Blood Price

making faces at the paper like you did when those little girls were killed."

    "That was two years ago!" Two years and a lifetime.

    "I remember two years. But this time it's not for you to get involved with, these things sucking blood." The register drawer slammed shut with unnecessary force. "This time it's unclean."

    "It's never been clean, " Vicki protested, tucking the papers under her arm.

    "You know what I mean."

    The tone left no room for argument. "Yeah. I know what you mean." She turned to go, paused, and turned back to the counter. "Mrs. Kopolous, do you believe in vampires?"

    The older woman waved an expressive hand. "I don't not believe," she said, her brows drawn down for emphasis. "There are more things in heaven and earth. . . ."

    Vicki smiled. "Shakespeare?"

    Her expression didn't soften. "Just because it came from a poet, doesn't make it less true."

    When Vicki got back to her apartment building, a three-story brownstone in the heart of Chinatown, it was 7:14 and the neighborhood was just beginning to wake up. She considered going for a run, before the carbon monoxide levels rose, but decided against it when an experimental breath plumed in the air. Spring might have officially arrived, but it'd be time enough to start running when the temperature reflected the season. Taking the stairs two at a time, she thanked the lucky genetic combination that gave her a jock's body with a minimum amount of maintenance. Although at thirty-one who knew how much longer that would last. . . .

    Minor twinges of guilt sent her through a free weight routine while she listened to the 7:30
    news.

    By 8:28 she'd skimmed all three newspapers, drunk a pot and a half of tea, and readied the Foo Chan invoice for mailing. Tilting her chair back, she scrubbed at her glasses and let her world narrow into a circle of stucco ceiling. More things in heaven and earth. . . . She didn't know if she believed in vampires, but she definitely believed in her own senses, even if one of them had become less than reliable of late. Something strange had been down that tunnel, and nothing human could have struck that blow. A phrase from Wednesday's newspaper article kept running through her head: A source in the Coroner's Office reports that the bodies of Terri Neal and DeVerne Jones had been drained of blood. She knew it was none of her business. . . .

    Brandon Singh had always been at his desk at the Coroner's Office every morning at 8:30.
    He had a cup of tea and a bagel and was, until about 8:45, perfectly approachable.

    Although she no longer had any sort of an official position to call from, coroners were government appointments and she was still a taxpayer. She reached for her address book. Hell, after Celluci how bad could it be?

    "Dr. Singh, please. Yes, I'll hold." Why do they ask? Vicki wondered, shoving at her glasses with her free hand. It's not like you have a choice.

    "Dr. Singh here."

    "Brandon? It's Vicki Nelson."

    His weighty Oxford accent-his telephone voice- lightened. "Victoria? Good to hear from you. Been keeping busy since you left the force?"

    "Pretty busy," she admitted, swinging her feet up on a corner of the desk. Dr. Brandon Singh was the only person since the death of her maternal grandmother back in the seventies to call her Victoria. She'd never been able to decide whether it was old-world charm or sheer perversity as he knew full well how much she disliked hearing her full name. "I've started my own investigations company."

    "I had heard a rumor to that effect, yes. But rumor . . ." In her mind's eye, Vicki could see his long surgeon's hands cutting through the air. ". . . rumor also had you stone blind and selling pencils on a street corner."

    "Not. Quite." Anger leached the life from her voice.

    Brandon's voice warmed in contrast. "Victoria, I am sorry. You know I'm not a tactful man, never had much chance to develop a bedside manner. . . ." It was an old joke, going back to their first meeting over the autopsy of a well-known drug pusher. "Now then," he paused for a swallow of liquid, the sound a discreet distance from the receiver, "what can I do for you?"

    Vicki had never found Brandon's habit of getting right to the point with a minimum of small talk disconcerting and she appreciated him never demanding tact when he wouldn't give it. Don't waste my time, I'm a busy man, set the tone for every conversation he had. "That article in yesterday's paper, the blood loss in Neal and Jones, was