I didn't say anything, since arguing with assholes is a waste of time, but I saw that Thorwald was looking at me thoughtfully. "What happens at six?" she asked.
"Sunrise."
As we walked toward the parking lot, Karl asked me, "Do you suppose there's a special course at the FBI Academy called 'How to Be a Federal Douche Bag'?"
"Wouldn't surprise me," I said. "And if there is, I'm betting that Greer aced it. Probably the only 'A' he ever earned." I reached into a pocket for my keys. "His partner's not too bad, though. For a Feebie."
Karl looked at me. "You think she's hot?"
"I didn't say that. I just meant that she doesn't seem to be a revolving asshole like her buddy."
"Revolving?"
"From whatever angle the object is viewed," I said.
"She likes you, though," Karl said.
"Yeah, right," I said. "And where did that revelation come from, O wise man?"
"Her heartbeat. It speeded up a little every time she talked to you."
I didn't bother to ask him how he knew that. He'd just say, "It's a vamp thing – you wouldn't understand."
"I probably just remind her of her ex-husband," I said. "And not in a good way, either."
He shrugged. "Believe what you want."
"Think you could use some vampire Influence on Greer, maybe get him to stop being such a prick?"
"I'm a vampire," Karl said. "Not a miracle worker."
I watched him unlock his ride. It's the same Ford Exorcist he's been driving the last couple of years, except now it's got tinted windows – in case he's late getting home from work some morning.
It was Wednesday morning, and tonight would be our night off. I wouldn't have minded working, anyway, but McGuire will only authorize overtime if we're chasing a hot lead. And right now we had no leads – hot, cold, or room temperature.
"See you Thursday," Karl said.
"Dark and early." Karl slipped behind the wheel and I headed for my own car. The Toyota Lycan's got a new windshield – Karl shot out the old one while saving my life, a while back – but otherwise it's as old and dented as its owner. But it hasn't got any rust on it, and neither do I – so far.
Ten minutes later I walked into the kitchen, where a vampire sat at the table reading the morning paper. Vamps don't usually hang around my kitchen much, but this one lived here.
"Hey," I said.
"Hey, Daddy," Christine said. "I was beginning to wonder if I'd see you before I went downstairs."
"Downstairs" means the basement, where she spends the day wrapped up in a sleeping bag. I've fixed it up a little down there since she came to stay with me. No need for the place to look like a tomb, even if it sort of is one.
"Yeah, I'm running late," I said. "I was talking to some FBI assholes. It was so much fun, I didn't notice what time it was getting to be."
"What's up with the Feds?" she asked. "Some werewolf knock over a bank, or something?"
"No, it's a lot worse than that," I said. "I'll tell you about it tonight, but there's something I wanted to ask you about before you crash – who's replaced Vollman as the local Supefather?"
She gave me a brief smile. "'Supefather' – that's cute. Well, I haven't met him yet, but I hear the new guy is a wizard named Victor Castle."
I gave her half a smile of my own. "Castle? Seriously?"
"That's what he calls himself. I hear his birth name was Castellino, or something, but I guess that isn't dramatic enough. He's supposed to be pretty smart, even if he does seem to lack a sense of irony."
"He and I need to have a conversation, I think. Where's he hang out – do you know?"
She folded the Times-Tribune and stood up. I saw she was wearing her usual bedtime outfit – gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt that mocked a certain milk ad by asking, in red letters, "Got blood?"
"I have no idea," she said. "But I'll ask around tonight, if you want. Maybe make a few calls."
"I'd appreciate it. Thanks."
She gave me a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. "See you at sundown."
We'd agreed that saying "Good morning" as she went to sleep sounded stupid, so I said, "Goodnight, baby."
I made some breakfast, ate it, and went to bed. That night, I hung out with Christine for a few hours until she left for her job as a 911 dispatcher. Then I did some laundry, put the trash out at the curb, and cleaned Quincey's cage. Quincey's my hamster, and a good listener. I told him about the Feebies and the nasty case they'd brought us, and he seemed interested. But maybe he just likes the sound of my voice. I'm glad somebody does.
I killed a few more hours reading a book about a group of scientists who accidentally opened a portal to Hell. Some thoroughly bad shit ensued, as you might expect. The author claimed it was fiction, and I hoped he was right. We had too many people around with access to Hell as it was.
On Thursday night I got to the squad room around 7.30pm. I was going through my emails when Karl came in and sat at his desk, which is pushed up against mine so they face each other. I looked up, and said, "Hi," and went back to my computer screen. Part of my mind must have noticed that Karl hadn't booted up his own computer because I raised my eyes again and found him looking at me, a strange expression on his face.
"What?" I said.
"I was talking to a CI of mine last night." Confidential informant is the official name for a snitch – somebody who'll pass on information in return for a favor, a few bucks, or just a chance to bank some good will with the cops.
"You were working last night?" I said. "McGuire didn't OK any overtime, that I know of."
"I wasn't working," Karl said. "I just ran into him over at Scavino's."
Scavino's is a bar that attracts what you might call a mixed clientele. Humans, mostly, but some supes go there because nobody hassles them. Ed Scavino sees to that. He's married to a werewolf, which makes him tolerant by necessity, if not disposition.