Pure Blood_ A Nocturne City Novel - Caitlin Kittredge [83]
“And I’m leaving,” I said, beating a hasty retreat to the Fairlane. It had a flat tire.
I sat on the curb and went through the bag while I waited for my road service. I’m not such a girly-girl that I can’t change a tire, but after a childhood with a mechanic father, I reserve the right to make someone else do it, just like preacher’s kids get to drink and get arrested.
Vincent’s clothes were expensive, but they were worn to that gray-blue color that black clothing gets after too many spin cycles, and they smelled like stale vomit and old blood. Thank the gods I was outside.
Dr. Kronen had sealed all of Vincent’s piercings in a neat bag, and only one piece of jewelry jangled free in the bottom. I pulled out a plain ball-chain necklace that threaded a small glass vial, a popular accessory with addicts. The inside of the vial hit me with a whiff of heroin—big shock. Vincent had attached a number of small charms to the chain as well. A seven-pointed star, the blood witch’s imperfect circle. A photo locket with a picture of Valerie inside. A small steel key that I mistook for a charm at first, and then realized was stamped with a symbol for the First Bank of Nocturne. Vincent Blackburn had rented a safe-deposit box from a bank owned by the O’Hallorans. Irony is a beautiful thing.
CHAPTER 25
The First Bank of Nocturne was doing good business during the lunch hour. Housed in one of the old Greek Revival piles on Main Street, it was the only branch of the First Bank, and considering the number of corporate types who financed Cedar Hill palaces through the place, the only one it needed.
I found a teller and showed my shield and the key. She bit her lip. “I’m sorry. I can’t let you into someone’s private box. Vincent was a nice guy. I can’t imagine he’s doing anything wrong.”
“Well, somebody thought he was, enough to kill him,” I said. Her mouth and eyes formed quarter-sized O’s. “So since any rights Mr. Blackburn might have had to his privacy ceased when he died, how about letting me take a look?”
Sure, I probably traumatized the woman for life, but if she thought a drug-pushing, drug-using blackmailer was “nice,” she had bigger problems than me.
The safe-deposit box was a big one, with a flat folding lid. The teller set it in front of me on an oak table and left. I was in a small cubicle, about the size of a handicapped bathroom stall, the walls all done in red velvet and the chair upholstered. I felt like I was inside a well-lit coffin.
“You better have something good for me, Vincent,” I muttered as I popped the lid. A stack of file folders greeted me, all neatly labeled with names and dates. I picked up the first one, and glossy photos fell out. Nobody outside of Internet perverts probably wants to know the contents, but suffice to say I wasn’t aware there were so many uses for a lit candle.
All the folders were like that. At the bottom of the box were two DV cassettes and a bunch of CD backups of the photos. I settled in for the long haul and began going over each folder, making a note in my book of the names.
Halfway through, I found ROGER DAVIDSON BURDOCK, and opened the manila folder to find Boot Guy staring me in the face. Vincent had clipped his Fortune article to the top of the glossy of Roger in a dress. It was a nice dress, probably Gucci.
At least now I knew why he looked familiar.
The folder underneath Roger was tagged SEAMUS MALACHY O’HALLORAN. I stopped, fingers just touching the manila. I had guessed someone in the family, but Seamus himself? He was a scary guy, no denying it, but a perv as well? Where did he find the time?
Only a single strip of negatives lay in the folder when I flipped it open. I held them up to the mellow bulb in the ceiling and winced at what I saw. Seamus, like Samael née Arthur, liked control, and he didn’t seem too picky about the gender or age of his partners.
I took a breath of stale air and shoved the negatives back into the folder, bending it double and tucking it under my tight black polo shirt. It made an odd bulge, but I zipped up my jacket