MaryJane Davidson: Undead and Unworthy

“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.”

“Touch her,” Nick said pleasantly, “and I'll empty my nine into your nose.”

“Children,” Sinclair warned. “It seems the late Mrs. Taylor has a gift in death, as in life, of getting on my wife's nerves and distracting us from our point.”

“Just like your wife!”

“Shut up,” I insisted. “Tell us what you want, or get lost. Or both.”

“Fine,” the Ant huffed, and vanished.

Well! That was unexpected, and welcome.

“Guess what else all these guys have in common,” Nick said, rattling my empty Coke glass. Tina appeared from nowhere, refilled it, and glided away. He absently handed the glass to me, and I didn't know whether to be flattered he'd noticed I needed a refill, or annoyed he was treating the brilliant Tina like she was a waitress. “Go on. Guess. You'll never guess.”

“Since we'll never guess,” Sinclair said, “why don't you just tell us?”

“Just one teensy guess?”

“Niiiiiick,” I whined.

“Um. Ah. Hmm. They were all killed by a rogue cop or cops?” Sinclair inquired innocently.

We both stared at him.

“Goddammit,” Nick cursed. He ignored, or didn't notice, Sinclair's flinch. “You gotta tell me how you knew that. I know for a fact there's no suckheads on the force.”

“No, but there are sources available to the suckheads. As you well know, Detective Berry, nothing leaks more quickly or messily than a police station.”

“So cops are tracking down bad guys and executing them?” I stared at the pictures. Gunshot wounds, all of them.

“The ones we can't put away legally, yeah. This guy.” Dave tapped the photo of a pale, brown-​eyed man who looked extremely pissed off, either because or in spite of the bullet wound over his left eye. “This guy was a burglar, and worse. He'd rape whoever was asleep in the house – we think he was getting the security codes from someone inside the security company, but he, uh, died before we could prove anything.”

“Charming,” Sinclair said coldly.

“Anyway, after the rape, he'd take everything out he could carry. We know he did it seven or eight times, but couldn't ever prove it. No ID. No prints. No semen. Nothing. Then – bam. He shows up deader than hell.”

“And your problem with this is... ?” Sinclair's dark brows arched.

“Because the cops are good guys,” I said before Nick could reply. “I mean, it sucks if they can't catch a rapist, jeez, you won't hear me argue that, but we have laws. We have rules. The good guys can't all of a sudden throw the Constitution out the window and strap down and shoot people.”

I looked at Sinclair and Nick, who had identically blank looks on their faces. “Well. They can't.”

“As it is, I agree with the psycho vampire queen. Which brings me here.”

“Why does the house of Sinclair have to clean up your mess?” my husband asked quietly.

“It's like your wife said. We make various promises and pledges when we get our badges – I won't bore a sociopath like you with them – but what it boils down to is, we follow the law. And boys and girls, Sherri's boy Nicky loves the law.”

“Don't you have a special team or task force or whatever working on this?”

“Yeah. I'm it.”

“You? Just one guy? I mean, I know you're good at your job, Nick, but – ”

“Well, let's say I have some influence with the captain.” Nick mimed driving a tractor.

“No doubt. And, could it be, the police do not necessarily wish for these people to be caught?”

“It could be,” he admitted. “But they're gonna get caught. 'Cause I've got a secret weapon.” He pointed at me.

“What makes you think – oh, shit, never mind, you know I'll do it.”

“That's true.” Nick smirked. “I did know it.”

“You should let him solve his own problem,” Sinclair said in a low voice, as Nick let himself out. “He's playing on your misplaced guilt.”

“Misplaced? We raped his brain. And lied about it. To his face. For over a year.”

He shrugged. He'd been a vampire too long; his conscience went right out the window sometimes.

“Have you ever considered – ”

“Yes.”

“Don't be a wiseass. Have you ever thought that the guy hates us and knows how to kill us, but hasn't?”

“I credit Jessica with that more than Detective Berry's good sense.”