“We heard Diantha at 10:30,” Katamori said. With some surprise, Dahlia saw that he was wearing a watch, an unusual accessory for a vampire.
“And we were in here within a minute and a half of that. We’ve been investigating for perhaps twenty minutes. So someone entered the kitchen between ten minutes after ten and twenty-five minutes after ten, by the narrowest reckoning.”
“And this Arthur died of his throat being ripped out,” Katamori said.
“Yes. Though he may have been choked before that. Without the excised material it’s hard to say.”
“It’s over here.” Katamori pointed to a grisly little mound of skin and bone half-hidden under a chair.
Dahlia squatted to peer at the discarded handful. “This is so mangled, I still can’t say whether or not he was choked. This tissue was tossed aside, not consumed.”
Katamori made a moue of distaste.
Dahlia said, “I was thinking of the trace of werewolf, and all that that implies.” Werewolves would eat human flesh, at least when they were in their wolf forms.
“Do you think we’ve seen everything there is to see, smelled everything there is to smell?” Katamori asked, tactfully bypassing the werewolf issue.
“Let’s go through the human’s pockets,” Dahlia suggested, and Katamori squatted on the other side of the body. Dahlia had quick, light, fingers, and she was thorough. Folded and stuck in a pocket on her side of the corpse, she found a sheet from the donor bureau containing a rendezvous point and a scheduled donation time for tonight. Just as Gerhard had said, the donors were to picked up at eight, returned to the pickup point at ten.
Dahlia wondered if Gerhard had told Arthur to make sure he was included on the donor list. It couldn’t have been a coincidence that Gerhard’s favorite banger had been included in the donor party. In the last four years it had become a regular practice for the hosts of parties to which vampires had been invited to hire donors from a registered donor bureau, so they could be sure that all the human snacks on offer had been checked for blood-borne diseases and psychoses. There was a disease vampires could catch from humans (Sino-Aids), and donors been checked for hidden agendas ever since a donor in Memphis had brought a gun and opened fire on the assembled party-goers.
Dahlia opened Arthur Allthorp’s wallet to check his donation card, which was perforated with seven holes. The card was punched every time the agency sent him out. After Dahlia had turned over the body to go through the other pants pocket, Katamori patted down Arthur’s legs. To their surprise, he found a knife in an ankle sheath. Very careless. Gerhard’s inefficiency was now a mountain rather than a molehill.
After a glance of silent agreement, the two stood, having gotten all the information from the body. They looked all around the vast kitchen for any clue they might have missed. The blackness continued to stare in through the big windows. The blood continued to cling wetly to the stainless steel surfaces. Arthur Allthorp, fangbanger, continued to be dead.
After Katamori deadbolted the outside door, he and Dahlia left the kitchen. Rachel had resumed her post in the hall, and Dahlia asked her to keep guard over the swinging door. “Let no one into the kitchen until we’re sure we don’t need it any more,” she said. “No one will be able to enter from the outside.”
Rachel nodded, her expression intense. She was still proving herself as a vampire, and Dahlia felt sure Rachel would stand her ground against anyone who wanted to see the body.
Back in the reception room, Joaquin had resumed his seat in the throne-like chair reserved for the sheriff. His ascension party had taken a definite downturn in tone. The festive atmosphere had degenerated to uneasy apprehension. The party-goers were milling around uneasily. The demons and part-demons had established a tight knot in one corner with Diantha in its center, and the fae (an oread, a rare nix, and an elf) clustered close to them.
Bernie Feldman, Don’s enforcer, was watching the French doors with unmistakable worry. Bernie was standing oddly, as if nursing a hurt in his stomach. Dahlia followed his eyes. Approaching, obviously disheveled, were Taffy and Don. Taffy had her shoes in her free hand. The other hand was holding Don’s, and the two were looking at each other with what Dahlia could only describe as “goo-goo eyes.”
“Disgusting,” she muttered, and Katamori glanced at the happy pair. “They went through the kitchen,” he said. “We’re going to have to question them.”
“Better report to Joaquin first.”
The two vampires went to stand in front of their new leader. Dahlia bowed her head a carefully calibrated angle. Katamori’s head was perhaps a centimeter lower than hers. Joaquin accepted their gesture and waited for them to report. He looked better in the chair than Cedric had. Joaquin was slim and tall, with thin dark hair and large brown eyes. The new sheriff wasn’t as old as Dahlia (only two of the Rhodes vampires were older than her), but jobs didn’t always go to the oldest.
Glenda was draped over the back of the sheriff’s seat as if being Joaquin’s new fuck buddy gave her some special status. Dahlia eyed the vampire with no expression. Her dislike of Glenda went from vague to specific.
“What have you discovered?” Joaquin asked, giving the two investigators all his attention.
Dahlia was pleased with the mark of respect. “The human was named Arthur Allthorp. He was a pet of Gerhard’s.” Dahlia had already spotted the blond vampire, who was trying to look stoic, but only managing gloomy. “Gerhard allowed Arthur Allthorp to remain in the kitchen while Gerhard took the other donors back to their rendezvous point. I see that he has told you that.” Gerhard was flanked by Troy and Hazel, the vamps Joaquin had named as his punishers.
“Furthermore,” Katamori said, “I found a knife strapped to the human’s ankle.”
Another nail in Gerhard’s coffin, perhaps literally.
“He died very quickly when his throat was torn out,” Dahlia said. “We know he died in a ten-minute window, give or take a minute or two, between ten-ten and ten-twenty-five.”
Katamori said, “Passing through the kitchen close to the time of death were the human donors, Gerhard, another vampire or two I can’t identify, and at least one werewolf.”
All eyes went to Don and Bernie, who had been whispering furiously into Don’s ear. Don looked shocked and grim. Taffy was the only vampire standing anywhere close to them, and she took her husband’s arm. He patted her hand to show her he appreciated the support. Bernie stood to Don’s other side, and he had an expression Dahlia had seen before. It meant, “I’m ready to die, but I’d rather not.”
“It won’t make any difference to you, Joaquin, but I didn’t do it,” Don said in his deep voice. “I can’t imagine why I’d have any reason to kill the poor bastard, though maybe motive doesn’t interest you.” If Dahlia had had a moment to do so, she might have advised Don that this was not the time for sarcasm.
“Don and I did go through the kitchen,” Taffy said. “But we were on our way out into the garden to have a talk.”
“What was that talk about?” Glenda asked.
“You were right on our ass, so you probably know already. But I don’t answer to you,” Taffy said, and the light of battle flashed into her eyes.
“Any vampire who spends time with a werewolf has degraded herself and has no status in the nest,” Glenda said, straightening and taking a step away from the sheriff’s chair.
Dahlia was instantly on the alert. If she let Taffy take on Glenda, Don would get involved, and the whole situation would get unnecessarily complicated. When Glenda took another step in Taffy’s direction, Dahlia was ready. She leaped and kicked as hard as she could, and Glenda went flying through the air with her beautiful clinging dress whipping around her, as Dahlia landed gracefully and spun around to make sure Glenda was down. The crack of Glenda’s ribs was audible as she met the wall. She slid down to collapse on the carpet, bleeding and whimpering.