Blood Debt

sophisticated alarm system convinced her not to attempt a frontal assault.
    "There's got to be another entrance," she muttered, "if only to keep the fire marshal happy."
    Keeping to the shadows, she turned down Columbia and then into the alley that bisected the block. Two people were sleeping in the first dumpster she passed.
    An old woman was fishing a meal out of the second. She dropped down off her perch as Vicki approached, clutching a greasy box of beef fried rice in one hand and length of pipe in the other.
    "Damn kids! Leave me alone!"
    She wasn't drunk or on drugs—Vicki could've smelled either, even over the combined stink of the alley and its occupants—so she was probably one of the thousands of psychiatric patients cutbacks had put on the street.
    "I'm tellin' ya, get away!"
    Vicki caught the pipe, a little surprised by the force of the blow, and stuffed two tens under the old woman's fingers. White-middle-class guilt money, Celluci'd call it. Maybe. It did nothing to solve the problem, but it beat doing nothing. Marginally.
    The old woman sniffed at the money, then thrust it back toward Vicki. "I ain't goin' with ya," she said. "Not even if you bring the big guy."
    "The big guy?"
    "The one what usually offers the money. Big guy. Real big. Got cow eyes like shit wouldn't melt in his mouth, makes ya wanna trust him, but he's mean underneath. I know." Her brain made a right turn, and the money disappeared under at least three layers of clothing. "Watch out for that big guy, you." All of a sudden, she squatted at the base of the wall, tucked the pipe under one arm, and began to eat. "Damn kids," she added.
    Vicki moved on.
    The clinic had a parking space, a tight squeeze even for the tiny import that filled it, and a back door made of industrial steel. Blinking back tears in the glare from the security light, Vicki noted the pattern of dents. Boot marks mostly although someone had unsuccessfully taken a crowbar to the area by the lock. A small sign read, When the light is on, ring the bell.
    Vicki assumed that the Chinese characters below it said much the same thing.
    Why not. She heard the bell ringing inside the building, sensed the life drawing closer.
    "Yes? Can I help you?"
    It was a woman's voice and not a very old woman at that. Vicki directed a neutral stare at the intercom grille. "My name is Vicki Nelson. I'm a private investigator and I'm looking for Michael Celluci."
    "Michael Celluci?" The surprise in her voice didn't seem directed at the name itself but rather at hearing it again.
    "Yes. I have reason to believe he came to see you today. He's my partner, and I have a feeling he's in trouble."
    "Just a minute, please."
    Okay, Vicki, if this woman's a part of the kidney scam, you've just leaped into the frying pan. That was bright.
    The door creaked open.
    But at least I've gotten inside.
    Bolts slammed back into place behind her and a figure in a loose smock appeared silhouetted in the light at the end of the short hall.
    "I'm Dr. Seto. I run this clinic. Please, come into the office."
    By the time Vicki rounded the corner, her eyes had adjusted to the light. "Oh, my God…"
    Dr. Seto frowned, lifted her hand off the back of an old wooden desk chair and pushed a silken strand of ebony hair back behind one ear. "I beg your pardon?"
    Unaware she'd spoken aloud until the doctor had reacted, Vicki mumbled an apology, thankful she could no longer blush. If you're one of the bad guys, Celluci's in big trouble. The stupid ox is a pushover for short, beautiful women. "You, uh, weren't what I was expecting."
    The doctor sighed, nostrils pinched together, used to and irritated by the reaction her looks evoked. "Detective-Sergeant Celluci didn't mention he was working with a private investigator. Perhaps you should show me some identification."
    "You should've checked it before you let me in," Vicki pointed out, reaching into a side pocket on her shoulderbag.
    "I would have if you'd been a…"
    "Man?" Vicki finished, handing over the folded plastic case.
    "Yes." Obviously annoyed with herself, Dr. Seto glanced at the ID
    and passed it back. Now we're even, her expression said as clearly as if she'd said it out loud. Let's get on with it. "I assume the detective is missing?" When Vicki nodded, she leaned against the edge of the desk and folded her arms. "He was here this morning, about 11:30. He grabbed one of my street kids who was trying to walk off with a box of condoms. We had lunch together. I showed