To Catch a Vampire by Jennifer Harlow

in a few minutes,” the receptionist says. “You can have a seat.”
    Don’t have to tell me twice. I flop down in a chair with a sigh. I had better spend the whole night sitting or I’ll never be able to walk again. The cold air from above chills the sweat on my torso, face, and legs. Oliver takes the chair next to me, staring at the display of the far wall of all the agents who lost their lives in the line of duty. The last one is a familiar face. Special Agent Spencer Konrad. He died on my first case, eaten alive by zombies. The official story was that a crazy cult member shot him. I barely knew him, didn’t even know his first name, but seeing him looking so serious with dark brown hair slicked back, a pang of sadness grips me. He died serving his country. The only consolation is the man who was responsible died by my hand—or my mind, to be more accurate. I look away from Konrad’s picture. I don’t want to think about that again. Ever.
    More people in suits walk through the turnstiles past us, staring. What they must think. Pimp and prostitute? Biker gang informant and girlfriend? That’s what I’d assume. I hug my helmet close, and look down at the floor. Oliver watches them go by, meeting a few eyes. The people look away.
    “People can be so rude,” Oliver says.
    “Well, we do look like S&M Ken and Barbie,” I point out. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so embarrassed in all my life.”
    “You are young.”
    “Not helpful.”
    “Perhaps it is that they have never seen as beautiful a woman here before.”
    “Can it. Time to be professional.”
    A man in his early forties with receding hairline, ice blue eyes, and white dress shirt pushes through the turnstile and zones in on us. He smiles, holding out his hand. “Agents Montrose and Alexander?” he asks.
    We stand, and a sharp pain shoots up my right leg. “Nice to meet you,” I say, shaking his hand.
    He can’t help it. His eyes zoom in on my boobs for a moment. Men. “You as well.”
    He takes Oliver’s hand, but Oliver grips it so tight, bones and tendons crack. Tully winces, pulling his arm away. “Nice grip.”
    “Thank you for meeting with us,” I say.
    “No problem. Follow me.”
    I swipe my visitor badge and walk through the turnstile after Tully with Oliver behind us. More sideways glances greet us as we walk down the hall to the elevator. Tully pushes the button, and in we go.
    “Where are you two staying?” Tully asks.
    “The Radisson,” Oliver replies as we step out of the elevator.
    “Nice place,” Tully says.
    “I suppose,” Oliver says.
    Tully leads us down a beige hallway with a gaggle of closed doors with keypads on them. The movies have it so wrong. You’d think that places like an FBI facility would be a bit more exciting. A gun range, wall of televisions, or people running around like crazy talking about serial killers or bombings. It’s nothing but cubicles with the odd office. Total letdown. We end up in a conference room where a stack of files awaits us. Oh, joy. Homework.
    “I was surprised to hear from you guys,” Tully says. “I don’t know what these can tell you. I went through them; I didn’t find a single commonality.”
    “Appearances can be deceiving,” Oliver says. He takes off his jacket, sitting in one of the swivel chairs. “Are these all of them?”
    “All the ones you requested.”
    “You looked through all of these?” I ask, glancing at the stack, which has to be six inches thick.
    “Yeah. When I got the call you’d be coming, I went through them. If you want my opinion, whoever told you the same perps did these was jerking your chain. I didn’t see anything warranting an undercover op.”
    “We shall see,” Oliver says, meeting the agent’s eyes. “Thank you. That will be all. If we have any questions, we will be sure to call for you.”
    “Um,” he says, running his hand through his hair, “I think I should stay. The Costarellos are still my case, and …”
    Oliver