with the door shut.
'It was Jensen's op; he's head of logistics, so that makes sense. But all the board knew about it, which means their Familiares and staff.'
'Just them, huh.'
'Yeah, you wanna bring them in for questioning?'
He frowned, as though considering it, and she shook her head to show he wasn't fooling anyone.
'So which of them had something to gain by throwing a spanner in the works?'
'Who didn't?'
'Dead end, then.'
'Unless you can lean on a Familiare and keep their bludger from knowing about it long enough to prosecute.'
He smiled at her use of his old police slang for a pimp — as good a term for a vampire running red-eyes as any other; dealer, maybe? The small satisfaction that he was rubbing off on her couldn't overcome the frustration of trying to investigate people who were untouchable. 'So we're back to Johnny Slick.'
While his laptop booted, he poured generous shots of Bundy, hers on the rocks, the ice cubes about the only thing in the bar fridge.
She turned away from his small collection of pulp fiction paperbacks and a row of CDs that were his music to drink by, as he handed her the glass. They clinked once and he took the chair in front of the computer.
'You're going to google Slick?' She stood behind him; close enough to feel her heat against his shoulder.
She put down her drink and shed her jacket. 'Warm,' she said. Ice cubes rattled as she retrieved her rum. The hard drive whirred. 'You need an upgrade.'
'Tell me about it.'
His back felt cold where she'd moved away. Her subtly floral fragrance lingered. He took a big sip, and then punched the keys in his two-fingered style. She was right; it was hot in here. He loosened his tie while the screen filled with the results of his search.
'This one.' He looked at her over his shoulder, quietly triumphant, just a little desperate. 'I guarantee you Johnny Slick will be here.'
'Roller derby?'
'Not only do the Viscounts play the half-time show, but Johnny Slick's moll is a star player. No way will he not turn up.'
'I heard his band play, once. Technically, not bad.'
'But no soul?'
Typical vampire problem: good at replication, not so good at innovation. Except in scheming. Of animal cunning, they had no shortage.
Felicity kneeled down, one arm across the back of his chair, breast pushing against him, her scent wrapping around him. She pointed at the screen with her glass. 'This next match, it's tomorrow night.'
She pushed on his chair to rotate him toward her, put her glass down, then stepped back and slipped out of her shoulder holster. 'How about we take the rest of the night off?'
TEN
It didn't take long to get to Mel's apartment building in New Farm. The suburb was tucked inside one of the river's meander bends, and the dilapidated concrete monolith was set back from the water, surrounded by a mosaic of fenced-off development sites and exhausted homes waiting for the right offer to end their misery.
Crumpled beer cans glimmered among the sparse stalks that passed for lawn. Graffiti made camouflage patterns on the stairs and walls. Timber doors opened on to a foyer, heavy with mustiness and cat piss. Corridors stretched off but Mel led him to an ancient lift. A yellowed sheet of paper said the outer doors had to be shut for the lift to work.
'Where's Greaser taking the Monaro?' he asked.
'There are a couple of empty garages. It'll be safe.'
He kept his silence as the lift wheezed to a halt. A dim bulb showed initials cut into the wood, graf swirls, chewing gum like zits. She hit the top floor: 7.
'Lucky number,' she said, 'if you believe in such things.'
He grunted, not knowing what he believed in any more. A chip packet lay on the floor. Cigarette butts. A sign said No Smoking.
'It takes its time,' she said, 'but it's much nicer than the stairs. Besides, it's not like we're in a rush, is it?'
Vampire time. He hadn't got used to it, found it maddening. Those weeks in Cairns, learning what he could from Danica, trying to be patient, to not think about the years — the decades, the centuries — ahead. Trying not to wonder how a man filled those days without dropping dead from boredom. Assuming he could drop dead, of course. What was the vampire equivalent? They'd not got to that in his month of Undead for Beginners.
And Kala, she'd become so distant so quickly. He'd expected their relationship to grow stronger, him being her maker and all. Maker. Everyone had a different word for it, but he still hadn't found one that suited him. Violator, maybe. Whatever you called it, it hadn't brought them closer. Sure, he'd saved her life by bringing her across. But all she'd done with immortality was shack up with a couple of human leeches, doing to them what Taipan had done to her, trading their blood for hers. The ultimate recycling program; but, as in the mundane world, the number of cycles was limited. Human flesh could take only so much. Reality could only be held at bay for so long. Death would have its way.
'We're here,' Mel said.
Kevin jerked himself out of his thoughts; he'd been deep in the bloodwalk, the moments of his recent past so well defined in his memory it was almost as though they were happening again. He silently cursed his lapse — it was dangerous, to be distracted in the presence of strangers — and followed her out; hearing the lift door shut, the floorboards creak, televisions behind doors, voices, a baby gurgling. Hallway lights, more out than on, made a hopscotch of light and shade on the worn carpet.
'I know you're afraid of bedlam,' she said as they walked, 'but delirium is also a risk. The vacuum of your own life will suck you down as surely as the cacophony of others.'
'Just got distracted,' he said.
'You need fresh input — fresh dreams. Meals, not snacks.'
'Between Greaser and Ambrose, I've had enough to keep me going.'
'This is me.' She took a key from her purse; a deadlock thunked.
In the small entrance, she balanced like a stork as she pulled off her boots and threw them against the wall. He followed her down a hallway. Newspapers covered a small dining table. Crammed in among the furniture was a keyboard — 'easier than bringing a piano up here, as much as I'd love one' — big TV, a stereo and turntable. Books and CDs and DVDs were scattered all over, as though a willy-willy had hit a music store.
'Check out the view.' She opened curtains to reveal a picture window. A strip of red-tiled roofs separated them from the river; the far bank was a cliff lined with mansions lit like a small town. Upstream, the river curved around a well-lit behemoth that Mel told him was a theatre repurposed from a defunct power station.
'There's a handy ferry terminal near the theatre,' she said.
And all the time, his heart jack-hammered as
