search warrants and combed through the homes, properties, and businesses of the Ricketts heirs. Nothing. With my own digging, I discovered a small storage unit that had been rented in the name of Gomez Ricketts, the black sheep of the family—and I was sure they had hidden the painting there.
But when the detectives served their warrant and opened the unit, they found only cases and cases of contraband vampire porn packaged as sick kiddie porn. Because the starlets were actually old-school vampires who had been turned while they were children, they claimed to be well over the legal age—in real years if not in physical maturity. Gomez Ricketts had been arrested for pedophilia/necrophilia, but he was out on bail. Even Robin, in her best legal opinion, couldn’t say which way the verdict might go.
More to the point, we didn’t find the stolen painting in the storage unit.
So I kept working on the case. Not only did I consult with Alvin’s ghost, I also went over the interviews he’d given after his suicide. The ghost had gone into a manic phase, deliriously happy to put death behind him. He talked about awakening to find himself sealed in a crypt, his astral form rising from the cold physical body, his epiphany of throwing those morbid chains behind him. He had vowed never to go back there.
That’s when I figured it out: The last place Alvin would ever think to look for his painting was inside his own crypt, which was property owned by the Ricketts family (though a recent court ruling deemed that a person owned his own grave in perpetuity—a landmark decision that benefitted several vampires who were caught in property-rights disputes).
Tonight, I planned to retrieve the painting from its hiding place.
I slipped into the dank crypt, hoping I could grab Alvin’s masterpiece and slip away before the werewolf figured out what I was doing.
It should have been as quiet as a tomb inside, but it wasn’t. I heard a rustling sound, saw two lamplike yellow eyes blinking at me. A shrill nasal voice called out, “It’s taken—this one’s occupied! Go find your own.”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to disturb you,” I said.
“You can’t stay here.”
Zombies have good night vision, and as my eyes adjusted, I made out a grayish simian creature with scaly skin. I’d heard that trolls sometimes became squatters inside empty crypts whose original owners had returned to an unnatural life.
The troll inched closer. I carried my .38 revolver loaded with silver-jacketed bullets. I would use it if I had to, but a gunshot would surely bring the werewolf hit man running. I had enough silver bullets to take care of the thug, too, but that would open a can of maggots with the law, and I just plain didn’t want the hassle.
The troll rubbed his gnarled hands together. “If you’re interested in a place to stay, we have many viable options. Pre-owned, gently used postmortem dwellings. If you’re undead and homeless, I can help you with all your real estate needs. Edgar Allan, at your service. Here, let me give you a business card.”
“This crypt doesn’t belong to you,” I pointed out. “I happen to know the actual owner. He hired me to retrieve some of his personal property.”
“Then we have a problem.” The troll looked annoyed. “Burt!”
From the gloom emerged a larger and more threatening creature. Trolls come in various sizes, from small and ugly to huge and ugly. At close to seven feet tall with wide and scabby shoulders, this one belonged in the latter category.
“Burt is our evictions specialist,” Edgar Allan explained.
I held up my hands in surrender. “Now, no need for that! I came here for a painting, that’s all. No intention of interfering with your rental business.”
“Painting? You mean this one?” The little troll flicked on a tiny flashlight. Hanging on the stone wall was a painting, unmistakably in the cute pop-culture style of Alvin Ricketts: two large-eyed puppies . . . gaunt zombie puppies. “Somebody left it here. Looks real nice on the wall, brightens up the place.”
A plan began to form in my mind. “I have a suggestion that would benefit both of us.” I glanced back at the door of the crypt, straining to hear the werewolf outside. I doubted I could slip out of the cemetery carrying the Ricketts “art” without the hairy hit man intercepting me. Werewolves can run much faster than zombies, and inflict severe bodily damage—the kind that’s difficult to repair. If he got his paws on