Weird Detectives

by Neil Gaiman, Simon R. Green, Caitlin R. Kiernan

  Had come from deeper within the alley.

  “Tony?” Adam, in his earbud.

  “I’m on it.” He was already running, muttering the night-sight spell under his breath. As it took effect, he saw someone standing, someone else lying down, and a broken light over a graffiti-covered door at the alley’s dead-end. Still running, he threw a wizard lamp up into it. People would assume electricity.

  The someone standing was a woman, mid-twenties maybe, pretty although overly made-up and under-dressed. The someone on the ground was an elderly man and, even at a distance, Tony doubted he’d be getting up again.

  “Tony?” Lee, leading the pack running into the alley behind him.

  “Call nine-one-one,” Tony snapped without turning. He’d have done it himself, but these days it was best to first make sure the screaming was about something the police could handle. Like called to like, as he’d learned the hard way. Having Henry Fitzroy, bastard of Henry VIII, romance writer, and vampire based in Vancouver was enough to bring in the fine and freaky. Since Tony had started developing his powers, the freaky vastly outnumbered the fine.

  Dropping to one knee beside the body, he checked for a pulse, found nothing, checked for visible wounds, found nothing. The victim wasn’t breathing, didn’t begin breathing when Tony blew in two lungfuls of air so Tony shifted position and started chest compressions.

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

  A smudge of scarlet lipstick bled into the creases around the old man’s mouth.

  Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

  A glance over his shoulder showed Lee comforting the woman, her face pressed into his chest, his arms around her visibly trembling body.

  Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.

  The old man was very old, skin pleated into an infinite number of wrinkles, broken capillaries on both cheeks. He had all his hair but it was yellow/white and his teeth made Tony think of skulls.

  Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty.

  His clothes belonged on a much younger man and, given what he’d been doing when he died—fly of his jeans gapping open, hooker young enough to be his granddaughter—he was clearly trying too hard.

  Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Twenty-five.

  Where the hell was the cavalry? There’d been a police cruiser at the location. How long did it take them to get out of the car and two blocks down the street?

  A flash of navy in the corner of one eye and a competent voice said, “It’s okay. I’ve got him.”

  Tony rolled up onto his feet as the constable took over, stepping back just in time to see Lee reluctantly allowing the other police officer to lead the woman away.

  She was pretty, he could see that objectively, even if, unlike Lee, he’d never been interested in women on a visceral level. Long reddish brown hair around a heart-shaped face, big brown eyes heavily shadowed both by makeup and life, and a wide mouth made slightly lopsided by smudged scarlet gloss. Tears had trailed lines of mascara down both cheeks. Below the neck, the blue mini-dress barely covered enough to be legal and he wondered how she could even walk in the strappy black high heels. She wasn’t trying as hard as the old man had been but Tony could see a sad similarity between them.

  “She’s terrified she’s going to be charged with murder.” Lee murmured as Tony joined him.

  “Death by hand job?”

  “Not funny. You don’t know that she . . . ” When Tony raised an eyebrow, Lee flushed. “Yeah, okay. But it’s still not funny. She really is terrified.”

  “Sorry.” Tony moved until they were touching, shoulder to wrist.

  The police seemed a lot less sympathetic than Lee had been.

  “I’m going to see if she needs help,” he said suddenly, striding away before Tony could reply.

  “This is not a reason to stop working,” Adam called from the sidewalk at the end of the alley.

  “Does anyone care that I’m fucking dying over here?” Mason moaned beside him.

  Standing at the craft services table, drinking a green tea, and trying very hard to remember that the camera really did put on at least ten pounds, Lee attempted to ignore the jar of licorice rope. The memory of the woman in the blue dress had kept him on edge for two days and he kept reaching for comfort food.

  Movement on the sidewalk out beyond the video village caught his eye and, desperate for distraction, Lee gave it his full attention. He’d have liked to have been able to tell Tony later that he was surprised to see the woman in the blue dress again, but he honestly wasn’t. Grabbing a muffin and sliding a juice box into his jacket pocket, he picked his way through the cables toward her.

  “These are for you.” When she looked down at the muffin in her hand, a little confused, Lee added, “The other night, you felt . . . looked like you weren’t getting enough to eat.”

  She had on the same blue dress with a tight black cardigan over it. The extra layer did nothing to mask her body but, he supposed, given her job, that made sense.

  “So, the other night, did the police ever charge you?”

  “No.”

  Something in her tone suggested he not ask for details. “Were they able to identify the old man?”

  “No.” Her hair swept across her shoulders as she shook her head. “I don’t think so. They wouldn’t tell me anyway, would they?”

  “I guess not.” He heard a hundred unpleasant encounters with the police in that sentence and he found himself hating the way she seemed to accept it. “I never got your name.”

  “Valerie.”

  “I’m Lee.”

  “I know.” She smiled as she gestured behind him at the barely organized chaos of a night shoot.

  The smile changed her appearance from attractive to beautiful. Desirable. Lee opened and closed his mouth a few times before managing a slightly choked, “Right. Of course.” He glanced down, unable to meet her gaze any longer, noticed her legs were both bare and rising in goose bumps from the cold, looked up to find her watching him, and frowned. “Are you warm enough?”

  Expectation changed to confusion and she was merely attractive again. “I’m fine.”

  “You sure? Because I could . . . ”

  “Lee!” Pam trotted up, breathing heavily, one hand clamped to her com-tech to keep it from bouncing free. “They’re ready for you.”

  Tony watched Lee take his leave of a familiar hooker and follow Pam onto the section of street standing in for Victorian Vancouver. Tony met him just before he reached his mark and leaned in, one hand resting lightly against the other man’s chest. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine. I was just talking to . . . ”

  “I saw.”

  “Her name’s Valerie.”

  “I know. Police let it drop when they questioned me about finding the body. They didn’t charge her.”

  “Yeah, she said.”

  “Apparently you don’t scream if you’ve just killed someone and there was still five hundred and twenty-seven dollars in the guy’s wallet.” Tony frowned “They said there was no ID, though.”

  Lee frowned as well, a slight dip of dark brows. Not quite enough to wrinkle his forehead. “They said a lot.”

  Tony shrugged. Past experience had taught him that a lot of cops weren’t too concerned about maintaining a hooker’s privacy, but he had no intention of getting into that with Lee. “She say why she came by? Are we on her stretch of turf?”

  “No.” Lee shook his head, careful not to knock James Taylor Grant’s hair out of place. “Well, maybe. But I don’t think that’s why she came by.”

  “Get a room, you two!” Adam’s shout moved them apart. “And Tony, unless you’ve been cast as Grant’s new girlfriend . . . ”

  “And the Internet goes wild,” someone muttered.

  “ . . . get your ass out of my shot.”

  Lee handed Tony his green tea, and visibly settled into his character as Tony moved back beside the camera. When he looked for Valerie, she was right where Lee�
��d left her, cradling the muffin in both hands. Suddenly becoming conscious of Tony’s regard, she turned her head slightly and their eyes met.

  Tony almost recognized her expression.

  “Upon reflection,” he said softly to himself, hands wrapped around the warmth of the paper cup, “I don’t think that’s why she came around either.”

  “You don’t have to come in now, you know.” Eyes half closed, Tony stared blearily across the elevator at Lee. Early mornings were not his best time. “Cast call isn’t for another hour.”

  Lee waved it off. “Five thirty, six thirty—they both suck. But my car’s back in the shop, it’s too early to haul one of the drivers out when you’re going in anyway, and once I’m there, I can always grab some shut-eye on the couch.”

  “I don’t know.” He sagged against the elevator wall, the stainless steel cold even through three layers of clothing. “We’ve been seen a lot together lately, and that roommates thing only goes so far.”

  “Tony, it’s five o’clock in the morning, even the paparazzi are still asleep. What’s up with you?”

  “I’ve just been thinking about it, that’s all. About the choice you’re making for . . . ” He waggled his coffee between them. “ . . . us. And I want you to know that I appreciate it.”

  “What the fuck brought that on?”

  Lee’s eyes started to narrow, as if he could read the world Valerie in the space between them so Tony hurriedly muttered, “I don’t know. Lack of sleep.”

  After a moment, Lee leaned in, gently bumped the sides of their heads together—a manly embrace for the security cameras—and stepped away as the elevator reached the parking garage. “You’re an idiot.”

  Unlike Lee’s expensive hybrid, Tony’s elderly car seldom broke down, and Tony gave thanks that his ancient brakes worked as well as they did when he pulled out of the underground garage and nearly ran down a brown-haired woman in a short blue dress.

  “Is that . . . ?”

  “Yeah, I think it is.” Lee twisted in his seat as she disappeared behind a panel van in the small parking lot. “Pull over.”

  “What?”

  “I should talk to her.”

  “About what?”

  “I don’t . . . ” Sighing, he faced front again. “Doesn’t matter. She’s gone. Maybe it’s the way we met, maybe it’s just that she’s so vulnerable in spite of . . . everything. I think she needs a friend.” When Tony glanced over, Lee was frowning slightly. “There’s just something about her, you know?”

  “Yeah.” Tony could feel her watching from wherever she’d tucked herself and worked very hard at unclenching his jaw. “I know.”

  Finished at 4:30—almost like a person with a real job—and back home by six, thanks to traffic, Lee sagged against the minivan’s seatbelt and muttered, “I should never have gotten rid of the bike.”

  Richard, CB Productions’ senior driver, shrugged as he pulled into the condo’s driveway. “Well, you got domestic.”

  “Jesus, Tony had nothing to do with it.” Lee wondered which of them Richard thought had lost their balls. “CB suggested the insurance wouldn’t cover me if I kept riding.”

  Richard shrugged again. “Yeah, that’s a good reason too. You going to need a ride in tomorrow?”

  “No, my car’ll be ready in the morning; I’ll drive. I’ve got a late call, it’s all Mason and the . . . ”

  Girl. Woman. She was standing on the other side of the street. Watching him through the breaks in the rush hour traffic. Smiling. Looking good. Looking beautiful. Looking even better than he remembered, actually. The black sweater had fallen open and soft curves filled out the drape of the dress.

  “Lee?”

  Lee was already out of the car. “Thanks for the ride, Richard.”

  By the time the traffic cleared and he had a chance to get across the road, she’d disappeared. He crossed anyway, although he had no idea which way she’d gone or what he’d do if he caught up to her. He knew better. He was on a syndicated vampire show, for crying out loud, he’d had crazy stalking fans before. Not as many as Mason, but then, Lee wasn’t the one actually wearing the fangs.

  He wondered if she was homeless. The unchanging wardrobe suggested as much. There really wasn’t much he could do, except give her money, but he found he wanted to do something. Be the hero.

  He didn’t get much chance to do that these days.

  It had been another fifteen-hour day, and all Tony wanted was a chance to spend some time with Lee before falling into bed and starting the whole grind all over again in the morning. The flashing lights on the patrol cars and other emergency vehicles, not to mention the bored looking police officer approaching his car, suggested otherwise.

  “Sorry, only residents are allowed into the building right now.”

  “I live here.”

  Her gaze flicked down to his car. When it flicked back up, she didn’t even pretend to hide her disbelief. “Driver’s license, please.”

  Tony handed it over and stared past her as she checked his name against a list. Two EMTs were rolling an elderly man wearing sweatpants and a UNBC T-shirt out of the building on a stretcher.

  Tony knew dead.

  He knew freshly dead.

  He knew long dead and decaying.

  He knew undead.

  This guy, he was dead.

  “Who is he?” he asked, as a man in a rumpled trench coat zipped up the body bag.

  The officer glanced over her shoulder. “No idea, no identification. Custodian found him in the mechanical room.” She handed Tony back his license. “ME says natural causes. You’re good to go, Mr. Foster.”

  Lee was distracted that night but hey, dead guy in the mechanical room so Tony figured he had cause.

  Hoped that was the cause.

  Next morning, when Tony pulled into the studio parking lot, he found himself parking next to Constable Jack Elson’s red pickup. Jack had started coming around when a bit player had died under suspicious circumstances, had hung in there when the circumstances had changed from suspicious to really fucking strange, and continued to come around because he was dating the production company’s recently promoted office manager. Leaning on the tailgate, he was obviously waiting for Tony.

  “Go easy in there,” he said, as Tony joined him. “Amy’s . . . ”

  “In a mood?”

  “That’ll do.” Jack rubbed his hand over his head, ruffling his hair up into pale blond spikes. “I had to cancel on her again. I’m working a missing person case and unless he magically appears in the next twenty minutes there’s no way I’ll be free for lunch.” Blue eyes narrowed. “He’s not likely to magically appear in the next twenty minutes, is he?”

  Tony rolled his eyes. The RCMP constable had been a part of what Amy liked to call “CB Productions and the Attack of the Big Red Demon Thing” where all cards had been laid on the table—and then incinerated—and was remarkably open-minded for a cop, while still managing to maintain his profession’s suspicious nature. “Not as far as I know. Why?”

  “He was seen four days ago in Gastown. You were in Gastown four days ago. Know a twenty-seven-year-old named Casey Yuen?”

  “Name doesn’t sound familiar.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You know they . . . well, we found a body in an alley down the street from our shoot?”

  “The John Doe? I heard you found him. And I checked him out, but he’s about seventy years too old.”

  “They found another elderly John Doe in the mechanical room at Lee’s condo last night.”

  “I heard. You weren’t there when it happened.”

  “You checked?”

  Jack shrugged. “Things happen around you. But I also heard it was natural causes both times. And that the first guy’s heart had a good reason to give out.”

  Valerie. Who he’d seen outside their building the morning of the day the old man had died. It hadn’t even occurred to him to tie her to the second death until Jack’s innuendo.

  “The de
ath occurred in the early evening,” Jack pointed out after Tony filled him in, “and I think I’d have heard if it was a second death by hand job. That’d make it a pattern and we watch for those.”

  “Neither man had ID.”

  “That’s not as uncommon as you might think.” Jack studied him shrewdly. “I’ll check to see if the second body gave any indication of recent sexual activity but I suspect there’s another reason your working girl is hanging around. Lee was playing white knight at the scene and she showed up at the shoot later.”

  “How . . . ” Tony cut himself off. “Amy.”

  Jack shrugged. “All I’m saying is that if the girl was outside your building, odds are good she was there for Lee not because she’s been helping absent minded old men die happy.”

  “I’m not jealous.”

  “Did I say you were?” But he was thinking it. Tony didn’t need to be a wizard to see that on his face. “Look, Tony, old men die. It happens. Sometimes they get confused and wander off without identification. Before he went into the nursing home, we got my granddad an ID bracelet, just in case. But, right now, I’m more concerned about that missing twenty-seven-year-old.”

  “I could . . . ”

  “No.” Jack held up a hand. “I don’t want you out there playing at Sam Spade with a wand. I just wanted to know if you knew him.” If you were involved said the subtext. “If I run into any weird shit, trust me, I’ll call you.”

  Tony didn’t have an office. He had a corner of a table in one end of the soundstage near the carpentry shop where craft services occasionally set out the substantials rather than have cast and crew tromp through the truck. Barricaded in behind a thermos of coffee and a bagel, he alternated between working on a list of what he needed to do before they started the day’s shooting and thinking about the woman in the blue dress.

  Sure, Lee seemed taken by her, but Tony wasn’t jealous.

  He was suspicious. Not the same thing.

  The old guy in the alley had five hundred and twenty-seven dollars in his wallet and was dressed to score. Tony remembered his initial impression of trying too hard and anyone trying that hard—not a lot of eighty-year-olds would shoehorn themselves into a pair of tight, low-slung jeans—hadn’t been wandering around randomly.