I whipped out my notepad, jotting notes.

“Ray D.” Cody rubbed his chin. “Is he dealing meth again?”

“Not in my territory.” Stefan the ghoul’s voice went flat, his pupils shrinking. “The nectar of chemically induced emotions is poisonous.”

Cody gave him a speculative look. “So you’re new in town, but this is already your turf?”

Stefan waved one negligent hand. “Does anyone dispute it?”

No one did, although a couple of them, like Al the Walrus, didn’t look too happy about it.

By the time Cody was through questioning Loretta, it was established that Thad and Mike had been in the bar looking for Ray D two weeks ago Saturday, but had failed to find him, because no one had seen Ray D for several months. No one knew where he was living or how to contact him, and no one knew why a couple of college kids were looking for him, or at least no one would admit to it. As far as they were concerned, no one even knew whether Ray D had a last name.

New-ghoul-in-town Stefan was adamant that Ray D wasn’t dealing on his turf, and the weird thing was, I thought he meant it. There’s a long-established connection among ghouls, biker gangs, and drug dealing, what with a lucrative illegal activity that sows misery being the perfect confluence of ghoulish interests, but Stefan appeared dead earnest about the whole poisonous-nectar business.

Also weirdly, I found that sort of hot in a creepy way. I know. So wrong, but true.

“Thanks for the cooperation,” Cody said to Stefan. “It’s appreciated.”

The ghoul inclined his head. “Anytime, Officer.” His ice-blue gaze settled on me, his pupils dilating. “And it was a pleasure to meet you, Miss . . . ?”

“Johanssen,” I said. “Daisy.”

He gave his deep chuckle. “Daisy?”

“Uh-huh.” The way he was looking at me made my insides squirm, not entirely unpleasantly.

“Daisy,” Stefan repeated. “I hope our paths cross again.” He smiled. “For less unfortunate reasons, of course.”

“I think we’re done here.” Cody’s tone was brusque. “We’ll be in touch if there’s anything further.”

“Of course.”

On the way out of the bar, I spied a fishbowl filled with matchbooks and grabbed one, figuring it couldn’t hurt to compare it to the matchbook found in Thad Vanderhei’s pocket. The muttonchopped bartender, busy mopping up a prodigious amount of spilled beer, startled and then glared at me. I guess my little temper tantrum caused more than one keg to blow its seal. I gave him a half-assed apologetic shrug and followed Cody out the door.

No, I did not successfully fight the urge to look back and see if Stefan the hunky ghoul was watching me, and yes, he was.

Chapter Eight

Eight

“Okay, you were right; that was productive,” I said as we pulled out of the parking lot. “We’ve got an actual lead.”