Kill the Dead (Sandman Slim 2)

I take four wallets from a jacket pocket and drop them on a table.

“Here’s your goddamn intelligence.”

Wells snaps, “Watch your language.”

“I took those off Eleanor’s pals. Their ash is still on them. Probably prints, too.”

“What about Eleanor?”

I take my cell out of my back pocket, thumb on the photo album, and hold it up so Wells can see the screen.

He frowns.

“What did you do to her?”

“Silly girl had a flamethrower. She fucked—I mean, messed up and set herself on fire. Then she ran out into direct sunlight. I would have been happy to quietly take her heart, but she had to turn it into D-day.”

“Are the remains still at the scene?”

“Yeah.”

“We’ll secure the site for now. Clean up isn’t a priority if the pod has been cleared out.”

“I didn’t see anyone else there and they didn’t seem to be looking, so that was probably all of them, but I can’t be a hundred percent. Like I said, I went in thinking it was one girl.”

“I’ll need a copy of that photo. E-mail a copy to my account.”

“Just did.”

Wells isn’t looking at me. He’s put on Nitrile gloves and is examining the wallets.

He says, “They’re empty.”

“Are they?”

“Was there anything inside when you found them?”

“How do I know? I was killing vampires, not checking their IDs. I’ve seen plenty of Lurkers that don’t use money. They steal what they want.”

“Then why carry a wallet?”

Shit. Good point.

“Ask a shrink. I get paid to kill things.”

“Right.”

He turns to a female agent standing on his right.

“Bag these and take them downstairs for identification.”

“Yes, sir.”

Wells motions for me to follow him. We head out across the warehouse floor.

I kind of like the organized chaos of the Golden Vigil’s headquarters. There’s always something fun to scope out and think about stealing. A group of agents in Tyvek suits and respirators forklifting a massive stone idol onto the back of a flatbed truck. The idol is on its back, and from where I’m standing, it’s all tentacles and breasts, but I swear some of the tentacles move a little as they tether the idol down. Across the floor, welders are modifying vehicles. Agents are examining new guns as they’re uncrated. A guy as skinny, leathery, and looking as old as King Tut’s mummy wanders the floor sprinkling holy water on everything.

“What kind of a bonus am I getting for taking out those four extra bloodsuckers?”