The door guard recognized the two new arrivals and stepped aside to let them into the warehouse. Before closing the plywood door, the big suit scanned the darkness, though he couldn’t possibly have seen anything with his eyes accustomed to the bright interior lights. He yanked the door shut.
I crept up to the Chaney & Son warehouse and discovered that the windows weren’t just boarded up: They had been packed with insulation, so that I could hear only faint muffled voices coming from within, no actual words. I approached the plywood door, hoping to discern words through the crack, but again no luck. So I melted back into the dark and waited for hours, watching, just to see what might happen.
Just before dawn, the door opened again and three disguised men emerged, scuttled around the corner, and disappeared down another street. I didn’t recognize them. Two more nondescript men left in a different direction, then another trio, and the rest came out by pairs. I counted twenty attendees at the mysterious meeting, but with all the hats and upturned collars, I had no idea which ones were Brondon and Jekyll when they left. The perfume salesman must have traded his loud plaid sport jacket for a trench coat.
The burly doorman was the last to leave. He turned off the lights, shoved the plywood door shut, then fixed two padlocks in place.
Miranda Jekyll would find this very interesting. I decided to dig into the background of the Chaney & Son building, see if I found any connections to Harvey Jekyll.
Preferably something illegal.
Chapter 20
Robin met me as soon as I came into the office next morning, wearing that cockeyed optimist smile of hers, along with a clean gray pantsuit; her dark hair was pulled back in a thick neat braid. She looked fresh and ready to take on the world, full of energy, even though I knew she’d been up most of the night.
In addition to sharing office space and splitting the lease, we each had a small apartment upstairs, a cramped place not much bigger than a coffin; we could have knocked down the adjoining wall to make the combined room as large as a walk-in closet, but the building owner wouldn’t allow it. Robin and I spent most of our time at work anyway; I’d never been much of a homebody, either before or after death, and Robin slept on the client sofa in her office as often as she crashed in her own bed.
In law school, she had been able to pull all-nighters: study, write a term paper, go to class in the morning, take an exam, hang out with friends in the afternoon, and party at night. I remember when I was that young, and that alive. McGoo and I had done it ourselves when we were in college. My “all-nighters” were different now.
Triumphant, Robin held an envelope in her hand. “It took me two hours, but I made Judge Hawkins see the light. You’ve got your restraining order.” She often walked a fine line with the judge. Intent and cheerfully obsessive, she didn’t realize that she could become a downright pest. But she usually got her way.
Sheyenne appeared, floating right through the wall. “I flitted to the courthouse and picked up the order, Beaux. We thought you’d like to deliver it to the Straight Edgers yourself.”
I gave them an impressed nod. “I was going to scare them regardless, but it’s nice to be packing some extra legal ammunition.”
I paused to jot down basics about the Chaney & Son warehouse on a scrap of paper from Sheyenne’s desk. “While I’m gone, pull the county records and see what you can find out about this building—who owns it, how long it’s been empty, anything unusual about recent permits. Harvey Jekyll’s involved in some suspicious activities there.” I patted the envelope from Judge Hawkins. “Meanwhile, I’ve got a restraining order to deliver.”
Normally, I wouldn’t have given a second glance to the Straight Edge headquarters—an unmarked, run-down storefront whose windows bore the remnants of painted letters from a now-defunct political campaign. It was the sort of place used by accountants for a few months during tax season, after which it would remain empty but hopeful for the rest of the year.
The only sign in the window, designed to look like a No Trespassing sign, said, HUMANS ONLY, and below that, UNNATURAL = UNDESIRABLE. What a witty bunch.
I yanked open the door without knocking—what good was a knock going to do me?—and startled four people who were stuffing flyers into envelopes and painting large placards. The panicky group leaped to their feet and whirled around. One scrawny, mean-looking young woman, who clearly needed a boyfriend, and three equally scrawny and awkward young men, who clearly needed girlfriends, stared at me. I recognized the beanpole redheaded kid I had rescued from the troll landlord’s dinner tub and the two punks who had vandalized Sheldon’s brownstone. They all wore red T-shirts with the line down the chest. None of them looked to be older than twenty-one. I wondered if these punks comprised the whole organization, or if they just worked the day shift.
“Is this the zombie massage parlor?” I asked in a bright voice, feeling quite chipper. “My muscles are stiff.”
“I’ll turn you into a stiff,” the beanpole snarled, trying to sound tough. He had red marks around his mouth from where I’d torn off the duct tape.
“Already been there,” I said. “You forgot to thank me for saving you from the deep-fryer hot tub. Didn’t your mother teach you manners?”
The Jane Fonda wannabe spoke. “Get out! You’re not welcome here. Can’t you read the sign? Humans only.”
“The legal definition of ‘human’ is being challenged in the courts. My partner has set some remarkable precedents already. In the meantime, why not be inclusive? Embrace diversity.”
The young man who had sprayed graffiti outside of Sheldon’s home now puffed up his chest. “You can rot in hell!”
“I’d rather not rot anywhere.” I strolled into the main room, and the four Straight Edgers cringed, as if afraid I intended to eat their brains. The posters they were making each had a straight unadorned line on a field of red; not much of a logo design.
With my cell phone I took a quick group shot of the four young activists. “Got your faces, just to verify you were here in the office. Now I need your names.”
“What for?”
“I’m going to enter you into a sweepstakes.”
Graffiti-boy looked ready to blurt out the information, but the scrawny woman snapped, “Don’t tell him anything, Scott.”
“Jeez, Priscilla, I wasn’t going to!”
Then I glanced at the remaining two Straight Edgers and did my best bluff. “You others don’t need to give me your names. We can bring charges against Scott and Priscilla, here.”
The bitter young woman paled, while Scott looked tangled in knots. “It’s Todd and Patrick!” he blurted.
“You bastard!” Todd, the beanpole, snarled at Scott.
“We all stick together,” Priscilla said. “We’re Straight Edge.”
“What do you want?” demanded Patrick, the young man who had planted stakes at Sheldon’s front door.
“You’ve been harassing a client of mine,” I said. “A vampire.”