"Bloody Mary" by Chris A Jackson

Bloody Mary

By Chris A. Jackson

I don’t know why I always get the bogus cases.  I think the lieutenant has something against me, something I don’t know about.  Maybe I dated his sister without knowing it or something.  Whatever it is, he always hands me the weird ones; when an entire tractor trailer of sex toys was stolen, it was my case.  When four hundred illicit tarantulas were smuggled into pet stores, my case.  When two hundred cases of toenail clippers went missing from a loading dock at the port?  You guessed it; my case.  This was no exception.

“Florida Blood Services?” my partner asked, raising an eyebrow as I parked the piece of crap Ford Fairmont next to a patrol car that beat us to the scene, and killed the engine.  “You smoking crack again, Dave?”

“What?  You think they don’t have money in there?”  I shot her a sarcastic look and got out of the car.  I put on my jacket despite the blistering summer heat.  We’d be inside and in 72 degree canned air in a heartbeat, and I hate flashing a piece.  You never know when some gang banger will put a round in you just for being a cop.  “Blood’s big business, Sharon.  You think blood isn’t worth money?”

“Blood money,” she said with a smirk, “but they probably don’t keep the cash here, do they?”

“Beats me.  All I know is they reported a theft this morning, and we’re here to see what was stolen.”

“Great.”  She clipped her piece into her waistband at the small of her back and followed me up the steps to the front door.

It was a big building, red brick and spotless.  New construction.  The atrium was glass and stainless steel with a broad reception desk complete with a very attractive receptionist.  There was money in blood.

I flashed my shield and said, “Detectives Winters and Sloan, St. Pete police.  We were called about a theft?”

“Yes.”  She looked me up and down briefly as if I were inappropriately dressed for the occasion.  Maybe I was.  “One moment please.”

She typed something on her keyboard and spoke quietly into the headset perched on her ear.  I didn’t catch it, but I wasn’t particularly trying to.  She finished the brief conversation with “Very well.” And told us to make ourselves comfortable, and that Mr. Price would be with us shortly.

By the time Mr. Price showed up, only a couple of minutes later, my mind had made up a detailed picture of what he would be like.  As usual, I was totally wrong.  I don’t know why my brain does this, but every time I’m about to meet someone I’ve never met before, or maybe just talked to on the phone, I create a mental picture of that person.  I can’t help it.  It just happens.  Then, invariably, when I meet that person, I find out what they really look like.  Never once have I come even remotely close.

In this case, I figured Mr. Price would be a dweeby little nerd in a lab coat and Birkenstocks.  When a tall fellow in jeans and a “Starve a Mosquito – Give Blood” tee-shirt strode over and introduced himself as Ken Price, I revised the picture in my head and shook his hand.

“I’m Detective Winters, Mr. Price.  This is my partner, Detective Sloan.”

“Sharon,” she corrected, shaking his hand and devouring him with her eyes.

Down, girl, I thought, smirking to myself.

“Sharon Sloan?  That must create some snide comments.”

“Not too many,” she said, adding without a change in tone, “Once I shoot one snide commenter, the rest usually shut up.”

“Yes, that would do it.”  He waved a lanky arm toward a double door.  “The, uh, items were missing from our production room.  This way, please.”

We followed him through the heavy doors into a huge, white room isled with workstations.  The ceiling was high, though there was no overhead equipment, and there were people in blue disposable lab coats, gloves and face shields working everywhere.  I recognized simple equipment from my days of high school science.  Centrifuges, pipettors and test-tube racks crowded the benches, all clean and orderly.  Some of the larger equipment, obviously used for processing blood, was large enough to crowd you out of a walk-in closet, and looked like they would require an engineer to operate.

“We run two eight-hour shifts here,” Price explained, his voice raised just enough to pierce the background hum of equipment and the conversations of a hundred technicians.  “We shut down from ten PM to six AM, and the cleaning crew comes through.  They’re usually finished by midnight or one AM.  We don’t really know when the theft took place.  The items were found missing this morning.”

“What items?” I asked as we rounded the end of one isle and found the two uniformed cops who had beat us to the scene.  They were interviewing a fellow in a blue coat, taking notes and looking far too menacing.

“Well, that’s the weird part.  There were two coolers of whole blood that hadn’t even been processed yet, and a box of supplies due to go out today on one of the mobile units.”

“What’s strange about that?” Sharon asked, already scratching notes into her PDA.

“Well, the blood was useless.  It couldn’t be sold, or even used in a hospital, without being processed and screened.  We do that here, and every unit gets a timed barcode of the process, which has to be scanned by the hospital before it’s used or even destroyed.  If they were stealing it to resell, they’re going to be in for a surprise.”

“Or they have processing equipment of their own.”  I nodded to the two uniforms.  They would have reports on my desk by the end of the day, just in case they found something we didn’t.  Not likely; that’s why they call us detectives.

“That wouldn’t make sense either,” Price said, shaking his head.  “They took two packed boxes of whole blood.  Probably twenty-four units per box.  Call it fifty units, just to make the math easier.  If it was processed into PRBC’s, platelets and plasma, it would be worth about ten thousand dollars.”

“And that’s not motive?”

“That’s if it were processed.  Just one of these machines that does only one step of that process costs about a hundred thousand dollars, and that’s only one step.  There are about four or five steps in the process.  So why steal whole blood, when we have hundreds of units of processed product just across the room that could have been sold?  Although, even that’s hard to believe, because every unit has a label that would be traced back to this lab.  It just doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t make sense if they were going to resell the blood,” I agreed.  “What supplies were taken?”

“A whole crate of drawing supplies.  Everything you’d need to draw and store blood.”  He shrugged.  “I guess that could be sold to a lab somewhere, but all the unit bags have our labels on them.”

“Well, it sounds like you were robbed by someone who either has another purpose for the blood and the other supplies, or someone who is really stupid and will be easy to catch.  I’m hoping for the latter.”

“What other use is there for blood?” Price asked.

“There is no shortage of freaks in the world, Mr. Price.  They could be using the blood for some weird ritual, Satanic or otherwise, or even to drink.”

“To drink?  You’re kidding me.”

“There are cults out there who practice ritualized cannibalism, Mr. Price,” Sharon put in.  “Most don’t use blood.  I belong to one of those, actually.”

“You do?”  The sarcasm in his tone was faint, but it was there.

“Sure.  The Catholic Church.”  At his gaping features, she explained.  “Take this wine and drink it.  This is my blood…” 

“Well, that’s something different.”

“Not really.  Some cults are just more fanatical about their ceremonies.”

“Well, whoever took the blood should be easy to find, even if they throw it away.  Those bags are all time stamped, dated and bar-coded.”  He sounded a little defensive now, having been caught in his little corner of ignorance.

“That’s the good news, Mr. Price,” I said, smiling and nodding to the officers in uniform.  “We’ll find them.  I’m assuming you want to press charges.”

“Absolutely.  That blood’s not safe.  It hasn’t been screened and shouldn’t be used for any purpose.”

“Just out of curiosity, what security measures do you have here?”

“Aside from standard locks and a keyed security system, we have cameras in key spots, mostly covering the entrances and exits, and twenty-four hour monitoring.”

“Call your security provider and have them hold the tapes of last night.  We’ll see something on there, I’m sure.  Whoever took the things probably had access, otherwise you would have had an alarm.  We’ll view the tapes and get back to you.  We may want to do interviews with the cleaning crew.”

“I’ll call them.  Here,” he gave Sharon his card, “you can call my cell any time.”

She handed one back.  “Likewise, Mr. Price.  If anything comes to mind, don’t hesitate to give us a call.”

We left the rest to the uniforms.  It was almost lunchtime and my brain was screaming for a second cup of coffee.  I did notice two security cameras on the way out.  They weren’t hidden, but they covered the exits.  The tapes would show something.

“Starbucks?” I asked as we exited the building into the full face blast of heat and humidity that was Florida in summer.

“Grande’ mocafrappuccino, here I come!”

“You’re so predictable.”  I doffed my jacket and heard something crinkle in the pocket.  I fished out the piece of paper, expecting to find an old shopping list or something.  I stopped cold, staring at the folded yellow sticky-note.  The outside was blank, but when I peeled it apart my eyes must have popped like I’d seen a ghost.

“What?” Sharon asked, her face suddenly serious.

“Get in.  I’ll show you.”  When we were both inside the oven-hot car, I handed her the note.  It read ‘Bloody Mary, Ybor’.

“Who could have put that in your pocket?”

“Well, if it’s not a prank by one of my esteemed co-workers, I have no idea.  I didn’t notice anyone even close enough in there.”

“Well, it wasn’t me.  Was it in your pocket before?”

“I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure.  I really need that coffee now.”

“Make that a Vinte’ mocafrappuccino.”

Cool, caffeinated and thoroughly confounded, Sharon and I were back at the station going over all the references we could dig up on anyone named Bloody Mary.  Of course there were all the urban legend myths about the ghost being summoned by chanting into a mirror, but nothing about anyone in Ybor City named Mary or Bloody Mary.  I knew a few people who run clubs down there; that’s all that’s really left down there.  The place used to be a funky, cool hangout with a few funky, cool bars.  Now it’s one club after another, with a few trendy shops between.  Kind of a shame, in my opinion.  It wasn’t really our jurisdiction, but Tampa and St. Pete enjoy quite a lot of exchange of criminal activity, so a little across-the-bay investigation without going through channels isn’t unheard of.

“So, you want to go clubbing tonight?”

“Tonight?”  Sharon made a face.  “When do you want to review the security videos?”

“Like… never,” I said in my best California accent, earning a grin.  We both knew that reviewing twelve hours of tape would be the dullest duty since we’d had to stake out a Presbyterian church waiting for a vandal to strike.  “I was going to assign that little gem to Cliff.”

Cliff was our summer intern.  A college kid studying Criminal Science.

“Good idea.  It’ll be good for him.”

You would have thought I’d told the kid he could drive the car on a code-three.  His face lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Sure.  Sure, I’ll go over the tapes.  What was stolen?”  Eager as a beagle pup with his first bone.

“Blood,” I said, trying for that perfect tone of dread and forboding that would get him going.  Okay, I’m a little evil, but I put criminals in jail, so I figure it’s a minor digression.  “Two cases of unprocessed blood, and a case of blood collection supplies.  They were stored in different areas of the production facility down at FBS, and went missing some time after midnight and before six AM.  No alarms went off, and nobody reported a thing.”

“No way?  Blood?  Somebody really stole blood?”

“Way.  There are six tapes.  Run them all at the same time.  Ask Vince to set up the system for you.  We’re looking for anyone going in or out carrying three large boxes.  A face shot would be providence, but we’ll take what we can get.”

“Cool.  Thanks!  I’ll have ‘em done by tonight.”

“If you do get a face shot, have Vince enhance it and run it through the FRS.  You can page me if you get a hit.”

“Right.”  His enthusiasm was almost too much to take without laughing, so I handed him the CDs and turned back to Sharon.  “Go home and get some sleep.  I’ll pick you up around ten.”

“Clubwear?”  She asked, grinning.

“Nothing too flashy, but yeah.”  Don’t laugh, I’ve got a closet full of trendy clothes, and I can look twenty-five if I really try hard.  Sharon can look eighteen if she tries hard, which I was hoping she wouldn’t.  She’s distracting enough in a suit.

I didn’t sleep much.  I never really can sleep during the day, even when I’m on night shift.  Makes life kind of miserable, but it comes with the job, which I wouldn’t trade for any other line of work in the world, money or no.  Call it a power trip or call it ‘duty,’ but I really like being a cop.

I put on a baggy black sweatshirt, baggier pants and put my gun in a fanny pack I wore backward under the shirt.  I could have hidden an assault rifle in the pants, but settled for cuffs, mace, cable ties and my cell phone and pager.  I made a few calls before I borrowed my wife’s car (the piece of crap Ford would not do for tonight) and picked Sharon up at her apartment. 

Well, I wouldn’t have to worry about anyone looking at me, as long as she was nearby.  I might not have told you, but Sharon is a genuine cutie.  She isn’t what you would call pretty, or gorgeous, but she’s… well, cute.  Put her in a short strap-around-the-neck top, low slung black pants and shoes that I doubted she could run half a block in, and she was beyond cute.  She carried a purse big enough for all the things a woman needs on the town (gun, mace, cuffs, baton, phone, compact, lipstick and probably an alternate pair of shoes), and had her hair in one of those “clip here, clip there” arrangements that made it look out of control.

“I hope you weren’t trying for inconspicuous,” I said, as she settled into the seat.

“I hope you weren’t trying for gang banger.”

I’m lucky my wife isn’t the jealous type.  I explained to her long ago, when I had my first female partner, why sex with a partner was a bad idea for a number of reasons, and she believed me.  Well, she believed me after Loraine took a bullet for me.  We both visited her in the hospital, and the banter hadn’t changed a whit, except that I owed her my life now, and never would forget that debt.  Having Sheryl there to see that had convinced her that I was telling the truth, that I had never, and would never, fool around on her with a female partner.  Enough said.

“I called Benny, at the Czar.  He’s expecting us, and he’s asking a few questions about Bloody Mary.”

“You expect a hit?”

“Not really, but we’d be fools not to follow it up.”

She agreed, and we spent the rest of the trip in silence.  That didn’t make the forty minute drive any shorter, but sometimes it’s nice to have time to think.  It was giving my brain fits, thinking of how some screwy cult could get into someplace as secure as FBS.  Probably one of the cleaning staff had let someone in, or stolen the stuff themselves, not knowing it was worthless, or knowing someone in one of those screwy cults who would pay big money for blood and supplies for getting more.

Blood.

Is that what had me freaked out about this one?  I’ve tracked down thefts of everything you can imagine, but never body parts, and never blood.  It’s not something you think one would steal.  There are lots of urban legends about people waking up in a bathtub full of ice with a kidney missing, but those are all bunk.  Now we’ve got someone actually stealing human blood, and what was more, stealing equipment to take more blood.  Would they be using the equipment to draw their own blood for their freaky rituals, or kidnapping people and draining them?  This could end up being nothing but a weird crank, or it could turn into something way over our heads.

“You alright?” Sharon asked, right on cue.

“Yeah.  Just letting my brain get out of control, you know.  Got to thinking about who would steal blood, and why.”

“Yeah, it’s got me a little freaked out, too.”

“Gotta be nothing but a bunch of weirdos, painting pentagrams with blood and too squeamish to prick their fingers for it.”

“Yeah, probably.”

Quiet settled back over the car as we exited the freeway and started looking for a parking spot.  Our luck, it was Friday night, and the place was packed.  Twenty minutes and twenty bucks later we parked.  Two blocks to the Czar and not a single person looked at us more than once.  There was a long line to get in, but I told the hostess my name and we were ushered right in.

Past the layered black scrim of the entrance, the electric blue lights of the lounge were piercing.  The place is decked out like a Russian brothel, but the music is all pop, and the clientele wouldn’t know a Czar from a Cossack.  Our usher took us through the crowd and stopped where the lounge devolves into dance floor and VIP rooms (little cubbies for intimate conversation, if you call screaming into someone’s ear from a foot away to be heard over the deafening music a conversation).  He stopped and pointed up to a balcony where small tables were lined up for people to look down at the dancers.  Benny sat at the corner with another couple obviously here to party seriously (you can always tell when the fabric of choice is PVC).  I nodded and yelled a thank you to our usher, and climbed the spiral stair.

“Benny!” I shouted from five feet away.  He turned and stood, grinning and sticking out his meaty hand.

“Dave!  Dude!  Good to see ya, man!”  We shook and his eyes drifted past me to Sharon.  “Whoa, who’s the candy?  You finally get dumped by that ball and chain?”

“No, this is my partner, Sharon.”  I pitched that low enough so only he could hear, then introduced the two.

He shook her hand and said, “Partner, huh?  I suppose that means you’ve got handcuffs in that little bag of yours.”

“Among other things,” she said, not smiling.

“Benny’s a slime, but he’s a harmless slime.”  We turned back to his table where the PVC twins sat staring at us like we were the ones dressed up for Halloween.

“Dave, Sharon, this is Toni and Bick.  They might know something about this person you’re lookin’ for.”  He waved us to the two available seats and said, “I’ll get you some drinks.  On me.  Take care, man.”

Benny patted me on the shoulder and vanished into the crowd, and a waitress materialized at my elbow before we could sit down.  I ordered a beer and Sharon got a glass of wine, but our new friends, much to my surprise, ordered Cokes.

“So, you two know Bloody Mary?” I asked, disposing with the pleasantries.

“Yeah, well, we used to.  She’s a freak, man.  Into some really freaky stuff, you know?”

This coming from a guy whose hair looked like a cockatoo on methamphetamine.

“Freaky like what?”

“Well, like blood, man.  She’s got this freaky group, and they use needles and stuff to drink each other’s blood.  She tried to talk us into it.  Said it was a rush, like.”  He made a disgusted face.  “Just gross if you ask me.”

“I’m with you there, man.”  Our drinks arrived and I gave the waitress a five for her trouble.  She didn’t even blink.  Maybe I need to get out more.  “So, where do I find her?”

“Tonight?  Whoa, man, I don’t know.  Friday’s her night out, but it’s early.  You might be able to catch her.”  He looked to his friend and she shrugged, sipping her C,oke and looking bored.  “The Castle.  She has a place there, and she may even be hanging there for a few hours before she goes out.”

“We better hoof it, then.  Thanks Bick.”  I slipped a couple of twenties from my pocket, but he just shook his head.

“We don’t need your money, man.  Just doin’ Benny a favor.”

I cocked an eyebrow in surprise, and shrugged.  “Suit yourself.”  I took a long pull from my beer, and stood up.  “Take care.”

“Yeah.  Thanks.”

When we were on the street and the ringing in my ears started to ease I asked Sharon, “What did you think of that?”

“Can’t say much for the décor, but I like the music.”

I glared at her.  “No, I mean the PVC twins.”

“Rich kids out slumming.  You could see it in their eyes; money to burn and bored with it all.”

“That’s what I thought.  You want to walk to the Castle in those shoes?”  It was about two blocks.

“Just let me put some flats on.”  Just like I suspected, Sharon had a pair of comfortable but hardly fashionable sandals in her bag.  She slipped them on, barely breaking stride, slinging the strappy pumps over her shoulder.  “Ready to roll.”

It wasn’t a long walk, but I was regretting the sweatshirt by the time we got there.  Sharon, at least, was air conditioned, if you can call Florida humidity ‘air’.  I was sweating like a swine asked to Sunday dinner, but she looked as cool as iced tea.  I’m such a slave to my fashion sense.  She switched back to her heels when we got there, and we got into the Castle without much of a wait.  The band wasn’t due to start until midnight, but the place was already gearing up.

In case you’ve never been to the Castle, it’s a Goth hangout.  Kind of a narrow clientele, but they do okay, mainly because the owner is as big a goth as his customers.  I never really understood the fascination with death, but maybe that’s because I’m in a high-risk job.  I know there’s more to Goth than that.  As I understand it, it’s just a way to be happy in an otherwise depressing world.  Finding the humor, beauty, shock value or just something interesting in a dark, depressing, cruel world.

Did I mention that I don’t really get the whole Goth thing?

Enough said, I think.  As long as nobody hurts anyone else, which Goths rarely if ever do, despite what you might have heard, it’s not my problem and I say let ‘em do what makes ‘em happy.

There’s not enough happiness in this world, if you ask me.

Anyway, I was here to catch a thief, not make moral judgments.

“Any ideas?” I asked Sharon, working my way through the crowd toward the bar.

“Let me ask around, and I’ll meet you at the other end of the bar.  Ten minutes.”

“Don’t get lost.”

“If I do, follow the sound of gunfire.”  She grinned at me and vanished into the crowd. 

Me worried?  Not at all.  Sharon can hold her own in virtually any company, and if I did hear gunfire, I would bet a month’s pay that when I got there I’d see one dead perp and Sharon holding a smoking nine-millimeter Beretta.  She is what we in the department refer to as a natural.  I ordered a beer and sat down at the bar, sipping and thinking about what we would do if this Bloody Mary did turn out to be our suspect.  Making an arrest in a crowded bar is never a good plan.  If we spooked her, would she bolt?  I was still thinking when my pager went off.  I slapped it to stop the vibrating and fished it out of my pocket.

The number was familiar.  It was my desk back at the department.  It had to be Cliff.

I fished my cell out of my pocket and dialed my desk.  The music wasn’t to the same deafening decibel level as in the Czar, so I might actually be able to hear him.  He answered on the first ring.

“Detective Winters’ desk.”

“It’s me, Cliff.  What did you find?”

“Static.  There’s twelve seconds of static on one camera, and about fifteen seconds on two more.  None of the cameras show the items that were stolen, but that’s the only window, and all other entrances and exits are accounted for.  Nobody came or went carrying anything larger than a mop and bucket.”

“Some kind of video jammer?”

“That’s what Vince said, but it doesn’t seem like enough time.  I mean, fifteen seconds?”

“Okay, Cliff.  Thanks.  Isolate the static sections and burn them onto a disk for me.  You’ve been a great help.”

“Sure!  No problem!”

“Bye.”  I killed the connection and sipped my beer, wondering if this whole evening was going to be a bust. 

Then a hand rested on my shoulder and Sharon’s voice announced, “We’re in.”  She leaned past me and flagged down the bartender.  When he came down, she said, “I’ll have thirteen Bloody Marys.”  He nodded and walked away.

“Thirsty?”

“Wait for it.”

He came back with one small Bloody Mary and put it down on a folded napkin.  Sharon paid him and  took the drink and the napkin.  She unfolded the cloth and showed me the key inside.

“Cha-ching!”  She took a sip of the drink and grimaced.  “Revolting.  Come on.”

This was not the night for me to finish a beer, I guess.  I downed another gulp, and followed her through the crowd.  I balked when we arrived in front of the ladies restroom.

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.  It didn’t sound like a wild goose chase.”  She started to proceed, but I stopped her.

“Wait.  I got a call from Cliff.  There was a fifteen second window of static on the video from last night at FBS.  Fifteen seconds, Sharon.  They jammed the video, got in, got three large boxes and got out in fifteen seconds.”

“Professional.”

“Yep.  Not what I’d expect from a group of thrill seekers.  This might be a diversion.  Whoever put the note in my pocket could be pointing us in the wrong direction on purpose.”

“Or Bloody Mary could be a lot more than just a freak with a blood fetish.”

“Right.”  We stared at each other and thought about it for half a dozen heartbeats.

“In or out?” she asked, calm as a clam at high tide.

“In,” I said, nodding at the door.  She led the way.

We got the predictable response from a couple of club goers primping in the mirror, but a quick explanation that we were health inspectors and a sewage leak had been reported, shut them up.  Sharon led me to the back of the long room and keyed open a plain door labeled ‘Storage’.  We stepped inside.

We were in a closet about six feet long, and there were some cleaning supplies in there with us.  That was about it, unless you count the full-length mirror in the wall opposite the door.

“Now what?”

“Shhhh.”  She stepped up to the mirror and said, “Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary…”

She said it thirteen times.  I counted.  I also had my hand under my shirt on the butt of my weapon.  When the lights went out, I almost shot a hole in the mirror, but then a door opened where the mirror had been.  There was light and a stairway.  I put my gun away and followed Sharon up the stairs.  It was slightly disconcerting when the door closed behind us.

“Video?” I whispered.

“Just audio, I think.”  Her hand was in her purse.  Nice to know I wasn’t the only one with a case of nerves.

At the top of the stairs there was a small landing and a door with a brass clapper.  Sharon raised an eyebrow at me, and I nodded.  She cracked the clapper thirteen times.  The door opened.

“Welcome!”  A tall guy in a black tee-shirt and jeans with a stainless steel pin through the bridge of his nose took a step back from the door and waved us in.  He had about a dozen more piercings on his face, neck and ears, and elaborate tattoos on his arms.  “Come on in.  Newbies are always welcome.”

We entered the room.  It was big, with a dozen comfortable chairs scattered around a few low tables, and a bar at one end.  There were seven other guests in the room, and they all nodded and a couple even smiled.  Most were decked out in full Goth attire, but our usher had them all beat in the body art department.

“I’m Tim.”  He nodded to the others and rattled off names, none of which were Mary.

“I’m Dave, and this is Sharon.”  I paused for effect.  “We were told to meet Mary.”

“She’ll be here in a second.  Can I get you something to drink?”

A few of the others were sipping drinks, and I had only finished about two thirds of a beer so far this evening, so I didn’t see the harm.  “Sure.  A beer would be fine.  Sharon?”

“A Merlot or a Zinfandel, if you have one open.”  She moved to the bar and appeared to relax, which was more than I could do.

Tim nodded to the guy behind the bar and he produced a bottle of Corona, popped the top, impaled a wedge of lime on a little red plastic sword and stuck it in the neck.  He poured a glass of red wine for Sharon and we took our drinks.

“So, how’d you hear of Mary?”  Tim asked when my mouth was full.

“I got a note, actually.  Kind of a strange situation.  I don’t know who gave it to me, but under the circumstances it was welcome enough.”

“Any port in a storm, eh, Mr. Winters?”

I turned at the sound of my name, and almost dropped my beer.  The pudgy little woman entering looked old enough to be the mother of anyone else in the room.  She had pierced ears, but that was all, and wore a lacey black dress that hugged her ample curves.  The sleeves were long and the cuffs laced into her fingers like gloves.  She wore an ornate black crucifix around her neck, and black lipstick, but other than the ornaments, she looked like a nice middle-aged lady.  Hell, she reminded me of my mom.

“Mary, I presume?” I said, managing not to stutter as my mind ran a million miles an hour.  That she knew my name meant she knew I was a cop, but she hadn’t blown our cover.

“You got it.”  She nodded to the bartender and received a glass of dark red wine that had already been poured.  “Cheers, Mr. Winters, and thank you for accepting my invitation.”

“Your invitation.  I don’t remember seeing you when I received the note,” I said, raising my beer in toast and taking a swallow.

“One of my people.  She knew I would want to speak with you under the circumstances.  She knew I would want to tell you in person that none of my people were responsible for what went missing.”

“And might you know who is?”

“No, I don’t, but I would very much like to know.”  She took a good long time to sip her wine, her eyes never leaving mine.  “I like you, Mr. Winters.  You’re honest, and unlike some of your friends, you’re not a bully.  I’ll tell you the truth, and then I’ll tell you something else you need to know.”

“Please do.”

“I have a few friends who work for the people whose property you are trying to recover.  We occasionally borrow certain items, but never more than a few, and never anything that can be traced or would be noticed if missing.  Petty thievery, if you wish, but we have never taken anything like what was stolen last night.  We don’t need it, you see.  We have all we need, right here.”  She waved a graceful hand at the people lounging around the room, and a number of them smiled.

“So who…”

“As I said, I don’t know, Mr. Winters, but the other thing you need to know is that whoever stole those boxes last night, is also stealing more every night, and they aren’t using a middle man.  They’re stealing directly from the source.”

“You mean from people?”

“Exactly.  And not with their consent.  That is where we differ from them, Mr. Winters.  We are all here because we want to be here.  The people they steal from wake up after a night on the town with a hole in their arm.  One even ended up in the hospital from acute anemia.”

“How do you know that?”

“As I said; I have friends.”

“So how do I find these people?”

“That I don’t know, Mr. Winters, or on my word, I would tell you.”  She put her glass down and frowned.  “These people are dangerous.  They’re hurting people, and giving my friends and me a bad reputation.  Most of my friends know better, but the rumors are spreading.”  She took a step closer and looked sternly up at me.  “Someone very powerful has come to town, Mr. Winters, and they are thirsty.”

“I think I may have to bring some of my friends in on this, Mary,” I said, finishing my beer and placing the empty bottle on the counter.  “I’ll keep you out of it as much as I can, but I’ll need your… friends to help find these people.”  I handed her a business card, one of the ones that just has my name and number.

“I will be in touch, Mr. Winters,” she said, smiling and making the card vanish.  “And thank you for believing me.  As I said, you are not like many of your friends.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”  I nodded to the bartender.  “Thanks for the beer.”

One of Mary’s friends showed us out; a much less circuitous route than we’d used to enter.  The metal door clanged closed and we were in an alley behind the Castle, staring at each other in shock.

“Holy crap.”

“I couldn’t have said it better, Sharon.  Let’s get back to the car.  I think I’ve had just about all the fun I can take for one night.”

“You still think this is some kind of cult?”

“Nope.  I think someone is setting themselves up to undercut FBS’s prices on blood products.”  Sharon changed her shoes and we started walking; it was about five blocks to the car.  “Figure a half a million dollars in capital outlay for the processing equipment.  That would be made up in the first few months, and unlike FBS, these guys don’t ask for donations.  They cut right through the red tape and take the stuff.  Remember that ridiculous urban legend about kids out partying and waking up without a kidney?”

“Yeah.  You think people are doing the same thing for blood?”

“Could be.  I don’t know how many people you’d have to slip rohypnol per night to make it pay off, but blood goes for a high price; almost two-hundred dollars for a single unit in some places.”

We cut into an alley behind one of the clubs lining Seventh Avenue, each of us contemplating just what kind of iceberg we had just found the tip of.  The slam of a car door brought us both out of our reverie, however, and the sight of a large black SUV blocking the end of the alley stopped us in our tracks.  Two men stood between us and the SUV.

“Back,” I said, turning on my heel just in time to be caught by the headlights of another SUV coming in the alley from the other direction.

“Crap!”  Sharon was against the wall of the alley, gun out, rooting through her bag for her cell phone.

I pulled my weapon, but stood my ground.  “Hang on, Sharon, I don’t think they--”  Something wrenched my weapon from my hand, and there was a man standing next to me.  To this day, I will swear that it happened in that order.  He was a foot away, holding my gun by the barrel, smiling at me.  I was so surprised that I must have stood and stared at him for three or four seconds before I reacted.

I reached for the gun, knowing he’d pull it away, and tossed a quick left to take him in the gut.  My wrist was caught in a vise, and my arm was twisted back.  I went to my knees just as Sharon put a bullet in his chest.  I saw the hole in his shirt; there was even blood, but he didn’t react other than to throw my gun away and turn toward her.

Three more rounds, two in the chest and one in the head, and still he stood there.  Then my wrist was free, and he was standing with Sharon pinned to the wall by her gun hand and her throat.  My left arm felt like it was broken, but my right was fine, and the hold-out gun came from my ankle holster easily.  I raised and fired, but my hand wasn’t where I’d told it to go.   Another man was standing with my wrist in an iron grip, pointing my weapon harmlessly to the sky.

“No, Detective Winters.  You have wasted enough ammunition for tonight.”  He twisted the gun from my hand, tossed it aside and lifted me by the collar with as much ease as you would lift a two year old child.  My feet didn’t touch the ground until he put me down beside Sharon.  She looked more frightened than I’ve ever seen her, and I don’t imagine I looked much better, considering the man she’d shot in the head was still holding her pinned to the wall.  I looked more closely, but the wound was gone.  I know I saw him hit in the temple.  Hell, I probably had some of his brain spattered on me somewhere, but he didn’t have a mark on him.

“You will drop this investigation, Detective Winters.  Do you understand?”

“Absolutely.”  When my opponent takes four bullets then takes my partner’s gun away, I’ll agree to anything he says.

“You will make some references to the Gothic cult here in Ybor, but will drop the case due to lack of evidence.”

“Lack of evidence.  Got it.”

“Remember, Detective, we know you.”  That was when he held up an ID to my face.  It was almost too close to focus on, but there was an eagle, lots of stars and three big blue letters NSA across the emblem.  His name was Special Agent Jones.  “We know where you live, where you eat, where you sleep and where you work.  If you don’t drop this case, a lot of people are going to go missing.”

“I said I’ll drop the case.”  I hate it when people won’t take ‘yes’ for an answer.

“Good.”  He smiled at me, even grinned.  Then I noticed the elongated canines, and his eyes flashed yellow for an instant.  “There are too many missing persons, already, don’t you think?”

“Oh, yes.”

And they were gone.  The two vehicles sped away too fast for me to get a look at the plates, but I did notice that they were identical black Ford Expeditions.

I helped Sharon to her feet, and retrieved my two guns.  By the time I returned to her, she had found hers, but she hadn’t put it away.  It was still in her hand, and her hand was shaking.

“What the hell just happened, Dave?”

“I don’t know, but let’s not discuss it here.”

“Right.”  She put the Beretta in her purse and followed me out of the alley.  There were sirens coming our way, and the last thing I wanted to do was spend the night answering questions in the Tampa City Jail.  We were in my car and out of Ybor City before the sirens stopped wailing.

I pulled up in front of Sharon’s apartment, amazed that it was only twelve-thirty.  I turned the car off and we sat there for a few minutes.  Neither of us had said a word during the drive back.  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, thinking of all the things we could and couldn’t do to cover this mess up.

“Clean your weapon, and wash your clothes.  I don’t think they’ll get a bullet to trace, but we were seen by a lot of people.  I don’t want anything to link us to what just happened.”

“What just happened, Dave?” she asked, looking at me like I’d just admitted to being from another planet.

“Well, uh, let me see.”  I counted the items off on my fingers.  “We found a blood-drinking cult while trying to trace some stolen blood.  We were told a group of powerful people were stealing blood from club goers.  And last but not least, we were told by two NSA ID-carrying vampires to drop the case.”

“Yeah, that’s what I remember, too.”  She cleared her throat and shook her head.  “I just want to get it straight.  Bloody Mary, blood drinking cult, blood-stealing vampires who have infiltrated the US Government.  That’s it, right?”

“Yep.”

“And if we ever breathe a word of it, we’re going to end up in strait-jackets, locked in a padded room.”

“Yep.”

“I’ll see you in the morning, Dave.”

“I’ll be coming in a little late.”

“Me, too.”