Blood Debt

gangs were growing as fast as the media reported.
    Of course, it also left Ronald Swanson. Multimillionaire philanthropist, bereaved husband, and all around nice guy.
    The elevator arrived almost instantly.
    Vicki insisted they continue to assume organ-legging. Since the police hadn't yet identified the corpse, it seemed obvious he hadn't lost that kidney through conventional surgery. Since they knew he'd lost it locally, organ-legging was beginning to make more sense. And the motive for removing the organ? That was the only easy answer.
    Profit.
    So maybe we should look for a Ferengi, he snorted as he pushed the button for the parking garage.
    The ghost's garage band T-shirt said he'd lived, and died, in the immediate area. Since he hadn't yet been identified, he was obviously someone who wouldn't be missed. Unfortunately, the immediate area offered a wide choice of potential donors. As Tony'd pointed out, a West Coast winter beat freezing to death in Toronto or Edmonton.
    Since the transplant centers weren't involved, a private clinic had to be—those willing to buy organs would, no doubt, draw the line at having body parts hacked out in someone's basement. There were a page and a half of clinics listed in the Vancouver Yellow Pages, but sixteen of them could be immediately disregarded as he very much doubted there was a holistic way to remove a kidney. The Vancouver Vein Clinic had been intriguing but not as much as a quarter-page ad promising live blood cell analysis. An accompanying photo showed a smiling woman with long dark hair, obviously someone very happy with her blood. He couldn't decide whether he should mention it to Vicki or leave well enough alone.
    A balding man in a golf shirt and white pants got on at the third floor. Celluci nodded, noted the Rolex and the expensive aftershave, then assumed elevator position—his gaze locked on nothing about halfway up the doors.
    The list of buyers with the right combination of need, cash, and willingness to keep their mouths shut would necessarily be finite. It would, therefore, be inefficient to pick up a random drifter and hope for a match. They'd need some kind of medical information.
    Stepping out into the parking garage, he walked toward the imposing bulk of the van, listening to the echoes as he tossed his keys from hand to hand.
    There was a street clinic in East Vancouver that seemed to serve a less-than-upscale neighborhood and offered, according to their ad, HIV testing.
    It was a place to start.
    He closed the van door and adjusted the mirror, trying not to think of a load of wet laundry and how well the dark seats would hide stains.
    Had he stopped to think about it, he would've taken a taxi. The clinic was on the corner of East Hastings and Main, tucked between the faux historical Gastown and the bustling stores of Chinatown in one of the oldest parts of the city. The streets were narrow, the traffic chaotic, and parking spaces at a premium.
    Reaching Fender at Carrall Street, Celluci glowered at the One Way/No Entry that blocked his progress.
    Habit noted the license plate numbers of the two cars ahead of him which turned left after the light went from yellow to red, then he sat, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, waiting for a break in the steady stream of pedestrians that would allow him to make his right.
    While he waited, he watched the people heading toward the Chinese Cultural Center and hoped that the trio of middle-aged women, draped with cameras and loudly calling everything, including the bilingual street signs, cute, were American tourists.
    When the light changed, he moved out into the intersection only to be blocked by pedestrians crossing Fender. Halfway through the green, he took advantage of a group of teenagers agile enough to get out of the way and finally got around the corner. As traffic inched past a delivery truck, not exactly double-parked, he sucked in an appreciative lungful of warm air. Fresh fish, ginger, garlic, and car exhaust; familiar and comforting. Before her change, Vicki had lived on the edge of Toronto's Chinatown and this air, trapped between the buildings out of reach of all but the most persistent ocean breezes, evoked memories of a less complicated life.
    By the time he reached Columbia Street, one short block away, he'd had enough nostalgia. When a parking spot miraculously appeared, he cranked the van into it, rolled up the windows, locked the doors, checked to see that the man lying against the