“Probably afraid the same thing would happen to them.”

“That’d be my guess,” she said.

“So what makes you think this sweetheart wants to succeed Victor Castle?”

“He said so. He told us that Castle was weak, and had been collaborating with the fascist police to keep supes from gaining true equality with the bloodbags.”

I gave her a look. “Bloodbags?”

She had the grace to look a little embarrassed. “It’s a… term some in the community use for humans.”

“Never heard that one before,” I said.

“I expect you’re going to be hearing it a lot – especially if Dimitri Kaspar has his way.”

“I was going to ask you just how the leader of the supe community gets chosen. Is there some kind of election, or what?”

She made a face and shook her head slightly. “Nothing that formal. But at some point there’ll be a meeting, and each of the different species of supe will send a representative.”

“You mean one from the vamps, somebody from the weres, a witch, a troll, and all that?”

“Right. And each one expresses the consensus of his species as to who should be leader. Or hers. Way I hear it, everybody sends a rep, except the fucking goblins.”

“It being impossible to get a bunch of goblins to agree on pretty much anything,” I said.

“Yeah, that’s about it.”

“So when is this big conclave supposed to take place?”

“No date’s been set yet. It probably won’t be until after Victor Castle’s memorial service, which is this weekend.”

“But this Dimitri Kaspar is an early favorite?”

“I don’t know if you could call him a favorite,” she said. “But nobody else has stepped forward so far. Maybe they’re afraid to. And I hear that Dimitri’s been spreading a lot of money around – buying goodwill, I guess.”

“He’s rich?”

“Not as far as I know,” she said. “I think he works for the Postal Service. But he’s got money from someplace.”

“And money’s the lifeblood of politics – even among supes, I figure.”

“You figure right,” she said. “But who’s gonna give a bunch of it to Dimitri Kaspar? I mean, whiskey tango foxtrot?”

Military radio code for WTF or “What the fuck?” I wondered if she’d picked that up from Karl, who’s been known to say it occasionally.

“Yeah, I know,” I said. “Seems all I’ve been getting lately is a bunch of questions I don’t have any answers to.” I looked up toward the ceiling. A little louder, I said, “If God’s taking requests tonight, some enlightenment would be greatly appreciated.”

I kept looking a few seconds longer, but the ceiling didn’t dissolve in a flash of bright light to admit a Heavenly messenger bearing the solutions to all my problems. I should be used to that by now.

I went to bed soon after that, even though it was still a while before dawn. Christine said she’d see me at breakfast.

I fell asleep while my head was about a foot above the pillow and slept like the undead for a few hours. But after that, whenever I changed position, the lump on the back of my head would give out a jolt of pain that woke me up. I’d fall back asleep, until my next movement repeated the process and brought me back to the surface again. It was frustrating, but I was so exhausted that I stayed in bed until sundown, when the alarm I’d set got me up.

By the time I got downstairs, Christine was up, drinking a cup of lightly warmed Type O, which is her favorite. I knew what it was, because the empty bottle was still on the counter. She’d put it in the recycling bin later.

“Good morning, Daddy.”

“Morning.”

She peered at me in the harsh light from the kitchen fluorescent lights. Of course, she could have seen me even if the room had been pitch black.

“Well, you look a little bit better,” she said.

“Only a little bit?”

“I’d say you’ve made the transition from ‘death warmed over’ to ‘death over easy’.”

“Any improvement’s better than none, I always say.”

She’d made a pot of coffee for me, which I thought ought to qualify her for canonization – even if the Pope does hate vampires. That won’t last forever, and neither will he.

As I sat down with my steaming cup, she said, “Would you like me to make you some eggs?”

Although my stomach was empty, the thought of eggs made me want to break out in dry heaves. “No, but thanks.”

“Solid food doesn’t appeal right now, huh?”

“No, not hardly.”

“Try to eat something later, OK? And not junk from the vending machine at work.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

I left the house an hour earlier than usual – but not because I was eager to get to work. The way I was feeling, it was likely to be a long shift tonight, and I had no desire to make it even longer. But before I headed for the station house , there was somebody I needed to talk to.

The Brass Shield Bar and Grill sits on Mulberry Street, on the edge of downtown. If you heard the name and guessed that it was a cop bar, you’d be right. Alcoholism is a big problem in my profession because of all the stress, not to mention those things you see on the job that burn themselves into your mind – images that you’d give anything to be able to forget, if only for a few hours.

And even those on the force who haven’t made booze into a problem often like a couple of drinks to help relax before they go home. It cuts down some on the domestic violence, I figure – although there’s a lot of it that still goes on anyway. When you spend eight hours ready to fight or shoot at a moment’s notice, it can be hard to let it all go as you walk through the front door and call, “Honey, I’m home.”

That’s not meant to be an excuse, by the way. I never laid a violent hand on my wife all the years we were together, and I despise men, cops or not, who come home and use somebody they swore to love and cherish as a punching bag. But that’s why cops are drawn to the booze – some cops, anyway. And when cops drink, they mostly like to drink among their own.

I walked in and headed for the bar, nodding at several guys who I know pretty well. Frank Murtaugh, the owner, waited on me himself and I asked for a bottle of Stegmaier that I could pretend to drink while waiting for the guy I was there to see.

I found an empty booth near the back and sat down. I had a sip of the beer, the only one I planned to take. I wasn’t on duty yet, but I would be in an hour. And the pain in my head was making it hard enough to concentrate without adding alcohol to the mix.

I’d been waiting maybe five minutes when consigliere Louis Loquasto slipped into the seat opposite me, holding a glass of what looked like a double bourbon on the rocks. His elegant suit was blue this time, and I would’ve bet that its price tag could’ve put some kid through college for a year – at a state school, anyway. I’d figured Loquasto’s drink was just a prop, like mine, to avoid drawing undue attention, but then he brought the glass to his lips and took a good-sized pull from it.

“Looks like you needed that drink, Counselor,” I said. “Life getting a bit stressful for you lately?”

“I find your infantile sense of humor difficult to endure at the best of times, Markowski,” he said. “Which these demonstrably are not.”

“Is that why you wanted to meet here – because nobody in his right mind would bomb a bar full of cops?”

“The thought had crossed my mind. Now, you said you wanted to talk – so talk.”

“I said I wanted to talk to your boss, remember?”

“Mister Calabrese is otherwise engaged. But you may be sure that I will relay to him the details of this conversation, although it has been singularly uninteresting thus far.”

Lawyers know more ways to say “Fuck you” without ever using those exact words than any bunch of people I’ve ever met.

“Somebody set off a car bomb outside of Ricardo’s Ristorante last night,” I said. “You know anything about it that I don’t?”