After a moment, Sherbet said, "What, exactly, does that mean, Samantha?"
"It means exactly that, Detective. You're reading my mind."
The detective didn't look so good. He sat forward, rubbed his eyes with a hand that was bigger than even Kingsley's. I noticed scarring on his knuckles that I had missed before. He looked down at his own knuckles, and said, "I used to be a fighter. A brawler, really. A real hothead back in the day."
"You're doing it again, Detective."
"But you said - "
"I didn't say anything."
Some of the color drained from his face. "I feel sick."
"Hang on, Detective."
I left him alone for a moment while I tossed Anthony's undies in the laundry room. When I returned, the big detective was apparently over his initial shock. He was not only holding the greasy bag of donuts, but had just consumed the last of the pink donut. All was right in the world.
"Not quite," said Sherbet, licking his fingers, but then suddenly stopped. He looked up at me. "I'm doing it again, ain't I?"
"Yes, you are."
"What's happening to me, Sam?"
I sat next to him and gave him my "penny for your thoughts" face. He smelled of Old Spice and donut grease.
I said, "You're not losing your mind, Detective. Sometimes those closest to me have access to my thoughts. I also suspect it's because you're one of the few who know what I really am. I've put a lot of trust in you. And you in me. It has something to do with that." I smiled brightly at him. "So, as you can see, having access to my thoughts is a rare privilege."
He snorted. "I feel honored." He was about to turn back to his bag of donuts when a thought occurred to him. "So does that mean you have access to my thoughts, too?"
"It does."
"I'm not sure how I feel about that."
"Don't worry, Detective. Your deep, dark secrets are safe with me. Besides, I won't access your thoughts unless you give me permission."
"Do you know how crazy that sounds, Sam?"
"I do."
"Are we both crazy?"
"Maybe."
Sherbet stared at me. He was an old-school homicide investigator. Strictly by the books. Just the facts, ma'am. Logical, rational, tough, fair, street smart. A skilled investigator. Then one day a vampire appeared in his life - granted, a cute and spunky vampire - and his neat little world came crashing down.
"I wouldn't say crashing down, Sam. Maybe turned upside down a little. And, yes, I know I'm reading your thoughts again."
I grinned. "Maybe we should get to why you're here."
He sat straighter. "Gladly. Which is an odd thing to say about a serial killer."
"He struck again," I said.
Sherbet nodded. "Corona this time."
"Drained of blood?"
He nodded. "Completely. Same M.O. Massive wound in the neck. Knife wound, we think. Bruising around the ankles. Found this one wrapped in a blanket in a ditch."
"Female?"
"Male."
"So he's alternating his kills," I said. "Male, female, male."
Sherbet thought about that. He also thought about another donut. A moment later he was pulling out a strawberry French cruller that looked all kinds of delicious.
"It will be," he said, reading my mind again without realizing it. "And I suppose the killer is. Three males, and three females. As you know, that doesn't fit the typical profile. Serial killers tend to stick to one gender."
"Unless they're after something besides kicks."
"They? You think there might be more than one killer?"
"Like you said, it doesn't fit the profile."
"Same pattern, though."
"All drained of blood," I said.
"The work of a vampire?" he said.
"The work of someone," I said. I found myself watching his every move as he worked on the cruller. Crullers had been my favorite. "Vampires don't need that much blood."
Sherbet stopped chewing. "And how much blood does a vampire need?"
"Sixteen ounces or so, every few days."
At least, that's how much were in the packets of animal blood I received monthly from the Norco butchery.
Sherbet stared at me openly, even forgetting to close his mouth as he chewed. Still, seeing the half-masticated cruller did not kill my brief donut craving. He asked, "And what happens if you don't get your blood?"
I shrugged. "I turn into a raving, blood-sucking maniac who prowls the streets looking for victims. Prostitutes mostly, but sometimes hipsters at Starbucks, or those young guys who dance around street corners holding signs pointing to furniture stores going out of business."
"Are you quite done, Sam?"
"Quite."
He reached inside his light jacket and removed some folded papers. "Here are my notes on the latest victim. Read through them, see what you can find."
"Will do, Detective."
Months ago, when the case had turned from weird to weirder, Sherbet had hired me to be an official consultant on the case. His fellow detectives didn't like it; after all, why hire a private dick? Well, what they didn't know wouldn't kill them.
Sherbet eased his bulk off the couch and stood, knuckling his lower back. "You're one freaky chick, you know."
"Words every chick wants to hear."
He quit knuckling and looked at me with so much compassion that tears nearly came to my eyes. He reached out and pulled me in for the mother of all bear hugs. He said, "I'm sorry all this happened to you, Sam."
I hugged him back. "I know."
"You're going to be okay, kid."
"Thank you."
He stepped away. "Now, let's catch the son of a bitch who's doing this to these people."
"We will, Detective."
He seemed about to do something, then nodded and left, gripping his bag of donuts like a lifeline.
