Blood Pact

flowers and tastefully arranged furniture gave him the creeps. "I wouldn't worry about it. I don't suppose you get much opportunity to practice character assessment.”

    Mr. Hutchinson rose as well, his expression stony. "Our services are for the benefit of the living, Detective," he snapped. "And I assure you, we are quite as capable of character assessment as, say, the police department. Good day.”

    As he had nothing more to ask, Celluci accepted the dismissal. Once outside, he snorted and headed for the nearest bus stop, with the suspect's transit habits still their only concrete clue, he'd left his car at the apartment building. "Quite as capable of character assessment as the police department," he repeated, digging for change. "Just a little sensitive there, aren't we?" Still, he supposed that funeral directors were as sick of stereotypes as, well, police officers, so the comment hadn't been entirely undeserved.

    Swinging up onto the Johnson Street bus, he glanced back at the seat just in front of the rear door, hoping for a young, Oriental male, eating candy. The seat was empty.

    "Of course it is," he muttered, sitting in it himself. "Or it would be too easy.”

    "Violent Crimes. Detective-Sergeant Graham.”

    "Why the hell aren't you out working? Jesus, I can't take my eyes off you for a second.”

    "Hello, Mike. I miss you, too.”

    Celluci grinned and braced the phone against his shoulder. "Listen, Dave, I need you to do me a favor.”

    On the other end of the line, his partner sighed with enough force to rattle the wires between Toronto and Kingston. "Of course you do. Whey else would you call?”

    "I want you to call Humber College and talk to someone in Health Sciences about a Tom Chen who applied recently to their funeral director's program.”

    "Humber . . . Health Sciences . . . Tom Chen . . . Okay. What do you want to know?”

    "Everything they know.”

    "About this Chen?”

    "No, about life in general." Celluci rolled his eyes at his reflection in the etched mirror over the couch. "The name's an alias, but that shouldn't make any difference to your inquiries. And I need the info ASAP.”

    The wires rattled again. "Of course you do. How's she holding up?”

    "Vicki?”

    "No, her mother, asshole.”

    "About as well as can be expected, all things considered.”

    "Yeah. Well . . ." There was a pause while things were considered. "So, you going to be at Vicki's mother's place for the next couple of days?”

    Celluci looked around the apartment. "Far as I know. You got the number?”

    "Yeah. I'll call collect.”

    "Cheap Scots bastard," Celluci muttered and hung up, smiling. Dave Graham was a good cop and a loyal friend. Except in their dedication to their work, they were nothing alike, and their partnership was both successful and uncomplicated.

    "Uncomplicated; I could use a little of that right now." Celluci headed for the kitchen and the coffee maker. "Vicki's dead mother is paying house calls. Some joker who's equally dead is murdering teenagers. And there's a vampire in the closet.”

    He froze, a step half taken.

    "A completely helpless vampire in the closet.”

    Even with the door braced from the inside, it would still be so easy to remove his rival. To have Vicki to himself. To let in just enough sunlight . . .

    He finished the step and picked up the coffeepot. Fitzroy was too smart, had lived too long, to be in that closet if he thought he was in any danger. Celluci shook his head at the subtlety of trust and lifted a mug of coffee in salute.

    "Sleep well, you son of a bitch.”

    * * *
    Rubbing at her temples with both hands, Vicki exhaled noisily. Adrenaline had run out some time before and she was mind-numbingly tired. The physical exhaustion she could cope with, had coped with many times in the past, but emotionally she felt as though she'd spent the day being flayed and then salted.

    Dr. Burke had begun it, with her sudden sympathy, and then Dr. Devlin had finished the job. He had been more than fond of her mother and, still devastated by her death, had, in typical Irish fashion, poured out his grief. Vicki, unable to stop him, had sat dry-eyed while the middle-aged professor railed against the cruelties of fate, told of how universally Marjory Nelson had been liked and respected, and went on in detail about how proud Marjory Nelson had been of her daughter. Vicki knew how to stop him,
    "Sometimes," the cadet instructor had told them, "you want to give the