He glanced at his watch. “I’m a little bit early still,” he said.
His face brightened. “Tell you what, though. You’re going to have a hard time finding a cab this time of the morning. Why don’t you take my car? I won’t be needing it until later this afternoon.”
Ariana looked at him suspiciously for a moment, during which time he tried to look angelic. Or at least innocent.
“I didn’t know you had a car,” she said finally.
“Yeah. Just got it. It’s an old Mercedes. I like to think of it as a classic, but it’s got a few years to go until it really is. Honestly, I don’t need it right now, so you’re welcome to it.”
Ariana and the distinguished doctor exchanged glances, then seemed to come to a decision. “Okay,” Ariana said, picking up one of the suitcases. “Where is it?”
He helped Dr. Montgomery carry the luggage, pretending not to notice that some of it looked as though it belonged to Ariana. When they got to the car, Collin fumbled around, pretending he couldn’t find the trunk key.
“Well, the luggage will fit in the back seat, won’t it?” he said at last.
“Sure.”
They stuffed the suitcases in, and Collin handed the keys to Dr. Montgomery.
When they had left, Collin sat on the curb and thought for a while, making sure all the pieces fit. When he was finally sure he’d gotten it right, he got up, went back to the corner phone booth, and dialed 911.
“Hi, I want to report a stolen car. The name is Barton. No, I’m not at home... grey Mercedes... yes, the plate numbers are... East Side... in front of my building... just noticed it was gone a few minutes ago... probably still in the area... thanks a lot.”
Collin was feeling pretty good now, so he splurged and took a taxi home.
In the rather dingy offices of Manhattan South, Homicide Division, Detective John Hrudic was attracting more attention from his colleagues than usual. A tall, extraordinarily handsome blond with big blue eyes that inspired the confidence of women and suspects alike, he was holding the telephone receiver to his ear, choking and gasping until the tears began to roll down his face.
Detective Hrudic stood out plainly from his fellow police detectives not only because of his appearance but because of his immaculate way of dressing. Now, though, it was hard to see the gorgeousness. He was surrounded by a swirl of grey — wall, desks, chairs, faded memos and directives, and foul smoke from his partner’s cigar. His partner, a rumpled, food-stained excuse for a human by the name of Flaherty, who usually turned a deaf ear to pleas from his cohorts to send his beloved smokes down to the M.E.’s office for an autopsy, started fanning the air desperately with his hand and moved away from Hrudic’s desk, anticipating a medical emergency.
Hrudic, in between chokes, managed to gasp into the receiver, “Are you sure this isn’t some kind of joke?”
There was a pause, during which time he fumbled for his handkerchief and mopped the tears from his face.
“Okay,” he said, trying to regain his composure. “We’ll be right there.”
Hrudic motioned to Flaherty. “Let’s roll. We’ve got a homicide in Murray Hill.”
He paused in his doorway and called out, “Anybody got a dictionary here?” By some freak accident there actually was one. He paused to look up a word, started laughing again, and left, Flaherty in his wake, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. He knew from experience that whatever it was, it would be good, but he’d have to wait until Hrudic was ready to share it.
Flaherty didn’t have to wait long. The condition of the body was a dead giveaway. Marcus Schmidt had become rather crumpled up in the little storage closet overnight, but even Flaherty could see that there was a stake through his heart, which gave him a clue. These unusual ones were a lot more exciting than the run of the mill Saturday night knifings and shootings. They got good press coverage, for one thing. Flaherty had had his picture in the New York Post once before on another case. He liked talking to reporters, using his special cop vocabulary. He was really fond of the word perp. It had a classy ring.
Hrudic was still having a hard time controlling himself. Flaherty watched his ribs quake as he tried to keep from laughing during the rookie cop’s recap of the events that had led to the call and, later, as he tried to hold a coherent conversation with the elderly blue-haired secretary who had arrived at the office and found the body.
Flaherty wondered how the perp had gotten the victim to hold still long enough to get the stake in, but decided it was better not to ask, under the circumstances. He was sure Hrudic would have a good explanation. In the back of his mind some of Flaherty’s synapses were trying desperately to connect; he knew the stake in the heart bit had been used before, but he couldn’t remember the specific case.
About an hour later, when they were returning to the car, Hrudic took a look around, didn’t see anyone particularly paying attention, and did a quick Bela Lugosi imitation, hulking over Flaherty, which he did anyway, sticking out his teeth, and trying to look maniacal, whispering, “I am going to bite your neck.”
Flaherty lunged out of the way and darted Hrudic a now-you’ve-really-lost-it kind of look. Suddenly, the fog cleared and the little marbles all settled into place. “Nah,” he said, waving his hand. “Get outta here.”
Hrudic settled into the car. “Betcha fifty bucks the M.E. finds a silver bullet in his heart,” he said, finally letting himself go, laughing until the tears streamed freely down his face.
“No way,” Flaherty said, struggling into his seat belt.
“You know what else?” Hrudic said. “That place... it was some kind of foundation or something. But you know what the name of it was? The Porphyria Foundation. You know what porphyria is?”
Flaherty shook his head.
“It’s this disease.” He started gasping now. “It’s a real one. The medical examiner told me about it. Your gums pull back so it looks like you got big fangs. And your eyes get sensitive to sunlight so you can’t go outside. And then you get this allergic reaction to garlic and a craving for blood, because you got something wrong with your own.”
Hrudic tried to look serious for a moment. “Sound familiar to you?” he said, raising an eyebrow.
All Flaherty could think to say was “Get outta here” again, so he did, settling back into the seat of the car to think about vampires for a while.
Collin had made a hasty plane reservation to Hawaii. It was kind of short notice to get a passport to any good place — one that had jungles and stuff, where you could really get lost — so he decided to go someplace where he could soak up some UV’s and relax. He hadn’t bothered to unpack his suitcase from his house-sitting adventure, so all he had to do was toss in his swimming trunks and suntan lotion to make things complete.
He had about three hours until his plane took off — plenty of time for what he had in mind, which was to go to the precinct house as Barton and sign the stolen car report so Ariana would really be in trouble when they caught her. His apartment-super outfit was laid out on the bed, with Barton’s I.D. beside it on the nightstand. He changed hastily, dug around for subway tokens, and checked his appearance in the mirror.
He was Barton — keys jangling from his hip, belt hung low over his gut even though he didn’t really have one, stiff-legged kind of walk from carrying tools in his pocket. The only thing that was missing was the toothpick Barton occasionally sucked on, but Collin was afraid he’d get a splinter, or swallow it by accident.
He was pleased — it was a pretty good scam. It was her word against his that he wasn’t really Barton, and he’d be long gone by then. Ariana would probably have been proud of him for thinking it up, if she weren’t on the receiving end.