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Doyle nodded slowly, thinking. The cemetery dated from the late 1800s as the resting place of the local rich and powerful. During the silent film heyday, it had become the burial place for many a silver screen celebrity. A tourist destination, the place was modeled after European cemeteries, with crypts and mausoleums instead of the traditional stone lawn markers. It was, Doyle thought, the perfect place for a vampire to hide. Which meant it was where Dragos would expect them to look.
Frowning, he turned and looked thoughtfully around this second sub-basement filled with broken equipment, a bank of security monitors showing the store above them, a corner with a bed and kitchenette, and several panels hidden in the walls that led to various tunnels terminating at crypts in the cemetery. A hidey-hole to be sure.
Or a place staged to look like one.
“He’s not in the cemetery. And he hasn’t rabbited.”
Tariq’s angular eyebrows rose. “We’ve searched everywhere. He’s not here.”
“Where’s Murray?”
Tariq shot him awhat the fucklook. “In the vehicle, running ops.”
“Why the hell isn’t he in here?”
Tariq stared him down. “Because he’s damn good at coordinating, and when I put together a team, I make it solid.”
Doyle nodded, thinking. Wasn’t one thing suspicious about Tariq’s answer, and yet his bullshit meter was tingling. “You know the suspect?”
“Dragos? Who doesn’t?” Tariq answered, which was a fair enough response.
“I mean personally.”
“Yeah,” Tariq said, and Doyle could practically taste the bitterness in his voice. “Let’s just say I won’t shed a tear when you slap the hematite cuffs on him.”
Doyle had to second the sentiment. And he knew that Tariq and Dragos had gone head to head a half dozen centuries before. And they were both still standing. On most days, the question of why would be an academic one to discuss over a pint. Today, Doyle’s gut was telling him that the question was key.
Not that he needed the answer; he simply needed to address the problem.
“Switch,” he said, looking Tariq full in the eyes and watching as his diamond-shaped pupils shrank to nothingness.
“Come again?”
“Murray in here. You in the van.”
“You wanna tell me why?”
“Not really,” Doyle said, stepping closer. “Why don’t you tell me why?”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Tariq said, rage boiling behind his usually calm features.
“And you don’t need to,” Doyle said. “So long as you go out, and Murray comes in.”
Tariq looked from Doyle to Tucker and then back again. “Fuck it,” he finally said. “You want to play hot cop in charge, you go for it.”
He shot a withering look back toward Doyle, then stormed out of the room.
Tucker looked at Doyle. “What was that about?”
“Gut feeling,” Doyle said.
Tucker pondered that, nodded. “And who the fuck’s Murray?”
“Werewolf. And I want his nose on the job.”
Five minutes later, J. Frank Murray stopped near the far end of the bank of security monitors. “Here,” he said, his nose twitching.
“Here?” Tucker repeated. “We know he would have sat here. That’s what the monitors are for.”
