Beyond Nocturne Ch. 03

A good friend.

"A good man," Rossetti mumbled.

"Huh?" Michael asked.

"Dr. Standish," Rossetti leaned against the wall, "He was a good man. He was going to retire next year..."

"I know," Michael said, offering as much sympathy as he could.

"Who the fuck could have done this?" Rossetti wondered, scratching his chin.

"We're going to find out," Michael said quietly, "We're going to find out who killed my brother, Standish and this guard."

"We got orders, Mike," Rossetti warned, "Hollins wants us on the Crispin case."

"And we'll stay on the Crispin case," he reassured him, "But who says we can't look at my brother's case in connection with Crispin?"

"It's thin Mike."

"Two murders, only four blocks apart," Michael suggested, "Who's to say they're not connected?"

"Really fucking thin," Rossetti shook his head.

"I'll bet they've already processed some of the physical evidence from Steven's apartment," Michael said, "Maybe we should go take a look. Who's in charge?"

"Mike, no," Rossetti said flatly, "We're on thin ice here."

"No, I'm on thin ice," Michael corrected him, "You're my chaperone, remember?"

"Jesus," Rossetti rubbed his temples as he considered what Michael wanted to do. If he was the chaperone in charge of Michael, then letting him go loose and pissing Hollins off wouldn't be very good for his career. He wondered if Michael really understood just how close he was to the axe? If he did, he didn't let on that he knew. Rossetti glanced over at the bodies on the floor and all the blood. It was spattered on the walls, the ceiling... these men deserved better. And so did Steven Wolverton.

Rossetti looked at his friend and finally said, "Detective Aikens is in charge of the investigation."

"Aikens" Michael rolled his eyes, "The Barney Fife of the SFPD?"

Rossetti shrugged.

"Come on," Michael coaxed, sensing his reluctance. He grasped Rossetti by the shoulder and looked at him, trying to convey every last of ounce of sincerity and respect he had for his partner, "I can't do this without you."

"Alright," Rossetti said, "Don't get all emotional on me and shit."

"Thank you," Michael said, feeling a spark of hope in his heart. "We owe it to Steve and Standish. We owe to the guard."

"I already said yes, man," Rossetti reminded him, and then, "What's the first move?"

"Stay on Crispin for now," Michael told him, "See if you can match him up to anyone we know. I'll go see in Sue in the lab and see if she'll throw me a bone."

"When do we meet back up?" Rossetti asked they started walking out of the autopsy room. There were photographers snapping pictures now as the experts swarmed the scene, collecting and bagging evidence. He knew that if they pushed this too far, Chief Hollins would hang them out to dry by the balls. Michael had been pushing his luck for a while now, and everyone knew it. Rossetti supposed that he was in many ways Michael's chaperone. He prayed he was doing the right thing.

Michael was right about one thing at least. Detective Rob Aikens wasn't the best man to handle anything, even a parking ticket.

"I'll give you a buzz if I find anything," Michael said, "But I'll be back in a couple hours regardless."

Rossetti watched his partner walk down the hall and out of sight around the corner. He stood there for a little while, seriously questioning his judgment as a detective. He thought of his wife and kids, and how he could never face them if he got canned for helping Michael do this. Rossetti played out a thousand different scenarios in his head, and there was only one in which he could see them coming out of this all right. He prayed Michael found the link between the two cases. If he didn't, and the Chief found out about it, Rossetti figured he would be retiring from the force early.

"Good luck," he said and turned to go back to their office.

***

"Ms. Renee?" a deep voice asked from the elevator entrance.

Lydia spun around and almost fainted as a man who looked exactly like Steve stood evenly in front of the elevator doors. He was dressed in a dark blue suit and wore a gray overcoat, his hair shorter than Steve's had been and face somehow older. His eyes were light blue, somehow the same impenetrable and alluring obsidian that Steve's had been.

"Yes," Lydia said, aware now that she was staring. She smiled and walked over to him, hand stretched out for a handshake. The man took her hand and shook it. Through the contact of the skin, Lydia received a rush of the man's personality, and more importantly, his name.

"I'm Detective Wolverton from homicide," he smiled as he shook her hand.

Lydia felt her heart skip a beat in terror as she saw what was on his mind. She saw Steve's corpse on a table, looking as it had when she left him. She saw the detective's hands in the memories, the wedding ring on his left hand identical to the one he wore now. And then, there was a shift and she saw Larry, as the detective had seen him... the picture of Maricel in the box... she cursed herself for not having seen it... and then back to wherever Steve had been taken, probably the morgue. She saw a huge pool of blood, a policemen, a dead doctor and guard... she saw a severed head, it's tongue lolled out of the jaw limply... and no sign of Steve's body.

All this flashed in front of her eyes in a second.

"Are you okay, miss?" the detective frowned, his grip on her hand tightening in case she fell.

Lydia staggered back, pulling her hand away from him. "No, I'm fine," she said with the best fake smile she could, "I'm just a little tired. I was up all night down here. I'm fine, detective."

"You can call me Michael," he said as Lydia leaned against a bookcase. Lydia saw his eyes were bloodshot. He probably hadn't got any sleep himself.

"What can I do for you, Michael?" she asked, regaining her composure as her mind raced over the impossibility of there being a connective clue left behind between Steve and Larry, let alone one that could connect her to either of them.

"I just had a few questions that the people upstairs felt you could help me with," Michael explained, 'Of course, everything I am about to tell you must remain confidential."

"Of course."

'There was a murder earlier this morning downtown," he said, his voice pained a little as he spoke, "Stephen Wolverton was found dead in his apartment, apparently drained of almost all his blood."

"My God," she said, her eyes wide, "Wolverton? Was he-?"

Michael nodded. "He was my older brother, and I am here in a somewhat unofficial capacity, Ms. Renee."

"I understand," Lydia nodded, trying to fathom what Michael could possibly want with her. She had left nothing behind, she was always so careful. As she pondered this, she also wondered how Michael could have looked so much older than his elder sibling, so much more haunted. She could sense none of the innocence in him that she had in Steve, and Michael was certainly no virgin as she gently probed his mind.

"You're in charge of inventory, yes?"

"I am."

"This museum sells umbrellas in the gift shop," he said as he reached into his coat pulled out a plastic bag containing one small, compact umbrella.

Lydia kept her face cool and complacent as she realized the umbrella was hers. It was the one she had used to cover herself and Steve as they went back to his apartment. She had forgotten it, and in her confusion over what had happened with Steve lapsed into carelessness.

"Yes, we carry those. They're a big seller," she said, "But we sell maybe a hundred in a month. It could belong to anyone. I assume you dusted for fingerprints?"

"We found none," Michael eyed her, and she felt a block in his mind, as though he were somehow able to shield himself from her. She didn't push any further as she felt fear rising in her throat. She had experience love last night and now she was experiencing fear.

'What have I done to myself,' she thought dismally as she looked at the umbrella.

"I'm sorry, " she said, beating the fear down and steeling herself against any doubts. Any signs of nervousness that the detective was looking for would not be found here. He was clever and observant, and based on his ability to block her probing, perhaps even telepathic himself.

"Me too," Michael said glumly. He put the bagged umbrella back in his jacket.

"Is there anything else?"

"No," he smiled thankfully, and then paused, "Oh yes, there is actually one more little thing."

Lydia watched as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a photograph. He handed it to her, and as she held it she received another shock. The picture was of Maricel, in a police mug shot holding her booking number. She looked tired and worn out, and among other things scared.

Lydia couldn't believe it, the improbability of it all.

"You ever seen her before?"

Lydia shook her head. It couldn't be, he could not have found anyway to link her to these incidents. She had no fingerprints, they had no evidence and yet this man seemed to have figured it all out, or at least was in the process.

"No, I can't say I have," Lydia said as she handed the photo back. The detective carefully put it back in his pocket, holding it by the edges.

"I don't like to bend photo's that are on loan to me," he said, noticing her attention to his careful handling, "Records officer will chew me a new one."

"Of course."

"Thank you Ms. Renee," Michael said simply and walked back to the elevator. The doors closed and he was gone, leaving behind a mystery for Lydia bigger than any she had ever encountered in her life. She paced the aisles of the basement as she considered the possibility that he might know, might be on to her. In three hundred years she had never left any clues behind, but one night of passion leads to this kind of fumble?

But what did he have? No fingerprints, no evidence... sure there was the umbrella, but she had no fingerprints to leave. But there was that picture of Maricel of all people. Why show it to her unless he knew?

"You're welcome," she said quietly.

***

"Okay, what did you find," Rossetti asked through a mouthful of ham sandwich, "And better make it quick. The captain wants to see us at ten this morning."

Michael settled into the driver's seat of the standard issue dark blue Celica, and gently took the picture of Maricel out. He took his dusting kit out of the glove box and set to work.

"This is a mug shot of Maricel LaVoy," he said as he dusted the picture, "She's a small time hooker that used to work for Gloria Kyle's whore factory before we busted them up. She's been arrested three times in her entire life, all for prostitution. Now, we found no body at the crime scene in Larry Crispin's apartment and according to the uniform I sent out to her building she hasn't been seen at her apartment since yesterday. But, one of our boys busted a girl last night who told him that she and Maricel LaVoy were supposed to meet a man around midnight for a little big-ticket hanky-panky."

"Okay, I'm with you," Rossetti said, his face clearly not seeing what this had to do with the umbrella or the museum of all places.

"Hooker says the man who met them only wanted Maricel, but paid her a hundred bucks for her trouble anyway. The description of the man was identical to Larry Crispin," Michael explained as he shook the dust off the photograph and handed him a fingerprint readout off the dashboard. He continued, "Now, forensics dusts two crime scenes this morning, my brother's apartment and Mr. Crispin's apartment. They find no prints except the respective owners and Ms. LaVoy's here in Crispin's place. But, they did find smears on the box in Crispin's bedroom, almost all the memento's inside, Crispin's throat and on the umbrella in my brother's bedroom."

"No shit," Rossetti raised a brow and then asked, "But why come here?"

"This umbrella," he said, pulling the evidence out of his coat and handing it Rossetti, "and any other of its brand is exclusively made for and sold by this museum."

"Okay, but where does that leave us? I mean, any number of people could own an umbrella like that. This is San Francisco. People probably buy dozens of these things, man. Shit Mike, your brother was an architect, maybe he bought it."

"No, Stephen never used umbrellas. He felt they were way too feminine, like Mary Poppins."

Michael started the car and handed the photo to him. On the filmy covering of the paper, Rossetti saw a smear identical to the ones on the paper from forensics.

"No fucking way. Who left this print?" Rossetti marveled.

"Ms. Lydia Renee," Michael said, "The secretary of records for the museum."

"But how did you know?"

"I didn't," he replied as he pulled into traffic, "I was really only there to ask about how many umbrellas the museum sells, get an idea of how many people buy them in a month and then check credit card records if available. But the woman seemed so unnerved when she saw it, I got the feeling she had seen it before."

"What are the odds?" Rossetti asked.

"Pretty one sided," Michael conceded, the memory Ms. Renee's strange behavior still fresh in his head, "I played a hunch."

"You are playing the thinnest fucking hunch in the history of mankind, my friend," Rossetti laughed and stared at the strange prints, "She have glue on her fingers or what? Some kind of protective padding?"

"No," Michael said, "That's the strange thing. I got a good look at her fingers, and she wasn't wearing anything to hide her prints."

"This is getting weirder and weirder," Rossetti looked out the window, "Maybe we should file this as an X-File?"

Michael laughed. He was convinced that this woman was somehow connected to Stephen's murder and Larry Crispin's murder, maybe even that of Maricel LaVoy. But How the fuck did a secretary working in the basement of an art museum not only kill his brother, fly through a fifth-story window four blocks away and dispatch a wanted serial killer, all the while disappearing one blonde hooker and escaping completely unnoticed, leaving no clue except fingerprints that aren't really finger prints on an umbrella? And then be at work promptly on time the next morning?

Thin? It was fucking anorexic.

"Sue said they were still processing evidence, so we may have something more concrete later," Michael said as he took the picture of Maricel back from Rossetti and slipped into a bag.

"We'll need it if you want to establish a connection," Rossetti said.

Michael thought of his brother's missing body and the dead mortician and guard. He thought of Lydia Renee, her attractive features and strange behavior. If this all was related, he had no idea how the hell he was going to piece it together.

***

"Lydia," Mr. Geer said, his nasal and downright pretentious voice piercing her ears.

Lydia slowly looked up from her desk in the reception area and put on her best smile for the skinny, arrogant man. He was dressed in his typical black suit, tailored to fit him to the millimeter. His thin, bony face was as always devoid of expression or unnecessary politeness. His thinning black hair was oiled and slicked back, almost as shiny as his delicate wire-rimmed spectacles.

"Mr. Geer," Lydia smiled, "What brings you here?"

"That policeman," he walked over to her desk and ran a finger across the top of the stained oak wood top. He examined his finger and with subtlety that would impress only a bull in a china shop, he pulled out his handkerchief and wiped it off. Geer looked down at Lydia as if he were using his hawkish nose as sight to shoot her with, "What did he want with you?"

Lydia sat back in her chair, the springs in the ancient thing moaning under her weight, "He had some questions about the umbrellas we sell here."

"I see," Geer nodded, not at all satisfied with her answer.

"He asked his questions and left, Mr. Geer."

"Need I remind you that the Elders wouldn't take kindly to you attracting attention to us?" he asked, his contempt blatant and obvious.

Lydia smiled warmly, despite her urge to beat the shit out of him. "I understand that we all have out responsibilities, Mr. Geer. It's my job to keep your library and records in order. It's your job, Mr. Geer, as a familiar to protect us," Lydia spoke slowly, "your master, the vampires."

"Just remember who is in charge here," he reminded her as he turned to leave.

"Demeras is in charge," Lydia said softly, "I answer to him, not to his hired help."

Geer seemed to tense as though he had been physical hurt at the words "hired help." He turned on one heel, his placid face now flushed with color, his beady eyes glaring at her with a helpless rage. Lydia knew he wanted to yell and rant at her, to put her in her place and assert his authority. He opened his mouth to speak, and Lydia almost thought he might do it. But then he took a deep breath and straightened his jacket out by giving it an indignant tug. In the end, a familiar was worth less than the most rebellious vampire. Lydia knew it, and so did Geer.

"This arrangement is a courtesy," he said pointedly, "Don't forget that. No more police here, Ms. Renee. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly," Lydia nodded graciously and then added, "Norwood."

Geer paused for a moment at the disrespectful use of his first name, and then moved on. The hard rubber soles of his shoes echoed with each footfall throughout the library as he left. She heard the elevator doors close and sighed. Lydia sat there for a while, consumed with her thoughts. She kept thinking about that damn umbrella and her carelessness. For three hundred years she had been meticulous and careful, never leaving anything behind for others to find. Of course, there hadn't been the emotional involvement she had with Steven either back then.

She cursed the newly found emotions she was feeling again as much as she enjoyed them.

***

From the shadows of the sewer, the creature that had once been Steve Wolverton huddled itself in a dark, wet corner. The concrete was cold and wet against his sensitive skin. Above him he could people walking and water spilling off from the street. He was vaguely aware of what was happening to him, pieces of his former self still holding on desperately as he changed. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, noticing that even the air tasted different to him.

That bitch, that fucking bitch that claimed she loved him had betrayed him. His heart was broken and bleeding, and with each passing minute he felt his body evolving, bone snapping and sliding, rearranging to accommodate the evil within. His howls of pain and anguish escaped from the grating and vents of the city, only to be swallowed by the daytime traffic.

His eyes were crimson red, his skin had turned blue and wet as it became translucent revealing the structure beneath. He felt his face, and discovered his nose had shortened and flattened as his forehead became thicker and more pronounced. His full black hair had fallen out, leaving smooth wet scalp. His teeth had elongated and felt strange in his gums, sharp and brutally large.

So much was changing about him, but one thing remained the same for him. From the time he had awoken and killed the men at the morgue to now, he lusted for blood and the heart of the woman who had done this to him.

"Lydia," it rasped, echoing through the dark tunnels of San Francisco.

...to be continued...