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"You dented the last one."
"Not my fault."
"The owner of the other car is disagreeing with that assessment."
Well, he would. The idiot didn't have insurance, so he'd have to pay for the mess his car was in himself if he couldn't shift the blame to me. "It'll take me at least an hour on public transport to get to Springvale."
"I know, which is why I've asked Salliane to allocate you another car. Just try not to dent it. Or write it off."
I refrained from pointing out that I didn't actually write off the last one, and jumped off the desk. "I'll report back in once I talk to Dunleavy."
"Do that. Alex is working on the young vamp, so we might yet find out what Gautier is really up to."
I frowned. "The baby vamp is dead. How the hell can she work on someone who is dead?"
"He's a vampire. Unless you fry us with sunlight, basic brain functions - including the ability to regenerate - can survive for many hours. Some of the older, stronger ones can even survive having their neck broken. Which means there may be enough consciousness left to read."
A thought that was entirely too creepy. But I didn't exactly break the young vamp's neck, I severed it. I would have thought that to be an entirely different prospect. "I thought breaking a vamp's neck was the second surest way to kill them?"
"It is, except for the very old. If the old ones are in a safe enough position, they will eventually regenerate. The young and very young simply take longer to truly die."
"So someone as old as Quinn could regenerate?"
"No. Director Hunter could. Quinn would probably be on the cusp of the required age, so surviving would be a fifty-fifty proposition."
The longer I worked with vampires, the more I learned about them. And the more secretive the bastards seemed. "So what other juicy little tidbits are you vamps hiding from the rest of us?"
"Not a whole lot, I assure you."
"Yeah, believing the sincerity behind that statement."
Jack glanced at his watch rather than replying. I took the hint and quickly headed out to collect the car keys from the caramel cow.
Bob Dunleavy lived in a small house - or town house, as the estate agents liked to call them - a couple of house blocks down from the Springvale police station. Maybe the boys in blue wanted to keep an eye on him. Or maybe Dunleavy figured that he'd fly under their radar by living so close. Though if his record was anything to go by, it hadn't worked so far.
Smiling slightly, I rested my arms on the steering wheel and studied the town houses opposite, not only checking tor indications that Dunleavy was home but also looking for hints about the man himself.
If his house was anything to go by, Dunleavy was a slob. Which pretty much explained his lengthy record - a neat thief was often harder to catch than a messy one.
This section of Springvale was an old, established area and the house blocks around here were large enough to have three smaller houses built on them. Most of the old houses in this street had already been torn down to make way for their smaller cousins, and the "for sale" signs dominating the front yards of the remaining two suggested it wouldn't be long before the whole street was shared residential.
Dunleavy's town house was the rear one - the one closest to the back fence and the railway lines behind it. It was clearly visible from the road thanks to the fact it sat front-on to the driveway rather than side-on, like the other two. Dunleavy's neighbors had to hate that fact. While their little places were neat and tidy, his was anything but. Talk about bringing the tone of the neighborhood down.
Two of his front windows had been smashed, the holes covered by soggy-looking cardboard that was held in place by long strips of black tape. Scraggy-looking curtains hung sadly from either side of these windows, and were yellowed with age and slashed in places. The other windows were covered by taped-up newspaper. The front door was a mess of peeling paintwork and holes, and even the brickwork looked worse for wear - almost as if it had the dust of eons coating its surface.
I couldn't see anyone moving around inside, even though there'd been bursts of movement evident in the other two town houses. But that didn't mean anything. Dunleavy did most of his work at night, so he was probably asleep right now.
I grabbed my coat and climbed out of the car. The wind hit, pulling at my hair and slapping my skin with its iciness. I shivered my way into the coat and heartily cursed the winter weather. Though at least it wasn't raining yet.
After locking the car, I shoved my hands into my pockets and made my way across the road. A curtain covering a window in the first town house moved, and a face briefly peered through the glass. An older woman, her features pinched and harsh looking. I gave her a smile of acknowledgment and she quickly dropped the curtain back in place.
Maybe the reason Dunleavy had been caught so often wasn't so much a product of his carelessness, but rather his nosy neighbor.
I continued on past the second town house. The eleven o'clock news was blasting out from either a radio or TV inside, and the smell or burnt toast hit the air. I drew it in, savoring the sharp aroma even as my stomach rumbled a reminder it had only had toast for breakfast, and made a mental note to grab a burger on my way back to the Directorate.
There was a small van parked out the front of Dunleavy's garage. A quick look through the windows revealed piles of newspapers, discarded take-out containers and, stacked neatly in a plastic box attached to the van's side, several duffle bags. Dunleavy's tools of trade, no doubt. I climbed the crumbling concrete steps and raised a hand to knock on the door. Only to freeze as a familiar smell spun around me.
Blood. Thick, ripe, and very, very fresh.
