Pure Blood_ A Nocturne City Novel - Caitlin Kittredge [82]
To his credit, Samael never altered his expression, but I saw a fat bead of sweat work its way from his hairline down his temple.
“Oh, shoot.” I snapped my fingers. “I forgot. You’re not into bondage.”
“What do you want?” Samael muttered. He was rigid, like Indiana Jones in that scene with all the snakes.
“Excuse me?” I said, cupping my ear.
“What do you want!” he shouted, hitting the table. I crossed my ankles primly, one over the other.
“I want you to tell me the truth, Arthur.”
He flinched. “You want me to spill the big secret, that Vincent got some mysterious phone call or letter written in blood or some noir detective shit? Well, it didn’t happen that way. Vincent was a dumb kid and he messed with the wrong people and he got himself dead. End of story. Roll credits.”
“If you were any vaguer you’d be a copy of Ulysses,” I told him. “What people? What did Vincent do?”
Samael laughed. “What didn’t that kid do? He worked in a sex club. A lot of rich people came in. They all liked Vincent. You fill in the boring bits.”
“Where did he keep his stash of photos?”
Samael blinked at me, and I smiled serenely. He’d counted on having the blackmail angle to bargain with. “Oh, and if you could tell me which rich pervert objected to the idea and killed him, so much the better.”
“Hells, I don’t know,” said Samael after a few seconds of recovering his placid, creepy front. “I make enough cash squeezing people who want to be in pain.”
“I can’t tell you how refreshing it is to meet an honest, hardworking independent businessman,” I said.
“Come see me when I get out, Detective,” he said with a wink as the deputy led him back to the cell-block.
“Only if you come with a biohazard suit,” I said.
Never mind that my encounter with Samael had left me feeling like I needed to take about ten showers; he’d confirmed that Vincent had waved his dirty pictures under the wrong nose and given me direction, something that had been sorely lacking in the case. If I could make it through one night without having to kick down a door or jump out of a helicopter, I’d be a happy woman.
I checked my watch. It was after six, and the evidence depot closed at five. I’d have to wait until morning to check Vincent’s personal effects. If he had a stash of compromising media on Nocturne City’s version of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, he’d keep the items themselves or the locations close at hand. Blackmailers were squirelly and paranoid like that.
Too bad Vincent hadn’t been just a touch more paranoid. He might still be alive.
After a well-publicized scandal involving gun-toting thugs employed as evidence clerks at the behest of Alistair Duncan, the Nocturne City evidence depot, contained inside the courthouse complex, had undergone a major overhaul and was now staffed by perky postgrads who wore pseudo-official uniforms and tags inscribed with names like CAMMIE and ALISSE.
“Alyse?” I said when she came trotting over to the service window.
“It’s pronounced like ‘Alice,’” she corrected me. “And how are you today?”
“Fine,” I said cautiously, wondering if the city’s new plan was to kill their detectives with goodwill.
“What can we do for you, ma’am?”
“Well, don’t you need to see some ID?” I asked. She beamed.
“Sure, if you have some. I’m joking! I just need to take a quick peek at your badge.”
I presented it and the case number of the Blackburn murder, and she handed me the logbook to sign the stuff out the same way you’d pass the scones at a tea party. I expected to be sat down and offered a cup any second.
“Don’t you think it’s too creepy how they keep a dead person’s clothes?” Alisse asked as she brought me the large brown paper evidence bag holding Vincent’s personal effects. “I think we should donate them to the rummage sale. I’m joking!” she added