"I'm the local liaison for the Driveway Killer task force," Nick explained, fussing with his coffee and finally putting it down on the coffee table in front of him.
"Driveway Killer?"
"The one who's yanking these poor women right out of their own driveways, strangling them, and then dumping the nude bodies in public parking lots?"
"Oh, that Driveway Killer." It was embarrassing to admit, but I never watched the news and I never read the paper. Not before I died, not after. (Well, I skimmed the birth announcements, but only since the Ant's eighth month, and never since Baby Jon came squalling into the world.) I mean, seriously. Why bother? It was never, ever anything good. Even in Minnesota, which had a pretty low crime rate, even here they only wanted to talk about the bad. Only the bad. If I wanted to get depressed, I'd read an Oprah pick.
I mean, I never even checked the weather reports anymore. And I sure as shit didn't watch TV; I was a DVD girl.
So while Nick was looking amazed that I could live in the same state with rampant media coverage (was there any other kind?) of a killer, Jessica was just nodding. My massive ignorance of current events was nothing new to her.
"Yeah, I've read about him."
"Who hasn't?" I asked gamely.
They ignored me, which I deserved. "And you're on the task force?"
"Yeah."
"To catch a serial killer."
"Yeah."
She tried to muffle it, but the laugh escaped anyway. I knew why-what had we just been talking about ten minutes ago? It was ludicrous.
But not to Nick, who was blinking fast and, I could tell, about to ask Jessica just what the hell her problem was. And never mind that she was the richest person in the state.
"It's late," I said. "She's tired. We're all tired. Long day."
"Uh... yeah." He checked his watch. "After ten already."
"I'm so sorry," Jessica said quickly. "I wasn't laughing at you, and I wasn't laughing at those poor girls."
"No," Nick lied, "I didn't think so." He turned back to me. "Anyway, Betsy, I'm sorry about it being so late, but I know about the hours you've been keeping lately, so I took a chance and swung by."
"You're welcome anytime, Detective," Sinclair said from the doorway.
Nick, in the act of picking up his cup, spilled his coffee... just a bit, but enough to wreck last month's issue of Lucky. I sure couldn't blame him; Sinclair was about as noisy as a dead cat.
"Jesus! You scared me. Which is not something we hotshot Minneapolis detectives like to admit," he joked, trying to cover the fact that his pulse had gone from ba-DUMP... ba-DUMP... ba-dump to BADUMP BA-DUMP BADUMP BADUMP!
"I apologize. It's Nicholas Berry, right?"
"Nick. Yeah."
Jessica gave me a look while they shook hands and sized up each other. Nick was built like a swimmer-lanky, with lean lines and big feet. His hair was bleached by the sun-he liked to save up and go diving on Little Cayman-and he had adorable laugh lines in the corners of his eyes.
Sinclair was broader and taller, and much older, but Nick had a gun, not to mention youth on his side. So you never knew.
The problem with the polite hand-shaking and "How do you do's" was that they had met before. In fact, Nick had come to me right after I'd risen as a vampire. In a moment of extreme weakness, I'd gotten (nearly) naked with him and it had sort of driven him out of his mind.
Sinclair had had to step in and make things right, and had used his vampire mojo to make Nick forget everything about that night. That I was dead, that Nick and I had seen each other (almost) naked, that he'd been a wreck when I wouldn't bite him again, wouldn't eat, wouldn't sleep. Everything.
The problem was (one of the problems), Nick kept popping back into my life at the weirdest times. Tina suspected he knew more than he was telling. And I honestly didn't know either way. But it wasn't exactly something we could come out and ask him.
So we sat around and pretended he didn't know we were vampires. And we didn't know if we were all pretending. Usually Sinclair and Tina could smell a lie from a hundred miles away, but Nick was a cop. He lied for a living.
"I'm Betsy's fiance," Sinclair was explaining. "Eric Sinclair."
"Oh." Nick's face fell a bit, and Jessica shot me another look. I felt like throwing my tea in my face, just for an actual physical problem.
"We're getting married on July 4th."
"September 15th," I said quickly.
"As I said," Sinclair continued smoothly, "September 15. We do hope you can join us."
"Uh, thanks. I'll-thanks." He looked down at his hands for a minute and then back at me. "Anyway. The reason I stopped by. This killer-he's targeting your type."
"He is?" I was beyond appalled. A type? Gross!
"Tall blondes," Sinclair said. "With blue or green eyes." When we all looked at him, he said, "Some of us read the paper."
"Not that they're hard to come by in Minnesota," Nick added, "and maybe it's just a, you know, coincidence of geographical type, but still."
"What does VICAP say about it?" Sinclair asked.
Nick shrugged. "The feds won't catch this guy, no matter how many forms we feed into the computer. He'll get nailed by good old-fashioned cops."
I hoped Vicap, whoever he was, didn't hear Nick running down the FBI. Besides, that's what they did, right? Catch psychos? Not that I doubted Nick's ability. But I was glad he had help on this one. And really really glad I wasn't involved.
"And I just wanted to tell you to watch your ass," Nick was saying to, uh-oh, me. Time to tune back in. "Don't get out of the car until you've got your keys organized. Don't linger in the driveway, messing with groceries and stuff. Watch the driveway. Check the hedges when you pull in. This guy, I'm sure he's snatching them while they're distracted. They don't even have time to hit the horn. Half the time, there were people in the house, waiting for her. So be alert. Pay attention."
"Okay, Nick," I said obediently. It was, of course, ridiculous and sweet at the same time. The last thing I had to worry about was a serial killer. But it was adorable that he'd come by to give me a heads-up.
Unless he was fucking with us because he knew...
No, no. That was the way Sinclair looked at the world, like it was a big ball of mean out to get him. I swore that no matter how old I got, I wouldn't always assume the worst of people. I'd try, anyway.
"Are there any leads?"
"Just between us?"
"Well, us and the Pioneer Press."
He didn't smile at my sucky joke. "We've got shit. No witnesses, nobody even out walking his dog. He's really lucky, the asswipe."
"You'll get him," I said helpfully. Rah rah, the cops!
"Yeah, we will, unless he moves on. But he's going to have to slip up first." Nick's laugh lines suddenly doubled, and he stared at the stained magazine on the table. "And for him to slip up..."
"You'll get him," I said again. "And it was, I have to say, it was so nice of you to stop by. I appreciate the warning, and I'll be careful."
"Yes," Sinclair said, walking to the doorway in an obvious gesture for Nick to leave. Awkward! "It was very kind of you to stop by and warn my fiancee. I can assure you I'll look after her very carefully."
Now, if anybody else in the world said that, it'd seem loving and concerned. When Sinclair said it, it sounded vaguely like a threat. Certainly it was weird enough for Nick to give him the 'raised-eyebrows tough-cop' look.
Then he got up (reluctantly, it seemed to me) and said, "You just moved to the area, right, Mr. Sinclair?"
"No," Eric replied. I noticed he didn't ask Nick to call him Eric. But then, except for my roomies, nobody ever did. "I've been here a long time."
"Oh, okay. Remember what I said, Betsy."
"I will, Nick. Thank you again for stopping by."
"Jess, walk me out?"
She looked startled but gamely jumped to her feet. "Sure. You can check the driveway for us."
"Already did," he said, smiling at me, "on my way in."