“Of course! I can’t thank you enough!” Alvin bobbed out of the office with his treasure.
Robin was happy to see justice done, and I was glad to have another case solved. Now I could get back to investigating my own murder.
Unlike most people in real-world offices with real-world desks, I don’t have vacation photos on the walls or framed certificates of completion from the Acme Detective School or the Crime-Solving Award (Honorable Mention). After Sheyenne painted the office, I just didn’t see the point in putting that stuff back on the walls. That part of my life ended when my life ended. I did keep a novelty coffee mug Robin had given me years ago with The cases don’t solve themselves printed on it.
I sorted through the pending and recently closed case folders. I started to read the first case summary, an investigation of black-market blood sales from Basilisk, the nightclub where Sheyenne had worked.
If Sheyenne was right and something in one of those files had gotten me killed, the pieces would come together if I just had enough time to ponder them. Who had wanted me dead? Sure, I had some unhappy clients—every business does—but dissatisfied customers usually just file a complaint with the Better Business Bureau. And had killing me been enough to satisfy the vengeful person, or was that just the start? It really tied my guts in knots, metaphorically, that Robin might be in danger too. As the token living human in our offices, she’s the only one who still has everything to lose.
I needed to solve this.
The main door burst open, and a terrified-looking man ran in. He whipped his head from side to side. He wore a dark overcoat, gloves, a black floppy-brimmed hat, and oversized wraparound sunglasses like the ones old ladies wear after cataract surgery. He had parchment-pale skin. I didn’t need to see the pointed tips of fangs that extended past his lips to determine that he was a vampire. (I am a detective, you know.)
Once inside the office, he yanked off the big sunglasses, blinking furiously, as jittery as a rabbit trying to climb an electric fence. “You’ve got to help me! I need protection!” He reached into the pocket of his overcoat and hauled out a sharpened wooden stake. “I found this—somebody’s trying to kill me!”
Chapter 3
“You’ll be safe here.” I came out of my office and extended my hand to reassure the skittish vampire. “I’m Dan Chambeaux. Come in and tell me more about what happened.”
Humans tend to shrink away from a zombie, but unnaturals aren’t so prejudiced. The vampire clutched my hand and shook it. (The rest of him was already shaking.)
You know the type: bald with black horn-rimmed glasses; intense but not threatening. He looked like the illegitimate love child of a bunny and a hamster, but without the fur. The sort of man who held a long, lit cigarette as an affectation, but never took a drag; he probably practiced the gesture at home with a pack of pristine cigarettes. I could imagine him in a bar ordering martinis—the fruity kind, not the manly kind.
He glanced over his shoulder, stepped farther into the protection of the lobby. I closed the door behind him so he’d feel secure. “I’m sure we can help you, Mr. . . . ?”
“Sheldon Fennerman.” He removed his hat and gloves. “Fennerman with one n. Actually three n’s, but only one at the end. Would you like me to write it down for you?”
“I can figure it out,” Sheyenne said, drifting up to him. “How about some coffee? I’m making a fresh pot.”
Fennerman’s expression melted into one of pure wistfulness. “Ah, I used to love coffee. Caramel macchiato, extra foam . . . sometimes when I was really in need of a pick-me-up I’d add another shot of espresso.” He heaved a deep breath, let it out. “But now it just upsets my stomach.”
“How about some water, then, Sheldon,” she said in a soothing voice. “May we call you Sheldon? We like to consider each of our clients a personal friend.”
He brightened a little. “I knew this was the right place to come. I’ll take sparkling water, no ice, with a twist of lime.” Jittery and restless, the vampire paced around the office, adjusted a potted ficus, straightened our only framed picture on the wall (a sunny scene of whitewashed houses on a Greek island—the landlord had given it to us when we rented the office space). “You have very minimalist offices, might even call them austere. I could help you with that. I’m an interior designer.”
“Maybe after we take care of your emergency, Mr. Fennerman—Sheldon, sorry.” I gestured him across the foyer. “Come into the conference room. What trouble are you in?” My heart went out to the guy. His eyes were red and bloodshot, and not for any demonic reason. “You don’t look like you’re sleeping well.”
“I haven’t slept much at all, and I hate being awake during daylight.” He shuddered. “I was never a night person during my life, and this is still awkward to me. I can’t get used to the shifted sleeping schedule. I’m drowsy as early as four A.M., and I’m wide awake well before sunset. Ever since these threats, I’ve been hiding out at Transfusion, the darkened all-day coffee shop for insomniac vampires . . . and I can’t even drink coffee!” He groaned. “No one should have to live like this.”
Robin came out to greet the new client, and I introduced her. “We work cases jointly,” I said, “from different directions.”
Robin’s a lawyer, and I’m a private investigator—separate specialties, but our work is related more often than not. Since neither of us could afford the rent, we’d joined forces—like the Three Musketeers minus one. All for one and one for all. We share office space to cut down on overhead, though technically we’re two separate business entities, a legal firm and a detective agency (it’s all in the fine print on new client disclosure statements). Because we had set up shop in the Unnatural Quarter, Chambeaux & Deyer got sarcastically corrupted to “Shamble & Die”—though in my case, it should be Die and then Shamble.
Robin already had a yellow legal pad tucked under her arm. “We’re here to help you with your troubles, Mr. Fennerman. Can I join you for the intake meeting?”
“I need all the help I can get.” He hurried into the conference room, and Robin took a seat across from the vampire, while I folded myself down into the chair beside hers.
Sheldon Fennerman laid the stake on the table and pushed it across to me, glad to be rid of the thing. “I found this on my doorstep when I came out at twilight yesterday. It’s meant for me—a clear threat.”
I picked it up, inspecting the sharp tip. “Freshly made, never been used.”
“Do people reuse stakes?” Robin asked.
Sheldon continued, “And someone spray-painted Die Vampire Die! on a boarded-up window across the street.”