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."