Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) by Piper Maitland Page A

sit-down.” Moose looked at the secretary, who was still hovering beside the door, her breasts heaving. “Boo!” he yelled, waving his hands.
    The woman squeaked and ran out of the office, slamming the door behind her.
    â€œAre you tapping that bird?” Moose asked Wilkerson.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œAre you diddling your secretary?”
    â€œMy private life is none of your concern.”
    â€œMaybe not. But is it Cynthia’s concern?” Moose leaned forward. “That’s your girlfriend’s name, isn’t it? Poor Cynthia is clueless. Living by her lonesome self in that big manse in Kensington. Nothing but a snub-nosed dog to keep her company while you do the big nasty with others.”
    â€œGet to the point.” Wilkerson’s eyes narrowed.
    â€œI’m a tracker. I know where you live. Send the Zubas after me, and Cynthia hears about your bloody affairs. I’ve got mates. They know about you. And her .” He nodded at the door. “Your crumpet.”
    â€œI don’t care what you tell Cynthia.” Wilkerson folded his hands.
    â€œMaybe I’ll do more than talk to her. You care what the other toffee noses think. A dead girlfriend won’t get you knighted.”
    Wilkerson’s right eyelid twitched. “Why are you here?”
    â€œTo finish the job.”
    â€œThe assignment has been passed on.”
    â€œTo who? Don’t I rate a second chance? Maybe I’ll ask your crumpet.”
    â€œLeave her out of it.” Wilkerson said.
    â€œI’d love to, mate. But I can’t.” Moose waved at the boarded-up window. “Don’t you want to hear about last night? I stole the air cast at Saint Mary’s—it was a fucking madhouse, by the way. Humans are so fragile. Then I went back to the crime scene.”
    â€œThat was foolish,” Wilkerson said. When vampires had OCD, they wreaked havoc. No matter what the bloody sods began, they felt compelled to finish. Wilkerson frowned. In his social circle, and in the circles just beyond his reach, a murder would be delicious fodder for the gossips. They would descend like magpies on an apricot tree, picking and shredding until nothing remained. The negative buzz could reach the newspapers, and he didn’t want anyone scrutinizing his company.
    Moose’s head disappeared inside the garbage bag. He muttered to himself about toffee noses, then emerged holding a fuchsia leather scrapbook. With a flourish, he flipped back the cover, pulled out a small photograph, and slid it across the table. The snap showed a messy bedroom: an unmade bed, books piled on the floor, a tiny painting of some sort above a desk.
    Moose waved at the picture. “This is her room, Miss Clifford’s. Rather tacky, innit? The snap was taken before I spent time with Miss Dowell—by the way, her blood was red, not blue.”
    Wilkerson’s jaw tightened. “Quit pottering.”
    Moose pointed to the photograph. “It was taken two weeks ago. The date is stamped in the lower right corner. We’ll call it the ‘before’ picture.”
    Wilkerson shifted his gaze to the door. Where was Yok-Seng?
    Moose reached into the bag again and pulled out an eight-by-ten glossy photo. It looked like something from an official crime scene. Moose arranged the snaps, whistling “Drowsy Maggie.”
    â€œTell me what’s different about these photos, mate.”
    Wilkerson blinked. The eight-by-ten glossy showed a larger version of the girl’s messy bedroom. But the wall above the desk was empty. He looked back at the small scrapbook photo. The vibrant painting hung on the wall.
    Moose thumped the tiny snap. “The art is missing, mate.”
    Wilkerson shrugged. “Maybe it broke, or she threw it away. You know how women are. Always fussing with the décor.”
    â€œI bet she took it,” Moose said.
    Wilkerson squinted at the small photograph. The art resembled