Blood Trail

land to tiny playgrounds tucked in odd corners. New development had gone up around mature trees and where that hadn't been possible new trees had been planted. Cicadas sang accompaniment throughout most of the drive and the whole city looked quiet and peaceful, basking in the heat.

    Vicki, who liked a little more grit in her cities, strongly suspected that the place would bore her to tears in less than twenty-four hours. Although she emphatically denied sharing the commonly held Torontonian delusion that Toronto occupied the center of the universe, she couldn't imagine working, or living, anywhere else.

    "The place is called Bob's Steak House," Peter explained as Rose pulled into a small, nearly empty parking lot. "It's actually up on Clarence Street, but if we leave the car there we have to parallel park."

    "Which we're not exactly very good at," Rose added, cutting the engine with a sigh of relief.
    Vicki would have been perfectly happy stopping for fast food - all she really demanded at this point was air conditioning - but the twins had argued for a restaurant "where the meat isn't so dead."

    A short block east of the lot, Rose rocked to a halt in front of a little corner store and exclaimed, "Baseball stickers!"

    Peter nodded. "Make him feel better."

    "Is this a coded conversation," Vicki asked of no one in particular, "or can anyone join in?"

    "Daniel collects baseball stickers," Rose translated. Her brow furrowed. "No one's quite sure why, but he does. If we bring a few packages back, it'll make up for him not being able to come with us."

    "You two go ahead." Vicki rummaged in her bag for the car keys. "I've got this urge to go back and check the car doors."

    "I locked mine," Peter told her, paused a moment, and added, "I think."

    "Exactly," Vicki grunted. "And I don't want to have to tell Henry that we borrowed his BMW
    and lost half the pieces."

    Rose waved a hand at the empty street. "But there's no one around."

    "I have a naturally suspicious nature. Get the stickers. I'll meet you back here."

    What's the point of new legislation on Sunday openings, Mark Williams wondered, heading back to the alley where he'd left his jeep, if the places I need to go are still closed? A truly civilized country wouldn't try to cramp a man's style and ... hello!

    He sidestepped quickly behind a huge old maple and with one hand resting lightly on the bark, leaned forward to take another look. It was Ms. "No First Name" Nelson. He thought he recognized the walk. Few women covered the ground with that kind of an aggressive stride.
    In fact. ...

    He frowned, watching her check the car doors, wondering why the body language seemed so familiar.

    Drives a BMW, eh. Not too shabby.

    As she turned away from the car, he ducked back, not wanting to be seen. A number of his most profitable enterprises had begun with him watching and keeping his mouth shut. When he felt enough time had passed, he took another look.

    Jesus H. Christ. She's a cop.

    For those who took the trouble to learn certain subtle signs, playing spot-the-cop became a game easy to win. Mark Williams had long ago taken the trouble to learn the signs. It never hurt to be prepared and this wasn't the first time that preparation had paid off.

    What's she got to do with those werewolves though, that's the question. Maybe the aged uncle hasn 't been as clever as he thought. If she's a friend of the family, and a cop. ...

    He came out from behind the tree as she disappeared up a side street at the other end of the parking lot. He couldn't tell if she was packing heat, but then, she could be packing a cannon in that oversized bag of hers and no one would be the wiser. Thinking furiously, he sauntered slowly across the street. If she could prove the aged uncle had been blowing away the neighbor's dogs, she didn't have to bring up the subject of werewolves at all. Uncle Carl would. And Uncle Carl would get locked away in a loonybin. And there would go his own chance to score big.

    She was onto something. The pine needles on yesterday's T-shirt proved she'd found the tree and he'd be willing to bet that that little lost waif routine she'd pulled in the aged uncle's flower factory was just a ploy to get close.

    He laid his hand against the sun-warmed metal of the BMW.

    I'm not going to lose this chance.

    She wouldn't appreciate it. She'd say he was interfering, that she could take care of herself, that he should stop being such a patronizing s.o.b.. Mike