Blood Lines

of pink memo paper that fluttered down to the floor. Fitzroy? Why not. "I've got a number you can leave a message at. I can't guarantee I'll get it until after dark, but it should be safe. Memorize it, don't write it down, and use…"
    'A public phone line. Mike, I know the drill." Dave repeated the number three times to be sure he had it, then warned,
    "You better get out of there. Cantree might not have wanted to wait until you came in. He may have sent a car up."
    'I'm gone. And Dave? Thanks." Partners who could be depended on when the chips were down-or sideways-had saved the lives of more cops than a thousand fancy pieces of equipment. "I owe you one."
    'One? You still owe me for a half a dozen meals, not to mention getting that asswipe from accounting off your back.
    Anyway, be careful." He hung up before Celluci could reply.
    Be careful. Right.
    Accompanied by a fine libretto of Italian swearing, Celluci threw a few clothes, some papers, and a box of ammunition in a cheap Blue Jays' gym bag. He had no time to change out of his suit, but the moment he could he'd ditch it for the uniform of the city-jeans and a black leather jacket worked better around Toronto than a cloak of invisibility. Not counting a pocket load of change, he had twenty-seven bucks in his wallet and another hundred in emergency money taped under the seat of the car. He'd take the money; he'd have to leave the car.
    On his way out the door, he stopped and glanced back at the phone. Should he leave a message on Fitzroy's machine for Vicki? A second thought decided him against it. Cantree was likely to have a check run on all the numbers he'd called in the last couple of days and if Fitzroy's number showed up on the list…
    'Good thing I didn't call it earlier." It appeared his ego was looking out for him.
    He slipped the chain on, pulled the door closed, and heard the deadbolt click. His security system had been designed by one of the best break and enter boys in the city. Cantree would probably have the door smashed-the police were often less subtle than those they arrested-but it ought to slow the bastards down.
    Very faintly, through the steel-reinforced oak, he heard the phone ring. It might be Vicki. He couldn't afford the time it would take to go back and answer it. If it was Vicki… well, Vicki had always been able to take care of herself and besides, she was safe enough for now; Cantree wanted him, not her.
    The holding cell smelled of vomit and urine and cheap booze sweated out through polyester layered over years of too many desperate people and far too little money. A half dozen tired looking whores, waiting for their morning trip to court, huddled in one corner and watched Vicki forced down on the bench.
    'What's she in for?" asked a tall brunette, adjusting what was either a very wide belt or a very short skirt.

    'None of your damned business," grunted Mallard struggling with the cuffs, his shoulder pressing Vicki hard against the wall.
    The hooker rolled her eyes. The other nodded.
    'What was that?" Gowan asked. His position outside the cage had allowed him to see the expression Mallard had missed. "You got a problem with the officer's answer?"
    'No." Her voice dropped just to one side of servile. "No problem."
    Gowan smiled. "Glad to hear it, ladies."
    Her expression supplicating, she gave him the finger, the gesture carefully hidden behind one of her companions.
    Working girls learned fast that cops came in two basic varieties. Almost all of them were just regular guys doing a job, but a nasty few would like nothing more than an excuse to pull out their sticks and apply a personal judgment. If fate threw them the latter, maintaining the merchandise dictated ass-kissing as hard and as fast as necessary.
    Swearing softly, Mallard yanked the cuffs around on Vicki's wrists to give him a better angle with the key.
    "Goddamned things are stuck a… there." They dropped into his hands and he straightened. Without his support, Vicki sagged away from the wall and toppled sideways off the bench.
    Although voluntary motor functions seemed to be under someone else's control and all the crevices of her brain had been filled with mashed potatoes, she was completely aware of everything that was going on. This was the Metro East Detention Center on Disco Road. Mallard and Gowan had tossed her bag at the Duty Sergeant and dragged her past saying, "Wait until you hear the story on this one…" They were now, obviously, going to leave her in