THE HOUSE WAS a two-story split-level ranch that could have been anywhere in the Midwest, in any upper-middle-class neighborhood. But the large yard was done in rock paths running high to cacti and a circle of those small flowered lilacs that were so plentiful. Other people had tried to keep their lawns green as if they didn't live on the edge of a desert, but not this house. This house, these people had landscaped for their environment and tried not to waste water. And now they were dead and didn't give a damn about environmental awareness or rainfall.

Of course, one of them could be a survivor. I didn't want to see pictures of the survivors before they'd been … injured. I was having enough trouble keeping my professional distance without color photos of smiling faces that had been turned into so much naked meat. I got out of the car, praying that everyone had died in this house, not my usual prayer at a crime scene. But nothing about this case so far was usual.

There was a marked police car sitting out in front of the house. A uniformed officer got out of the marked car as Edward and I walked towards the yard. He was medium build but carrying enough weight for someone taller, a lot taller. His weight was mostly in the stomach and made his utility belt ride low. His pale face was sweating by the time he'd walked the five feet to us. He put his hat on as he walked towards us, unsmiling, thumb hooked in his utility belt.

"Can I help you?"

Edward went into his Ted Forrester act, putting his hand out, smiling. "I'm Ted Forrester, Officer … " he took the time to read the man's name tag, "Norton. This is Anita Blake. Chief Appleton has cleared us both to see the crime scene."

Norton looked us both up and down, pale eyes not the least bit friendly. He didn't shake hands. "Can I see some ID?"

Edward opened his wallet to his driver's license and held it out. I opened my executioner's license for him. He handed Edward's back, but squinted at mine. "This license isn't good in New Mexico."

"I'm aware of that, Officer," I said, voice bland.

He squinted at me, much as he had the license. "Then why are you here?"

I smiled and couldn't quite make it reach my eyes. "I'm here as a preternatural advisor, not an executioner."

He handed the license back to me. "Then why the hardware?"

I glanced down at the gun very visible against my red shirt. The smile was genuine this time. "It's not concealed, Officer Norton, and it's federally licensed so I don't have to sweat a new gun permit every time I cross a state line."

He didn't seem to like the answer. "I was told to let the two of you in." It was a statement, but it sounded like a question, as if he wasn't quite sure he was going to let us in, after all.

Edward and I stood there trying to appear harmless, but useful. I was a lot better at looking harmless than Edward was. I didn't even have to work at it most of the time. He was better at looking useful, though. Without seeming dangerous in the least he could give off an aura of purposefulness that police and other people responded to. The best I could do was look harmless and wait for Officer Norton to decide what our fate would be.

He finally nodded, as if he'd made up his mind. "I'm supposed to escort you around the scene, Miss Blake." He didn't look happy about it.

I didn't correct him that Miss Blake should have been Ms. Blake. I think he was looking for an excuse to get rid of us. I wasn't going to give him one. Very few policemen like civilians messing around in their cases. I wasn't just a civilian, I was female, and I hunted vampires; a triple threat if ever there was one. I was a civvie, a woman, and a freak.

"This way." He started up the narrow walkway. I glanced at Edward. He just started following Norton. I followed Edward. I had a feeling I'd be doing a lot of that in the next few days.

Quiet. The house was so quiet. The air conditioner purred into that silence reminding me of the recycled air in the hospital room. Norton came up behind me, and I jumped. He didn't say anything, but he gave me a look.

I moved out of the entry hall and into the large high ceilinged living room. Norton followed me. In fact he stayed at my heels as I moved around the room like some obedient dog, but the message I was getting from him wasn't trust and adoration. It was suspicion and disapproval. Edward had settled into one of the room's three comfortable-looking powder blue chairs. He'd stretched himself full length, legs crossed at the ankles. He'd left his sunglasses on so he looked the picture of ease in the midst of that careful living room in that too silent house.

"Are you bored?" I asked.

"I've seen the show," he said. He'd toned down his Ted act and was more his usual self. Maybe he didn't sweat Norton's reaction, or maybe he was tired of playacting. I knew I was tired of watching the show.

The room was one of those great rooms which meant the living, dining, and kitchen were all one shared space. It was a large space, but I'm not really comfortable with the open floor plan. I like more walls, doors, barriers. Probably a sign of my own less than welcoming personality. If the house was any clue to the family that had lived in it, they'd been welcoming and somewhat conventional. The furniture was all purchased as sets: a powder blue living room set, a dark wood dining room set to one side with a bay window and white lacy drapes. There was a new hard back southwestern cook book on the kitchen cabinet. The receipt was still being used as a bookmark. The kitchen was the smallest area, long and thin with white cabinets and a black and white cow motif down to a cookie jar that mooed when you took its head off. Store-bought cookies, chocolate chip. No, I didn't eat one.

"Any clues in the cookie jar?" Edward asked from his chair.

"No," I said, "I just had to know if it really mooed."

Norton made a small sound that might have been a laugh. I ignored him. Though since he was standing about two feet from me the entire time ignoring wasn't easy I changed direction in the kitchen abruptly, and he nearly ran into me. "Could you give me a little more breathing space?" I asked.

"Just following my orders," he said, face bland.

"Did your orders tell you to stand close enough to tango or just to follow me?"

His mouth twitched, but he managed not to smile. "Just to follow you ma'am."

"Great, then take about two big steps back so we do this without bumping into each other."

"I'm supposed to make sure you don't disturb the scene, ma'am."

"The name's Anita, not ma'am."

That earned me a smile, but he shook his head and fought it off. "Just following orders. That's what I do."

There was something just a touch bitter about that last. Officer Norton was on the down side of fifty or looked it. He was close to putting in his thirty years, and he was still a uniform sitting in a car outside a crime scene following orders. If he'd ever had dreams of more, they were gone. He was a man who had accepted reality, but he didn't like it.

The door opened and a man came through with his tie at half-mast, the white sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up over dark forearms. His skin was a dark solid brown and it didn't look like a tan. Hispanic or Indian or maybe a little of both. The hair was cut very short, not for style, but as if it were easier that way. There was a gun on his hip and a gold shield clipped to the waist band of his pants.

"I'm Detective Ramirez. Sorry I'm late." He smiled when he said it, and there seemed to be genuine cheerfulness, but I didn't trust it. I'd seen too many cops go from cheerful to hardcore up in your face too many times. Ramirez would try to catch his flies with honey instead of vinegar, but I knew the vinegar was there. You didn't get to be a plainclothes detective without that streak of sourness. Or maybe a loss of innocence was a better phrase for it. Whatever you called it, it would be there. It was only a matter of how far under the surface it was.