Gregorio, Trying Not to Think of Stakeout Puns

Yeah, alright, I botched that big time. You can say it. I was way out of practice on interrogation methods. Margarita was attract—a tricky one.

I sought refuge from the smoke cloud of her apartment in the bar across the street, wanting to keep an eye on her a bit longer. Nobody hardly noticed the vampire brooding or abstaining from his cheap beer at a two-top by the window. The Bean & Brew went on as normal. As the crowd shifted from caffeinated to intoxicated, that young and overworked barista eventually elected to clean tables.

On the third floor, Madame Margarita extinguished her neon and peeked out her dark curtains. Again.

That woman was... weird. And, officially, the number one person of interest in this case. I needed to know more about that dang finger. Whatever else she was hiding, too.

My legs were still stiff from my sudden exit. I could smell the incense clinging to my jacket, along with the hints of her cigarette breath and shampoo (mint and orange) and decay. She didn't smell like any other creature I'd encountered before. That's, I believe, because she isn't one of us. She was a human playing pretend. It's a lame act really. Just look at all the useless trinkets and spooky charms scattered throughout her place. No self-respecting psychically inclined witch would ever be so tacky.

Plus, she just about announced her supposed powers to a stranger who waltzed on in. Any witch or medium worth their circling salt would know that's Society rule numero uno: no irrefutable evidence of magic shall be revealed to humans.

Darling. I've been called a lot of things in this pitiful existence. But not that. Bet she used that line often. Softens high paying clients.

And what clients would they be, precisely? Certainly, no witches would be caught upside down on their brooms in the home of that charlatan. Werewolves? Fae? Goblins, trolls, shapeshifters, mermaids, banshees? Other vampires? High paying undead itching for a glimpse of next year's Eagles projections and the 'chance' to speak with the lovers they've murdered?

Would explain how she knew too much, for a human.

She couldn't be one of us. There wasn't a chance. So called psychics and mediums almost never were. This wasn't a surprise. She was as phony as her platinum hair.

And with Philadelphia absolutely infested with creepy crawlies the council was strict with enforcing that no exposing magic rule. So protecting those higher end clients obviously marked high on her agenda tonight.

Wonder if Dmitri was the one who turned Lily onto the Madame. I should have asked—

Ah, but wait old boy. Lily worked right below that two-bit parlor. Wouldn't it have just been more likely she sought out the first psychic she could find?

Why in sweet hell would the girl even leave work only to come back to the psychic parlor that night? What happened between then? What did Lily want to know?

How the bloody fangs did she walk out of there short one finger?

I put down the pencil and actually took a sip of my watered-down beer. It was bland and flat. My hand was cramping from trying to write out all I gathered. My head hurt too. Margarita pulled back her curtains to check if I was still outside for the third time. I flexed my hand and picked up the pencil. I needed to review the facts.

Lily Perez arrived at the psychic, presumably in one piece, around midnight... and left a little later with one less finger. If she left at all. Was it likely our Madame murdered the girl and disposed of the body in tiny, manageable pieces? Could it have been Lily confronting Margarita about her lousy practice? Money in exchange for silence toward the Magistrate on the whole illegal medium-ing thing? Hmm, but with Lily herself being an undocumented bloodbag, this theory would hold up about as well as Margarita's bathrobe.

I needed to learn more about Lily.

My runaway train of thought was interrupted by a call. Mrs. Cabroni. Hell, I was supposed to have briefed her about her cheating husband at 7:30. It was just after nine. I declined the call. Only after did I notice Phoebe had texted me a reminder about the Cabroni meeting while I was in Margarita's parlor.

Glancing back up at the Psychic Medium on the third floor, I caught the shift of her curtain closing. Ah, to fangs with it. Made is made. She wasn't popping out again tonight. Why was I even sticking around? Might as well break off and not let the night be a complete waste.

I downed my beer – my stomach was already cramping from the coffee but one more drink wouldn't really hurt – and headed north into Center City.

The sidewalk was icy, but I needed to clear my head, and wanted to see the path Lily would have presumably had to have walked from her apartment to the café. Made note of the few bus stops she could've used along the way too.

I'd been going about this case wrong from the minute I learned poor dear Lily Perez had truly flown the coup. Should've made that barista scoot into the back and get me some real paperwork on the gal. A firm address, for starts. I got distracted by the psychic lead. That sure panned out swell.

Instead, all I stupidly nabbed from the barista was a cross street and phone number that went straight to an impersonal voicemail.

13th and Spruce. Not a bad corner. Couple of blocks from City Hall, in the artsy part of town. Technically the neighborhood was called Washington Square West, but locally it was better known as the Gayborhood. It was clean (for Philly), but the paint on the rainbow crosswalks at the intersection could use a touch up. When I arrived, the scene was teeming with both humans and creatures popping in and out of the neighborhood's trendy clubs and bars.

Which building, then, did you live in Lily Perez? Could I be as lucky as it being right on the corner? On the west side of Spruce was a parking lot and community center, on the east were bars and restaurants converted from rowhomes, and a swanky hotel on the corner. Nice place, considering I recall when it used to be a dilapidated squatters and drug hotel in the mid-2000s.

There were two mid-rise apartment buildings on opposite corners, I chanced the northwest side first. According to its fancy awning the building was called The Lenox. There was a doorman in a suit just inside. I stood out front, pretending to call an Uber as I looked up some of the floor plans. They were nice, mostly one- and two-bedroom condos for purchase. I could be wrong, but I doubted Dmitri's barista could afford to own a place in this happening a part of town.

The ground floor of the one on the southeast corner contained a closed deli. There was a dirty buzzer just outside the door. I rang random apartment numbers till I found somebody who was both actually expecting a pizza and too lazy to come down and fetch it to let me in.

The lobby was just as gray and dirty as the façade, with torn carpets and scratches along the walls from years of moving furniture too big for the elevators. There was a security desk with cameras running, but it was empty. I ventured down a bleak hallway till I came across a wall of mailboxes.

A L. Perez lived on the 7th floor.

Oh, boy, I am good.

I snapped a photo of the name and apartment number on the box, feeling stupidly proud of myself, even though if I had just gotten her information in the first place, I wouldn't have had to use the good ole pizza pre-text just to narrow down a building.

Although it smelled like cigarettes, the elevator ride was uneventful. I'm certain I must have been imagining the tinge of mint and orange in the air.

And there her door was, in the corner of the hall. Nothing special about it. No welcome mat or leftover Christmas wreath, like the next apartment over. Some scratches on it, around the knob and along the frame, but hell knew how old those were.

Only one way to find out if the gal's just been holed up in her apartment all this time.

I gently knocked.

Somewhere down the hall a dog barked.

Oh... what time was it?

Just after ten... was this an indecent hour? Having a strange man show up at her door this late could be inappropriate. But, then again, she worked in a 24-hour café. Still didn't mean she'd be up for receiving visitors in the middle of the night, you dummy. She was only human.

Nobody responded to my knock anyway.

I pressed an ear to her door but heard nothing more than the faint whir of electronics and radiators. No movement or heavy breathing or any sign that anybody was home.

"Ms. Perez?" I said, knocking once again.

Still nothing.

So nobody was home then.

I groaned. Because the missing tend not to be home, you dolt.

Here I'd been holding out hope I'd find her in her own place, eating ice cream from the gallon and just trying to ghost out of the creepy relationship I was there on behalf of. Yeah, that was never my luck.

I wrangled my keys out my pocket. The lock picking tools jingled on the ring. Well someone needs to look inside, don't they? To double extra triple make sure she hadn't moved out... or was decomposing in the bathtub.

Although my gut told me it wasn't her own bathtub she was decomposing in. She was the romantic interest of a mentally unwell vampire. For all I knew I'd been hired—well, threatened—to dig up a nine fingered body he misplaced.

Dmitri. I'd have really preferred you didn't drag me into this, you crazy bastard.

"Miss Perez," I said, as cautiously as possible, "I'm here to check on your wellbeing. If your inside, you'd be doing us both a favor to open up. Please."

I didn't bother to wait for the response I knew wouldn't be coming.

Picking the lock was easy enough. A muscle memory. But once the door click-clicked open a subtle, sour stench hit me, and I fumbled my key ring. I tensed. It made too much noise clattering to the floor, but none seemed to notice. I grabbed it and reached for the doorknob, only to have it slip right through my fingers. Like it had just been coated in grease. Odd. I grabbed at it again only to trip, somehow, face first into the door. Which did not open when my nose slammed into it. I pushed off the door, which seemed to slip and slide out from under me. Huh... when did doors get this complicated... oh you fool.

I stepped back into the hall. My head cleared. Like a fog, one I hadn't even realized set in, lifting lazily off my brain. Us vampires need to be invited into private residences.

Which meant either she had a roommate in the smelly shoebox behind this door – based on how close together the apartment doors were and the width of building the place had to be small – or I least managed to prove our gal Lily was, thankfully, still alive. And still, technically, lived here.