Biting Bad

ONCE MORE INTO THE BREACH



The Marquesa Theater was a souvenir from Chicago's history. There were baroque balconies, red velvet curtains, giant chandeliers, and murals galore. All of it, supposedly, built to give the moll of a Chicago gangster a place to sing arias no one else wanted to hear. The motive might have been regrettable, but you couldn't deny the beauty of the place.



Tonight, that beauty was marred by a mix of fear and suspicion. I stood in the lobby and watched people of every variety march into the theater, their expressions dubious, as if they might be attacked at any moment by lingering vampires and shifters, as if we weren't citizens who paid taxes and were as much a part of the town as they were.



Maybe they were simply ignorant. Maybe they'd been raised on prejudice. Either way, I doubted McKetrick would offer them solace or comfort, or remind them that we had coexisted in Chicago for centuries. McKetrick had made a deliberate and conscious choice to hate us, if the look I'd seen in his eyes last night was any indication. Tonight, he would probably raise questions. He would probably imply we were troublemakers, that Chicago was worse off with us, and subtly encourage them to reach the same conclusions.



My heart began to race, and my palms moistened with fear. I'd left my sword in the car, thinking it would be more a liability than help in a building crowded with humans. Maybe I also should have warned Luc or Ethan - or even Catcher - that I was coming. Maybe I should have considered what, precisely, I was going to do if I managed to corner McKetrick.



I glanced through the front doors as a black limo pulled to the curb.



My target had arrived.



Heart pounding, I walked outside through the current of people flowing into the building, the wind swirling briskly in the February evening. A blocky man in a dark suit opened the limo's back door, and McKetrick climbed out. He wore a well-fitted suit and tie, but the skin still stretched awkwardly across the scarred portion of his face, drawing the attention of passersby.



He steadfastly avoided making eye contact with anyone but the man who'd opened the door - likely a bodyguard, given the vibration of steel around him - and another guard who quickly appeared at his side. But it took only a moment for him to see me, to realize that I was watching him.



I was fifteen feet from the car, but when our gazes locked, the world seemed to shrink around us.



I'd met, not long ago, two fallen angels - one virtuous, one not - who'd been joined together by a freakish act of magic. In the instant McKetrick and I made eye contact, I had a distinct mental image of the eviler angel, Dominic, sitting on my shoulder, imploring me to step forward and end the man who'd caused so much pain to vampires. He was responsible for the deaths of men and women who'd done nothing more than exist, which he apparently took as a personal affront. He'd hired an assassin, and he was now engaged in spreading hate around the city.



He didn't deserve his position, or his limo, or his bodyguards.



My imaginary devil was insistent, but I knew better. Killing an unarmed man wouldn't make me better than him. It would make me just like him.



I wouldn't hurt him - not here and now. But that didn't mean I wouldn't do what vampires did best.



Manipulate.



McKetrick's jaw locked; his gaze narrowed. One of the bodyguards, apparently aware of his boss's sudden irritation, glanced at me.



"Sir?" he asked.



"She's fine," McKetrick assured them. "We're well acquainted. Could you give us a minute?"



The guards looked at him for a moment, obviously concerned by the request, but he was the boss, so they relented. McKetrick and I moved closer and they moved past us, creating a barrier between us and the rest of the crowd.



"I'm surprised to see you here," McKetrick said. "I'm glad you've come to hear what the rest of Chicago thinks of you."



"As you well know, we aren't a threat to Chicago or anyone else. We're trying to live, to love, to go about our business. You're spreading discord because you like being the center of attention."



"You think the violence in this city isn't because of you?"



"If you mean last night's riot, it had nothing to do with us. It had to do with humans. Humans who were willingly destroying their neighbors' property and businesses because they've been told we're the reason for their misery."



McKetrick buttoned up his suit coat. "And how do you know that, Merit? Were you at the riot?"



I had been, of course, but only inadvertently. But I wasn't about to admit it to McKetrick; he'd hardly believe the excuse.



"The riot was against vampires," I reiterated, "not because of them. You're helping fuel the fire, McKetrick, and one of these days, it's going to come back on you."



His smile was a dare. "Are you threatening me?"



"Not at all. Just reminding you." I gestured toward the theater. "The people in there might believe you. They might think you're here for them. But we all know the truth. You're here for you, and you alone. And maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow, but one day, they're going to realize the type of person you really are."



"That doesn't sound so scary," he said, smiling with reptilian ease.



I gave him back a smile that was equally predatory. "Maybe not. But do remember one thing." I leaned in. "Whatever happens between us down the road, I'm immortal. And you, Mr. McKetrick, are not."



McKetrick opened his mouth to retort, but before he could speak, the guards moved back to us.



"Time to go, sir," said the guard who'd opened the door, hustling him toward the theater.



McKetrick, I was pleased to see, had a little less swagger in his step.



-



My interaction with McKetrick wasn't a victory. It wasn't even a three-point lead. I'd been, at most, a temporary mild irritant. But maybe - hopefully - I'd reminded him of the stakes (pun very much intended) and the fact that we were paying attention. And specifically - paying attention to him.



That mission accomplished, I drove to Robin Pope's Greektown address, which wasn't far from Lincoln Park.



Robin Pope's building was a fairly new, sleek tower of condos, with coffee shops and other retail on the first floor. I didn't know much about her background, but it seemed an affluent building, not bad for a woman who'd given up her job over a personal dispute.



I parked on the street and left my katana in the car - there were too many cops undoubtedly suspicious about vampires right now to risk pulling it out - but double-checked my dagger was securely tucked into my boot.



I locked the door, glancing back to ensure I'd parked it close enough to the curb to protect it from traffic, but not so close I wouldn't be able to get out without marring the rims. Moneypenny, it seemed, was going to be a high-maintenance mode of transportation. For a moment - a very brief moment - I longed for my Volvo.



At the sound of a car door slamming, I glanced behind me. Catcher emerged from his sedan in jeans and a leather jacket. He was tall and lean, with a shaved head and pale green eyes. He was undeniably handsome, but since his features were usually pulled into irritated frowns or glares, it was sometimes difficult to tell.



Tonight, Catcher wore a typically grim expression as he looked over the building. I gestured toward it, ready to get the show on the road, and we fell into step together.



"I hear you're taking your vampire home to meet the parents."



A surprising revelation, since I'd heard it myself only a little while ago. "How did you hear about that?"



"Your grandfather told me. Ethan RSVP'd, and your father passed along the good news. You're a brave girl."



"Ethan will be perfectly well behaved. It's my family I have to worry about."



"Your father?" Catcher asked.



"More my mom and sister. They'll start obsessing about Chicago wedding locations and whether we should select gold- or platinum-banded china patterns."



Catcher snorted. "I'd almost pay to see Sullivan's footwork on that one. It's bound to be impressive."



"Probably so," I agreed. "Anything I need to know before we go in there? Is she a black belt in martial arts? Does she carry a crossbow? Is Buffy the Vampire Slayer her personal savior?"



"Because that would bum you out?"



"The slaying part would, yeah. Not the Joss part. We all love Joss."



"Her background's clean," Catcher said. "She's got a degree in human resources, but most of her jobs have been admin or lower management. She didn't last long in any one position."



"Sounds like she has trouble playing nice with others. Did she file grievances against anybody else?"



"Not that I could tell. She'd been at Bryant Industries for four months. We can get details on her time there from Charla."



"Charla?"



"Charla Bryant. Her family owns Bryant Industries." We reached the front doors, and Catcher opened one, gesturing for me to precede him inside.



The foyer was dark and sleek and still smelled like new construction: lumber, paint, and adhesives. I liked that smell; it reminded me of childhood trips with my grandfather to the hardware store.



We passed an empty security desk and headed for a bank of elevators. Catcher pushed a button, and we stood in silence until the elevator dinged and the door opened up.



"So what's our backstory with this lady?" I asked when we were in the elevator and moving upward.



"Backstory? What do you mean?"



"Well, we don't have badges, and we're both supernaturals. She isn't going to just up and divulge her nefarious rioting plot, certainly not to us. If we want information from her, we're going to need a convincing backstory."



"In other words, we need to lie."



"That sounds much less pleasant, but yeah."



"You really are a vampire, aren't you?"



That comment was worth the slugging I gave him. "We need to figure out if she's connected to the riots. So, we play like we're vampire haters?"



"Can you do that convincingly?"



I smiled with saccharine sweetness. "I'm sure you can cover for me if I can't. But yeah, I think I can pull it off. I'll just remember some of my initial hatred for Darth Sullivan."



"Have you ever told Ethan you called him that?"



"I have not. And you won't, either, if you know what's good for you. I'm not above biting a sorcerer."



"I'm taken," he flatly said, although I actually took that as a pretty good sign regarding his relationship with Mallory.



We reached the eleventh floor, and the elevator opened into a hallway with muted paint, and carpet in a complicated and probably expensive pattern. A round pedestal table sat in the middle of the elevator area, topped by a vase of very tall trailing flowers.



I followed Catcher to a door near the end of the hall. He lifted his hand to knock, but paused to glance at me. "You ready?"



I nodded, and he tapped gently on the door.



A few seconds later, she opened the door. She was an attractive middle-aged woman with neatly styled hair, blouse tucked into jeans, and high-heeled boots. Her makeup was impeccable, and large diamonds twinkled in her ears.



If this was Robin Pope, she wasn't exactly what I'd expected. Overt bitterness tucked into a VAMPIRES SUCK T-shirt, maybe. But the woman and the apartment behind her seemed posh and completely devoid of an anti - Bryant Industries or anti-vampire sentiment. There were dark wood floors and sleek midcentury modern furniture.



"Hi," I said. "Sorry to bother you. We're looking for Robin Pope?"



"That's me." She smiled a little. "What's this about?"



"We're really sorry to bother you. We just - we hoped you could help us with something. We understand you used to work at Bryant Industries?"



"That's right," she said, her smile fading. "But I have a lawyer now, so any inquiries regarding that situation should go through him."



"That's actually why we're here," I said, feigning discomfort. I gestured at Catcher. "We heard about your grievance, and, well, we kind of agree with you."



"Oh?" she asked. "About what, exactly?"



Catcher and I exchanged a glance and a nod.



"Vampires," he said. "We think they're getting special treatment, ahead of working-class folks like us, and we don't think that's fair."



"We saw your grievance online," I said, "and we thought, well, maybe she's someone we could talk to, you know?"



She looked at us for a moment, probably evaluating whether we were telling her the truth. Whether we were like her, or leading her on for some endgame she couldn't yet see.



"And you're who, exactly?"



Well, I should have prepared for that. "I'm Mary," I said, tossing out the first name that came to mind. "And this is my brother . . . Boudreau."



"Mary and Boudreau," she repeated, obviously dubious, so I laid it on a bit thicker.



"I was hurt by vampires before. Attacked by one of them one night, with no warning." That was the absolute truth. "I was hoping to find someone to talk to, someone who would understand. I ran across your case, and I thought - there's someone who knows."



She looked at us again. A door opened and closed a few apartments away, and her eyes flicked nervously to the sound. She peeked into the hallway and seemed satisfied when footsteps disappeared down the hall.



"Maybe we shouldn't talk about this in the hallway. You never know who's listening. I have to be somewhere soon, but you can come in for a minute."



It wasn't much of an invitation, but it would work well enough for vampiric purposes. I walked into the condo, keeping my eyes peeled for inflammatory propaganda or anti-vampire ninjas. Instead, there were tasteful Danish furnishings and decor. A lot of brass and wood and sparse lines.



Catcher followed me inside, and as Robin turned around to lock the door behind us, he mouthed, Be careful. They were words I intended to obey.



When she turned back to us, her expression had changed completely. Now, behind closed doors, there was a glimmer of obvious excitement in her eyes.



"I am definitely someone you can talk to," she said.



"Good," I said, only partly feigning relief. It would have been a relief to find the perpetrator of an anti-vampire riot on the first take. Opportunities like that didn't arise very often.



"It's all about special interest groups," she said. "It's about the money. The vampires have it; the humans want it. Having the money means they get to run roughshod over the rest of us, because all the human politicians want to get their greedy little sausage fingers around it."



The factual errors aside, and there were a number of them, Robin got through her entire spiel without taking a breath. Both made me downgrade my initial impression of her stability.



"Huh," Catcher said, crossing his arms and looking extremely interested in what she had to say. "And that's what was going on at Bryant Industries?"



"You think a place that supplies vampire blood could have been open for so long without being part of a conspiracy? Without the manager sleeping with the mayor, or significant payoffs?"



"Payoffs?" Catcher asked, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You have records of that?"



"Somewhere," she said, gesturing flippantly to another part of the room. "They thought I'd play ball, and when I didn't, they thought they could throw me out like trash. But I'm not about to cave to pressure. I know what's right, and I know what's legal. My sister is a lawyer."



"Is that why they pressured you to leave?" I asked, choosing my words carefully. I wasn't sure how much of her diatribe I believed, but she was clearly convinced.



"They fired me," she said, "because I found out who they were and what they were doing."



"And you confronted them," I said, "like any good citizen would do."



"Exactly," she said, pointing a finger at me. "That's exactly what I did. They think they can skirt the rules, while the rest of us have to follow them? Is that fair?"



"It's not fair," Catcher said. "I don't know if you heard, but there was an attack on Bryant Industries last night."



She stilled and looked at both of us again. "Who did you say you are again?"



"Mary and Boudreau," Catcher said. "We're just looking for folks who think like us, I guess you could say."



As far as I knew, we hadn't slipped up, and we hadn't given her any reason to doubt us.



She reached a different conclusion. She bolted, running for the front door.



"Merit!" Catcher prompted.



"On it," I said, racing after her. But Robin Pope wasn't unprepared for a vampire engagement. She reached a ceramic umbrella stand beside the door and pulled out a wooden stake as long as a baseball bat. Aspen through the heart was the only wood that could kill us, and I had a sinking feeling Robin Pope knew that quite well.



She thrust out the stake like a fencer trying to win a point. I dodged her first shot, but not the return slap, which slammed into my shin with enough force to bring tears to my eyes. I doubled over in pain, and Robin used my distraction to her advantage, flipping the deadbolt and opening the door. She ran into the hallway, the stake still in hand.



"Little help," I said to Catcher.



"Vampire fail," he muttered, running into the hallway after Robin. I limped after them, an electric tingle in Catcher's wake as he gathered his magic in preparation for an assault.



By the time I made it into the hallway, Robin had reached the bank of elevators and moved behind the pedestal table, plucking up the vase of flowers.



"Robin - Ms. Pope," Catcher called out, cautiously moving forward. "We just wanted to talk to you."



But Catcher's attempt at a detente didn't dissuade him from continuing to power up. My hair lifted in the cloud of magic he brought to bear, spinning it together in the palm of his hand into an orb of glowing blue light.



"Get thee behind me, Satan!" she yelled out, throwing the vase at us. It hit the floor hallway between Pope and Catcher, shattering across the floor.



He didn't wait for another attack but launched the magic at her.



Paranoid or not, Robin Pope wasn't helpless, and she wasn't about to go down swinging. She wrenched a round mirror from the wall near the table, then dropped to one knee, using the mirror like a shield.



Magic and mirrors didn't mix, a fact I knew all too well. I'd actually used the trick on Mallory during her Unfortunate Crazy Times, although Catcher hadn't been there to see the trick, and apparently didn't know about it.



The ball of blue energy hit the glass . . . and bounced right back toward us.



"Crap," Catcher said, yanking me to the ground just as the ball of magic flew over our heads. It grazed my ponytail, singeing the edges and sending the scent of burning hair into the air.



The fireball hit the fire door behind us, exploding with a sound like the firing of a jet engine, the force throwing open the door hard enough that it clanged against the back wall.



"Good Lord, man!" I said. "Are you trying to kill us?" I swatted at the sparks in my hair, wincing as the sparks bit into my fingertips.



"It would have only disabled her. The mirror must have distorted the magic."



"Yeah, well," I said, glancing up just in time to see Robin disappear through the fire door at the other end of the hallway. "She's getting away."



"Little busy here," Catcher muttered behind me. When I looked back, he was stomping out sparks in the carpet behind us.



Robin Pope was gone, and we'd just torched a hallway in a very posh apartment building. I could only imagine the shit we were both going to get when our bosses found out how poorly this particular mission had gone.



"So much for Robin Pope not having any fighting skills," I said.



Catcher stepped out a final bit of smoldering ash and glanced back at me. "I didn't know she did. It didn't turn up in her background search."



"I think it's safe to say she knows something."



He nodded. "She's involved in it. We don't have the resources to tail her. I'll talk to Chuck about getting Jacobs involved. I'll also have Jeff run a deeper background, see if she has any other connections to the rioters, a Web site, whatever."



I swirled a finger in the air, gesturing at the burn marks on the carpet and bubbled paint on the door. "I think we also let the condo association believe Ms. Pope was at fault here with all this. Pope's a cowardly racist; I'm not letting her off the hook for that. She can pay for a little paint and carpet."



"A lot of carpet, actually," Catcher grimly said. "And technically, she was at fault. The damage only happened because she attacked you and bolted."



A siren began to wail in the distance.



"And that's our cue to exit," I said.



"Agreed," Catcher said, glancing back at the crispy door. "Fire exit?"



"It seems appropriate." The pain in my shin was already beginning to subside, so I half limped, half ran to the fire door and followed Catcher down the stairs.



"Ha-ha," he said.



"Vampires have a highly developed sense of humor. What building would you like to destroy next?"



"None. But I want to visit the one that was nearly destroyed. Let's see what Ms. Bryant has to say about her former employee."



-



I got into the car and rolled back into traffic and away from the scene, trying my best to look completely uninterested in the CPD cruisers that passed me, lights blazing.



I hopped onto the freeway, heading northwest for Wicker Park, and didn't stop checking my rearview mirror until I'd reached the Milwaukee Avenue exit. I pulled into the first parking lot I could find, then took a breath and picked up my phone.



There was no message from Jonah, which I took as a good sign, even with the blacklisting. If he'd discovered something really important, he'd have found a way to get the information to us.



I called the Ops Room, hoping to get Luc, and possibly Ethan, on the phone.



"Jimmy's House of Vampires," Luc answered, in a really poor Bronx accent.



"That was unimpressive," I said, "but our visit with Robin Pope was not. She thinks the Bryants are involved in a conspiracy - paying off government employees and maybe sleeping with them to stay open - and she bolted when we mentioned it."



"That's good stuff," Luc said. "Except that when you say 'bolted,' it sounds like she got away from you and Catcher. A vampire and a sorcerer with extreme magical powers."



"Which, it turns out, don't work that well indoors," I said. "And she did get away from us, after a minor battle in her apartment building's hallway. But her behavior was suspicious enough that Catcher thinks the CPD will be interested. He's going to make the call."



"I like the part about the CPD involvement," he said. "I'm less crazy about the 'minor battle' bit. Did anyone see you there?"



"Other than Pope, not that I'm aware of. Security desk was empty."



"Where are you heading next?"



"The distribution center. I'm halfway there."



"Be careful," he said. "It sounds like you've already had a full night."



"Fuller than I'd intended," I admitted. "And feel free not to mention that to Ethan. He'd only worry."



Luc snorted. "He'll worry regardless. It's his job to worry. But you're right - no sense in adding to the night's list. And keep us posted."



I assured him I would, and I hoped the next report would leave me feeling considerably less guilty.



-



Unlike the hallway of the building in Greektown, Wicker Park actually looked better than it had last night. Broken windows had been boarded up, battered cars had been moved, and streetlights had been repaired. It was surprisingly quick work for a city often slogged by bureaucracy.



I hadn't seen Bryant Industries the night before, or ever that I recalled. The building was easy enough to spot - a large, low structure surrounded by a tidy hedge.



The damage was easy to spot, too. Half the front was a blackened husk, from the door, which sat right in the middle, across one side. Charred interior beams were visible through the gap in the front, and they hung down at odd angles. The rest of the building bore marks from the fire and smoke, and the small lawn in front was littered with blackened debris. Yellow police tape kept members of the press and curious onlookers away from the building.



I pulled into a parking spot on the street. Snow and ice crunching beneath my feet, I quickly crossed the street toward the building and the crowd. The smell of smoke and charred wood grew stronger as I moved, along with something else . . . the copper smell of blood.



I was walking toward a blood distribution center, and I hadn't bothered to drink blood before leaving the House. The croissant I'd grabbed on the way out wasn't doing much. I felt a sudden perk of vampiric interest, and my stomach rumbled ominously. I'd been so busy thinking about the motivations for the crime that I hadn't prepared myself for it. That had been thoughtless, but there was nothing to do about it now except try to maintain control and hope I didn't fang out in front of the human bystanders.



I sucked in a breath, promised myself a liter of blood when I made it back to the House, and waved at Catcher, who stood at the edge of the crowd, scanning it as if looking for clues.



"Enjoying the show?" I asked.



"As much as one enjoys watching idiocy," he grumbled, then gave me a sideways glance. "Do you notice anything unusual here?"



I glanced around, assuming I was being tested, and trying to figure out exactly what he was looking for. Ironically, I guessed he wasn't referring to anything present at the scene, but what was missing.



"There's not a single protestor here," I said.



"There's not a single protestor here," he agreed. "They went to the trouble to firebomb the place, and they didn't even show up to protest afterward? What's the point?"



"Grandpa said they lawyered up. Their lawyers probably advised them to stay away."



"Maybe," he allowed. "Or maybe this isn't about vampires, not really. Maybe this is about a crazy lady and her vendetta against her employer."



"I presume you told my grandfather about Robin Pope?"



"I did. He's calling Jacobs, thinking he'll be interested enough to at least bring her in for questioning."



"Excellent."



Catcher nodded and looked back at the smoldering building. "I suppose she's technically innocent until proved guilty, but innocent people, in my experience, don't tend to run. At least not when they're well-heeled northsiders living in a posh apartment building."



I nodded and stuffed my hands into my pockets, although that didn't help with the rest of my freezing body parts. The temperature was dropping, and my ears had begun to ache with cold.



"I assume we're out here because we're waiting for someone from Bryant Industries?"



"Ms. Bryant herself. And there she is," Catcher pleasantly added.



A woman appeared on the lawn. She was tall, with a wide smile, dark eyes, and ebony skin. Her straight hair swept her shoulders, and even while standing in the rubble of the building, she looked smartly dressed in a fitted red trench coat and black patent galoshes. She was, as far as I could tell, quite human.



Catcher moved forward through the crowd to the edge of the tape, and gestured to get her attention. At the sight of him, the woman nodded and walked toward us, raising the police tape so we could walk through.



"Charla Bryant," she said, extending her hand.



"Merit," I said. "I'm from Cadogan House. And this is Catcher. He's from - well, currently, my grandfather's house."



"We've met," Catcher said, and Charla smiled at me.



"We're well acquainted with your grandfather, Merit. He handled several issues on our behalf when he served as Ombudsman." She looked at Catcher. "It's a shame you aren't official anymore."



"We couldn't agree more," Catcher said, casting a glance back at the building. "I hope no one was injured?"



"Fortunately, no," Charla said. "We were between shifts, and in the middle of a company-wide meeting." Charla looked sadly back at the building. "No lives lost, but the building will never be the same. Let's have a look, shall we?"



We followed her toward the front door - or what was left of it. The smells of singed wood and plastic, and the low note of blood, grew stronger.



"The first bottle was thrown here," she said, gesturing at the door. "On its own, it wasn't terribly powerful. Less a blast than a source of fire. But they threw the second about fifteen feet away." She gestured farther down the wall. "The fire breached the building's propane line, which caused the explosions."



That explained the booms we'd heard.



"The fires eventually merged, and that's what caused most of the damage to the building."



"Do you have security tapes?" I asked.



"We do, although some of the cameras were damaged by the fire." Her eyes narrowed. "If you need a visual of the attack, it won't be hard to find on the Web. The protestors weren't exactly shy about taping their handiwork."



"So we saw," Catcher said. "But the videos could help us, if you can get them."



Charla nodded. "My brother, Alan, is also involved in the business. He has a biology background, so he handles research and development and oversees our lab work. He's also in charge of security. I'll see what he can do."



"How long have you been around?"



"In one form or another, since 1904. We've been in this building since the sixties."



"How many people know what you actually do?" I asked.



"Obviously all of our employees," she said. "But they stay quiet about it. We try to treat them well - pay them well - in return. That's part of our policy. If something had been off in that direction, we'd know it."



She looked back at us. "Did you see the mayor's press conference? And McKetrick's? Very disturbing stuff. How they think supernaturals would have been involved in this is completely beyond me. What benefit would they possibly have in endangering their own blood supply?"



"That's a very good question," Catcher said. "Which is why we tend to think this is about humans. We understand one of your former employees, Robin Pope, filed a grievance against the company. What can you tell us about that?"



Charla's expression shuttered, and the pleasant smile evaporated.



"Robin Pope, if you'll excuse my frankness, is an ignorant bully. If she didn't get her way on the smallest issue, she complained up the chain of command until someone finally caved. She cannot conceive of the possibility she's wrong, much less tolerate constructive criticism. She bullied her colleagues - even away from the office - and invented conspiracies to justify her behavior."



"You fired her?" Catcher prompted.



"We did. Her little grievance is the result of it. She claims she was fired because we love vampires and, thereby, hate humans, including her. That everyone else we employ is human didn't seem to cross her mind."



"That must have been irritating," I said.



"It was infuriating," Charla agreed. "Do you think she's involved?"



"I think it's an awfully big coincidence if she isn't," Catcher said.



"Do you think she's capable of it?" I asked Charla.



"I don't want to give her too much credit," she said, "but she didn't seem the violent type."



"You did say she bullied your employees," I said.



"Well, yes, but that was small scale. She left a nasty note on someone's car. Made a few unsettling phone calls. They were more about having uncovered the truth - and making sure that someone believed her - than violence. Firebombing the building because she was angry? I don't know about that." I wouldn't have figured Robin Pope for attempting to prick me with an aspen stake and then running like a fugitive, but I didn't mention that to Charla.



She scratched absently at a spot on her shoulder. "But maybe you're right. Maybe we were all fooled."



"What about any other threats against the business?" Catcher asked. "Harassing e-mails? Phone calls? Anything that would suggest you'd been targeted specifically?"



"Nothing at all. No communications, phone calls, anything. Not a single e-mail."



"What about union disputes?" I asked.



"We aren't unionized," Charla said, "and the union hasn't shown much interest because of our ties to the supernatural. They aren't really sure what to do with us."



"Supply chain issues?" Catcher asked. "Arguments with suppliers or vendors?"



"Our contracts are negotiated annually, and we're right in the middle of the term, so it will be six months before anyone starts complaining. Here's the thing - production is still running. So whoever hit us, if they meant to knock us off-line, didn't know anything about how we operate. They hit the front of the building - where the offices are located - not the back."



"Where the production actually occurs," I said.



"Exactly." She shrugged. "If they wanted to shut us down, they did a pretty crappy job of it. Thank goodness. Almost all of our employees live here, work here in the neighborhood. They take a lot of pride in what they do. We're a very family-oriented company. And speaking of family," she said, as a tall man with dark skin, glasses, and a goatee walked toward us. He was dressed in a perfectly fitting suit, which only added to the sense of business acumen.



"Alan," she said, putting a hand on his arm. "This is Catcher Bell and Merit. They're helping investigate the riots."



"Good to meet you," he said, shaking both of our hands. His handshake was strong, confident. "Thank you for your help."



"Of course," Catcher said. "We're sorry about the trouble and property damage."



"I was just telling them you'd get the security tapes," Charla said.



Alan frowned. "I'm not sure what help they'll be, as they aren't outside the building. They wouldn't show the rioters."



"Even if they don't," Catcher said, "they might help us eliminate theories."



Alan nodded. "I see. Of course. I should be able to get them onto DVDs. I assume that will work for you?"



"Perfectly," Catcher said.



"Charla said you handle the science aspects of the business?" I asked.



"He actually just finished his PhD in December," Charla said. "We're very proud of him."



Alan rolled his eyes affectionately. "It's no big deal."



"What's your degree in?" Catcher asked.



"Biochemistry," he said, gesturing toward the building. "You could say I grew up in the field. I've been heading our R and D division."



"New products in the works?" Catcher asked.



"Always," Charla said with a smile. "But not just new products. We've developed additives to keep blood from spoiling, products to keep the blood in suspension, nutritional enhancements."



"Stronger teeth and shinier coat?" Catcher asked, earning an elbow from me.



But Charla laughed good-naturedly. "That's not far from the truth. Fangs are important to vampires. No reason not to give them a calcium boost."



Catcher smiled. "I'm sure they appreciate it. We should let you get back to work, unless there's anything else you think we should know?"



Charla put her hands on her hips and frowned sadly at the remains of the building. "Only that I wish you could wave a wand, fix this damage, and turn idiots into humanitarians."



"If I had a wand that could do that," Catcher said, "I'd do nothing but wave it."