It must have been the way she said it, because George found himself laughing.
“This isn’t funny!”
“No, no. I know.” He drew a deep breath. “It’s just I didn’t realize how screwy it sounded. Ah. Well, anyway, no, he also has a house. But he doesn’t, well, live there. We think he lives in a subbasement area beneath the chem building.”
“How . . . ?”
“We’ve done some surveillance. Not a lot, but enough to get baseline data.”
“So who on my department worked with you?”
That was a fair question, George thought. “Nobody on Iowa City PD. Your Johnson County sheriff gave us a hand.”
She didn’t seem too happy about that. Jealous of her jurisdiction, and wanted a piece of the action. George was beginning to like her a lot.
“Let’s head back to the car,” he said.
“So how does he get to students?” she asked. “Hang around in bars?”
“Nope. He’s an artist.” He watched her face for a reaction. There was none.
“He teach it?” she asked, as they walked.
“Not as far as we know. Not for the U of I anyway. He does art stuff. Specifically, drawing people.”
“Drawings from life, or something like that. Sketching people. That’d kind of figure,” she said. “No pun intended.”
“Think back,” said George. “What was the Claire girl’s major?”
“Art,” said Louise. “She was an art major.”
“He runs an art supply store,” said George. “Has a couple of art grad students working for him there. They’re the conduit to the students, and the store is where lots of the art majors get supplies. Cheaper than some of the other stores, they tell me.”
“He’s in retail?”
“Enterprising, too,” said George. “He’s gotta eat. Walk beside me, and make like we’re, oh, buddies of some sort. Head down like we’re discussing some really academic thing.” She did. He began to tell her about the intelligence workup on this creature, in a very conversational tone, and being very watchful for anybody passing too close. He explained how they’d been investigating leads for two years.
“When you get to watching him on a regular basis, you’ll notice he doesn’t drive. No DL. Walks or bicycles just about everywhere. We think he didn’t want to get a driver’s license because, one, it makes him give an ID. Two, you get stopped for some traffic stuff, that’s getting noticed. Ninety percent of all citizens’ only contact with law enforcement is through traffic incidents. That, and you get in a wreck, you might even get hurt. Not safe to go to an ER. Last thing it wants is to be rendered unconscious in a crash. Wake up in the ER and wonder just what tests they might have run.”
They walked on.
“Got him with four bank accounts, under four different identities, with four separate banks, two accounts a year, for two years. Then we lose the trail. None of the accounts are as large as we think his main account should be. You know how that goes. Launders stuff. I’m not into that, really, but that’s just what they tell me.”
“Right.”
“Most everything you hear about vampires isn’t true. They can go out in the light. They just don’t like to, because, apparently, when the natural end gets near, diseases start popping up, okay? And, like, with everything else they have to worry about then, skin cancer erupting like acne is something they’d rather not deal with.”
“Sure.”
“They can be killed just like anything else we’d get involved with. No stakes required. Nothing like that. Crucifixes don’t mean diddly. Holy water just gets ’em wet. Garlic has no effect whatsoever, except they can smell you a mile away. They don’t change into bats, and they can’t fly or anything like it. Although the one I shot jumped pretty good.”
They were back at the car. “Look down there, to the bottom of the chem building . . . see that steel door? Near the corner.”
She did.
“That’s where he gets in. That’s where he comes out. About all we know at this point. You might want to check further into that.”
She nodded. “Sure.”
He glanced at his watch. “What say we go look at the art supply store, and then I’ll show you the house.”
The store, in an old, one-story building that looked like a corner grocery that had lost its usefulness, had “Ernesto’s Art Supply” painted in the window.
“Ernesto?” she asked. “It’s Ernesto? Hell, I drive by this place every day.”
“Ernesto Miska. That’s it. Ah, him.”
“Well . . . shit. I’ve been in that store. A theft report, a couple of years back. Shit, I’ve met him.”
“Know where he lives?” asked George as they drove by the store.
“No. No reason to. I’m sure we’ve got his address. . . .”
“Over here,” he said, turning left. “Right here . . . the light gray one.”
He indicated a normal-looking, two-story, wood frame house, with a wide porch and a gabled roof indicating an attic space. There was a small one-car garage nestled on the side, with one of those old paved driveways that consisted of two narrow, parallel concrete tracks. There were old trees throughout the neighborhood. The house did not stand out at all.
“There, huh?”
“Yep.” He drove to the end of the long residential block, and turned around. “We’ll park here. Wait for him to come home. Just to let you get a look at him in case he’s changed his appearance since the burglary case.”
“Thanks.”
He reached back onto the floor of the backseat, and produced a nylon binocular case, which he handed to her.
“Use these.”
After almost a minute’s silence, while Louise removed the binoculars, removed the lens caps, focused for the distance, and observed for a few moments, she said, “I’m gonna buy in to this. The more I think about it, the more sense this makes. Claire Bennington,” she said softly. “She really was an art major. That’s the key for me.”
“Good.”
“What do you want me to do?” she asked, still peering through the binoculars.
“Gather intelligence,” he said. She could hear the smile in his voice.
She put the binoculars in her lap. “I know that. How about something more here? A line of inquiry would be nice. Just a suggested one. To get me started.”
“We’d kind of like you to get to know him. Can you draw?”
“Not for shit,” she said. She drummed her fingers on the binoculars. “I suppose I could pose, or something. They always need a model.”
“We were thinking more along the lines of shopping in his store,” said George. Although, thinking about it, he realized Louise would make a fine model. “Getting naked for somebody is always . . . chancy.” He chuckled.
“Hey, I was ready to give my all,” she said. “Make a note of that.”
“Consider it done.” He looked directly at her. “Do not, and I mean never, try to get somebody undercover. Not with this . . . whatever he is. You or anybody else. They seem to be pretty cop aware, most of the time. You get somebody to go under for you, you write ’em off. They get that venom crap in ’em, and they’re probably just plain done.”
“Somebody inside the store, though?”
“We’ve given up on that. These things are pretty slick. Pick up on it right away, probably. Keep him at arm’s length.”
“Okay.”
“You’ll be talking pretty regularly to one of us, probably Ben. If you think you want to do something like a snitch inside, don’t do it without permission from him.”
“Sure. Okay. Yes, sir. Got it.”
He shook his head ruefully.
Two figures came around the corner at the far end of the block. Even at that distance, and with his naked eye, George could discern that one was pushing a bicycle and the other was carrying a load of some sort.
Louise put the binoculars to her eyes, and said, “It’s him. It’s Ernesto.” She paused, and then said, “And some girl. She’s a treat. Black hair with a purple streak. Tacky blue jeans with fake wear holes. Stupid black tennis shoes. Emo look, if I ever saw it. Art student, I’ll bet.”