed as she stared up at the shadowed ceiling in frantic uncertainty.

  If even a sliver of what she supposed was true, think of the possibilities.

  She was thinking, hadn't been able to stop thinking since that smear had come into focus. Slowly, everything else tuned in with equal clarity.

  She was wasting time.

  Slamming the footrest down, she snapped on the pole lamp beside her chair and fished in her bag for the report and the samples. With both on the coffee table before her, she began to narrow that focus into a feasible plan.

  The shrill of the phone had her clearing the chair cushion by a good four inches. When her heart left her throat, she picked up the receiver. The petulant demand from the other end left her mind in a total blank.

  "What the hell are you doing home?"

  "Who is this?"

  "Lance."

  "Lance?” The word might have well been Swahili for all the connections it made.

  "I had my hand up your shirt an hour ago, and you've forgotten me already?"

  Oh, that Lance.

  "I thought you were coming right back,” he grumbled.

  Returning to the studio apartment with its stale smell of athletic socks and raging hormones held the appeal of a root canal. Suddenly, she couldn't recall what the appeal had been in the first place. Tousled blond hair, one-hundred-watt grin, washboard abs ... Oh, yeah. Now she remembered.

  But, too bad for Lance, the hot-blooded attraction had been replaced by a cold-blooded slide.

  "I had an emergency at work. I'm sorry I didn't call.” She added that last to be kind. She wasn't sorry, not really.

  "An emergency? For God's sake, you're a geneticist. What kind of emergency could you people possibly have? A new chromosome split, or something equally earth-shattering?"

  How unattractive he was in his nasty ignorance. Funny, she couldn't remember why Lance had ever remotely interested her.

  "Nothing a single-celled organism could be expected to understand.” Her tone burned like dry ice.

  Frustrated, but too vain to get the big picture, Lance tried to pour on the silky charm. “I deserved that, I know. Let's forget about it and get back to you and me."

  "I've got a better idea, Lance. Let's just forget about you and me."

  She replaced the receiver gently on the cradle.

  When the phone rang again, the sound angry in the silence, she didn't pick it up. Instead, she held up the first sample, studying the blotch ineffectually with the naked eye, her naked anticipation surging like the tide that had gotten the best of the unfortunate Wanda Cummings.

  "What secrets are you hiding, my friend? Don't be shy. You can tell me."

  The stain gleamed bright and beckoning as she turned it before the light.

  She pursed her lips thoughtfully, then murmured, “You'll tell me everything ... eventually. Including where you came from. Especially where you came from."

  Chapter Two

  Officer Ken Fitzhugh stared across the busy waterfront café, unable to believe his luck. Stacy Kimball. Her name sighed through him in shy, boyish reverie. In person, she was more stunning than rumor led him to hope.

  In person, she made it hard for a man to breathe.

  Kimball was legend around the station house—the Goddess of Gore, the Queen of Cadavers, the Mistress of the Morgue, Elvira of the Eleven-to-Seven Shift. She'd done her interning in forensic medicine before his time, but the mark she'd made upon the wet dreams of the precinct house lingered on.

  It was easy to see why.

  She may not have had the prettiest face he'd ever seen. The angles were too strong, her jaw too mannish, her mouth too big, but the sheer ooze of sensuality from those wide red lips and the invitation simmering in direct gray eyes obliterated that fact. She was sex incarnate, the stuff of adolescent longing hidden under teenage mattresses in glossy, airbrushed perfection, waiting all bed-rumpled and willing to go again to the limit of a horny boy's fantasies.

  So what did she want with him?

  He didn't exactly project the kind of Casanova image that assertive women noticed.

  Her call had come out of the blue. An invitation to meet her for coffee during a break in his evening shift, her treat. Wrong there. The treat was all his the minute she stepped over the threshold atop Needle-high heels that left an amazing acre-length of legs bare before the hem of her hip-glazing blue leather skirt. Her aggressive, more-woman-than-you-could-possibly-handle walk strained the neck of every male in the room as heads swivelled her way. And to think that dynamite package was coming his way. He shot up out of the booth, menu held at belt level as a precautionary measure.

  "Officer Fitzhugh?"

  Her voice had the low rumble of fast water over rough rocks. Fitzhugh was swept away without the slightest desire to save himself.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Call me Stacy, please."

  Her smile delivered a Stone Cold Stunner to the brain. He stood, just staring open-mouthed, for a long, dazed moment.

  Wow, didn't even come close.

  She was like no scientist he'd ever seen.

  "May I sit down?"

  Shaking his head slightly to jar his eyeballs back into place, Fitzhugh gestured to the opposite seat then went to help her peel down her short-waisted suede jacket. She wore a snug sweater any self-respecting ram would have gladly surrendered his fleece for in hopes that it would grace her dramatic curves. Fitzhugh swallowed anxiously as those long, long legs tucked under the table. Left standing with her coat in his hand like a witless hat tree, he hung it on the booth hook and quickly assumed his own seat. He ordered two coffees, anxious to be rid of the waitress and end the suspense.

  "You said you wanted to talk to me, Miss ... Stacy? What about?"

  Again, came that killer smile meant to send the testosterone level into outer space.

  "This is strictly off the record, Ken. Do you have a problem with that?"

  At that moment, he wouldn't have had a problem with anything, illegal or otherwise. “No. I mean, I guess it depends on what you ask."

  "Of course it does, and I wouldn't want to get you into any kind of trouble."

  If he had any sense, he'd realize he was already hip deep in it.

  Stacy played out her wet-lipped smile to dazzle the boy into compliance. It was so easy, she felt ashamed of herself ... almost.

  "I heard through the grapevine that you have a theory about these attacks that left victims with strange marks on their necks."

  All the gosh-golly blushes were gone in an instant. His features firmed into hard, angry lines as he demanded, “Who put you up to this?"

  "No one, I just—"

  "Just thought you'd have a laugh at my expense. Well, ha ha. Thanks but no thanks, Miss Kimball. I may be green, but I'm not an idiot."

  As he surged out of his seat, Stacy stilled him with the press of her hand over his. She glanced about uncomfortably, aware of the attention they were
getting. This wasn't something she wanted broadcast for the six o'clock news. To calm the situation, she spoke softly, soothingly, as if to an upset child about to throw a tantrum in the candy aisle.

  "Officer Fitzhugh, believe me, I'm not here to embarrass you, so please, don't embarrass me.” She pointed to his seat, and reluctantly he sat. “I assure you, no one put me up to anything."

  If she found out that Charlie was pulling her chain, she'd strangle him with it.

  "Really?” He still looked suspicious but was willing to be convinced by the continued rub of her fingertips along his knuckles. “Sorry, if I snapped at you. I've been taking a lot of ribbing from the guys ... well, you know how it is."

  "Indeed I do. Please, tell me your theory. I promise I won't react like your Neanderthal squad members."

  Encouraged, he leaned forward. “There've been five of them."

  "Five of what?"

  "Victims. You know, all with those same puncture wounds and..."

  "And what?"

  His voice lowered. “Blood loss. Dramatic blood loss, as if someone or something had tapped a vein and bled them nearly dry. Something like—like—"

  "Like?"

  "Like a vampire."

  He cringed, waiting for her to laugh, but she didn't. She repeated the word in a whisper, mulling over its meaning.

  Vampire.

  "Not the actual creature from myth, of course,” he went on to say in his own defense. “Probably some wacko with a Bram Stoker fetish who gets off on playing the role. I heard of a group of kids that pay over $3,000 apiece to be fitted with a pair of porcelain canine teeth that resemble fangs. Nothing that goes on in this city surprises me."

  But Stacy wasn't listening. She wasn't contemplating a crazy cadre of pseudo-blood suckers stalking the night for kicks. She was wracking her brain for folklore facts.

  "Vampires. They're supposed to be immortal, right? They drink the blood of human beings in order to survive, and they come out only after dark."

  "And turn into bats and sleep in coffins.” Fitzhugh grimaced. “If I had a dollar for every rubber bat that's turned up on my desk since I first expressed my opinion, I could retire."

  "And only sunlight, silver and a stake through the heart can harm them,” Stacy mused, combing through her midnight movies repertoire.

  "And plastic fangs—I've got a drawer full of them. Everybody's a comedian."

  Stacy fixed him with a steady stare. “And no one took you seriously enough to check out the obvious?"

  "Oh, sure, after nicknaming me Fitz the Freak.” He waved a dismissing hand. “We've run computer checks on the known weirdoes and kinky sex shops but so far, nothing.” He studied her soberly. “You think I'm nuts, too, don't you?"

  "No. I think you still have enough imagination left to look beyond the obvious. So, what aren't they seeing?"

  Again, the conspiratorial attitude. “I don't think this is your run-of-the-mill nutball."

  "And why not?"

  "There's never any physical evidence. The cult crowd isn't that careful. This guy is smart.” His tone was almost admiring. “These attacks are planned out. Isolated spots, women alone, no witnesses—not even the victims themselves. No tie in between them."

  "They were all killed? Why haven't I heard any of this on the news?"

  "Not killed. Well, only this last one, that is. The others were found wandering around, weak from blood loss, with no memory of the attack itself. The details were held from the press out of respect for the victims and to keep a lid on possible hysteria and copycat crimes. One of them was the wife of a judge, the other the girlfriend of some rock star."

  "Blackmail, you think?"

  "Not that I'm aware of. Just the wrong place at the wrong time."

  She pursed her lips, focusing on the useful tidbits of what he was saying as if they were presented on a slide before her. The picture forming wasn't clear. And she liked clarity.

  When she didn't speak right away, the young officer rushed to fill the silence. “So tell me, Stacy, what's your interest in this case? You're not with the Force any more."

  "I still do some trace evidence and DNA charting for them on occasion.” She made her answer purposefully vague.

  "And is this one of those occasions?"

  "My interest is purely unofficial."

  He made a disgruntled sound, a sound of injured ego. “I didn't think they'd be clever enough to call in a professional at my suggestion. I'm the new kid on the block. I transferred in eight months ago, so I don't have any clout."

  "Clout or not, I think you might have hit on something important."

  He straightened immediately, hungry for affirmation. “You think so?"

  "They'll catch on, eventually, but until they do, maybe we can help each other."

  His eyes narrowed slightly. “How's that?"

  "You could keep me informed of any new developments in the case, and I could let you know if I can put any of the genetic puzzle together."

  "I don't know—"

  "As long as you're not breaking any rules, that is. I wouldn't want you to risk your career."

  He supplied a sudden, grim smile. “Are you kidding? If I could make this case, it would make my career. You've got a deal."

  Before he could think better of it, she asked, “Could you get me the names and addresses of the other victims? Just for some behind the scene digging. Discretely, of course. We wouldn't want to ruffle any feathers."

  "I guess I could do that.” He checked his watch. “I've got to get back out on patrol. Where can I send the information?"

  She handed him a card with her e-mail address, then delayed him with one last question.

  "Has anyone been brought in for formal questioning on the case?"

  Fitzhugh paused, cocking his head to one side. He was a handsome boy, she decided, in a casually rumpled, innocent sort of way, with his fair hair and mild blue eyes. The innocence wouldn't last long, not in his profession. Too bad.

  "Just one that I'm aware of and that was just routine. Nothing came of it."

  "Who?"

  "Louis Redman, the importer. Ever heard of him?"

  The answer surprised her. He was talking top of the food chain. “Who in Seattle hasn't? He's kind of the Pacific Northwest's answer to Howard Hughes. How did they manage to coax him out of his hotel to come to the station house?"

  "By asking, I guess. I didn't get a look at him. He was in and out slick as you please before the press ever got wind of it. Guess nobody wanted to cheese him off, seeing as how he funds half the city's charity efforts. Apparently, he knew several of the victims, and one of them was coming from one of his fund raisers when she was attacked. You don't think this has anything to do with Redman, do you?"

  "I don't know enough about the man to form an opinion. I don't think anyone really does. And I think he prefers it that way."

  Fitzhugh checked his watch again. “I gotta get back on patrol. I'll see you later?"

  Such hope and anticipation in that simple phrase. Another conquest to discourage. She made her reply carefully impersonal, but knew he wouldn't be put off. They never were.

  "As soon as something develops."

  She could have—should have told him that nothing intimate was going to develop between them, but she needed him on the string to feed her information. This was too important to worry about a young man's heart. Just a twinge of guilt, uncomfortably pushed aside for the sake of expediency.

  Stacy sat back, barely aware that he'd left the diner with a slightly breathless “good night."

  If he only knew how close to the right track he was on, he would be more than a little agitated.

  That meant she was on the right track, too.

  Stacy ordered up a huge breakfast special, suddenly starving. And as she ravenously put the meal away, her analytical mind was spinning in concise circles.

  Vampire.

  Nonsense.

  Then, she made herself look beyond the logical. In this cas
e, the impossible could be the only possible answer.

  But that led to another question.

  How did one go about tracking down a supposed vampire to ask for a sample of his blood?

  She had a name. Louis Redman. Okay, it wasn't an easy place to start. Redman's influence on the powers that be was like a seducing drug. No one wanted to risk alienating his affection. Well, she wasn't interested in his affection. She was interested in his blood chemistry.

  And she wasn't without some influence, herself.

  While her fresh cup of coffee cooled, Stacy flipped open her cell phone and punched in a number. After being rerouted through several departments, she finally was rewarded with a rather curt greeting.

  "Alex Andrews."

  "Catch you at a bad time?"

  His tone warmed immediately. “Hey, Stace. It's never a bad time, if you're involved. What can I do for you?"

  "Could you put that sexy, inquisitive brain to work on something for me?"

  "Oh, you sweet talker, you."

  "I need you to dig up all you can find on Louis Redman."

  "The zillionaire hermit?” He whistled. “You don't call in any small favors, do you, babe?"

  "Good things come in big packages, Alex,” she cooed. “Let me know what you find out."

  His chuckle made her smile. “It'll cost you dinner."

  "You pick the place."

  "My place?"

  "We'll discuss that when we see what you come up with."

  "Oh, baby, I'm coming up with something right now."

  Shaking her head, she ended the connection. Alex Andrews was a regular gopher when it came to digging up dirt. That's why he made such good money working for a scandal rag. The best outrageous tale was based upon truth. All she'd have to do was strip away the exaggerations. If there was anything to find, Alex would come through for her. She'd worry about the dinner later.

  Right now, she was worrying about how she was going to get next to Louis Redman.

  And then inspiration struck in the guise of a quickly discarded memo and invitation.

  If it wasn't already too late to R.S.V.P.

  Snatching her coat, she flung a wad of bills onto the table top and ran out to hail a cab, indifferent to the degree of whiplash she caused amongst the diner's clientele.