Page 20 of Taste of Blood
Then gradually the hole he’d left behind scabbed over and grew numb, but the pain never really went away. It was like a hollowness in my life that couldn’t be filled. Seeing him last night was like coming back to life and it made me realize how empty my world had become. I’ll win him back.
I have to.
The sky is starting to lighten when I finally admit defeat on this night’s vigil. I can’t afford to duck out of work a second day. Too many people depend on me.
But that doesn’t mean I’m giving up. If I have to go back to his apartment and camp outside his door, I’ll do it. Sooner or later I’ll convince him our place is together.
I head back to my building, dejected yet determined to win this battle. I may have lost this round, but I’m nothing if not persistent.
9: Cord
I RUB MY eyes and stretch before pulling out my phone to check the time. 6:24 in the morning. I waited all night for that dickhead Smyth for nothing.
When there was no answer at his door yesterday, I let myself into the apartment and looked around. Nothing to indicate he’s anything other than what he presents to the world–a wannabe stockbroker. His taste kind of reminds me of a lower class Asher, all leather and steel. There’s not much personality in the place, a couple of generic paintings on the wall and a few books on a shelf in the livingroom, mostly self-help bullshit. What kind of vampire reads that crap? His closet is filled with off-the-rack suits and a few pairs of khakis and polos. No clues left behind to point to this guy being a narcissistic serial killer.
And yeah, we have those, too. Vamps who can’t control their lust. They make it bad for the rest of us, especially people like me who have to clean up their mess.
Since I was already inside, I decided to stick around and wait for the loser, making myself at home in the only comfortable looking chair in the place. I might have dozed off a couple of times, but I’ve become pretty good at sleeping with one eye open. Not that it mattered.
Fruitless.
That’s what this whole night has been.
Not only did Smyth not show up, he caused me to go back on my promise to Luca to check out the guys kidnapping people in his neighborhood. Yeah, Dante has men there, but they don’t know what they’re looking for. For all I know, they’re in on it. Dante even admitted he doesn’t know everyone who works for him. How would he know if some of those guys decided to go into business for themselves?
I stand up and grab my jacket, deciding I’ll head home to catch a nap before coming back in the afternoon. Hopefully I’ll catch the bastard at home this time.
My phone rings before I leave the apartment. Dante. Figures.
“I take it you’ve had no luck?”
“I spent the night at his place. He didn’t show. I’m going home to shower and catch a few winks. I’ll come back this afternoon.”
“We need to catch this guy.”
I bite my tongue; you think I don’t know that? “I told you, I’m on it.”
I hang up before I say something I’ll regret.
I ride down the elevator with a woman and her little fru fru dog, blatantly ignoring her self-righteous stares of disapproval. Get over it, lady.
She takes off like her hair is on fire when the elevator opens, and I half expect her to say something to the concierge, but apparently her dog really has to go. But that gives me an idea.
I stop at the desk and wait for the concierge’s attention. Luckily it’s a different man than the one who was here when I accompanied Asher the other night. If the man is surprised at my appearance so early in the morning, he schools his expression carefully when he asks, “Can I help you?”
“Maybe. I’m looking for someone who lives here.”
The street door opens again and I’m wondering if it’s the dog walker coming back to complain, so I ignore it and press ahead.
“Are you police?” the concierge asks.
I shrug; I can lie when it suits my purpose. “I’m a private investigator, and I really need to get in touch with Eduard Smyth. It’s a matter of vital importance.”
I’m aware of someone standing behind me, but I don’t turn around.
The concierge seems to consider that and comes to a conclusion. “Mr. Smyth hasn’t picked up his mail in a couple of days. Perhaps he’s out of town.” He looks past me to the person standing behind me and smiles. “May I help you, Mr. Winston?”
Fuck.
