Biting Bad (Chicagoland Vampires 8)

I sucked in a breath, promised myself a liter of blood when I made it back to the House, and waved at Catcher, who stood at the edge of the crowd, scanning it as if looking for clues.

"Enjoying the show?" I asked.

"As much as one enjoys watching idiocy," he grumbled, then gave me a sideways glance. "Do you notice anything unusual here?"

I glanced around, assuming I was being tested, and trying to figure out exactly what he was looking for. Ironically, I guessed he wasn't referring to anything present at the scene, but what was missing.

"There's not a single protestor here," I said.

"There's not a single protestor here," he agreed. "They went to the trouble to firebomb the place, and they didn't even show up to protest afterward? What's the point?"

"Grandpa said they lawyered up. Their lawyers probably advised them to stay away."

"Maybe," he allowed. "Or maybe this isn't about vampires, not really. Maybe this is about a crazy lady and her vendetta against her employer."

"I presume you told my grandfather about Robin Pope?"

"I did. He's calling Jacobs, thinking he'll be interested enough to at least bring her in for questioning."

"Excellent."

Catcher nodded and looked back at the smoldering building. "I suppose she's technically innocent until proved guilty, but innocent people, in my experience, don't tend to run. At least not when they're well-heeled northsiders living in a posh apartment building."

I nodded and stuffed my hands into my pockets, although that didn't help with the rest of my freezing body parts. The temperature was dropping, and my ears had begun to ache with cold.

"I assume we're out here because we're waiting for someone from Bryant Industries?"

"Ms. Bryant herself. And there she is," Catcher pleasantly added.

A woman appeared on the lawn. She was tall, with a wide smile, dark eyes, and ebony skin. Her straight hair swept her shoulders, and even while standing in the rubble of the building, she looked smartly dressed in a fitted red trench coat and black patent galoshes. She was, as far as I could tell, quite human.

Catcher moved forward through the crowd to the edge of the tape, and gestured to get her attention. At the sight of him, the woman nodded and walked toward us, raising the police tape so we could walk through.

"Charla Bryant," she said, extending her hand.

"Merit," I said. "I'm from Cadogan House. And this is Catcher. He's from - well, currently, my grandfather's house."

"We've met," Catcher said, and Charla smiled at me.

"We're well acquainted with your grandfather, Merit. He handled several issues on our behalf when he served as Ombudsman." She looked at Catcher. "It's a shame you aren't official anymore."

"We couldn't agree more," Catcher said, casting a glance back at the building. "I hope no one was injured?"

"Fortunately, no," Charla said. "We were between shifts, and in the middle of a company-wide meeting." Charla looked sadly back at the building. "No lives lost, but the building will never be the same. Let's have a look, shall we?"

We followed her toward the front door - or what was left of it. The smells of singed wood and plastic, and the low note of blood, grew stronger.

"The first bottle was thrown here," she said, gesturing at the door. "On its own, it wasn't terribly powerful. Less a blast than a source of fire. But they threw the second about fifteen feet away." She gestured farther down the wall. "The fire breached the building's propane line, which caused the explosions."

That explained the booms we'd heard.

"The fires eventually merged, and that's what caused most of the damage to the building."

"Do you have security tapes?" I asked.

"We do, although some of the cameras were damaged by the fire." Her eyes narrowed. "If you need a visual of the attack, it won't be hard to find on the Web. The protestors weren't exactly shy about taping their handiwork."

"So we saw," Catcher said. "But the videos could help us, if you can get them."

Charla nodded. "My brother, Alan, is also involved in the business. He has a biology background, so he handles research and development and oversees our lab work. He's also in charge of security. I'll see what he can do."

"How long have you been around?"

"In one form or another, since 1904. We've been in this building since the sixties."

"How many people know what you actually do?" I asked.

"Obviously all of our employees," she said. "But they stay quiet about it. We try to treat them well - pay them well - in return. That's part of our policy. If something had been off in that direction, we'd know it."

She looked back at us. "Did you see the mayor's press conference? And McKetrick's? Very disturbing stuff. How they think supernaturals would have been involved in this is completely beyond me. What benefit would they possibly have in endangering their own blood supply?"

"That's a very good question," Catcher said. "Which is why we tend to think this is about humans. We understand one of your former employees, Robin Pope, filed a grievance against the company. What can you tell us about that?"

Charla's expression shuttered, and the pleasant smile evaporated.

"Robin Pope, if you'll excuse my frankness, is an ignorant bully. If she didn't get her way on the smallest issue, she complained up the chain of command until someone finally caved. She cannot conceive of the possibility she's wrong, much less tolerate constructive criticism. She bullied her colleagues - even away from the office - and invented conspiracies to justify her behavior."

"You fired her?" Catcher prompted.

"We did. Her little grievance is the result of it. She claims she was fired because we love vampires and, thereby, hate humans, including her. That everyone else we employ is human didn't seem to cross her mind."

"That must have been irritating," I said.

"It was infuriating," Charla agreed. "Do you think she's involved?"

"I think it's an awfully big coincidence if she isn't," Catcher said.

"Do you think she's capable of it?" I asked Charla.

"I don't want to give her too much credit," she said, "but she didn't seem the violent type."

"You did say she bullied your employees," I said.

"Well, yes, but that was small scale. She left a nasty note on someone's car. Made a few unsettling phone calls. They were more about having uncovered the truth - and making sure that someone believed her - than violence. Firebombing the building because she was angry? I don't know about that." I wouldn't have figured Robin Pope for attempting to prick me with an aspen stake and then running like a fugitive, but I didn't mention that to Charla.