Origins (A Demonkin Novel) (16 page)

We drove to the office in silence, well between us anyway; the radio blared classic rock the whole way. At least Michaels didn't sing in the car. Yay, I thought about the big dork next to me and smiled. He stood around six foot two and weighed about two-twenty. Not a bad looking guy and his sense of humor made him even more attractive. I had no idea how old he might be, but he wasn't aging well. He didn't have any grey hair or bald spots, but he had sort of a chemically smell coming from his hair, so I knew he did have one problem or the other. He had to be knocking on the mid forty's door. Still, I did like him.

"Michaels?"

"Yeah?"

"What's your first name?"

"Agent," he said and smiled. "Kidding, it's Michael."

"Are you fucking with me?"

"Yes."

"You suck."

"So do you."

He really wasn't going to tell me, the prick. I'd ask Reese. We pulled into the parking garage and rode the old elevator up to the office floor. Michaels went straight to his desk and checked his messages while I went to Reese's office to check in with him.

I saw him sitting at his desk through the glass window so I knocked. He looked up at me and I saw the smile cross his face. "Don't just stand there, come on in," he said and stood crossing the room as I did. We met halfway and he shook my hand vigorously. It took five minutes for him to stop congratulating me. "Did Michaels get you settled in?”

"Yes, sir. I'm actually staying at his place," I replied. I saw him look a little surprised at my announcement, but he didn't comment on it.

"Well get used to him, he’s going to be your partner while we have you. I just wish I could get you assigned here permanently, but Washington wants you back."

"I know. I had the pleasure of meeting the Deputy Director."

"Yes, I saw your press conference on television last night. Good job by the way."

I groaned inwardly. I liked Reese a lot, but he apparently had the same notion I should be presented to the world. At least I knew I could trust him to keep my secrets safe. He went on to tell me about the problems Cicero, the Master of the City, had been causing during my absence. There had been numerous attacks on uniformed police officers. Some had gone missing, and some had been found dead, and yes, their bodies had been found with numerous puncture wounds.

Many vampires had been brought in for questioning, but none knew where Cicero had holed himself up. Surveillance had been set up at nearly every vampire owned business in the city and none had returned with any good news. The Chicago Police Department was on edge and demanding help from the FBI.

"Where should I start?"

"Find him. Maybe some of the vampires would talk to you. Michaels will be with you, but keep him away if you think it will help you get what you need to know. Finding Cicero is our number one priority. If you find him, call for backup, and I'll have FBI SWAT at your location in minutes. I would start with the club owners. See if they'll talk. I can't authorize excessive force in questioning techniques, but I'm telling you right now Ash, do what you have to. This vampire is insane, and now he's killing police."

"I understand. I'll do what I can."

"It's all I can ask."

I went on to voice my concerns about my blood needs. I told him when I had last fed and asked if he had the power to get me bagged lycanthrope blood like they had at the academy. I had to come up with a solution and fast. He sat and digested my concerns. "I'll make some calls. Maybe we can work something out with Washington. If they're going to be sending you all over the country, you need to have a permanent solution. I'll ask around with the men too. Maybe one of them could donate for now. I'll let you know."

"Thanks again, sir"

"Ash?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Should you "accidentally" take a drink from anybody who might put up a struggle, I'm sure it wouldn't need to find its way into your report. It might even be an effective interrogation technique."

As scary as his entire sentence sounded in my head, I couldn't disagree. "Yes, sir." I stood and offered my hand to him again, which he readily accepted.

"Sir?"

"Just call me Reese, Ash. What is it?"

"What's Michaels' first name?" I tried for innocence in my question.

"Don't tell him I told you, but it's Marion. Marion Peter Michaels. Apparently his father had been a huge John Wayne fan."

I didn't see what John Wayne had to do with Marion, or why a parent would willingly name their son Marion, but I didn't care. I hit pay dirt. I gave Reese an evil little smile and headed back to my desk.

Michaels had just finished going through his voicemail messages and had scribbled down some information on a Post-it note. I smiled at him and looked at his laptop longingly. He noticed and told me to be patient; Reese had one coming up from the IT department later today. Oh, goody! At least I didn't have to buy one right away. "Are you ready to go?"

"Whenever you are, partner."

"Pete, they've got another dead cop found on Lakeshore. I'll email you the address. Reese says to get over there ASAP," one of the Agents a few desks over hollered at Michaels.

"Great, c'mon kid, let's go."

"Okay, Pete" I laughed at him.

"Yeah, yeah my first name's Pete. You got me, let's go," he replied defeated.

"It's sooo funny. You don't strike me as a Pete," I told him. Nothing on this planet could have stopped me from adding, "If I had to guess, I would have guessed Marion."

He stopped dead in his tracks and turned to face me. I could tell he got a little mad because his face got all puffy and red. I started laughing at him and he held up his middle finger at me. Yup, he flipped me off, and it just made me laugh harder.

* * *

We pulled up to Navy Pier twenty minutes later. I had never been there so the lights and the sheer amount of people walking around shocked me. It didn't even remotely look like a crime scene. It turned out it wasn't. The pier itself held restaurants and shops and entertainment which would have been a horrible place to hide a body. Lake Michigan on the other hand, wasn't a horrible place. By the time we pulled up, the body of one Officer Rodriguez had been fished out of Lake Michigan. His bloated graying corpse lay on the deck of a police boat. One of the officers radioed the vessel and let them know we were there. I saw a small inflatable boat with an outboard motor make its way to the pier. I guessed it was our ride.

After we made it onboard I made my way to the corpse and looked at it over the shoulder of the crime scene investigator. She seemed very efficient, and looked a lot less green than everyone else around her. The cops and even Michaels all looked a little peaked from the bloated corpse. I looked at him and felt nothing other than a feeling of sadness for his family. I saw the puncture wounds on his neck. Whoever killed him had been either a common vampire, or a master vampire who had fed on him until he died. Our saliva, which contains a healing agent in it, closes the wounds almost magically. However, it doesn't work too well on corpses.

Without hovering, I tried to get a little closer to the body to smell it. I could smell the water from the lake soaking his clothes, I could smell the aftershave still clinging to his face and neck, and I could smell something a lot less strong than the other smells wafting from the corpse. I could barely smell it, but I could identify it, lemons and cinnamon. Whoever had ended the young police officers life wasn't Cicero. I remembered his scent well.

"It wasn't Cicero," I told Michaels.

"How do you know?"

"Because, I remember what Cicero smelled like and whoever killed this man wasn't him."

I sniffed again and watched the police officers staring at me as they sidled back a step or two to back away from the strange FBI agent sniffing dead people. “Fuck 'em,” I thought. I had a killer to catch. I only smelled one vamp, so whoever killed him had been acting alone. I needed to see some of the other bodies. I just hoped they hadn't decomposed too much.

"Michaels, how long ago was the last cop killed?"

"Two days ago, found his body by the railroad tracks. She should still be at the morgue. I'm assuming you want to see it?"

"Yes. First I want to take a look around the pier. Any vampire owned businesses, or places vampires like to congregate there?" I looked around at the officers who had stepped forward to listen to the conversation. Curiosity is probably the only human emotion stronger than fear.

"There's a place called the Carnival, it's more of a touristy vampire bar though. People visiting Chicago get to visit with the undead, no offense, fangs," he told me. I liked the "fangs", but it must have clued in the police milling around the body because they just outright walked away after he said it. He noticed too, because he began chortling so only I could hear him.

"Fangs, huh, I kind of like it. Thanks, Marion."

"Don't you start with me. We're friends, so I'll let you get away with Pete, but even my mother doesn't get to call me Marion."

"Touchy aren't we. Alright Pete, let's go to a carnival."

"Not carnival, "carneeevahl". Like the Brazilian festival and Mardi Gras. You are such a bumpkin."

"Well excuse me for being locked away for the first ninety-five percent of my life. Everyone's a critic."

We had the Police boat dock at Navy Pier and drop us off there. The coroner promised to call if she found anything unusual besides the massive amounts of blood loss we expected. We drew quite a few stares as we walked up the ramp from where the boat docked into the crowd. I will admit, all the restaurants smelled delicious, and it only compounded my hunger. I'd kill to be able to eat a burger and fries.

We walked quite a ways before reaching our destination. Most of Navy Pier shone with bright colors, but the Carnival had embarked into the realm of garish. Purples, yellows, and oranges splashed the front not only in paint, but even sequins. Sequins the size of saucers, but still sequins, had been fastened to the front of the building. If you stood far enough away, you can tell the front entrance is shaped and designed like the mouth of a giant clown with fangs, but when you're standing right in front of it the effect is lost and you look like you're standing in front of a New Orleans' nightmare.

Ever the gentleman, Michaels opened the door and let me enter. Horrible music sounding like a combination of accordion, a guitar, and somebody's foot stomping blared throughout the place. If the music wasn't nauseating enough, the heady smell of crawfish and other less than fresh seafood, permeated the air making my stomach twist in protest. We flashed our badges at the hostess as we walked in and asked to see the owner or manager. I gave her a quick unnoticeable sniff, but I knew in a moment she wasn't a vampire.

She seemed unimpressed by the badges and hollered at a waiter walking by to, "Go find Lou," and then she shifted her attention and beamed a fake smile at a thirtyish couple who walked in behind us. Pete and I moved out of the way and let them pass to go get their table and enjoy the ambiance of the exotic place, yuck. My ears hurt, my eyes hurt, and my sense of smell threatened to go on strike.

We waited and the hostess returned only to look a little disappointed to see us still standing there. "Lou come out yet?" We shook our heads no. She looked like she planned on getting him herself, but when she turned, she stopped and turned back to us. "Here he comes." I looked over and saw a short yet greasy figure walking toward us. He wasn't thin, or fat, just paunchy looking. I saw fangs protruding over his bottom lip, but something wasn't right. I stared at him for a minute and noticed sweat dripping off his brow. Vampires don't sweat. He had to be a human or something else pretending to be a vampire.

"I'm Lou, my waiter said you wanted to see me," he said in probably the worst fake Creole accent I had ever heard.

"Agents Walker and Ashlyn, FBI." We introduced ourselves and shook the meaty hand of Lou. It felt sweaty too. I fought the urge to gag and forced a smile on my face.

"How long have you been a vampire, Lou?"

"He's not," I filled him in.

Michaels and Lou both did a doubletake. I sniffed my hand and smelled oregano and a touch of coriander. Earthy spices told me he had to be some sort of lycanthrope. "You're a werewolf or something, Lou, why are you pretending to be a vampire?" I flashed him a bit of my fangs.

"Boss told me to. Vampires are s'posed to be a little more Cajun than a werewolf. He signs the check so I do what I'm told. Is there something I can help you with?" He dropped the fake accent.

"Who owns the place, Lou? Who's your boss?" Michaels sounded annoyed.

"Jean Phillipe Margeaux. He's not in tonight though. Usually only makes an appearance once a week. Is he in trouble?"

"I don't know. When did you see him last?"
Please say last night, please say last night.

"About four or five days ago, do you need to see him? I can give you his cell number."

Lou seemed awfully helpful. It made me wonder if Lou wanted to shift attention away from Lou. Maybe Lou had a record and didn't want "no trouble". "Do you have any vampires working here?" Maybe it wasn't the owner, but it could be one of his.

"Matt, the bartender over there is a vamp. He's the only one who works here. Do I need to cover the bar for a while?"

"Yes please," I replied. We followed greasy up to the bar where he motioned the bartender over. At first, I thought the entire back area of the bar had been built a foot above the floor, but it wasn't. I knew because as the vampire walked out from the bar he still stood seven friggin feet tall. I'm five-one, so I felt like a dwarf next to the massive tower of muscle.

"Are you Matt?" He nodded at me with a bemused smile. "Agent Ashlyn, FBI, I'd like to ask you a few questions. Could you please follow us outside?"

He didn't seem surprised, and just told Lou to, "Take over.” Funny; I thought Lou held the title of manager. He must be only in charge of the restaurant. I let the basketball player vampire walk past me to lead the way out, partly to keep my eye on him, but mostly to catch his scent. He smelled only of vanilla. Damn it, I knew it would have been too easy to find the killer within a block of the murder victim.