Blood Debt

didn't acknowledge his presence in any way although she must have heard both her producer's knock and his entrance. Celluci got the impression that it wasn't a deliberate slight but rather that he simply wasn't as important as her work in progress. Marginally more insulting upon consideration. After a dozen years in police work, however, insults meant little unless accompanied by violent punctuation.
    Hands clasped behind his back, he looked around.
    Bookcases made up not only the dividing wall but covered two of the other three and rose to the lower edge of the windows on the third.
    Their contents seemed about equally divided between books, videos and binders with a number of framed photographs propped up in front.

    Patricia Chou accepting something from Vancouver's Mayor.
    Patricia Chou being congratulated by the current Premier of British Columbia. Patricia Chou with a serenely smiling man Celluci recognized as the right-to-lifer who'd put a high velocity, 7.62-mm rifle bullet into a 57-year-old obstetrician because he objected to the doctor performing legal abortions at city hospitals. Although Ms. Chou was still smiling in that particular photograph, her expression as she gazed at the handcuffed gunman seemed to suggest she'd just squashed something unpleasant she'd found under a rock and was happy to have done it.
    Detective-Sergeant Celluci personally believed the world would be a significantly better place and his job one hell of a lot easier if the victims were given the kind of coverage criminals usually got and if criminals were ignored by the press, their names and pictures never appearing outside of rap sheets and court documents. He didn't approve of giving them time on talk shows no matter how local the market.
    "You're Michael Celluci." When he turned, she tossed a silken fall of midnight hair back over her shoulder and continued before he had a chance to speak. "You wanted to talk to me about yesterday's show."
    Her tone suggested he not waste her time.
    Studying her face, Celluci discovered what the cameras had camouflaged; she was young. Not long out of university. Not long enough for the sharp edges of ambition, intellect, and ego to have been dulled by the world.
    A lot like Vicki when they first met.
    Been there. Done that. Got the scars. "As I said on the phone, Ms.
    Chou, I have a friend who wants to know why you think the body found in Vancouver Harbor was an organ-legging victim."
    "And as I said on the phone, I'd like to know why your friend wants to know why."
    "My friend thinks much the same thing you do."
    "Your friend is the only other person in the city who does. You don't."
    Celluci shrugged, the gesture carefully neutral. "I try to keep an open mind."
    "An open mind?" The repetition fell barely to one side of mockery.
    "Why doesn't your friend want to talk to me? Why send you?"
    "She was busy."
    "Busy," she repeated, her eyes narrowing. Leaning back in her chair, she stared at him for a long moment then one ebony brow lifted. "You're not with the local police department, are you?"
    He matched her brow for brow, beginning to regret giving her his real name. "What makes you think I'm with any police department."
    "First, your gaze is constantly going flick, flick, flick around the room. Second, in spite of styles, your cuffs are loose enough to access an ankle holster. Third, although it's less obvious in person, over the phone your voice mannerisms are pure law enforcement. Forth, you're not local or you would have identified yourself earlier." Her gaze grew fiercely speculative, almost sharklike. "You're federal, aren't you? This is bigger than I thought, isn't it? Maybe even international."
    Her ambition burned so brightly he could almost feel the heat. If Tony's theory was correct, and Patricia Chou was looking for a story big enough to get her a network show, she seemed to believe—for reasons unclear to Celluci at the moment—that this was the story.
    Although who the hell she thought he was, he had no idea.
    "If I tell you what your friend wants to know," she continued, leaning forward, eyes blazing, "I get exclusive rights to this story when it breaks."
    Celluci sighed. "Ms. Chou, there might not be a story."
    "Exclusive rights," she repeated with no room for negotiation.
    He knew when to surrender—especially when it didn't make a damned bit of difference to him. In his opinion, there was as much chance of the John Doe in Vancouver Harbor having been killed by