Nocturnal Urges (Nocturnal Urges, Book One) by Elizabeth Donald Page A

adult beverage,” Freitas said, sipping her whiskey.
    Betschart held up a finger to the bartender. “Vamp case?”
    “You got another series of murders broiling I don’t know about?” Freitas said. “They’re one step away from dragging in the feds and putting me back to writing parking tickets.”
    “Teeth didn’t go anywhere, huh?” Betschart asked.
    Freitas held up her fingers and started to tick them off. “I’m down to two vampires at Nocturnal Urges who were off-duty or at least not physically in the presence of a mark during each murder,” she said. “Both new in town.”
    Betschart handed the bartender some cash and downed half her drink.
    “Rough day for you too?” Freitas said.
    “Tell me the other suspects,” Betschart replied.
    Freitas shrugged. “If you ask me, Osborne’s too out-of-it to go ripping out people’s throats,” she said. “His group, if you can call it that, hates vampires like I hate interleague play in baseball. So their only reason would be to frame the vamps. I have trouble envisioning Osborne as the diabolical genius who orders custom-made teeth, stalks the marks, tears out their throats and sets it up to look like vamps did it. Call me crazy.”
    “Crazy.”
    Freitas rolled her eyes. “Smartass. Then there’s Sanford and his brownshirts.”
    “That guy gives me the creeps. You ever see his commercials?” Betschart finished her drink and signaled for another one.
    “I grew up in the Bible Belt, my dear. The difference between a tent revivalist and a snake-oil salesman has only to do with the quality of his shoes, not the pointiness of his teeth.”
    Betschart grinned at her. “Pointiness? Is that a word?”
    “Shut up.” Freitas finished her drink.
    “Besides, wouldn’t it be kind of against Sanford’s mission, protecting the rights of vamps and all that? Making it look like some vamp is eating the marks?”
    Freitas considered. “Yeah, but he thinks NU is barely above the vamp pro’s, you know? Getting NU shut down would only help his mission to rid the world of impure biting.”
    Betschart giggled. “Sorry, this conversation is a little surreal. So you’re back to square one.”
    “Not really,” Freitas mused. “Number one rule of detective work in multiple-case homicide—what do the victims have in common?”
    “They were all NU marks,” Betschart said immediately.
    “Yeah,” Freitas said. “But more than that.”
    Betschart grinned. “That’s a hell of a light bulb going on above your head. Gonna share with the rest of the class?”
    “See ya, Joann, I’ve got work to do,” Freitas said, tossing a dollar bill on the bar.
    “God, you’re a cheap tipper,” Betschart said, adding a dollar of her own. “Go get ‘em, Annie.”
    Freitas was already gone.
    * * * * *
    Isabel felt like a fool, standing in the dingy hallway in the fall of soft light coming from Ryan’s open door. He stood framed in the doorway, wearing an ordinary flannel shirt and a pair of jeans. His handsome, chiseled face betrayed absolute shock at seeing her in his doorway.
    “Miss Nelson,” he finally said.
    “Please call me Isabel,” she replied. “May I come in?”
    Ryan stepped back and held the door for her. She came into his small studio, and it was almost like she had stepped through a portal into some other world than the dingy hallway and siren-filled streets.
    Cracked walls had been carefully painted, the worst places covered with framed photographs of lovely natural vistas, rolling hills of green beneath azure skies. The old, splintered wood floor was softened by area rugs of deep green and blue patterns. A huge, deep couch stood before an honest-to-God fireplace, where a warm fire blazed, providing much of the light in the room. The only other light was provided by an old-fashioned gas lamp on a table next to the bed, a large brass antique covered with a wedding-ring quilt that had to be handmade.
    Everywhere there were pictures, framed and hanging on the