Disclaimers in chapter 1
Fitzroy was gone a long time. Vicki fidgeted, but Mike was content to just sit and see what happened. Funny how blood loss seemed to make him complacent. But it also gave him hot and cold flashes, moments of fuzzy vision and tingling in his fingers. Occasionally his heart rate or breathing would suddenly increase. Even sitting down he was growing uncomfortable. Finally he leaned forward and put his head on his knees.
"Mike?" Vicki asked.
"M'okay," he said. "Just want a little more blood in the head area."
When Vicki didn't say anything and Mike heard a slight noise he looked up. Damn, Fitzroy had to pick that moment to come back in the room. He stood gazing at Mike, holding in one hand - a whisk broom? Mike sat up. Fitzroy knelt down where the coffee table had been and swept stray glass shards onto the silk oriental rug where most of the pieces already were. Then he gathered the sides of the rug.
"Is the rug ruined?" Vicki asked.
"It has to go anyway," Fitzroy said. "It's red." He lifted the carpet easily and left the room again.
Red? Mike and Vicki looked at each other. Vicki shrugged.
Mike took some deep breaths, hoping to keep what blood he had well oxygenated. He glanced around again. Most of the place was done in black and white with occasional red accents. Perhaps Fitzroy had plans to redecorate. His fuzzy thoughts went to his one niece, the artist, and how funny she could be about color. Then, with some surprise, he reflected that Fitzroy was an artist too, of a sort.
Fitzroy came back with a folding table - not like Mike's camping card table - a beautiful wooden creation with clean Scandinavian lines that opened not only into a X beneath the surface, but with a decorative rail that lowered all the way around. When Vicki gave him an is-this-necessary look, Fitzroy said, "You'll want somewhere to put your crime scene photographs." He gave Mike's small case a pointed look. "I should get us all some water, too," he said vaguely, but sat in a chair a little distance from the table.
Mike placed his case on the table, uncertainly. Vicki asked, "Do you have anything besides water?"
"No," Fitzroy said. "Vicki . . . would you get it?" He made the request solemnly, like he was asking her to take on a dangerous quest. "The glasses are to the left of the sink."
Vicki acquiesed and left for the kitchen. She returned with three glasses of water and set them on the table. She took her seat.
"Okay," Mike said, and opened his case. He laid out the collection of cold cases he had that looked like a vampire could have been responsible. They were from different times, except for the four women from 1944. Delphine's photo was one of them.
Mike carefully took a very different tack than he had with Fitzroy before. "Look, I don't know if you had anything to do with these murders, or know anything about them. And I don't know what I'd do about it if you did, but I still need to know. What can you tell me about these people?"
Fitzroy sat in shadow, too far from the table to see the photos. His hair seemed to cover his eyes, though Mike couldn't really tell. Vicki moved a floor lamp over to the table and switched it on. Fitzroy's place did not have a lot of light, and Vicki needed it.
"Tell me, Celucci," Fitzroy said from the shadows, "what good does any of this serve? Why do you need this from me?"
Mike smoothed a bent photo corner. "They . . . in most cases, even their families are gone now, so there's no one . . ." Now his ears were ringing. "But they were people. And they lost their lives. They deserve . . . someone ought to know what happened to them." He looked over at Fitzroy. "They deserve to not be cold cases in a file." His voice carried, even to his own ears, surprising conviction. "I'm not . . . planning anything." He looked down. "Even if you did kill them. I just have to know."
There was silence in the room.
"You want me to confess," Fitzroy said. "Just like Mendoza did." He sounded distracted again, and Mike heard the unmistakable sound of trauma. He wondered if Vicki heard it.
"Mendoza was a sick lunatic. His idea of confession was perverted. I don't want anything if it isn't true, and even the truth . . . I'm not trying to hurt you." He waved a hand at the photos. "I'm just trying to redeem them."
"What does confessing accomplish?" Fitzroy muttered. Mike was still trying to figure out why Mike had chosen to use the word "redeem" so he answered automatically, "Confession restores relationship."
Vicki snapped her head around to look at him, and Fitzroy too fixed him in his gaze, his eyes clearly visible now. Mike had only been repeating something his catechism teacher used to say, though she'd meant it as restoring relationship with God.
Apparently he'd said something profound.
"You first," Fitzroy said. "Let's hear your confession."
So Mike took a deep breath and started with the night he'd learned Fitzroy was a real, er, live vampire. How panicked he'd been to think that his former partner, besides being marked by a demon was now in the thrall of another evil being. He faltered on the phrase, but Fitzroy didn't flinch. How he'd collected Fitzroy's fingerprints - he ignored Vicki's shocked glare - and had run him through police databases. How he'd questioned Fitzroy's doorman and read everything he could find on the internet. How he'd even read Bram Stoker's Dracula.
The snort that came from Fitzroy's direction reassured Mike somewhat. It was unnerving not to be able to judge the man's reactions to his tale. "That man was a hack," Fitzroy said.
"Maybe, but I had no way of knowing what was true."
"Mike," cried Vicki, "I told you everything I knew. You could have asked me."
"I did ask you. I asked you how you knew you could trust him. How you knew he was safe to be with, but you never asked him the right questions."
"And what questions are those, Detective?" Fitzroy's voice was utterly chilling, and Mike was duly chilled. His head was pounding, and now he thought some nausea was setting in. He rubbed his temples.
"You're not well," Fitzroy said. "We should do this another time."
"Oh, no," said both Vicki and Mike, at the same time.
Fitzroy almost smiled. "Was I too obvious?"
"Actually, this brings me to Mendoza," Mike said, dreading this part. His heart pounded harder. "He told me that you had to feed and kill every night to stay alive." Mike made himself look straight at the vampire. "Is that true?"
Fitzroy's mouth tightened and Mike thought he might refuse to answer. "Really, Detective," he said, "You work in homicide. You of all people would notice if there were that many unexplained deaths with extreme blood loss. In a hundred years you've only managed to find these." Fitzroy indicated the photos on the table.
"I take it that's a no?"
"Mendoza was just feeding your fears," Fitzroy said. Then, at Mike's deadpan, "It's a no."
"He said that since you had tasted Vicki's blood, she would die. Is that true?"
Fitzroy gave Vicki a startled glance, then stood swiftly and strode to his windows. "No," he said. "Everyone dies, but not because of me. That man . . . perverted everything. Everything good."
"Okay, so you don't murder people every night. Good to know. But you have killed."
Fitzroy said nothing, his back rigid.
"What about assault? Do you . . . attack people for their blood?" Might as well wade right into this.
Still with his back to them, Fitzroy said, "Despite our recent . . . encounter, Detective, no. Not . . . no." He sounded unhappy. Bad memories, maybe. Mike could relate.
Mike didn't have to be a whiz at interrogation to know he was not telling everything. His training presented him with at least three avenues to press the witness on, and he didn't pursue any of them. He was going to take Fitzroy at his word. Besides, he already knew Fitzroy's feeding was bound up with sex, and he guessed it was probably consensual, or there'd be a huge spike in the number of reported rapes over time, too. Some things he really didn't want to know.
Mike leaned back in his chair. Exhaustion was making him feel reckless. "That covers murder and assault. I'll keep the 'can you turn into a bat' questions for later. I know you pay your taxes, 'cause I checked, and I also know you contribute to the Policeman's Protection Society annual fundraising ball."
Vicki gave him an amused look.
Fitzroy turned slowly back from the windows and took a few steps toward them. "I contributed once, and now I'm on their mailing list for all eternity."
"And Toronto's finest thanks you. Now," Mike gestured at the photos. "What about them?"