Plucking a pen from her pencil cup, she tapped it on the desk, wanting to write everything down but resisting lest it come back to bite her. Maybe not so dense after all. "Motive . . ." she breathed, enjoying the adrenaline rush and feeling as if it cleansed her somehow. Why would Art help plan and cover up a murder? What would he get out of it? Being undead, Art was moved only by survival and his need for blood.
Blood? she thought. Had the suspect promised to be Art's blood shadow in exchange for the opportunity to murder his wife? Didn't sound right.
Her lips curled upward and she smiled. Money. Art's rise in the I.S. had stopped when he died and was no longer a potential source of blood. Without the currency of blood for bribes, he couldn't rise in the vampiric hierarchy. He was existing on the interest from his postdeath funds, but by law he couldn't touch the principal. If the suspect gave Art a portion of his wife's insurance money, it might be enough to move Art up a step. That the undead vampire had openly admitted he wasn't adverse to using Ivy to pull him up in the ranks only solidified her belief that he was having money problems. Undead vampires didn't work harder than they had to. That Art was working at all said something.
Pen clicking open and shut so fast it almost hummed, Ivy tried to remember if she had ever heard that Art had died untimely. He'd been working the same desk over thirty years.
Jerking in sudden decision, she dropped the pen and pulled out the Yellow Pages, looking for the biggest insurance ad that wasn't connected to one of Cincinnati's older vamp families. She would call them all if she had to. Pulse quickening, she dialed, using the suspect's social security number to find out his next payment wouldn't be due until the fifteenth. It was for a hefty amount, and she impatiently kept hitting the star button until the machine had a cyber coronary and dumped her into a real person's phone.
"Were Insurance," a polite voice answered.
Ivy sat straighter. "This is Officer Tamwood," she said, "and I'm checking on the records of a Mr. and Mrs. Demere? Could you tell me if they upped their life insurance recently?"
There was a moment of silence. "You're from the I.S.?" Before Ivy could answer, the woman continued primly. "I'm sorry, Officer Tamwood. We can't give out information without a warrant."
Ivy smiled wickedly. "That's fine, ma'am. My partner and I will be there with your little piece of paper as soon as the sun goes down. We're kind of in a hurry, so he might skip breakfast to get there before you close."
"Uh . . ." the voice came back, and Ivy felt her eyes dilate at the fear it held. "No need. I'm always glad to help out the I.S. Let me pull up the policy in question."
Ivy tucked the phone between her ear and her shoulder, picking at her nails and trying to get her eyes to contract.
"Here it is!" the woman gushed nervously. "Mr. and Mrs. Demere took out a modest policy covering each of them shortly after getting married . . ." The woman's voice trailed off, sounding puzzled. "It was increased about four months ago. Just a minute."
Ivy swung her feet to the floor and reached for a pen.
"Okay," the woman said when she returned. "I see why. Mrs. Demere finished getting her degree. She was going to become the major breadwinner, and they wanted to take advantage of the lower payment schedule before her next birthday. It has a payout of a half million." The woman chuckled. "Someone was a little enthusiastic. A data entry degree won't get her a good enough job to warrant that kind of insurance."
A zing of adrenaline went through Ivy, and the pen snapped. "Damn it!" she swore as ink stained her hand and dripped to the desk.
"Ma'am?" the woman questioned, a new wariness to her voice.
Staring at the blue ink on her hand, Ivy said, "Nothing. My pen just broke." She dropped it in the trash, and using her foot, she opened a lower drawer and snatched up a tissue. "It might be in your company's best interest to misfile any claim for a few weeks," she said as she wiped her fingers. "Could you give me a call when someone tries to process it?"
"Thank you, Officer Tamwood," the insurance officer said cheerfully over the sound of a pencil scratching. "Thank you very much. I've got your number on my screen, and I'll do just that."
Embarrassed, Ivy hung up. Still trying to get the worst of the ink off her, she felt a stirring of excitement. It wasn't in any report that the tear wasn't functioning. This had possibilities. But she couldn't go to the basement with her suspicions; if Art had promised someone down there a cut of money, her suspicions would go nowhere and she'd look like a whiny bitch trying to get out of giving Art his due blood. That she was doing just that didn't bother her as much as she thought it would.
Balling up the inkstained tissue, Ivy reached again for the phone. Kisten. Kisten could help her on this. Maybe they could have lunch together.
FIVE
The muted sounds of the last patrons being ushered out the door vibrated through the oak timbers of the floorboards, and Ivy relaxed in it, finding more peace there than she'd like to admit. Extending her long legs out under the piano, she picked up her melted milkshake and sipped through the straw as she planned Art's downfall. Before her on the closed lid were written-out plans of contingencies, neatly arranged on the black varnished wood. Below her, Piscary's living patrons stumbled home in the coming dawn. The undead ones had left a good hour ago. The scent of tomato paste, sausage, pasta, and the death-by-chocolate dessert someone had ordered to go drifted up through the cracks.
The light coming in the expansive windows was thin, and Ivy looked from her pages set in neat piles and stretched her laced fingers to the distant ceiling. She was usually in bed this time of day-waiting for Kisten to finish closing up and slide in behind her with a soft nibble somewhere. More often than not, it turned into a breathless circle of give and take that left them content in each other's arms as they fell asleep with the morning sun warming their skin.
Focus blurring, Ivy plucking at the itchy fabric of her lace shirt, her thoughts returning to Mia. Banshees were known for inciting trouble, often hiring themselves in to a productive company and putting old friends at each other's throats with a few well-placed words of truth, whereupon they would sit back and lap up the emotion while everything fell apart. That they usually did this with the truth made it worse. She loved Kisten, but to call it love when she took his blood? That was savage need. There could be no love there. Eyes dropping to the papers surrounding her, she pushed at them as if pushing away her thoughts, bringing her hand up to slide a finger between her neck and the collar of itchy lace.