McGoo is my best human friend, my BHF. We’ve known each other since college; both married women named Rhonda when we were young and stupid; later, as we got smarter, we divorced the women named Rhonda and spent a lot of guy time commiserating. I established my private-eye practice in the Unnatural Quarter; McGoo, with his salty and non-politically-correct sense of humor, managed to offend the wrong people, thus derailing his mediocre career on the outside in exchange for a less-than-mediocre career here in the Quarter. But he was a good friend, a reliable cop, and he made the best of his situation.
It had taken McGoo quite a while to learn how to deal with me after I was undead. He wrestled with his own prejudices against various types of monsters, and, thanks to me, he could honestly say, “Some of my best friends are zombies.” (I didn’t let him use that to get any moral high ground, though.)
As we surveyed the empty warehouse, he said, “I’d better go talk to the lady, let her know everything’s under control.”
“Want me to come along? I could use something a little calmer after this.” I had, after all, solved the case of the missing money, but I decided to wait for the dust to settle before I tracked Rusty down.
I found a twenty-dollar bill on the floor and dutifully picked it up.
McGoo looked at me. “That’s evidence, you know.”
“Evidence against what? You were called here on a disturbing-the-peace charge.” As we walked out of the warehouse, I tucked the bill into the pocket of my sport jacket. “That’s our next couple of beers at the Goblin Tavern.”
“Well, if it’s being used to buy beer, then I’ll consider that you were doing your civic duty by picking up litter.”
“Works for me.”
Behind the warehouse, we found a set of ramshackle apartments; I saw lights on in only two of the units, though it was full dark. A weathered sign promised UNITS FOR RENT: LOW RATES! Low Rates was apparently the best that could be said about the place.
McGoo led me up the exterior stairs to an upper-level apartment. When he rapped on the door, a woman yanked it open, blinking furiously as she tried to see out into the night. “Stop pounding! What’s with all this noise? I’ve already filed a complaint—I’m calling the police again!”
“Ma’am, I am the police,” McGoo said.
The woman was a frumpy vampire, short and plump, with brown hair—and she looked familiar. “Well, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. The noise only got worse after I called! It was a mob scene out there.”
She plucked a pair of cat’s-eye glasses dangling from a chain around her neck and affixed them to her face. “How can I get any writing done with such distractions? I have to finish two more chapters before sunrise.”
I knew who she was, and I also knew exactly what she was writing. “Sorry for the interruption, Miss Bullwer.”
McGoo looked at me. “You know this woman?”
“Who’s that looming out there on my porch?” The vampire lady leaned out until she could see me, then her expression lit up as if a sunrise had just occurred on her face (which is not necessarily a good thing when speaking of vampires). “Oh, Mr. Chambeaux! How wonderful. Would you like to come in and have a cup of . . . whatever it is zombies drink? I have a few more questions, details for the veracity of the literature. And you can pet my cats. They’d love to have a second lap; they can’t all fit on mine, you know.”
“How many cats do you have?”
“Seven,” she answered quickly. “At least, I think it’s seven. It’s difficult to tell them apart.”
I had first met Linda Bullwer when she volunteered for the Welcome Back Wagon, catering to the newly undead. More importantly, she had been commissioned as a ghostwriter by Howard Phillips Publishing to create a series of zombie detective adventures loosely based on my own exploits.
She gave a sweet smile to McGoo, and her demeanor was entirely changed now. “And thank you for your assistance, Officer—I’m sure you did your best, especially with Mr. Chambeaux’s help.” She cocked her head, lowered her voice. “Was it another case? Something I should write about in a future volume?”
“I doubt anyone would find it interesting,” I said.
“That’s what you said about the tainted Jekyll necroceuticals, and about the mummy emancipation case, and the Straight Edge hate group, and the attempted massacre of hundreds of ghosts with ectoplasmic defibrillators, and the burning of the Globe Theatre stage in the cemetery, and the golem sweatshop, and . . .”
I knew she could rattle off cases for hours because I had spent hours telling her about them. She had listened carefully, taking dutiful notes.
“It’s nothing,” I reassured her. “And we don’t even know if your first book is going to sell well enough that the publisher will want to do a second one.”
“They’ve already contracted with me for five, Mr. Chambeaux. The first one is just being released—have you gotten your advance copy yet?”
“I’ll check the mail when I get back to the office.” I have to admit, I was uncomfortable about the whole thing. Vampires shun sunlight, and I tended to avoid limelight.
McGoo regarded me with amusement. “I believe we’re done here, ma’am. Enjoy the rest of your quiet night.”
“Thank you, Officer. And thank you, Mr. Chambeaux, for your help.” She drew a deep breath. “Ah, blessed silence. At last I can write!”
A loud and anguished howl split the air, bestial shouts barely recognizable as words. “Help! Help me! Help!”
McGoo was already bounding down the stairs, and I did my best to keep up with him. We tracked the cries to a dark alley adjacent to the warehouse. A gangly werewolf leaned over a sprawled figure on the ground, letting out a keening howl. Beside him, two squirming cloth sacks contained the captured cockatrices; fortunately, the ties were secure.
As we ran up, Furguson turned to us, his eyes opened wide, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. “It’s Uncle Rusty!”
I recognized the bib overalls and reddish fur. The big werewolf lay motionless, sprawled muzzle-down in the alley.
“Is he dead?” McGoo asked.
Bending over, I could see that Rusty’s chest still rose and fell, but he had been stunned. The top of his head was all bloody, and it looked wrong.
Furguson let out another wail.
Then I realized that someone, using a very sharp knife, had scalped him.