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Their relationship was one for the Jerry Springer Show. I only say that because unfortunately, Delilah had forced me to sit through way too many episodes during her late-night trash-TV binges. But I watched the show with her because it gave us time together.
Chase sidled up to the bar. Last time he’d paid a late-night visit to the Wayfarer, he’d been covered in blood, and we’d been off and running on the hunt for Dredge. This time, however, he looked reasonably clean and relatively calm. He glanced around the room, then settled himself on a barstool.
“Club soda, no ice,” he said. “Have you seen Turnabout Willy lately?”
I snorted. Turnabout Willy was all human. Perfectly fine when he was sober, when he drank he thought he was Superman. He’d never put himself in enough danger for the courts to lock him up. At least not yet. But Chase worried about him. Why, I didn’t understand and hadn’t asked.
“Willy hasn’t been in for about a week. I think he’s back on the wagon, but he’ll fall off again. He always does. Just wait and see.”
“That’s what concerns me. He’s going to go on a bender one of these days and convince himself he can fly. I’m not looking forward to getting a call that he took a nosedive off one of the downtown skyscrapers.” Chase toyed with the soda. “Listen, I didn’t come here just to ask about Willy.”
“No shit, Sherlock. What do you want?” I gave him a toothy grin. Chase and I butted heads a lot, but we’d developed a healthy respect for each other.
“I’ve got a question for you.”
I wiped the counter with a clean rag. The Wayfarer was still fairly packed, but everybody looked happy. Chrysandra was the best waitress I had. I leaned over the counter.
“Sure thing. What’s up?” I said, refilling his glass.
“I’ve got a problem, and I wondered if you’d look into it. I’d ask Delilah—she’s the PI, after all—but this is more along your alley.” He glanced across the bar at me, his dark gaze meeting mine. It used to be that Chase wouldn’t even look at me. Now we were comfortable around one another. More or less.
“What’s going on?”
He shrugged. “I’m not sure if it’s actually anything or not, but here’s the deal. We took a missing person report a couple days ago. Now, normally, I wouldn’t think twice about bringing this to your attention, but the info came through the FH-CSI tip line, and the person who’s missing is a vampire.”
I stared at him. “Who made the report?” Vampires seldom ever approached the authorities about anything. Chase was right to be concerned.
“Don’t know. The line’s set up to provide anonymity. It was a woman’s voice, though. We couldn’t get a trace on the number. She had call block. Anyway, have you heard of the Clockwork Club?”
“I know of it,” I said. “I’ve never been invited to their meetings.”
The Clockwork Club was the opposite of the Fangtabula. A classy, upscale vampire hangout, they didn’t allow blood whores or vamping on the premises. Bottled blood only, and only blood taken from volunteers.
The club reeked of old money. The members had been among the blue-blooded crowd during their life. They ignored both the old-school vamps as well as the sloppier newborns who hadn’t learned how to cope. Elitist and determined to keep it that way, membership was by invitation only. From what I knew, the club’s roster stood at under two hundred along the entire West Coast. There were three branches: one in Seattle, one in Portland, and one in San Francisco.
“A member of theirs, a female vamp, disappeared five nights ago. She hasn’t been seen or heard from since she vanished. Apparently, she managed to pass in society.”
A few vamps struggled to hide their undead status to their friends and family. Some of them managed, at least for a while. Our friend Sassy Branson had kept up her charade for well over three years now. I didn’t consider it a healthy choice, but some vampires took longer than others to learn how to let go of their old lives. Hell, I wasn’t one to talk. Look at how long I’d carried the scars from Dredge before confronting him.
“What happened? You sure she didn’t walk into the sun? You know the suicide rate among vampires is astronomical compared to other Supes.”
Chase shook his head. “No. The woman who left the tip was positive that there’s foul play involved. She told us the name of the girl and her husband. The couple lives here in Seattle. Claudette Kerston was twenty-one at her death. She’s been a vampire for seven years. Apparently, she has a full life, if that’s what you call it. She’s married. Her husband’s still alive. I checked her out. Apparently, the Social Security office had no idea she was dead.” He arched his eyebrows.
“You outed her.” I shook my head. Vamps who passed caused a lot of problems in terms of record keeping once they were found out.
“Inadvertently. I didn’t do it on purpose. I had a talk with her husband. Sure enough, he knew she was a vampire, and he helped her hide the fact. Social Security and the IRS are going to be breathing down his neck, but there’s nothing I can do about that.”
He grinned, then shrugged. “What can I say? They broke the law. Anything a vampire earns after death is subject to taxation, and you know as well as I do that there are some very wealthy vamps who went to their deaths as paupers. It would seem walking among the undead is a good way to earn a living.”
I gave him that one. “It has its perks. Especially when you consider the lack of need for food or certain other amenities and the ability to charm money out of anybody. That’s why the regional dominions are forming—to serve as liaisons to the government for the vampire community.”
“Whatever the case,” Chase continued, “her husband’s worried sick. He told me that Claudette always comes home on time. He showed me what the girl’s been keeping herself busy with.”
“You mean she’s not just sitting around soaking up the atmosphere?” If she was a member of the Clockwork Club, she had no reason to work or do anything she didn’t want to. Nobody got invited who didn’t have a few million tucked away.
“Old money, inherited from her father, so no, she didn’t need a job. But she’s writing a book. A guide for new vampires. To me, it looks well-thought-out. I don’t think she’s a flake or particularly bloodthirsty. In fact, if Claudette were alive, I’d mark the case as suspicious because there’s no reason I can find for her to want to disappear. At least not on her own.”
Chase frowned and toyed with his glass, staring at the end of his right pinky finger, which was missing its tip. The finger had healed, but the inner scars were still there. The Chase we knew now was less obstinate, more thoughtful, and more than willing to go the extra mile in the fight against Shadow Wing and his cronies.
