Authors: Ken White
“I was released. The charges were stomped by higher authority.”
“What higher authority?”
“Phillip Bain, Deputy Area Governor,” I replied.
“I’ve heard the name,” he said. “That’s some higher authority.” He paused. “And it
probably explains the call I got at eight this morning from his office, telling me that Dick
Nedelmann was being temporarily reassigned to the State Police.”
I nodded. “Yeah, he offered to get me a human assistant to help out.”
“Help out with what?”
“Finding who killed Joshua.”
“Why does he care?” Jimmy asked.
“Joshua was his bloodchild.”
He whistled. “That explains that. Why Nedelmann?”
“Bain was kind enough to let me choose my own assistant,” I said. It wasn’t strictly true.
Bain had only agreed to my input on the choice. Almost the same thing. Almost. “Figured I’d better move fast before he changed
his mind.” I paused for a moment. “I’ve known Dick Nedelmann since before the war. He was a patrolman
at 83
rd
Street. And I run into him around the neighborhood from time to time.”
“I’ve talked to him a few times, met his wife at a day shift barbeque last summer, but that’s
about it,” Jimmy said. “Word around the station is that he’s not real fond of Vees.”
“Dick lost his daughter in the camps.”
“Tough break. I do have to tell you, he isn’t happy about the assignment. My watch
lieutenant, Frankie Maldone, said Nedelmann went through the roof when he heard.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Dick caught up with me at my apartment.”
“How’d that go?”
“We had a little chat. No bullets were exchanged. I think I got him calmed
down.” I paused. “He’ll be okay.”
“Let me know if you run into any problems with him. I’ll give him the old sarge routine.”
I laughed. “I know that routine.”
“It works,” Jimmy said with a smile. “Hell, you turned out at least half good.”
I leaned forward. “Listen, about that Marsch kid I stashed here. I’m thinking we should just
kick him loose. It was a personal favor for Joshua’s pal uptown. With Joshua gone, I don’t see
any reason to follow through.”
Jimmy was staring at me, his face rigid.
“What?” I asked, knowing I wasn’t going to like the answer.
“Wednesday night, a couple of Uptown cops came in, told the guys on night shift that
Joshua had been murdered and that Jedron Marsch was involved. Said they had orders to bring
Marsch in.”
“Marsch had been in a holding cell most of the goddamn day. How the hell could he have
been involved?”
“I didn’t say their story made any sense. But that’s what they said. They
came on strong, and the night shift lockup sergeant didn’t know what to do. He called Uptown
station, watch lieutenant there confirmed the order, and that was that.” He shook his head. “I
don’t like it anymore than you do, Charlie, but I can’t blame the sergeant.”
“I don’t blame him,” I said. “I just want to know what the hell is going on. You have any
names? The cops, whoever he talked to Uptown?”
“No, but I can get them.”
“Do that,” I said. “Find out who picked up Marsch, who the lockup sergeant talked to at
Uptown station, and what time it all happened. I’ll be at Uptown tonight, and it would be a big
help to have some names.”
I was going to have him call the office when I remembered there was another option. I took
out the cell phone. Bain had thoughtfully taped a strip of paper with the phone number on the
back. “Call me on this,” I said, turning on the phone.
“Nice,” Jimmy said after I read him the number. “I heard there were a few of those still
around.” He grinned. “Couple of my detectives would love to get their hands on it.”
I shook my head. “No they wouldn’t. They don’t let the human population have them
because they don’t trust us. You can bet your pension that Bain’s office knew my exact location the second I turned it on.”
Jimmy was silent for a moment, then said, “Which means they might be monitoring every
call. Maybe I should just call your office.”
“This is an official request for my investigation, Jimmy. Those cops said the Marsch kid
was involved in Joshua’s murder. It’s a lead I have to follow, as unlikely as it sounds. You
won’t catch heat about feeding me their names.”
“Humor me,” he said.
“Whatever works,” I replied. “Just keep in mind that if Bain wants to keep tabs on my
phone calls, he’s probably tapped my office lines too.”
He stared at me for a moment, then broke into a grin. “You have a way of cutting through
the bullshit. Fine, I’ll give you a call on the cell. Starkovicz is usually here no later than seven.
As soon as I’ve got something, I’ll call.”
“Good enough.”
“One other thing,” he said. “I want to tell you how bad I feel about what happened to
Joshua. He was a good man.”
“He was that. So we’re going to do him right and find out who killed him.” I looked past
him at the filthy cream-colored wall. “And when we do, we’re going to make sure we stamp
their ticket paid in full. No matter who or what they are.”
Jimmy nodded. I reached across the table and we shook hands. “I’ll be talking to you soon,
sarge,” I said.
Chapter Twelve
Cynthia looked up as I came into the office. “Charlie, there was a man here to see you. He
said his name was . . .” She looked down at her steno pad. “. . . Nedelmann.”
I nodded. “He found me. Did you talk to Father McCray?”
“Yes, I did,” she replied. “Father McCray said that he would be busy with confession in the
morning, but if you could stop by tomorrow afternoon, he’d fit you in.”
With a laugh, I said, “Nice that he can find room for me in his busy schedule.”
“Charlie!” Cynthia seemed honestly shocked. I realized I didn’t know much about her life
outside of the office. Maybe she was one of McCray’s flock.
“Just kidding, Cynthia,” I said quickly. “Tomorrow afternoon will be fine.”
“Been shopping?” she asked, nodding at the bag in my hand.
“Yeah, picked up a new jacket and a watch,” I said. “Speaking of that, do you remember
that interior decorator we did a job for last year? Hooper, Hopper, something like that?”
Cynthia frowned. “You mean Mrs. Hagger?”
“That’s her,” I said. “We still have her number?”
She looked around, as if expecting it to be there on her desk. “I’m sure I have it
somewhere.”
“When you get a chance, give her a call and see if she’s still in business. If she is, have her
stop by to pick up my apartment key and send her over there. I’m going to need all my furniture
replaced. Nothing fancy, just functional stuff. Living room, bedroom. Have her bill Night and
Day.”
Cynthia was nodding as she wrote. “And what should she do with the furniture that’s there
now?”
I laughed. “The furniture that’s there now is kindling. Have her haul it off to the trash or
sell it as firewood.”
She looked up for a moment, then back down at her pad. “I’ll leave Miss Tindell a note and
let her know that we’ll be getting the bill.”
“Tell her tonight when she comes in,” I said.
I waited for the reaction. I didn’t have to wait long.
Cynthia looked up. “Charlie, you know I’m home before Miss Tindell gets here.”
“Not tonight, Cynthia. Tonight we’re all going to be here for a meeting at seven o’clock.
All hands. No exceptions.”
She was shaking her head, looking down at the desk. “No, that’s not possible,” she said
firmly. She looked up at me. “The sun goes down at six-thirty tonight. If I leave at five-thirty,
I’ll have plenty of time to get home before then. I can’t stay till seven. It’ll be dark.”
“I’ll see that you get home safely,” I said.
She continued to shake her head. “I’m sorry, Charlie, but you know I can’t stay till seven. I
have to leave at five-thirty. I have to be home before the sun goes down.”
“Cynthia,” I said softly. “It’ll be all right. Really. We’ll have our meeting, everybody will
meet everybody else, and then I’ll see that you get home. It will be fine. By eight o’clock, you’ll
be snug in your apartment.”
“No,” she said, her voice rising. “Everything will not be fine! I have to be home before the
sun sets! You know that!”
“Not tonight,” I said. “Tonight you stay till everyone is here, we talk, and then I get you
home.”
“No,” she said, her voice firm. “And you can’t make me.”
I sighed. “Of course I can,” I said. “You work for me, Cynthia. That means I tell you what
to do, and you do it. Or you quit.”
“Then I quit.”
I nodded slowly. “I’ll have your final paycheck sent to your apartment. It’s been a pleasure
working with you.”
She was silent for a moment, and so was I. It was her move.
“I just can’t do it, Charlie,” she said.
“Look, I know you don’t like being out after sundown. I’m not thrilled with it myself.”
“Like has nothing to do with it,” she said. “I can’t be out after sundown. He comes out
when the sun goes down.”
“He?”
“Jerry.”
I had no clue what she was talking about. “Jerry who?”
“My husband,” she hissed angrily.
It took me almost half an hour to get the story out of her. She’d spit out a few words, then
clam up again. Tears would start, she’d wipe them away and turn to stone. But in the end, I
finally got an idea of what made Cynthia tick.
Jerry and Cynthia DiPierro were an average couple living average lives. Cynthia was an
office manager at an insurance company, Jerry a short-haul truck driver, home every night for
dinner. They’d been married eight years.
When it was clear what was happening, when the Vees were sweeping toward the city, Jerry
joined the neighborhood militia and went out to man one of the makeshift barricades that were
springing up all over town. He came home an hour before dawn.
Cynthia didn’t realize what had happened until he lunged at her, teeth bared. She somehow
managed to fight him off and force him out of the apartment. That last hour, before the sun rose,
was the worst of her life. Her husband of eight years, throwing himself against the locked door,
screaming incoherently, while she sat on the floor, waiting, a butcher knife in her hand.
When the sun rose, she left the apartment, taking nothing with her. Two days later, she was
rounded up in a sweep and shipped off to a camp. She never saw Jerry again.
But she knew he was out there. She said she could feel him, at night, through the triple
locks on her door, through the barred windows. Feel him on the street below, feel him in the
hallway outside.
When she finished, she just sat there, eyes dry, face without expression. She looked up at
me. “I know he’s still looking for me,” she said. “That’s why I have to be home before the sun
goes down.”
I sighed. “Cynthia, have I ever lied to you?”
She hesitated, then shook her head slowly.
“Then trust me now,” I said slowly. “I need you to stay tonight. When we’re done, I’ll see
that you get home. Right to your door and into your apartment. Nothing will happen to you. I
promise.”
She didn’t say anything.
I stared at her for a moment, not saying anything. “Okay, think about it and let me know. I’ve never asked a lot from you, but I’m
asking now.” I paused. “We’re going to find out who killed Joshua. To do that, we need to
work as a team. That means everybody has to be onboard. Human and vampire.”
“I’ll think about it,” she said curtly.
“That’s all I ask,” I said. “I’ll be in my office.”
She didn’t reply.
I settled in behind my desk and pulled the file on Joshua’s murder out of the portfolio. Time
to find out what happened to Joshua and why the night shift cops had pinned the murder on me.
Wednesday night, 7:30 pm. Lou Carpenter, the owner of Carpenter’s, the guy Joshua was
finding Jedron Marsch for, goes to Joshua’s apartment. They were supposed to meet at
Carpenter’s club at seven, but Joshua didn’t show. Carpenter knocks on the door, gets no
answer, checks the doorknob. It’s unlocked. He goes inside.
In the bedroom, on the bed, he finds Joshua. Naked, bullet wound to the chest, head
removed. I read it again. Head removed and missing. I quickly flipped through the file to the
back. They’d ID’d Joshua by fingerprints. No question the corpse was his.
Carpenter calls the cops from Joshua’s phone at 7:33 pm, cops show up at 7:48 pm, put out a
call on the radio for Homicide at 7:52 pm. Holstein and a Detective Phipps arrive two minutes
later, at 7:54 pm. Take Carpenter’s statement, send him away. Crime scene techs are there at
8:12 pm. Corpse is bagged and shipped to Central station at 8:22 pm.
I leaned back in the chair. Sara said that Holstein and the other cop, probably Phipps, had
shown up at the office around 8:40 pm. That was less than 20 minutes after they’d sent Joshua’s
corpse to Central. They must have been in a hurry.