Zeke, a reporter with schizo-affective paranoia, gets caught up in a vamp-motivated murder.
Zeke's best work is drafted during "medicinal vacations," where he uses his condition to aid his writing process, short term memory be damned. However, the l...
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Saying it aloud cemented what Zeke knew. He had pushed the truth away, but speaking it, sharing it, was a relief.
"You are some kind of idiot," Raffi said.
The words cut, but only slightly, as he'd heard them several times in his life.
"I didn't kill that other chick, though, I'm sure." Zeke was aware of how idiotic his surety sounded.
"I thought," here Raffi settled at her desk to turn on the computer, "you were a reporter."
Her use of past tense hurt most of all. "I am a reporter," he corrected her.
"Okay, Mr. Reporter. Do you often jump to conclusions based on incomplete information?"
Immediately, Zeke flashed back to his faulty memory. "Faulty" was the key, and if he was building a story, he would still be using the term "alleged perpetrator". Yet, this wasn't a story, not one that he was writing. The rules were different. Personal feelings had to count for something, and he felt guilty as hell.
"You don't know," was all he could reply.
"You don't either."
He hated that she was right, and refused to acknowledge it aloud.
Raffi's fingers flitted over the keyboard, different screens flashing and fading.
"Actually, I know more than you." Her magic fingers brought up a picture of Officer Campbell, and what looked to be a file of information. "We met up while you slept. And you were right about one thing." she swept back her heavy curtain of hair, revealing small punctures on her slender neck. "She's totally into chicks."
~*~
The story went something like this:
Raffi finally got a hold of Campbell on the phone, and devised a meeting place appropriate for seduction.
"A blood drive. Are you for fucking real?" Campbell glanced around at the humans milling about in the college parking lot, ready to be poked and drained.
Raffi smiled under the brim of her red hat. "We could've met in a parking garage around the corner, but I figured you'd like this more."
Campbell's eyes gleamed, then she actually licked her lips. "It's an all-eat buffet I can't have. I'm in heaven."
Placing a not-so-subtle hand on her arm, Raffi purred, "There are plenty of other things you could eat."
A slow grin spread across Campbell's face. Like a light switch, the joy snapped to suspicion.
"Which paper do you work for, again?"
"The Times," Raffi said smoothly, confident the credentials she'd faked online would hold up.
"Hmm," Campbell chewed on the lie for a second. "So, you know Zeke Petrov?"
With a nod, Raffi pulled out the small tape recorder. "I'm gathering background. I wanted your comments on why you borrowed the victim's car." She smiled despite Campbell's deep frown. "But first, follow me."
She climbed the steps of the donation bus, Campbell following close behind. Once inside, she greeted Denise and Bob, both busy readying stations for the next volunteer. Denise gestured for Raffi to sit, and she did. Campbell waited nearby, leaning against the metal walls.
"No comment," Campbell said.
The fact that she still hung around meant Raffi had a chance at changing her mind. It was only a matter of convincing her.
Denise worked quickly, sticking the needle in with practiced ease. Raffi sucked in her breath, concentrating on the pamphlet on the counter:
YOUR CONTRIBUTION WILL SAVE A LIFE!
"I think," Raffi sucked her teeth as Denise extracted the needle, "you'll change your position momentarily."
A small pouch wiggled on the counter. Raffi reached for it, and stopped. Denise nodded, and she picked up the blood sack, offering it to Campbell.
"I uh," she put her hand out, but hesitated. "What is this?"
Raffi grinned. "Besides the obvious, call it my contribution to the truth."
Campbell took the bag, her fingers slightly brushing Raffi's.
"I might be able to provide one or two comments," she said.
~*~
"Just like that?" Zeke marveled.
No woman had ever caved that easily for him, even with incentive.
Raffi shrugged. "She told me things, yeah."
He'd had enough pretense, and stressed the next question. "Like?"
"Like someone told her to move the car."
Zeke assessed the new information, chin in hand. "Told her. Police departments rely on chains of command."
