Blood Work (8 page)

“Run down
numbers for both of them, if you can,” she told Ivan. “Leuwanoski
said that there was provocation and the court summary mentions it
as well. I want to know what could inspire that sort of rage. I
don’t feel like going face to face with this guy without knowing
what sparks his temper. I’d like to talk to Harrington first, if we
can’t track down the court records.”

“Right.”

“Have you had
lunch?”

Ivan shook his
head. “Brad wouldn’t make me a sandwich this morning.”

“Are you that
useless you can’t make your own lunch?”

“Brad would
think so.” Ivan sighed. “Take out from the Chinese place?”

“Yeah. And get
extra prawn chips this time. I do like them as well.”

Ivan went off
to get lunch and Erin tried to call her friend in the court system.
She found out he was on holiday and resigned herself to an
afternoon digging through the public records herself. By the time
Ivan returned she’d exhausted her in-office options, so she took
the bag of prawn chips and headed over the court house.

An hour later,
with a growing headache from arguing, she was back in the elevator
heading up to the office. When she stepped through the door, she
was greeted with a stiff-faced Ivan and Mrs Veilchen. Ivan visibly
relaxed at the sight of Erin.

“Here she is,
Mrs Veilchen.” Wild eyed, Ivan stood and left quickly. “Toilet
break,” he muttered on his way past.

“Mrs Veilchen,
I didn’t know you were dropping by.” Erin nodded to her office and
followed the woman in.

“I came to see
if you had found my man.”

Erin glared at
her back. “I’ve only been on the job one day. These things
generally take a bit longer than that.”

“Mr Sol
assured me you were one of the best.”

“Whatever Mr
Sol thinks, it’s just not possible to move as quick as you seem to
believe. Especially when I had so little to start with.”

Mrs Veilchen
went to the window and looked out at the city. She was in another
rich outfit, with another pair of dark glasses on. Her hair was
pulled back today, accentuating the hollow cheeks and thin neck.
“Have you found anything out at all?”

Erin sat down
at her desk. She studied Heather Veilchen. There was something…
wrong about her. It wasn’t the cool attitude, the stiff formality
or the reluctance to take off her glasses. Or maybe it was. Who
didn’t at least take off their sunglasses to greet someone, even if
they put them straight back on? But it was more than that.

She just
didn’t know what.

Unsettled,
Erin wondered what this woman would do when she learned Matthew
Hawkins’ name. There was a strong possibility she would drop the
professional investigation and go it alone again. There was just
that sense of cold-bloodedness about her.

If there was
provocation for the assault Erin wanted to find out what it was
before letting this woman loose.

“I don’t have
much yet. I just spoke with the owner of the club. He didn’t know
any names. I did learn, though, that the assault wasn’t
unprovoked.” She watched Mrs Veilchen closely for a reaction.

Mrs Veilchen
turned from the window and presumably looked at her. “And that
makes a difference?”

A chill ran
down Erin’s spine. “It might.”

“Will it help
you find him any quicker?”

“It’s really
too early in the investigation to say whether or not anything is
important. I can only trace down any lead I get and see where it
takes me. Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to get back to your
case. I will call you when I have something to report.”

Mrs Veilchen
regarded her for a moment longer, then nodded once. She left
without further word. Ivan scurried back in a couple of minutes
later.

“That was the
longest toilet break ever.”

“That woman
freaks me out. She’s the whole reason I’m gay and I only met her
yesterday.”

Erin
smiled.

“Did you find
anything out at the court house?”

Smile
vanishing as if it had never been, Erin shook her head. “Apparently
Jessica Harrington was underage at the time of the incident. The
records have been sealed.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, so we
need to start looking for those phone numbers.”

Ivan got up to
leave.

“Oh, and
Ivan.”

“Yeah?”

“If you see
Mrs Veilchen on the security camera coming up here, turn the sign
over to closed and hide.”

He grinned.
“We don’t have a sign.”

“Get one.”

I dropped Roberts at his apartment
building and then dithered about in Myer for a while, ending up
paying an average mortgage payment for a new watch. It was a Rolex,
though, and had a compass, light-up display and the highest quality
shock resistant technology you can get. A must for any vampire
hunter. Then I spent the rest of my money paying for the parking.
On my way out of town, I had second thoughts and turned around and
went back to see Jacob.

Jacob Whyte
owns a bookshop on Edward Street, down at the Botanical Gardens
end. Vogon Books is squeezed in between a boutique bar and a
beautician. It specialises in ‘genre’ and ‘illustrated’ novels.
Science fiction and comics for those who aren’t up with the
parlance. Its usual customer is someone who’s pasty but isn’t a
vampire, wears clothes ten years out of fashion but isn’t a ghoul,
knows loads of useless trivia but isn’t a troll, and knows
immediately the origin of the name ‘Vogon’. Sometimes, seriously
cool people go in there too. I’m one of the latter. Jacob had to
tell me about the Vogons.

It’s a long,
narrow place and kept rather gloomy, you know, to enhance the
atmosphere. There were two guys loitering in between the shelves,
near a bunch of books with fur-bikini clad, buff warrior-women on
the covers. I grinned at them on the way past. They eyed me with
wary suspicion usually reserved to inbred hillbillies watching a
douche and his impossibly perky girlfriend roll up to their
ramshackle hut in a car with a flat tyre.

“Hey, Matt,”
Jacob greeted me. He was a narrow man. Narrow of body, narrow of
face, but thankfully, not narrow of mind. You could tell because he
had no hair to cover it. At my best guess, he was pushing forty and
might still live with his parents. He didn’t look up from reading
the comic… eh, illustrated novel, on his counter. “Your book hasn’t
come in yet. I’ll call when it does.”

“Yeah, I know.
I was just wondering if you had any word of…” I paused and checked
on the two guys in the store. They were standing together, heads
close as they whispered furiously. “Any new players in town. I took
down a mob on the Goldie last night, at Surf Wars.”

That got his
attention. He shoved his glasses up his nose and also made sure we
weren’t going to be overheard. “Not heard a thing. What clan were
they?”

“They weren’t
displaying any flavours. Too young. Not a psychic compulsion
amongst them.”

“Whoa, that
makes them, what, younger than a month? Fresh meat.”

I leaned on
the counter and looked at his comic. Some new superhero type
character I had no hope of recognising. Ooh, half-naked girl. No.
Don’t get distracted, Matt.

“Very fresh.
Whoever turned them left them out on the street. Barry at Surf Wars
told me that they had been terrorising his joint for a couple of
nights. They nearly went postal on a bunch of kids last night. Me
and Merce took them out.”

“Any
collateral damage?” Jacob reached under the counter and brought out
a black leather-bound book. He flipped it open and began scanning
the entries rapidly.

“Nothing an
industrial-sized mop couldn’t handle. Barry might not sleep easy
for a couple of weeks, but he’ll recover.”

Jacob nodded
absently, poring over pages of his neat handwriting. The few people
in Brisbane who were savvy to the world of the supernatural had a
touchstone in Jacob. He was kind of our score keeper.

“Hmm, there
have been reports of Blues, Reds and Yellows. A possible sighting
of a Green, but that’s under suspicion.”

“Why?”

Shoving his
glasses up his nose, Jacob said, “I made that sighting. I was
pissed at the time.”

“Ah. Star Trek
marathon?”

Jacob smirked.
“Zena. I got so lucky.”

I laughed.
“Good for you. But we have no real way of determining what clan
they were. If no one has reported any new activity there, maybe it
was a one-off.”

“Maybe.”

Yeah, and
there was more chance of me getting lucky before Jacob again.

I walked away.
“Call me if you hear anything.”

“Sure,
sure.”

I was almost
at the door when Jacob called out.

“Matt! Nearly
forgot. There was a guy in here looking for you yesterday.”

The two
customers perked up, looking between me and Jacob. I walked back
past them with the urge to play Whack A Mole. I resisted. My
therapist would have been pleased.

“Not a
regular?” I asked.

“No. Some
bloke I’ve never seen before. He knew about you though. Didn’t come
out and say anything definite, but, I could tell. He’s in the know.
An older gentleman. Bit odd, but you’re no sparkling gem of
normalcy, either.”

“We’re talking
Alec Guinness Kenobi, then?”

“No. Very
British though. Old world air about him.”

“Maybe Van
Helsing.”

“You wish. He
just came in, asked if I knew you and where to find you. Very
reluctant to answer any of my questions.”

“But the thing
is, did you answer any of his?”

“Of course
not. What do you take me for?”

“Do you really
want me to answer that?” I waved at the shop around me then escaped
before he could reply.

Some gung-ho
parking officer had ticketed me. I shoved the fine in the glove
compartment and pulled out. Who would be asking for me by name that
Jacob didn’t know? My social life had gone the way of the dodo
years ago and the sum total of my human interaction these days was
Roberts, the occasional client, Jacob and once a month, my
therapist. Not a healthy circle of friends on anyone’s measuring
stick.

I swung onto
the Riverside Express and headed for the Inner City Bypass,
wondering who Mystery Man might be. I didn’t have any English
relatives, hadn’t entered any sweepstakes and certainly hadn’t left
behind any Van Helsing wannabes thirsting for vengeance.

The phone
rang. When I say rang, I mean it played a snippet of someone
singing a dirty Christmas Carol. Damn Roberts! He was always
messing with my stuff like this, knowing I didn’t have the
tech-savvy to fix it.

I answered.
“You’ve reached Night Call Incorporated. We’re sorry to inform you
that the office is currently doing a little better than the speed
limit so you’re gonna hafta make it quick. Go.”

“Mr
Hawkins.”

Ah, fuck it.
“Hey, Dr Campbell, how’s things?”

“Oh, you know
how it is. Some client doesn’t show up for his appointment, doesn’t
call, so I’m actually running ahead of schedule today.” My
court-appointed therapist could be a droll fellow.

“On the bright
side, it’s a win for your other patients, isn’t it?”

“I like your
glass half-full attitude, Mr Hawkins. But I doubt Judge Miklovich
would. This is the second appointment you’ve missed.”

I winced. “Um,
I meant to call and rearrange, honestly. I had a tough night last
night and got a little distracted by…” By watching my vampire break
herself against the bars of the cage I imprisoned her in. Boy oh
boy, wouldn’t Campbell have a ball with that one. “Stuff.”

“A tough
night? Anything I should know about?”

“Oh, you’d be
pleased. I found a safe and controlled way of letting off some
steam.”

“Hmm?”

“Paintball.
Had a ripping good time.”

“But
tough.”

The man didn’t
miss a beat. He was probably recording this to analyse in our next
session.

“Teenagers. I
swear they’re breeding them with a X-Box control in one hand and a
water balloon in the other these days.”

There was a
speculative pause. “And who won the game?”

Now there was
a loaded question if ever there was one.

“It’s not
about who wins the game, good doctor, but who had the most
fun.”

Campbell
vented a small, weary sigh. “Of course, Mr Hawkins. I have an
appointment free on Monday. It’s yours. Show up and I’ll mark it
down as a rescheduling and Judge Miklovich need never know.”

Wow. I
wouldn’t have picked Campbell for a rule bender. “Appreciate that,
doc. And I did mean to call you.”

“Yes, I know
you did. I’ll see you on Monday, eleven a.m.”

He hung up
before I could say anything.

I was just
hitting Kingsford Smith Drive when the phone rang again. What can I
say? I’m popular. I answered and gave the same spiel as before.

“Mr
Hawkins?”

The voice was
male and probably not at an age where he could look back on puberty
with a fond smile and manic gleam in his eye.

“Yeah. Who’s
this?”

“My name’s
Tony Rollins. I got your card off a guy at the Fringe Bar.”

In one sense,
Roberts was the front man of my business, Night Call. When you have
an unconventional business, it pays to be a bit unconventional in
advertising, too. I’d given Roberts a wad of business cards so when
he’s out at his real job—hanging off bars, giving out freebie
drinks, chatting up the chicks—and he hears any talk about weird
shit, he hands out a card. It works pretty darn well. I mean, I’m
not on the streets and, with a bit of a stretch, got a new
whiz-bang watch. He was pretty good now at picking the genuine
deals, but sometimes he let a few doozies through. I have no doubt
he does it on purpose, and hearing the nervous tremor in this kid’s
voice, I got the feeling that this was one of those times.