“Check out some music.”
“Music? Now?”
“We won’t take long. But I have a reason. There’s an interesting group out there that I’d like to hear again.”
“Are they witches?”
“Or maybe vampires,” Jackson said. “We’re a few blocks away. It won’t take long to see if they’re on the streets now or not.”
“Because it may be important, and because . . .
“Yes. Time. It may, once again, be of the essence,” Jackson told him, nodding. “Let’s move!”
And so they did.
Angela
The woman on the medical examiner’s slab had been in her early forties, Angela thought. Fit, with a form that had been neither heavy nor slim, but that of a woman of about one-hundred and forty pounds who had stood at about five-feet-four. She had slightly graying brown hair and an attractive face—except for one thing.
Angela had never seen a human being appear so incredibly white.
“It’s the fact that she’s been drained of just about every single drop of blood,” Dr. Marston, the M.E., told Angela. Themedical examiner was a serious woman in her late thirties, renowned in her field for her ability to fathom a cause of death in every circumstance, pushing for further lab tests when the customary tests failed to give her answers, and she knew that the answers were out there. Now, she evidently knew what Angela was thinking.
“Sad, so sad,” the ghost of Alain Laurant said softly, standing at Angela’s side.
There were fang marks on the woman’s neck—just as one might expect from a “vampire” attack.
Alain didn’t expect an answer from her. Through just about two centuries, Alain had learned that those who saw the dead were few and far between—and they didn’t share their unusual talent with others lest they find themselves locked up.
“But . . . could those little pricks have—” Angela began.
“No, but there are machines that can be easily bought that could have been used,” Dr. Marston told her. “Readily available for those who legitimately work in phlebotomy, those who need plasma extractions, and so on. As towhy,I have absolutely no idea, but still, whoever did this . . .”
“Knew something about blood extraction,” Angela finished for her.
“Exactly.”
“Thank you,” Angela said, turning to her. “That helps tremendously. We can narrow down a field of suspects.”
“You have a field?” Dr. Marston asked her.
“Right now? The entire city and beyond,” Angela admitted, “but thanks to you, we do have some criteria.”
“I am very glad to be of help,” Dr. Marston said, meaning her words sincerely.
Angela thanked her again, leaving the morgue with Alain right behind her. She pulled out her phone to call Jackson and discovered he was already on his way to meet her.
She pretended to keep speaking on the phone so that she could tell Alain, “We’ll head to the police station now. They’ve got a computer I can use to start getting on what we’ve learned. I’ll—”
“I need you to drop me on Bourbon Street,” Alain told her.
“Oh?”
“I want to see if I can pick up any chatter. From there, maybe I’ll head out to Magazine Street, or Frenchman Street . . . you know! Try to hear what I can hear!” he told her. “Trust me,” he said grinning. “I’m no good on a computer!”
“I will drop you!” she promised him, opening the car door on the passenger side, pretending to set something down so that he could slip in easily. He could, of course, slide into the car on his own. He’d told her once he’d gotten really good at hitchhiking around the city when he wanted. Still she knew, it was easier for him to take a seat if she opened the door for him.
“Labor Day weekend!” he murmured. “There was no Labor Day in my day. But then again, in my day we came to the point where we all faced the Battle of New Orleans, and our fellow, Jean Lafitte, proved his worth—to a different Jackson!” he added, amused by his own name play.
