The sky was clear, the sun was out and the heat clung to the air and to the skin. It was a beautiful day, all things considered. Romen and I were wasting time outside a Popeye's; lazily sipping on ice teas and watching the people walk by with the same lethargic disposition. God, Florida had a lot of old people. All leathery, in their bright sweats and visors. We had just gotten off a case of stolen identity and fraud. The FBI had been looking for this guy for a while with no luck, so they enlisted the help of the Coterie. You went to the Coterie when either every avenue had been exhausted or if there was something going on that was outside the realm of reason. We chased this guy from San Antonio all the way to Miami, tracking his trail. He was a novice to say the least and proved to be an unworthy opponent for the two of us. For some odd reason, Romen decided we should stick around for the afternoon in Miami. Like he had some inkling that we'd be needed soon enough. Whether or not it was divine intervention or his startling intuition, Romen's phone began to ring.
"Romen" he answers just with his name. No hellos, no how are you, straight to the point. I can tell it's a doozy by the way his mouth sets grimly and his stare darkens.
"Where?" he asks, then, "Do the Miami PD know?" He nods to himself. "On it"
He puts the rental in drive and we're off to our next case.
"What do we have?" I ask.
"Double homicide" he replies, emotionless.
"How does this concern the Coterie?" I ask and he shrugs.
"Headquarters doesn't have the details yet but they've got a forensic guy on the scene that will fill us in"
When we arrive, the Miami police, homicide investigation and forensics are all there, bustling in and out of a mid-century cottage like ants out of a dune. First thing I notice is that the forensics and homicide are in HAZMAT suits. When I step out of the car, the second thing I notice are the bloody prints they leave behind on the cement footpath. Third thing I notice when I get near the doorway, is the strong stench of decay. It was enough to peal the skin from my face. I cover my nose, unsure if I even want to go in. Romen brings me a pair of plastic booties to pull over my sneakers and a medical mask.
"Put these on" he instructs. "Our guy is waiting inside"
I do as I'm told and gingerly walk in, trying to keep my composure in front of Romen. I didn't want him to think me weak so I'll just have to force a brave face. The floor was covered in a thick pond of blood. It had congealed in the summer heat and was now a sticky pool of red tar that stretched throughout the living space in an almost swamp-like manner. And in the centre of this gory bayou, on the couch were two bodies, sitting side by side in front of the television. It was almost as if they were alive and just watching TV together and that we had intruded on the scene. But they must have been dead. They're skin was pale white; their irises had become grey after rigor mortis set it and flies were dotting in and out of their mouths. Next to them was a tall, thin man, feverously jotting down notes on a pad. He looks up, sees us and his smile becomes eerie, unfit for the panorama surrounding him.
"You must be with the Coterie" he comments, wading closer.
"And you must be Dr. Wes" replies Romen and he shakes the feeble man's hand cautiously. "What can you tell us?"
"I'm not sure. The more I investigate, the more questions I have" he answers unnervingly. By the sound of his voice, it became clear that he isn't out of the know very often. He was dressed differently from the rest of the forensic squad. He donned no HAZMAT gear; instead he was dressed in a fine tailored suit and had booties and a mask on like us. We stuck out like a sore thumb among the other investigators.
"For instance" he begins. "I don't think all this blood came from our two victims"
"Why do you say that?" I ask and he chuckles. He begins to wade back to the couch and we follow after him. He was an oddball, no wonder he worked for the Coterie. He bends down and sweeps the female victim's red hair away from her neck with the end of his pencil, revealing two puncture scars aligned under the jaw.
"The male has them as well" says Wes.
"They're vampires" murmurs Romen, connecting the dots. Well, now we know why the Coterie's involved. The fact that the turn scars were still so visible meant that these vampires were young, probably a year or so old after being turned.
"This blood – roughly two gallons - isn't theirs. This also means I can't tell how long they've been dead"
"How could someone not only sneak up on two vampires but also have the ability to kill one without alarming the other?" asks Romen. That was an excellent question; too bad no one had the answer. Not because nothing was possible, but because anything was possible. Invisibility, super speed, more vampires, etc., all in a day's work for the Coterie.
"Better yet, what did they use to kill them?" I ask. "Stakes, wooden bullets, hawthorn and the sun will make their bodies disintegrate"
"I'll do a full autopsy and run a toxicology scan on their gum tissue, maybe the killer used something off the HEXchange"
When the bizarre became more pronounced and the Coterie was created, a slew of free agents appeared on the scene as well. These bounty hunters – like many other shady characters – use the deep web to communicate and trade weaponry and other inventions to hunt down paranormal beings and return them for an award, dead or alive. The market they use to do this is called the HEXchange. Clever name, sure but surprisingly hard to find and even harder to impede. Its been on the Coterie's black-list for more than two decades now and we're no closer to ending it than we were twenty years ago.
"If the blood isn't from the two victims then it must have been placed here" I say.
"Which means we could use it to find time of death" adds Romen, mirroring my thoughts. He lowers onto his haunches and dips the tip of his index finger in the blood and rubs it with his thumb. I try and not vomit, deeply regretting the two refills of chicken nuggets I scoffed down just an hour ago.
"This blood was put here about five to six hours ago" he deduces. "I would assume the murders happened a few moments before hand"
"So it was planned. Nobody carries around two gallons of blood for giggles" I say. "This was personal"
Romen looks at me, tilting his head to the side. "What makes you say that?"
"Well, its kind of poetic, isn't it?" I ask. "Here are two vampires surrounded by the very thing they live off and yet they're dead. The blood must have a purpose. No one would go to this kind of trouble if it wasn't personal"
"So you're saying it's like the perp is rubbing their noses in it?" asks Romen.
"Yeah, and whoever did this, really didn't like these two" I reply and he nods. Romen pats my shoulder and cracks his first smile of the day.
"Good job, Kid" he murmurs and turns his attention back to Wes. "Find anything else?"
"There isn't a lot to go off yet since the crime scene is saturated with all the wrong DNA but I found this in the male's blazer" he says. He hands Romen a wallet and he flips through it.
"The male's name is Renato Che, 30 years old" Wes says. He picks a book of matches from behind a couple of bills and turns it around in his hand. I can make out the neon colours of two palm trees and the name, Tropico.
"I know that club" says Wes. "Its down on boardwalk. It's got big neon palm trees that could make the moon shudder. You can't miss it"
At dawn, we drive down the muted backstreets of Little Havana. Filled with small Cuban bars and cafés. It was a far cry from Downtown, bustling with tourists walking up and the boardwalk, as the florescent neon lights of the strip beat the fading sun into submission, until the island was left to the waxen glow of the moon. Among the jittering neon signs that stretched across the boardwalk - advertising cheap beer, dancing girls and wild nights – on Ocean Drive, the towering palm trees of club Tropico stood out among the others, like two tiny depraved Eiffel Towers calling out to the souls of the boardwalk. Wes was right; they could make the moon shudder. At the doors were husky bouncers, denying entry to a long slew of eager college kids. Romen cut to the front, showing him the fake policing badge the Coterie gives its proxies. Its easier than explaining who we really work for. He looks over at me, unconvinced.
"She doesn't look over twenty-one" he states in a deep voice and Romen shrugs. He's right, I am only nineteen.
"She's a trainee, she looks younger than she is" he claims.
"Well can I see her badge?" the bouncer asks, a smug smile on his face like he just king-mated us. That's a teenie, tiny problem. I haven't been fully accepted into the Coterie's ranks yet because I haven't completed the training course, probably because haven't I even started it either. At the moment I have special consideration from the heads of HQ to continue working beside Romen as long as I do not handle any firearms or go snooping without supervision. Therefore, no fake badge for fake policing. Romen seems stumped for a moment on his reply so I try and take control.
"Listen here, Buddy" I begin. "We've been on a double shift today, okay? We have been shot at, jumped over fences, parkoured and did plenty of other, heroic cop shit. I am about this far away from booking you for obstruction of justice and slapping on another dozen misdemeanours if you do not let us in!"
For affect, I grab the cuffs I have tucked away in my waistband and swing them around my finger.
"Not to mention letting in minors" adds Romen.
"What? What minors?" demands the bouncer, turning red in the face. I grab the first girl out of the door and demand to see her ID. She's a blond bombshell with bright blue eyes so she probably didn't even need to show her ID, being good for business and all.
"Who the hell are you?!" she demands.
"I'm an undercover cop, ma'am" I say and her eyes widen.
"Says here your name is Lisa Tran" I say and she nods uncomfortably while the bouncer looks on.
"It also says here that you are 46" I read and she nods again. "Apparently you are also from Hong Kong"
She purses her lips, cocks her head to the side and nods. "Yep, sounds about right"
I roll my eyes. 'You look like Hitler's wet dream, honey. The closest you've been to China is eating at Panda Express" I state. I take her college ID from her wallet and read it out while she maintains her innocence.
"Hello Amanda" I say and she pouts. "Says here you are nineteen. Therefore a minor" I boast to the bouncer's face and his nostrils begin to flare.
"Please don't arrest me, please, please-" she begins to prattle.
"Fine, you are free to go" I say. "This is a warning though, Amanda. Get a better fake I.D. This woman looks nothing like you" I say and she nods thankfully, retreating down the boardwalk with haste. I turn my attention back to the bouncer who looks like he's about to bust a vein in his forehead.
"Looks like you should step down" I say. He huffs and bitterly steps aside so Romen and I could enter. As we walk in, Romen smiles incredulously at me and asks, "How did you know she was a minor?"
"I had no idea" I say. "I just grabbed the first person I saw"
He crosses his arms and makes a face at me.
"What?" I demand. "We got in, didn't we?" and he rolls his eyes.
The music was synthpop, something right out of the eighties and the inside was bathed in a mix of dull green, blue and pink neon glows as the club filled to the brim with partygoers.
"Mind if we ask you a couple of questions?" Romen asks the bartender and he smirks.
"On a Friday night? You'd have better luck getting an answer at a graveyard" the bartender replies coldly, pouring a beer for the guy next to us.
"How about now?" asks Romen, laying his badge on the counter. The bartender leers at us for a moment and shrugs.
"What do you need to know?"
"You know this guy?" Romen asks, handing him Che's I.D. He studies it for a bit, shrugs and shakes his head.
"Never seen him before" says the bartender. "I just started here a couple of weeks ago so if he's a regular, I wouldn't know about it"
"How about your friend over there?" Romen points to a female bartender pouring drinks on the other side of the bar.
"Hey! Mandy!" he shouts at her and she turns around. He hikes a thumb at us and takes over her shift. She saunters over, a look of caution on her face.
"What do you narcs want?" she asks, frustration clear in her tone.
"Is that how you talk to the police?"
"That's how I talk to everybody, if you got a problem with that, you can take it up with my supervisor"
"And who would that be?" replies Romen.
"Me" she says, frostily. "If this is about drugs or whatever you're here for, I can tell you now we don't know who deals the coke. You'd have better luck with the patrons"
"We're not here for that. We just need you to tell us if you've seen somebody"
Romen hands her the I.D. and she nods to herself.
"Yeah, I know this cat" she replies. "Use to come in every couple of days to see the boss"
"Whose the boss?"
"Club owner. Name's Henry Pope. He owns a quarter of the places on the boardwalk including this fine establishment here"
"Do you know why they were meeting?" asks Romen and she shakes her head guardedly.
"No" she replies. "They'd always go to the back where his office is and I wouldn't see him leave until closing time. Sometimes I would leave before them. Why are you asking me this? Is this something to do with Mr. Pope?"
"It does seem like it now" says Romen, brooding in the way he always does when another flashing dot has entered his radar.
"Did Renato ever come here with a girl with red hair?" I ask. Mandy's thoughtful for a moment but shakes her head.
"He came in with a different girl every week" she says. "Sometimes brunette bobs, sometimes blonds, a couple times with a redhead but I don't remember much else. I never got a good look. They'd always head straight for Henry's back office"
"Is Mr. Pope around?" asks Romen and she shakes her head.
"Nah, he's in L.A for a couple of days" she snaps. "Are we done here? I have customers"
"Yes, thank you. You've been a big help" Romen says in an almost taunting manner. She makes a face at him and returns to the crowd that surrounded her bar, waiting for drinks. We leave Tropico and get into the car.
"What do you think?" I ask and Romen presses his lips into a thin line.
"I think we have a new lead" he replies. "This Pope guy is definitely still in Miami so we should send out an APB and track down the fucker"
"You think she was covering for him?" and Romen nods.
"We're going to have a hard time I.D.'ing the girl" I say. "One thing's for sure, we're going to have break into Mr. Pope's back office"
"Don't you mean, we'll need a warrant?" smirks Romen and we laugh. How does one even go about getting one of those? It's so much trouble. Here's an easy fix; lock picks and a little stealth.