I should explain that before I died, Nick and I had been almost friends. When I'd been attacked by the Fiends outside Kahn's Mongolian Barbecue (the heavy garlic I'd used had saved my life; the Fiends had nibbled and fled instead of really going to town on my gizzard), he'd been the cop to take my report. We'd occasionally shared a candy bar and, if not friends, had at least been friendly.
Then I'd risen from the dead and, completely unaware of my undead sex appeal, left Nick panting after me. Sinclair had to mind-?wipe him, including the part about me dying.
Trouble was, it wore off. Or my mind-?wipe had been stronger than the king's. Either way, we found out a couple months ago that he knew what we were, knew what we did, knew what we had done to him, and pretty much hated us.
So out of guilt, I usually try to be super nice and accommodating whenever he came around.
Except, of course, right now.
“Nobody's having any meeting until you two jerks tell me when you set this up!”
Nick arched his brows at my husband. “You didn't tell her?”
“I was hoping,” he said stiffly, “she would be out shoe shopping.”
“Well, the joke's on you, asshat! Ha! I went shoe shopping last week! So there!” I jerked my pointing finger away from my husband and jabbed it at Nick, who flinched. “So talk! Are you here to kill me?” (Man, the number of times I had to ask this question in a month... )
“No, my captain said I couldn't, unless I could prove in court you were a vampire.”
I nearly fell down in the foyer. “What?” I gasped, barely hanging on to the doorknob.
“Kidding. Come sit down before you stroke out.” Nick pushed past us and, like robots, we followed him into one of the parlors.
Chapter 14
“So!” he said with faux brightness. “Set up a meeting with your wife, which you didn't share with your wife. I love open marriages, don't you?”
Since I'd been having some doubts in that area myself, all I could do was scowl at Sinclair while smiling at Nick, which gave me an instant migraine. “How can I help you, Nick? Did you want to see Jess? Oh, wait – ” I should offer him a drink. But what did he drink? Was it Sprite, or Coke? Wait. I drank Coke. I –
“Detective Berry,” Tina said demurely. She entered, eyes lowered, and offered him a tray on which were a tall glass full of Sprite, another glass full of ice, a silver ice picker-?upper, a small bowl of sliced lemons and limes, and a big, thick, cloth napkin. Also, there was –
“My queen,” she said in a soft voice, gaze on the carpet. I took the iced Coke (with a wedge of lime, just the way I liked it), and Tina managed to somehow glide away while not looking at anyone, yet giving the impression of instant service, should anyone need a refill. This, I had since learned, was the height of vampiric etiquette. It's tough to do the vampire mojo and work your will on the poor human if you're not looking them in the eye.
I thirstily slurped my Coke, amazed all over again at Tina's unflagging efficiency. Super secretary, maid, waitress, Sinclair's right hand, and she'd been loyal to me from the moment the vampires threw me into Nostro's pit of despair. I couldn't help but admire her, but I never forgot the basic fact: her loyalty, always, was to Sinclair first. Her loyalty to me was because I was his wife.
The day I forgot that might be a short damn day.
“Good service around here,” Nick said, slurping his Sprite and chewing enthusiastically on his lemon wedge.
“Oh, like you're not used to it at the Deere family compound,” I snapped, chomping into my own lime slice. Yerrgh, sour! Even for a lime. I reached into my left pocket and pulled out a Cherry Blo-?Pop. Unwrapped it, dipped it in the Coke, then contentedly sucked the Coke off the Pop.
“How disgusting,” Sinclair commented.
“Which? That I'm slowly getting addicted to suckers, or that Nick comes from the Deeres?”
“Finally bothered to find out about someone besides yourself, huh?”
“Jam it up your ass!” I snarled, a not auspicious beginning to our meeting. And why were we meeting? He hated me, I was scared of him (but not for the reasons he thought), and Sinclair would just as soon he dropped dead (he took a dim view of cops shoving their service revolvers into his wife's face). “On the way out the door!”
“Hmm.” Nick checked his watch. “Four minutes... a new record for us. Actually, Betsy, as I explained to the king of all suckheads over there, I need your help in tracking down a bad guy.”
“You – me? Tracking down a--what?”
“English really is your second language, isn't it? And your suckhead is here because he's got this nutty idea that I'm going to try to shoot you in the face. Maybe twice!” he added cheerfully, slurping the last of his Sprite.
“Have a seat, Detective Berry.” Sinclair looked up at me and patted his lap, and I ignored the tug between my legs because a meeting with a homicide detective while curled up in the arms of the vampire king would not be the severe business mien I was hoping for. Bad enough I was wearing faded blue sweatpants and a sweatshirt that read EVERYTHING YOU'VE HEARD IS TRUE.
Instead, I plopped on the couch across from Nick (ignoring the plume of dust I accidentally raised), parallel to Sinclair.
“What's up, boys?” I asked, sniffing my Coke glass.
“Murder, of course.” Crunch, slurp. He was really going to town on those lemons. “Check it.”
He spun open several folders, and suddenly there were (gag) autopsy photos all over the Victorian-?era mahogany coffee table. Thankfully, none were of children, but in all other ways they were different: race, sex, age, hairstyle.
“And how can the house of Sinclair help the Minneapolis Homicide Department?”
I opened my mouth (momentarily forgetting the lollipop; the thing almost fell on the floor), but decided I kind of liked that. House of Sinclair. Like House of Pancakes! Without so much syrup.
“Guess what all these guys (and gals) have in common? ”
“They all need a set and shampoo,” I said, examining one photo and putting it down with a grimace. I wiped my fingers on my sweatpants, as if the picture had actually been dirty.
A year ago, I'd be sprinting from the room and vomiting. That was before Nostro, and Marjorie, and Alice, to name just a few. The guy who said “the more things change, the more things stay the same” had a major frigging head injury. Because I, Betsy, the vampire queen, am here to tell you that the more things change, the more things change.
“Close,” Nick said, still looking abnormally cheery, “but no Kewpie doll for you, blondie.”
Sinclair was also examining the photos. “They certainly weren't killed by vampires.”
“True.”
“Do we have to do the guessing thing?” I whined. “Just tell us.”
“They all had records.”
“Like, prison records?”
“Like, they were all thieves, rapists, killers.”
No wonder he was so happy. Cops loved it when bad guys got killed.
“This is how you spend your evenings?” the Ant said behind my left shoulder, causing me to yelp and spill my ice all over Nick. “Looking at disgusting pictures? This is worse than when you were modeling for the Target catalog.”
“Go away. I'm working.”
“Gaaahhh,” Nick gah'd, frantically scraping ice out of his crotch. “What's gotten into you, blondie?”
“Private family business,” Sinclair said smoothly.
“My dead stepmother is haunting me,” I snapped. “Now get lost, Antonia!”
“Oh, that.” Nick looked unimpressed. “You see dead people. Jess told me all about it.”
“Well, that's super. Remind me to strangle her when I see her again.”
