The Man Who Walked in Darkness (Miles Franco #2) (Miles Franco Urban Fantasy) Read Free Page B

She sounded tired. Had I done that to her? “We’ll get in touch with your bandmates, see if they know anything.”
    “What are you going to do with her?”
    “We’ll do the autopsy, see what we can find out. Then we’ll return her to her family.”
    I nodded. This was a nightmare. Wade opened the interview room door while Vivian stood up. I got to my feet as well, feeling like I was carrying a sack of rocks on my back.
    “One thing, before I go,” I said. “I didn’t think you were a murder cop.”
    “I’m not.”
    “Then what is this to you?”
    She shrugged and gave Wade a glance.
    “There’s been others, hasn’t there?” I asked.
    “We’ll call you if we need to ask you anything else,” Vivian said. She stepped aside and gestured to the door.
    I chewed my lip and nodded slowly. “Yeah, all right. You still owe me that talk.” I waved to Wade. “See you round, Pretty Boy.”
    He smirked and said nothing. I walked out of the interrogation room alone. The two cops shut the door behind me. A uniform escorted me outside, back into the oppressive heat. He didn’t talk, and neither did I. Everyone was happier that way.
    He left me on the footpath, where cars spewed out smog that billowed in the heat. I walked along the block a little way, avoiding all eye contact with the strangers that passed, until I found a cool alley free of homeless people.
    I bent over behind a dumpster and heaved my guts into a stormwater drain. Again and again I threw up, acid burning my nose, tears welling in my eyes. I could see Claudia standing in front of me, clear as day, her eyes wide open. I stretched out my hand toward her, but I couldn’t touch her. Enough sanity clung to my mind to tell me she wasn’t really there. That sure as hell didn’t make it less spooky. What the hell was wrong with me? Was it the drink, or the stress of the trial? Or was it something worse? My aching stomach clenched. Had something taken a bite out of my mind? I looked to Claudia for answers, but she wasn’t in a talking mood. Silently, she accused me of failing her. She was right.
    When my stomach ran dry, I stumbled back and dropped down onto a flattened cardboard box. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the notebook I’d swiped from Wade’s jacket pocket after my little tantrum.
    The cocky son of a bitch had never even noticed. He almost made it too easy.
    It was one of those notebooks that flip open at the top, so you could easily hold it with one hand. Wade’s writing was neat, almost girlish. I flipped through until I found the names of the other victims. Other people dead the same way as Claudia.
    Steve A. Tyler. Human. Dock worker. Deceased.
    Robert Mooney. Vei. Transient. Deceased.
    Leslie Croy. Vei. Cleaner (no work permit). Deceased.
    Teresa A. Bruening. Human. Transient. Deceased.
    Jerry K. McLawhorn. Human. Gang associate. Deceased.
    Penny Coleman. Vei. Prostitute. Patient at Mercy of the Eight Hospital.
    I read the last entry again. One of them was alive? I read the rest of the page. This Penny Coleman was in intensive care at a private hospital that only treated Vei. I’d ridden past the place a couple of times. It looked expensive. How could a Vei prostitute get treatment there?
    And more importantly, what did she know about what’d happened to Claudia?
    I read the brief entry a couple more times. It wasn’t far. I could go see her, do some snooping. Maybe find out…
    I sighed and closed my eyes. What the hell was I doing? I’d screwed up enough already. I was barely out of court, and it wouldn’t take much to get me back in front of a judge. The cops could do their job. They’d find out what happened to Claudia.
    I stood and tossed the notebook into the dumpster. The ghosts of the people I’d killed followed me as I walked back out onto the street, a new one at their head. I hailed a taxi, and Claudia climbed in beside me.
    “Where to, chief?” the driver asked.
    “Get me to a bar,” I said.
    Claudia stared