Cerulean Sins

I put my hand on Jason's arm, and we started down the sidewalk towards the crowd. There were lots of people, and most of them weren't reporters. The first murder scene had been isolated, no neighbors close enough to walk out their doors and see the show. But this neighborhood was thick with houses, so we had a crowd.

I had my badge around my neck on its little cord, I hadn't taken it off from the last scene. Now that I was feeling better, it occurred to me that Jason's arm was in the way if I had to go for the gun under my left arm. I didn't want him on my right side, because that was my gun hand, but even on my left he was in the way, a little at least.

I was feeling better if I could be worrying this much over my gun. Good to know. Feeling bad sucks, and nausea is one of the great evils of the universe.

I think because I had Jason on my arm it took the reporters longer to realize who I was, and that we weren't just part of the growing crowd of gawkers. We were actually working our way through the crowd, almost to the yellow tape before one of the reporters spotted me.

The tape recorder was shoved at me, "Ms. Blake, why are you here, was the murdered woman a vampire victim?"

Fuck, if I just said, no comment, they'd be printing possible vampire kill all over this one. "I'm called in on a lot of preternaturally related crime, Mr. Miller, isn't it? Not just vampires."

He was happy I'd remembered his name. Most people love to have you remember their names. "So it wasn't a vampire kill."

Shit. "I haven't been up to the crime scene yet, Mr. Miller, I don't know any more than you do."

The reporters closed like a fist around me. There was a big shoulder cam on us now. We'd make the noon news if nothing more exciting happened.

The questions came from all directions, "Is it a vampire kill? What kind of monster is it? Do you think they'll be more victims?" One woman got in so close that only a death grip on Jason's hand kept us from being separated. "Anita, is this your new boyfriend? Have you dumped Jean-Claude?"

That a reporter would ask that question with a fresh body only yards away said just how bad the media interest in Jean-Claude's personal life had gotten.

Once the question was raised, several more asked similar questions. I did not understand why my personal life was more interesting, or even as interesting, as a murder. It made no sense to me.

If I said Jason was a friend, they'd misconstrue it. If I said he was a bodyguard, they'd plaster the fact that I needed a bodyguard all over the papers. I finally stopped trying to answer questions and held my badge up so the uniformed officer could see it.

He raised the tape to let us inside and then had to push back the press of bodies that tried to follow us through. We walked towards the house to a hail of questions that I ignored. God knew what they'd do with the few things I'd said. It could be anything from the Executioner says, vampire attack, to the Executioner says not a vampire, to my love life. I'd stopped reading the papers, or watching the news, if I thought I might be on. First I hate to watch myself on a moving camera. Second, it always pissed me off. I was not free to discuss an ongoing police investigation, no one was, so the press were left to speculate on what few facts they had. And if Jean-Claude and our love life was the topic of choice, I never wanted to see, or read the coverage.

For some reason being caught in the media feeding frenzy had made me feel shaky again. Not as bad as earlier, but not as good as I'd felt when I first got out of the Jeep. Great, just great.

There were fewer cops here, and most of them were faces I recognized, members of RPIT. No one questioned my right to be at the scene, or Jason's presence. They trusted me. The uniform on the door looked pale, his dark eyes flashing too much white. "Lieutenant Storr is expecting you, Ms. Blake." I didn't correct the title to marshal. Marshal Blake made me feel like I should have been guest-starring on Gunsmoke.

The uniform opened the door for us because he was wearing rubber gloves. I'd left my crime scene kit at home, because when I raised a zombie for the higher-end clients, Bert liked me to not be covered in a baggy overall. He said it didn't look professional. Once he'd agreed to reimburse me for all dry cleaning incurred from this little rule, I'd agreed.

I told Jason, "Don't touch anything until I get us some gloves."

"Gloves?"

"Surgical gloves, that way if they find a latent print, they won't get all excited and then find out it was yours, or mine."

We were standing in a narrow entryway with stairs leading straight up from the door, a living room to the left, and an opening to the right that led into what looked like a dining room. There was an opening beyond that where I caught a glimpse of countertop and sink.

I couldn't see the color scheme clearly because I was still wearing sunglasses. I debated whether taking them off would make the headache come back. I slipped them off, slowly. I was left blinking painfully, but after a few seconds, it was okay. If I could stay out of direct sunlight I'd probably be all right.

It was Detective Merlioni who walked into the living room and saw us first. "Blake, thought you'd chickened out."

I looked up at the tall man with his curling gray hair cut short. The neck of his white long-sleeved shirt was unbuttoned, his tie tugged down crooked, as if he'd loosened everything without caring what it looked like. Merlioni hated ties, but he usually tried to be neater than this.

"It must be a bad one," I said.

He frowned at me. "What makes you say that?"

"You've tugged your tie all crooked like you needed air, and you haven't called me girlie or chickie, yet."

He gri

I shook my head. "Do you have some gloves we can borrow? I wasn't expecting to do a crime scene today."

He glanced at Jason then, as if seeing him for the first time, but I knew he'd seen him. Cops see almost everything around a crime scene. "Who's this?"

"My driver for the day."

He raised eyebrows at that. "Driver, woo-woo, coming up in the world."

I frowned at him. "Dolph knew I was too shaky to drive, so he gave me permission to bring a driver with me. If there weren't enough press outside to cover an entire city block I'd have had him leave me at the door, but I don't want him going back out in that. They'll never believe he's not involved in the investigation."

Merlioni stepped to the big picture window in the living room and lifted the edge of the drape enough to peek out. "They are damned persistent today."

"How'd they get here so quick?"

"Neighbor called them probably. Everyone wants to be on fucking television these days." He turned back to us. "What's your driver's name?"

"Jason Schulyer."

He shook his head. "Name doesn't mean anything to me."

"I don't know who you are either," Jason said, with a smile.

I frowned. "You know Merlioni, I don't know your first name. I can't introduce you."

He flashed those pearly whites at me. "Rob, Rob Merlioni."

"You don't look like a Rob."

"My mama doesn't think so either, she's always after me-Roberto, I give you such a nice name, you should use it."

"Roberto Merlioni, I like it." I introduced them more formally than I think I'd ever introduced anyone to anyone at a crime scene. Merlioni was stalling, he didn't want to go back inside.

"There's a box of gloves in the kitchen, on the counter, help yourself. I'm going outside for a smoke."

"I didn't know you smoked," I said.

"I just started." He looked at me, and his eyes were haunted. "I've seen worse, Blake, hell we've waded through worse together, you and me, but I'm tired today. Maybe I'm gettin' old."