Of course. “Your pixies,” I said.
The gnome smiled. “Their loyalty and work ethic are unquestioned.”
Pixies were tiny, winged, and nosier than your worst neighbor. New York and Los Angeles were thick with the things. About the size and speed of hummingbirds, they were the eyes and ears of the city’s supernatural paparazzi, and individuals like Ord who dealt in information. Like hummingbirds, pixies lived on a liquid diet. Pay them with Mountain Dew, Red Bull, or any other high-sugar, high-caffeine drink, and they were yours for life.
“My winged friends provide me with the information I need; I keep them well stocked with the beverages they want. It’s a partnership made in heaven.” Ord looked at Ian. “While SPI really should change their disguises more often, in all fairness, there really is no disguising a dead body. You could hardly have folded up Sar and carried him out in a duffel bag. It would potentially destroy evidence on the body.” He leaned back and put his hands behind his head. “So who did the elf finally annoy badly enough to kill him?”
“I was hoping you could tell us,” I said.
Ian gave me a look. I’d just told a source that the all-knowing, all-powerful SPI wasn’t all-knowing all the time, and Ian didn’t like telling Ord that he didn’t have all the answers. I liked the gnome, so I didn’t have that problem.
“There is no shame in admitting ignorance, Agent Byrne,” Ord told my partner. “The only shame would lie in willfully remaining that way. Considering their success in keeping their operation ‘under the radar,’ as you humans say, my guess would make the new boys and girls in town either elf or goblin. Both races are ever so adept at keeping secrets. What I do know is that the hornets’ nest has been soundly kicked.”
“It couldn’t be vampires?” I asked.
“Unlikely. There are three families that are not associated with any of the vampire governing covens. Two of them—the Frontino and Báthory families—deal in drugs.”
“Báthory? I asked. “As in Hungarian countess Elizabeth Báthory? Bathing-in-the-blood-of-hundreds-of-virgins Báthory?”
Ord gave me a nod. “That’s her. The family’s right proud of their ancestor.”
I made a face. “Nice people.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
I held up a hand. “And I’m fine staying that way.”
“And the Frontino family proudly traces their ancestry back to Cesare Borgia, who was also reputed to be a vampire.”
I nodded. “A Machiavellian bloodsucker. I can see that.”
“You got it. And . . .”
“And as interesting as the history lesson is,” Ian interrupted, “could we stick to the present for now?”
“You’ll have to excuse him,” I told Ord. “He’s no fun.”
“I’ve gotten that impression.” The gnome turned to Ian. “Their descendants aren’t heavily into drug dealing, but they don’t believe in ignoring a potential revenue stream, even though it risks contaminating their food supply, namely humans. For that reason, the vampire covens had nothing to do with the drug trade. These two vampire families market the standard products.”
“Not much into R&D?” Ian asked.
“None. Which is probably why they’re interested what the newcomers are selling. Supposedly Brimstone lets the user see through glamours and read minds.”
I snorted. “So much for why the guy in the restaurant did a line or two before his meeting.”
Ian nodded. “Anything that would let you read the mind of a potential customer—or existing competition—would be worth its weight in gold in this city.”
“Too bad he couldn’t get past the change of scenery.”
“Which is why the locals want a piece of the action,” Ord said. “The local businessmen asked, the newcomers refused. It seems they don’t share well with others, though I can hardly blame them. Unfortunately some of our locals are slow learners. They asked again, and the newcomers began saying no in most impolite ways.”
“Such as?” I asked.
“Four days ago, the partially eviscerated body of a Báthory courier was hung on the front gate of the Báthory family compound on Long Island.”
Ian stood straighter. “Define partial.”
Ord looked from one of us to the other. “The heart had been cut out.”
“Anything else?” I asked.
“A hoofprint had been branded into what was left of the chest. Some of their street dealers are missing.”
“The Báthorys didn’t report any of it.” My partner didn’t ask it as a question.
“To have a body deposited in such a manner . . .” The gnome swallowed queasily. “And in such a condition would raise questions about their business activities that the Báthory family would prefer not to answer. They cleared one racketeering charge last year by the skin of their pointy teeth.”
“Was Sar Gedeon one of the locals who wanted a cut?” Ian asked.
“Oh yes.”
“And?”
“His chief courier was found three days ago in the driver’s seat of one of Gedeon’s prized vintage Porsches inside his locked—and warded—twelve-car garage.”
I exchanged a glance with Ian. Sounded like Gedeon didn’t take no for an answer until it’d been his heart and soul being scooped out.