"I'm a vampire," Karl said. "Not a miracle worker."

  I watched him unlock his ride. It's the same Ford Exorcist he's been driving the last couple of years, except now it's got tinted windows – in case he's late getting home from work some morning.

  It was Wednesday morning, and tonight would be our night off. I wouldn't have minded working, anyway, but McGuire will only authorize overtime if we're chasing a hot lead. And right now we had no leads – hot, cold, or room temperature.

  "See you Thursday," Karl said.

  "Dark and early." Karl slipped behind the wheel and I headed for my own car. The Toyota Lycan's got a new windshield – Karl shot out the old one while saving my life, a while back – but otherwise it's as old and dented as its owner. But it hasn't got any rust on it, and neither do I – so far.

Ten minutes later I walked into the kitchen, where a vampire sat at the table reading the morning paper. Vamps don't usually hang around my kitchen much, but this one lived here.

  "Hey," I said.

  "Hey, Daddy," Christine said. "I was beginning to wonder if I'd see you before I went downstairs."

  "Downstairs" means the basement, where she spends the day wrapped up in a sleeping bag. I've fixed it up a little down there since she came to stay with me. No need for the place to look like a tomb, even if it sort of is one.

  "Yeah, I'm running late," I said. "I was talking to some FBI assholes. It was so much fun, I didn't notice what time it was getting to be."

  "What's up with the Feds?" she asked. "Some werewolf knock over a bank, or something?"

  "No, it's a lot worse than that," I said. "I'll tell you about it tonight, but there's something I wanted to ask you about before you crash – who's replaced Vollman as the local Supefather?"

  She gave me a brief smile. "'Supefather' – that's cute. Well, I haven't met him yet, but I hear the new guy is a wizard named Victor Castle."

  I gave her half a smile of my own. "Castle? Seriously?"

  "That's what he calls himself. I hear his birth name was Castellino, or something, but I guess that isn't dramatic enough. He's supposed to be pretty smart, even if he does seem to lack a sense of irony."

  "He and I need to have a conversation, I think. Where's he hang out – do you know?"

  She folded the Times-Tribune and stood up. I saw she was wearing her usual bedtime outfit – gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt that mocked a certain milk ad by asking, in red letters, "Got blood?"

  "I have no idea," she said. "But I'll ask around tonight, if you want. Maybe make a few calls."

  "I'd appreciate it. Thanks."

  She gave me a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. "See you at sundown."

  We'd agreed that saying "Good morning" as she went to sleep sounded stupid, so I said, "Goodnight, baby."

  I made some breakfast, ate it, and went to bed. That night, I hung out with Christine for a few hours until she left for her job as a 911 dispatcher. Then I did some laundry, put the trash out at the curb, and cleaned Quincey's cage. Quincey's my hamster, and a good listener. I told him about the Feebies and the nasty case they'd brought us, and he seemed interested. But maybe he just likes the sound of my voice. I'm glad somebody does.

  I killed a few more hours reading a book about a group of scientists who accidentally opened a portal to Hell. Some thoroughly bad shit ensued, as you might expect. The author claimed it was fiction, and I hoped he was right. We had too many people around with access to Hell as it was.

On Thursday night I got to the squad room around 7.30pm. I was going through my emails when Karl came in and sat at his desk, which is pushed up against mine so they face each other. I looked up, and said, "Hi," and went back to my computer screen. Part of my mind must have noticed that Karl hadn't booted up his own computer because I raised my eyes again and found him looking at me, a strange expression on his face.

  "What?" I said.

  "I was talking to a CI of mine last night." Confidential informant is the official name for a snitch – somebody who'll pass on information in return for a favor, a few bucks, or just a chance to bank some good will with the cops.

  "You were working last night?" I said. "McGuire didn't OK any overtime, that I know of."

  "I wasn't working," Karl said. "I just ran into him over at Scavino's."

  Scavino's is a bar that attracts what you might call a mixed clientele. Humans, mostly, but some supes go there because nobody hassles them. Ed Scavino sees to that. He's married to a werewolf, which makes him tolerant by necessity, if not disposition.

  "Yeah, OK," I said. "So, you were talking to this guy, and…?"

  "And he told me about a whisper that's been making the rounds lately." Karl hesitated a second, which isn't like him. Then I found out why. "Word is, Sharkey's back."

  I give myself a little credit for my reaction – or lack of one. I didn't move a muscle for a good two or three seconds, except for my eyelids, which I couldn't stop from blinking rapidly. That happens when I'm scared.

  "Sharkey's dead," I said.

  "Yeah, I know," Karl said. "At least, I thought I did. But there was never a positive ID on his body, you know that. After the explosion, then the fire, what could you expect? The forensics guys didn't have a lot to work with."

  "He was seen going into that building, just before it blew. Nobody ever saw him come out." I don't know who I was trying to convince, Karl or myself.

  "Yeah – but, shit, getting in and out of places without being seen was Sharkey's specialty. He was like a fucking ninja, or something. That's why he got paid so much."

  "Being a dhampir probably helps with that," I said.

  "Yeah, probably."

  Sharkey killed for money, but calling him a hit man was like saying that Rembrandt was a painter. Sharkey was death on two feet. Half human, half vampire, and all lethal. To nobody's surprise, he was known as "the Shark," but I think they'd have called him that even if his name was Smith or Jones.