"True Lies" -- a story fragment
  by Marg Baskin 


It was the shutters that finally gave it all away. I mean, *nobody* buys 
an old warehouse, turns it into a stylish loft apartment, then pays 
someone to install sliding, remote-controlled metal shutters on every 
window, unless they're paranoid or they've got a darned good reason.

Once I saw the truth, I felt like an absolute idiot. Some cop, Tracy 
Vetter. Work with the man for months. Swallow tales of a weird, exotic 
skin condition. Pity him for the strictures of an invalid diet, even 
though you've seen him strong-arming thugs and tossing around chunks of 
a torn-up airplane. Dismiss all those weird stories of impossible 
collars and unlikely rescues as the precinct's own brand of urban 
legends. Look all the clues straight in the eye, and never put them 
together.

The problem, I told myself by way of excuse, is that when I trust 
someone, it never occurs to me that they'd lie. Oh, sure, perps lie, 
suspects lie, witnesses lie. But your friends, your partner, the people 
you trust, they tell you the truth. They ought to, anyway.

But this is the real world, and friends do lie. Bruce Spencer, my first 
crush, a fixture in most of my life, lied to me and himself for years. 
Vachon, the--what? my most recent crush? probably accurate, though it 
isn't a label that flatters either of us--lies all the time, but in his 
case, I expect it. After all, he's a vampire.

So, it would seem, is my partner Nick Knight, with his choir-boy smile 
and his innocent blue eyes. A liar and a vampire. Makes you wonder who 
to trust, doesn't it?

"Nice place, Nick," I said out loud, giving him my sunniest smile. "I've 
always been curious to see where you live." 

He shrugged, the gesture modest and a little uncomfortable. I decided to 
give him the benefit of the doubt, and assume he was worrying I might 
not be infinitely gullible after all. And here I'd thought he was 
keeping me away in case I disapproved of a typical bachelor's definition 
of housekeeping.  No chance of that here--the place was spotless. 

Without moving, I did a quick, visual survey of fine furniture, tasteful 
antiques--reminders of the past, or stuff he'd picked up new?--a 
scattering of objets d'art. There were a few idiosyncratic touches, 
especially a motorcycle that stood like a polished modern sculpture in 
the corner, but overall, it was a museum, not a home. Quite 
irrationally, it reminded me of Vachon's decrepit nest. Perhaps it was a 
vampire's nature to exist upon the surface of his environment, whether 
it be decaying or elegant, leaving no real mark behind him. 

That thought faded as my eyes reached the painting mounted high on one 
wall. Unframed canvas, it was done in a style so rough it was close to 
abstract, and the sight of it washed away any lingering doubts that I 
had guessed Nick's secret. I didn't need any knowledge of art to 
critique it.  This wasn't art, it was pain and longing--ultimate desire 
and destruction--distilled onto canvas in the single, blazing image of 
the sun. 

For a moment too long I just stared at it, then I made myself turn my 
eyes to its creator, wondering if he could really be so unlike Vachon, 
or if it was simply that I understood Vachon no better than I thought 
I'd understood Nick.

"Hey, I didn't know you painted, partner."

"How did you know it's mine?" 

Now I could see everything I'd missed in that crystal gaze--suspicion, 
apprehension, and a life that was very, very old. It wasn't until he 
asked the question that it even occurred to me he could have bought the 
painting, not created it.

"Lucky guess. It didn't look like something you'd buy. Oh, my, that 
didn't come out quite right, did it? I mean, it's very nice, but--" 

"It's okay, Tracy." His smile was back, his eyes normal, a little 
impatient, ultimately amused by the rookie who never quite learned to 
think before she spoke. "I don't fancy myself an artist. It's just a 
hobby."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Marg Baskin 

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