Forty-five
“This is awkward,”
Detective Nicholas Berry said, “but you’re not a serial killer, are
you? Or know any?”
“Not since the
operation,” Rachael replied. She had liked the homicide detective
(Interest. Curiosity. Lust.) at once.
She didn’t hold the frisson of sexual attraction against him.
Whether you were Pack or human or undead (or not), you couldn’t
help it if you were attracted to someone. She never blamed people
for that . . . only for how they acted on it.
“What is that, your
punch line?” Betsy asked. “You trotted that one out the other day,
too. Also not funny, I hesitate to point out, and yet must for the
sake of our continued good time.”
“Which part wasn’t
funny, the line, or the fact that she might be a serial
killer?”
“Both,” the queen
admitted. She turned to the detective, a handsome blond man with
swimmer’s shoulders and a tan jacket from Armani. They must pay cops way more in St. Paul than they do in
Boston. They were clearly good friends, judging by the ease
in their body language and how they spoke to each other. “What’s on
your so-called mind, Beriberi?”
“Another nickname,
Betsy? Wouldn’t it just be easier to get everyone’s actual name
right? ‘Hello, my name is Detective Berry, nice to meet you.’ Like
that? How hard is that?”
“You do not command
me, mortal law enforcer,” Betsy had replied with dead-on arrogance,
done well enough to make them all snicker. “Go search yourself,
Beriberi.” Then, to Rachael: “I shouldn’t be teasing. Those poor
people! And not even killed for something they did. They’re just .
. . decoration. Killed only because their killer needs something
noticed, something that has nothing to do with them or the lives they led.”
In that moment,
Rachael liked the vampire queen more than she could have imagined.
She had assumed a vampire queen would have the standard arsenal of
charisma and charm. She hadn’t expected that respect would follow
so quickly on the heels of liking.
“What are you talking
about?” Edward was looking at both of them. “Did you find something
out?”
“You could say that,”
Detective Berry said. “DNA.”
“No shit! Then you’ve
got him, right?”
The detective smiled
at Edward, but it was a nice smile, and there wasn’t a trace of
condescension in his voice when he replied, “It’s not quite as
simple as Law and Order makes it out to
be.”
“Those bastards lied
to us again?” Jessica yelped. “Oh,
Detectives Stabler and Benson, say it ain’t so.”
“Oh, God, don’t start
on those two,” Edward groaned. “My roommate—one of my
roommates—lives for that show. He’s got a huge crush on Mariska
Hargitay. He went to see an episode of The
Martha Stewart Show because she was the guest star and
Martha taught her how to make doilies, or something.”
Rachael had noticed
the other vampire—not the queen—had
flinched at oh, God. That was good to
know. That was very good to know.
“Well, anyway, the
murders aren’t in our jurisdiction, but Betsy’s boss man, there,
made a few phone calls.”
“Eric Sinclair is not
my boss man,” the queen said, every word a knife.
“Easy, whoa there,
big fella,” Jessica said. “Take it easy, Betsy. Your
pills?”
“Well, he’s
not.”
“The DNA didn’t
hit.”
“So it wasn’t any
good?” Rachael asked. She was privately wondering if there was any
way she or Mrs. Cain could get to a crime scene and give it a
sniff.
“I didn’t say it
wasn’t any good. I said it didn’t hit. Lucky for you, huh,
Rachael?”
She blinked. They
were all looking at her, even Edward. “What?” Concern. Fear. Worry. Concern. Resignation. “What’s
wrong?”
“It’s your DNA,
Rachael.”