So, you killed one of the vampires in self-defense, and you saw the mysterious shooter behind the big car drop another one of them. That leaves two dead vampires unaccounted for.

One of them was down before I got there. He was laying on the street, near the big car. My guess is he was killed in the ambush set up by the three other shooters – an ambush that was also supposed to get the guy who was firing from behind the car when I got there.

OK, that’s one. What about the other vampire?

I have no idea. I know who didn’t kill him – me or the shooter behind the car. Beyond that, I’ve got no clue.

He was shot in the back. Are you sure you didn’t have anything to do with that?

Take my weapon. Fire a test bullet from it, and compare that to the slug you dug out of the vampire. I’m pretty sure they won’t match. I also resent the implication that I’m a back shooter.

The vampire you admit that you killed – you say he shot at you first. Where did the slugs go that he fired at you?

Beats me – they whistled past my head and headed off down the street. They could be anywhere up to two blocks away, I guess – unless they lodged in some car that the owner already drove away.

And that’s how it went, over and over, for six goddamn hours.

“So, why’d you lie?” Christine asked me.

“The answer to that depends on which particular lie you’re talking about.”

We sat at the kitchen table, each of us having our own version of breakfast. I’d had all of three hours of restless sleep, and had to go to work soon. Fuck it – that’s why God gave us coffee.

“I mean, I get the story about you shooting that fangster because he opened up on you first,” she said. “If you told them that you’d just up and shot the guy, you’d get fired.”

“At least,” I said.

“But how come you didn’t tell them that what’s-his-name, the Mafia guy–”

“Calabrese.”

“Yeah, him. Why didn’t you just explain that there was an ambush set up, and Calabrese was the target? They killed his driver, he shot back, and then you came along and intervened – in self-defense, of course. Then, once the gunfight was over, he drove off before you could stop him.”

“That last part’s not what happened,” I said. “I already told you that I deliberately let him go.”

“That’s right, sorry. I’m starting to get what you said really happened confused with the cover story. But why didn’t you tell them about Calabrese?”

“Because they’d arrest him, that’s why.”

“How come?” she asked. “He was the victim, right? The other guys attacked him.”

“That hasn’t been established in a court of law. He killed a guy – and it isn’t self-defense until the DA, or a judge and jury, say that it is. The guys in Organized Crime would love the chance to bust a guy like Calabrese, even if the charges didn’t stick in the long run. They’d do it just for the nuisance value.”

Christine picked up her mug and took another swig of her breakfast blood. “OK, so they arrest him – that’s his problem, not yours.”

“But if that happens, I lose my leverage,” I said. “Right now, he thinks he owes me for saving his life, which he does – sort of. I think I can use that gratitude and get him to open up about this gang war. But if I save his life and then get him arrested, Calabrese would probably figure those two things cancel each other out. I’d never get a word out of him.”

“What do you figure he knows?”

“If he knows anything at all about what’s going on, that’s more than I do. And, besides, if I don’t rat him out to my fellow officers, that gives me even more leverage.”

She looked at me, frowning. “How come?”

“Because I can always go back and change my story. And if I tell the truth and give them Calabrese’s name, he will get arrested.”

“But if you did that – went to the other cops and said, ‘Look, fellas, I’m real sorry, but I lied about that gunfight. Here’s what really happened,’ you’d be in serious shit with the Department. Wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah, but I’m betting that Calabrese won’t take the chance.”

She swirled the remaining liquid in her mug and studied the little whirlpool that resulted. “This cop stuff gets pretty complicated sometimes, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, but it’s nothing that a master detective like your old man can’t handle.”

“I hope you’re right, Daddy. I really do.”

Even though dead tired, I came in to work half an hour early. I wanted to talk to Karl and McGuire – separately – before things got busy.

Karl’s usually early, too – and tonight was no exception.

As quickly as I could without leaving anything out, I told him what had happened since he’d seen me last. When I was done, he sat there rubbing his chin.

“You took a big chance,” he said. “Not telling them that Calabrese was involved, I mean. That could come back to bite you on the ass big-time.”

“It’s worth the risk, if it’ll move us forward on this case. Shit, all we’ve got right now is a big, fat pile of nothing.”

“It’s just a case, Stan,” he said. “How many do we handle a year – two hundred? Three hundred? It’s not worth risking your job over.”

“It’s not just any case, dammit! This new bunch that’s trying to move in on Calabrese has started a fucking war. Who knows when it’s gonna end, or how?”

“What the fuck does it matter, really – they’re all fangsters.”

I just looked at him.

“Far as I’m concerned,” he said, “we oughta just let ’em kill each other. If I could, I’d FedEx each side a case of silver slugs, just to help move things along.”

I wondered how Karl would feel if it were human criminals fighting it out in the streets. Sometimes I think he tries a little too hard to prove that he’s more cop than vampire. But I have the good sense to keep that thought to myself.

What I said instead was, “See if you still feel that way when a stray shot from one of those silver bullets kills a five year-old kid.”

Karl broke eye contact with me then, but he didn’t say anything.

“And it’s not like it doesn’t matter which side wins,” I said. “This new bunch – whether they’re from Philly or East Buttfuck, New Jersey – they don’t give a damn about what happens to Scranton. Far as they’re concerned, it’s ‘Fuck the city, fuck the cops, and fuck the citizens.’”

Karl gave me half a smile. “Maybe ‘fuck the cops’ especially.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I said. “Sure, Calabrese is a scumbag, but he’s invested in the welfare of this town. His business interests, both legit and criminal, are here. He’s got family all over town, too.”

“Is that ‘family’ with a small ‘f’ or a capital one?” he asked me.

“Both,” I said. “He was born here, you know, which means he’s got relatives everyplace – not to mention what the guidos call ‘brothers in blood’. Can you see him doing this kind of cowboy bullshit?”

“He is doing it,” Karl said mildly.

“Only in self-defense.”

The smile I got from Karl this time was full-bore, fangs and all. “Sounds like you’re his biggest fan.”

“No fucking way,” I said. “I just know the difference between a mean dog and a mad one.”

“Nice turn of phrase,” he said. “You come up with that one yourself?”

“I probably heard it on TV someplace.” After a couple of seconds, I asked him, “So, are you coming with me to Ricardo’s tonight or what?”

“Shit, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Then I went back to McGuire’s office. He had a sour expression on his face, as if his ulcer was acting up again and the Tagamet wasn’t helping. Not a good sign.

“Boss,” I said, “I got involved in some shit last night on the way home. I thought you oughta know about it.”

“Have a seat,” he said. “I already heard a couple of things about that today, through the rumor mill. I was waiting for you to come on shift so I could get all the details.”