His house had been obsessively wired with smart lights and silent alarms. The kind of setup you can rig when you’re an expert in security systems, and likely know how to bypass them, too.
But it was what I saw when I left his place that had fired up my imagination. Heck, I’d been stewing on it for the entire drive home.
Across the street, his neighbor’s garage door had been wide open, bikes hanging from ceiling hooks. A cluttered toolbench under a bare bulb sat near a door likely connecting to the main house. An old treadmill gathered dust in the far corner of the garage. I made sure to commit every detail to memory, filing it away like a mental snapshot.
Because later tonight, I’d be back. Yeah, a not-so-legal plan was brewing.
Meanwhile, I’ve got a Big Mac in one hand and a medium Coke in the other. I’m slurping and eating when my phone buzzes with a notification. A text message from Sherbet:
Got something here. Need your brain. And maybe some of those freaky vampire gifts of yours.
I smile. I love when my detective friend straight-up asks for help with no pretense, embracing the weird.
Which of my freaky vampire gifts?I write back.
You know, your main gift.
Sexiness?
Grrr.
Are you at the station?
Yes.
Meet you outside the women’s bathroom stall in 30 seconds.
I finish the last bite, slurp down some soda, and summon the single flame, visualizing the bathroom I have come to know. I confirm the first stall is empty and make the jump. Once inside, I flush to keep appearances and emerge to an empty bathroom. Ah, success. I straighten my tee-shirt and fluff my hair, then step into the busy hallway, where Sherbet’s already waiting with two coffees in hand.
I take the one with extra cream and sugar. “You trying to bribe me?”
He shrugs. “You’re easier to work with when you’re sugared up. Plus, isn’t working part of your job description?”
“I’m a consultant. Working here is optional. But I do like to sometimes feel like I belong somewhere.”
We walk through the crowded station, past officers glued to computer screens and a detective yelling into a phone. Just another Tuesday at the Fullerton station.
“So what’s the case?” I ask.
“Accessory to murder. Maybe murder, but I don’t think so,” Sherbet says.
I raise an eyebrow. “Out with it, Detective.”
“We think the guy is taking the fall for a murder he didn’t commit.”
“Wow, good friend.”
“We’ll see.”
We step into the observation room. A young man in his early twenties—skinny, jittery—sits on the other side of the glass. Hood up. Arms crossed. Bouncing one knee like he’s got a metronome for a heart.
“He looks like he’d confess to being the lizard king if you asked nicely,” I say.
“That’s the problem. He’s already confessed.”
My eyes narrow. “Curiouser and curiouser.”
Sherbet nods. “His DNA wasn’t at the scene. Not a trace. Meanwhile, we found prints and hair from a different guy, a known meth-head who used to do yard work for the victim. We think our guy here is taking the fall.”
