Guilty Pleasures

“I might know the names.”

I stared at him, debating. I didn’t want to share information with him because I knew good ol’ Phillip was the daytime eyes and ears of the undead. Yet, when I had talked to Rebecca Miles in the company of the police, she had told us zip. I didn’t have time to wade through crap. I needed information and fast. Nikolaos wanted results. And what Nikolaos wanted, Nikolaos damn well better get.

“Rebecca Miles,” I said.

“I know her. She was Maurice’s property.” He shrugged an apology at the word, but he let it stand. And I wondered what he meant by it. “Where do we go first?” he asked.

“Nowhere. I don’t want a civilian along while I work.”

“I might be able to help.”

“No offense, you look strong and maybe even quick, but that isn’t enough. Do you know how to fight? Do you carry a gun?”

“No gun, but I can handle myself.”

I doubted that. Most people don’t react well to violence. It freezes them. There are a handful of seconds where the body hesitates, the mind doesn’t understand. Those few seconds can get you killed. The only way to kill the hesitation is practice. Violence has to become a part of your thinking. It makes you cautious, suspicious as hell, and lengthens your life expectancy. Phillip was familiar with violence, but only as the victim. I didn’t need a professional victim tagging along. Yet, I needed information from people who wouldn’t want to talk to me. They might talk to Phillip.

I didn’t expect to run into a gun battle in broad daylight. Nor did I really expect anyone to jump me, at least not today. I’ve been wrong before but…If Phillip could help me, I saw no harm in it. As long as he didn’t flash that smile at the wrong time and get molested by nuns, we would be safe.

“If someone threatens me, can you stay out of it and let me do my job, or would you charge in and try to save me?” I asked.

“Oh,” he said. He stared down at his drink for a few minutes. “I don’t know.”

Brownie point for him. Most people would have lied. “Then I’d rather you didn’t come.”

“How are you going to convince Rebecca you work for the master vampire of this city? The Executioner working for vampires?”

It sounded ridiculous even to me. “I don’t know.”

He smiled. “Then it’s settled. I’ll come along and help calm the waters.”

“I didn’t agree to that.”

“You didn’t say no, either.”

He had a point. I sipped my Coke and looked at his smug face for perhaps a minute. He said nothing, only stared back. His face was neutral, no challenge to it. There was no contest of egos as with Bert. “Let’s go,” I said.

We stood. I left a tip. We went off in search of clues.

Chapter 20

Rebecca Miles lived in South City’s Dogtown. The streets were all named for states: Texas, Mississippi, Indiana. The building was blind, most of the windows boarded up. The grass was tall as an elephant’s eye, but not half so beautiful. A block over were expensive rehabs full of yuppies and politicians. There were no yuppies on Rebecca’s block.

Her apartment was on a long, narrow corridor. There was no air conditioning in the hallway, and the heat was like chest-high fur, thick and warm. One dim light bulb gleamed over the threadbare carpeting. In places the off-green walls were patched with white plaster, but it was clean. The smell of pine-scented Lysol was thick and almost nauseating in the small, dark hallway. You could probably have eaten off the carpeting if you had wanted to, but you would have gotten fuzzies in your mouth. No amount of Lysol would get rid of carpet fuzzies.

As we had discussed in the car, Phillip knocked on the door. The idea was that he would calm any misgivings she might have about The Executioner coming into her humble abode. It took fifteen minutes of knocking and waiting before we heard someone moving around behind the door.

The door opened as far as the chain would allow. I couldn’t see who answered the door. A woman’s voice, thick with sleep, said, “Phillip, what are you doing here?”

“Can I come in for a few minutes?” he asked. I couldn’t see his face, but I would have bet everything I owned that he was flashing her one of his infamous smiles.

“Sure; sorry, you woke me up.” The door closed, and the chain rattled. The door reopened, wide. I still couldn’t see around Phillip. So I guess Rebecca didn’t see me either.

Phillip walked in, and I followed behind him before the door could close. The apartment was ovenlike, a gasping, stranded-fish heat. The darkness should have made it cooler, but instead made it claustrophobic. Sweat trickled down my face.

Rebecca Miles stood holding onto the door. She was thin, with lifeless dark hair falling straight to her shoulders. High cheekbones clung to the skin of her face. She was nearly overwhelmed by the white robe she wore. Delicate was the phrase, fragile. Small, dark eyes blinked at me. It was dim in the apartment, thick drapes cutting out the light. She had only seen me once, shortly after Maurice’s death.

“Did you bring a friend?” she asked. She shut the door, and we were in near darkness.

“Yes,” Phillip said. “This is Anita Blake…”

Her voice came out small and choked. “The Executioner?”

“Yes, but…

She opened her small mouth and shrieked. She threw herself at me, hands clawing and slapping. I braced and covered my face with my forearms. She fought like a girl, all open-handed slaps, scratches, and flailing arms. I grabbed her wrist and used her own momentum to pull her past me. She stumbled to her knees with a little help. I had her right arm in a joint lock. It puts pressure on the elbow, it hurts, and a little extra push will snap the arm. Most people don’t fight well after you break their arm at the elbow.

I didn’t want to break the woman’s arm. I didn’t want to hurt her at all. There were two bloody scratches on my arm where she had gotten me. I guess I was lucky she hadn’t had a gun.

She tried to move, and I pressed on the arm. I felt her tremble. Her breath was coming in huge gasps. “You can’t kill him! You can’t! Please, please don’t.” She started to cry, thin shoulders shaking inside the too-big robe. I stood there, holding her arm, causing her pain.

I released her arm, slowly, and stepped back out of reach. I hoped she didn’t attack again. I didn’t want to hurt her, and I didn’t want her to hurt me. The scratches were begi

Rebecca Miles wasn’t going to try again. She huddled against the door, thin, starved hands locked around her knees. She sobbed, gasping for air, “You…can’t…kill him. Please!” She started to rock back and forth, hugging herself tight as if she might shatter, like weak glass.

Jesus, some days I hate my job. “Talk to her, Phillip. Tell her we didn’t come here to hurt anyone.”

Phillip knelt beside her. He kept his hands at his sides as he talked to her. I didn’t hear what he said. Her shuddering sobs floated after me through a right-hand doorway. It led into the bedroom.

A coffin sat beside the bed, dark wood, maybe cherry, varnished until it gleamed in the twilit dark. She thought I came to kill her lover. Jesus.

The bathroom was small and cluttered. I hit the light switch, and the harsh yellow light was not kind. Her makeup was scattered around the cracked sink like casualties. The tub was nearly rotted with rust. I found what I hoped was a clean washrag and ran cold water over it. The water that trickled out was the color of weak coffee. The pipes shuddered and clanked and whined. The water finally ran clear. It felt good on my hands, but I didn’t splash any on my neck or face. It would have been cool, but the bathroom was dirty. I couldn’t use the water, not if I didn’t have to. I looked up as I squeezed the rag out. The mirror was shattered, a spiderweb of cracks. It gave me my face back in broken pieces.