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"Yeah, well, it's hard to find the words to describe seeing someone get their throat ripped out."
He gave her another dubious look. "This club - La Notte? It's a wild place, I hear. Popular with the goths, the ravers..."
"Your point being?"
The cop shrugged. "Lotta kids get into some weird shit these days. Maybe all you saw was a little fun getting out of hand."
Gabrielle exhaled a curse and reached for her cell phone. "Does this look like fun getting out of hand to you?"
She clicked the picture recall button and looked again at the images she had captured. Although the snapshots were blurry, diffused by the flash, she could still plainly see a group of men surrounding another on the ground. She clicked forward to another image and saw the reflective glow of several eyes staring back at the lens, the vague outlines of facial features peeled back in animal fury.
Why didn't the officers see what she did?
"Miss Maxwell," interjected the younger police officer. He strolled around to the other side of the desk and sat on the edge before her. He had been the quieter of the two men, the one listening in careful consideration where his partner spewed nothing but doubt and suspicion. "It's obvious that you believe you saw something terrible at the club tonight. Officer Carrigan and I want to help you, but in order for us to do that, we have to be sure we're all on the same page."
She nodded. "Okay."
"Now, we have your statement, and we've seen your pictures. You strike me as a reasonable person. Before we can go any further here, I need to ask if you would be willing to submit to a drug test."
"A drug test." Gabrielle shot out of her chair. She was beyond pissed off now. "This is ridiculous. I am not some tripped out crackhead, and I resent being treated like one. I'm trying to report a murder!"
"Gab? Gabby!"
From somewhere behind her in the station, Gabrielle heard Jamie's voice. She had called her friend soon after she arrived, needing the comfort of familiar faces after the horror she had witnessed.
"Gabrielle!" Jamie dashed up to her and surrounded her in a warm hug. "I'm sorry I couldn't get here sooner, but I was already home when I got your message on my cell. Jesus, sweetie! Are you all right?"
Gabrielle nodded. "I think so. Thanks for coming."
"Miss Maxwell, why don't you let your friend here take you home," said the younger officer. "We can continue this at another time. Maybe you'll be able to think more clearly after you get some sleep."
The two policemen rose, and gestured for Gabrielle to do the same. She didn't argue. She was tired, bone weary, and she didn't think even if she stayed at the station all night she'd be able to convince the cops of what she witnessed outside La Notte. Numbly, Gabrielle let Jamie and the two officers escort her out of the station. She was halfway down the steps to the parking lot when the younger of the men called her name.
"Miss Maxwell?"
She paused, looking back over her shoulder to where the officer stood beneath the floodlight of the station.
"If it will make you rest any easier, we'll send someone around to check in on you at your home, and maybe talk to you a bit more, once you've had some time to think about your report."
She didn't appreciate his coddling tone, but neither could she find the anger to refuse his offer. After what she had seen tonight, Gabrielle would gladly take the security of a police visit, even a patronizing one. She nodded, then followed Jamie out to his waiting car.
From a quiet corner desk in the precinct house, a file clerk hit the print key on his computer. A laser printer whirred into action behind him, spitting out a single page report. The clerk drained the last swallow of cold coffee from his chipped Red Sox mug, rose from his rickety, putty-colored chair, and casually retrieved the document from the printer.
The station was quiet, emptied out for the midnight shift break. But even if it had been hopping with activity, no one would have paid any attention to the reserved, awkward intern who kept very much to himself.
That was the beauty of his role.
It was why he'd been chosen.
He wasn't the only member of the force to be recruited. He knew there were others, though their identities were kept secret. It was safer that way, cleaner. For his part, he couldn't recall how long it had been since he first met his Master. He knew only that he now lived to serve.
With the report clutched in his hand, the clerk shuffled down the hallway in search of privacy. The break room, which was never empty no matter the time of day, was currently occupied by a couple of secretaries and Carrigan, a fat, loud-mouthed cop who was retiring at the end of the week. He was bragging about the primo deal he had gotten on some backwater Florida condo while the women basically ignored him, the two females lunching on day-old, frosted yellow party cake and washing it all down with Diet Coke chasers.
The clerk ran his fingers through his pale brown hair and walked past the open doorway, toward the restrooms at the end of the corridor. He paused outside the men's room, his hand on the battered metal handle, as he casually glanced behind him. With no one there to see him, he moved to the next door down, the station's janitorial supply closet. It was supposed to be kept locked, but seldom was. Nothing much worth stealing in there anyway, unless you had a thing for industrial-grade toilet paper, ammonia cleanser, and brown paper towels.
He twisted the knob and pushed the old steel panel inward. Once inside the dark closet, he clicked the pushbutton lock from within and retrieved his cell phone from the front pocket of his khakis. He pressed speed dial, calling the sole number that was stored in the untraceable, disposable device. The call rang twice, then fell into an ominous silence as his Master's unmistakable presence loomed on the other end of the line.
"Sire," the clerk breathed, his voice a reverent whisper. "I have information for you."
