Blood in the Batter Page 3

  “But you’re going to keep her locked up anyway?” A quiet ember of anger had been festering in Priscilla’s chest since she’d seen one of her part-time workers hauled away toward the back, presumably to be booked. “She can’t stay here, Arthur. She’s not even a hundred years old yet. When sunrise hits, she’ll be vomiting all over your clean floors.”

  “The cells are windowless,” Arthur said.

  Priscilla was aghast. “You’re going to keep her in a cell? That’s barbaric! She hasn’t done anything! You’ve never kept me in a cell.”

  “I never found you kneeling over the body of a dying man, Priscilla.” Arthur was all but shouting in his frustration. “All the corpses you’ve encountered were dead before you got there, and there wasn’t almost total exsanguination of the bodies. If there had been, you’d have been in a cell too.”

  She wasn’t sure if that made her fortunate or unfortunate. She’d encountered three bodies thus far, and all of them had been dead upon her arrival. But that fact didn’t mitigate what Arthur was doing now.

  “You think she drank him?” Priscilla asked, snatching her handkerchief from him. Honestly, he was just making a mess of things. She hauled him toward the breakroom by the elbow. It at least had a sink where she could properly wring out the fabric.

  The breakroom smelled like burnt coffee and stale donuts. No one had cleaned in here for a while, she could tell. The trash can was nearly overflowing with boxes and fast-food bags. It was a good thing that Arthur ran every day with his daughter, or he’d have developed quite a paunch.

  He grunted when she pushed him down into a plastic chair near the table. Priscilla crossed over to the sink and did her best to wash the face paint from her handkerchief. It was probably going to stain. That would upset Becca, who’d monogramed them especially for her birthday.

  “She’s a vampire, Priscilla,” Arthur began carefully. “And like you said, she’s young as far as the undead go. Plus, blood is very pricey, according to Anna …”

  “Unless you failed to notice in the five years we’ve known each other, Arthur, I’m a vampire as well. And I didn’t touch a drop of Aaron Burke’s blood. Contrary to popular opinion, we do practice restraint.”

  She seized his chin in an almost motherly gesture and began to wipe the paint off his face. Much like a child, he grimaced and tried to bat her hands away. It was an ineffectual gesture and they both knew it. She was stronger than Arthur by quite a bit.

  “Her prints were on the knife,” Arthur said. “She was the only one in the shop at the time the murder took place.”

  “And I suppose she managed to be in two places at once?” Priscilla asked sourly. “So she could smash out my window and make her daring escape? Use your brain, Arthur. You know she’s not the culprit.”

  “I agree with you, Priscilla, but she could still be an accessory. If she took any blood, she sped his death along and robbed him of precious minutes that could have been used to save his life.”

  Priscilla had to resist the urge to bare her fangs at him in frustration. Arthur had mostly gotten over his vampire phobia. She liked to think that the last year or so he’d spent working with her had begun to change his views on her species—namely, that they were all wanton killing machines that would gorge themselves on blood the moment an opportunity presented itself.

  In any case, acting on a childish impulse to scare him was unlikely to get her anywhere with this stubborn man. She had to appeal to his logic, not emotion.

  “His carotid artery was severed, Arthur. I can tell you that much without consulting the coroner.”

  Arthur’s eyes narrowed suspiciously at her. She tried to ignore the pang of hurt that sent through her and turned away, washing out the handkerchief once more.

  “Honestly, haven’t any of you read Gray’s Anatomy?” she asked, handing him the handkerchief again. She was confident he could take care of the rest on his own.

  Arthur frowned. “That TV show? I didn’t know there were any novelizations.”

  “No. I mean the textbook on human anatomy published by Henry Gray in 1858.”

  “You know I don’t read much,” Arthur grunted, trying to hide the rosy flush that had crept into his cheeks.

  “Regardless, Mr. Burke was going to die. Blood flows at extremely high pressure through the arteries. He would have bled out in just a little over a minute without intervention. Maddison’s interference gave him a few minutes longer than he would normally have had.”

  Arthur was silent for a few minutes as he processed her words. “So how do vampire bites work? Shouldn’t they be fatal?”

  “They can be, if the vampire in question rips at the throat like an animal. But generally, a nick in the artery won’t kill you. The punctures left by a fang are small, and there are properties in our saliva that encourage healing. There’s no sense in killing someone when they’re still full of blood.”

  “So why would she cut him?” Arthur mused, speaking more to himself than to her.

  “She wouldn’t,” Priscilla said. “No vampire would, except perhaps to hide the marks post-mortem. And that was only necessary during the vampire hysteria of the dark ages. If she wanted to feed, she could have gotten the blood without all the mess.”

  “You’re talking about compulsion, aren’t you? That’s still illegal, Priscilla. She could serve up to ten years for an offense like that.”

  Compulsion, or the ability to use hypnotic suggestion to bend a human to one’s will, had been outlawed in the U.S. for nearly twenty years. It was considered a massive human rights violation and was punishable by jailtime, if not worse.

  “I’m not saying that she used compulsion,” Priscilla said quickly. “I’m just trying to drive the point home. She’s perfectly capable of taking blood without slitting someone’s throat.”

  “Something I don’t get,” Arthur began with a frown, “is why she didn’t change him to save his life.”

  Priscilla pursed her lips. “Siring someone is a personal choice, Arthur, and it comes with a great deal of responsibility. Even if it had occurred to her, it wouldn’t have worked. The parties exchange blood and it needs time to saturate the tissues. Aaron was bleeding out too fast for it to work.”

  It would most likely have reanimated his corpse though, but she kept that gruesome detail to herself.

  “She’s not responsible for his death, Arthur. You ought to release her.”

  Arthur leaned his chair back lazily and covered his face with the handkerchief. “I can’t just let her go, Priscilla.”

  Priscilla just stared at him, fury swelling in her chest. She thought that they’d been on the same page until now. Why couldn’t she just make him see sense?

  “If this is your obsession with appealing to the press rearing its ugly head Arthur, I swear—”

  Arthur’s chair legs hit the ground with a strident squeal and he whipped the handkerchief off almost too quickly for her eyes to follow.

  “You’ll what?” Arthur snapped. “You’ll subject me to a grueling lecture? Try again, Priscilla. I’ve been listening to one for at least an hour and a half now.”

  Priscilla backpedaled as if her unlife depended on it. The furious look on Arthur’s face said it just might.

  “You can’t do this to her, Arthur,” she pleaded. “She’s just a kid.”

  “Yeah,” he scoffed. “Just like you’re an attractive, single, twenty-two-year-old. She’s old enough to be my mother, Priscilla. You’re old enough to be a Founding Father. I’m not going to let appearances deceive me. I’m doing what has to be done for the good of Bellmare. If that makes people uncomfortable, so be it.”

  “What are you planning on doing?”

  “I’ve put in a court order. We’re going to have tests done to examine the contents of her stomach,” he said.

  Priscilla’s stomach pitched, and her most recent meal threatened to make a reappearance. She doubted Arthur would appreciate blood on the breakroom carpet, so she swallowed back her revulsion an
d turned away, walking stiffly from the room.

  “Where are you going?” Arthur asked.

  “Outside. I need some air,” she said. Something in her tone must have alerted him to her mood, because he didn’t try to call her back.

  When she stepped outside the precinct’s doors, she was already shaking. It had nothing to do with the cold.

  She hadn’t been this angry with Arthur for a long time. She’d thought they’d mended the fences, and that he’d gotten over his prejudices in recent months. To realize she’d been mistaken felt like a slap in the face.

  Priscilla pulled her TracFone from her pocket. It took her a few frustrating minutes to figure out how many prepaid minutes she had left on the phone. Only five, apparently, so she’d need to make this call quick.

  “Scott Allen’s office,” a perky woman answered. Priscilla wondered how she could sound so chipper despite the late hour. She couldn’t claim to be surprised that the office was still open, however. Businesses in large cities often worked late to accommodate their vampire patrons and workers. “How may I direct your call?”

  “I need to speak to Mr. Allen, please.”

  The woman clucked her tongue. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Allen isn’t accepting phone calls at this time.”

  Priscilla sensed she was getting the professional equivalent of a brush off, and wasn’t having any of it. “Then leave him a message. Tell him that Priscilla Pratt needs his legal counsel and that it’s urgent.”

  The receptionist typed in something. “You’re not in our system, ma’am. Perhaps if you call back at a later date and set up a meeting—”

  “A child is about to undergo an unnecessary and cruel battery of medical testing at the hands of police,” Priscilla all but growled into the receiver. “If your boss doesn’t want to handle this case, I’ll move onto the next attorney available and he can take the credit for stopping it.”

  It was a bluff. She didn’t know any other lawyers, and she didn’t think she could get into contact with anyone before the procedures were performed. She only knew Scott Allen from the previous case she’d worked on with Arthur. On that occasion, he’d been defending a girl accused of murdering two fellow teens.

  The woman’s resolve faltered. “I’ll see what I can do. Hold, please.”

  The line clicked and suddenly pleasant but bland music was filtering through her speakers. Priscilla tapped her foot impatiently on the pavement. She didn’t have time for this.

  Finally, Scott Allen picked up the phone. He had an extraordinarily smooth voice. “What can I do for you this evening, Miss Pratt?”

  “You can be yourself, Mr. Allen,” she replied. “I need someone to stymie the legal process until sunrise. Are you available?”

  She could almost picture his smile on the other end of the line. “Keep them busy for an hour and a half, Miss Pratt. I’ll be there.”

  The line went dead, and a few seconds later, her phone buzzed, alerting her that she had no more prepaid minutes left. Priscilla flipped it closed and stuffed it back into her pocket with a sigh.

  Well, at least one thing had gone right tonight.

  Chapter Three

  Hostility radiated off of Arthur in waves as he glared at the mild-looking black man sitting across from him. Scott Allen didn’t seem fazed by his dislike at all.

  Priscilla shifted uncomfortably in her seat. It was the first time since becoming a police consultant that she was sitting opposite of her friend, in direct opposition to what he was trying to accomplish.

  Scott Allen had arrived in an hour and a half, just as he’d promised, and had immediately brought the place to a standstill, demanding a meeting with his “client.” Technically he hadn’t been hired officially and was working pro bono until she could scrape enough money together to pay him. Priscilla was hoping that this wouldn’t take long. She knew that Maddison was innocent. They just had to stall until the coroner’s report could be faxed into the office so they’d have proof.

  “If you weren’t already dead, I’d kill you, Priscilla,” Arthur said through clenched teeth. “Going behind my back and calling this sleazebag? That’s beyond the pale.”

  She wasn’t sure what to say that. Arthur’s threat might have been hyperbole, but she wasn’t sure. So she stared back stonily and said nothing.

  “I prefer the term attorney at law,” Allen said with a sly smile. “But call me whatever you like, Chief Sharp. I’m not here for you, after all.”

  Maddison shifted uncomfortably. She and Priscilla could both hear Olivia in the other room, bawling out Officer Darby. They couldn’t make out just what was being said, but Priscilla would bet money it was colorful.

  Maddison had been sandwiched between Priscilla and Mr. Allen for the last fifteen minutes. “Please, sir, can’t I just give you a statement and go home?”

  “You don’t need to say a word, Maddison,” Allen said at once. “The police have nothing to go on. They can only hold you for so long without charging you. I suggest you invoke your right to remain silent and tell them nothing.”

  “But I don’t have anything to hide,” she said quietly. “I didn’t hurt Mr. Burke.”

  “Then why were your fingerprints found on the knife that killed him?” Arthur asked, with more vitriol than was truly necessary. Priscilla knew it was meant to be aimed in her direction, but Maddison flinched all the same.

  “I don’t know, sir. I think I moved it when I found him.”

  “You think?” he asked sharply. “You only think you moved it?”

  Maddison sank even lower in her chair. “Yes, sir. I think so. It happened so fast.”

  “It was one of my kitchen knives, Arthur,” Priscilla said, hoping to draw his ire onto its correct target. “It could have had my fingerprints on it, or Anna’s. It’s a common household item. It would be more suspicious if no prints had been found on the weapon.”

  Arthur’s scowl was ferocious. “Don’t tell me how to do my job, Pratt,” he snapped. “I’ll decide what is and isn’t suspicious.”

  “Do you know what I find suspicious?” Allen mused aloud. “That you seem so keen on prosecuting this young lady, despite a lack of evidence. The ungracious might think you had a prejudice against vampires, Chief Sharp. But I’m sure that’s ridiculous. After all, the Fourteenth Amendment protects people from undue discrimination, doesn’t it?”

  Arthur’s face purpled, and Priscilla was sure the blood vessel that had been steadily pulsing in his temple was going to burst from the strain of holding in his rage.

  “Please, Mr. Allen.” Maddison pressed his arm. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I just want to tell the chief what happened, if you don’t mind.”

  Allen nodded. “If you wish. But I will caution you not to speak to the police. They’re not trustworthy.”

  “I’m not trustworthy?!” Arthur exploded, shooting out of his seat. “I’m not trustworthy? You’ve got a lot of nerve, you—”

  “Arthur, please.” Priscilla reached across the table to push him back down towards his chair.

  “He has the nerve to swagger into my department and act like he’s in the right? You can forget about consulting on this case, Pratt. That ship has sailed.”

  “I’m fairly certain that would be inadvisable anyway,” Allen said mildly. “As the murder took place in her business and residence, it’s likely any competent lawyer would strike her from the witness list because of bias.”

  “I don’t believe I asked for your opinion,” Arthur snapped.

  “Can I give my statement, please?” Maddison asked, anger suddenly clear in her tone.

  Priscilla swiveled slightly in her seat to look at her. It was the first time she’d heard Maddison raise her voice in the five years they’d known each other. Usually the woman had the temperament of the kindly old grandmother that she might have been, if fate hadn’t intervened. Priscilla had seen her upset, bitter, and impatient before, but never angry.

  It was apparently enough to snap Arthur out
of his rage. He sat back down on the plastic chair and glared sullenly at the three of them. “Go on.”

  Maddison sat up straighter and folded her arms neatly on her lap. The handcuffs that bound her arm to the chair jangled loudly in the relative silence that followed. Priscilla wondered why the police even bothered to restrain her with those fragile things. If Maddison hadn’t wanted to cooperate with them, she could have snapped the chair arm clean off and exited the room at any time.

  “Priscilla left instructions with Anna to come and get me,” she began. “We agreed to trade shifts until she returned from her errand.”

  “What errand?” Arthur said, pulling out his notepad.

  “I’m not sure, sir.”

  “I was taking a plate of jumbo cookies to the charity auction,” Priscilla supplied. “And I knew I’d need someone to bake while I was away.”

  “Anna’s okay when it comes to the big three,” Maddison said, ticking down her fingers as she went. “Chocolate chip cookies, sugar cookies, and peanut butter cookies. But anything more advanced than that, and it’s a toss-up. Priscilla was almost out of everything. So I started the recipe I could with the flour that was left.”

  “Which was?”

  “Chocolate chunk,” Maddison said. “There was only enough for one large batch, so I went downstairs to find more flour.”

  Arthur raised an eyebrow at her. “The flour was downstairs? Why would Priscilla keep it down there?”

  Priscilla opened her mouth to answer, but Maddison beat her to the punch. “Because she has to order in bulk. Each sack of sugar and flour is a hundred pounds. Do you actually expect her to keep all of them in those tiny cabinets of hers? She barely has enough room for all the amenities.”

  Arthur frowned, but jotted it down. “And what happened then? You grabbed the flour and then what?”

  “I heard shouting from upstairs. I didn’t hear what was said.”

  “Convenient,” Arthur muttered.

  Maddison’s shoulders slumped and Priscilla could bite her tongue no longer. “Stop antagonizing her, Arthur. You’re angry at me, not her.”