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somewhat pushy, somewhat hovering server away again when she tried to foist another glass onto our tab.
    No false sense of security for me. For all I knew, Ian had also been the recipient of strange metabolic experiments that let him drink like an Irish sailor.
    But just in case I was holding an actual advantage, I pushed the conversation back to business. “So tell me, Ian. What do I need to know in order to get started with this case?”
    “We’re not going to talk money first?”
    “No. Money will depend on the circumstances. And I hate to make the comparison here, but think of me as one of those expensive boutiques. If you have to ask about the cost, you probably can’t afford me.”
    He grinned, almost exactly the same way I do—no teeth showing, just a tight pinch of the cheeks. Oh yes. The wine was relaxing him. “I can afford you. I asked as a matter of curiosity, not concern.”
    From underneath the table he produced a sealed manila envelope. He slid it across the table, and I took it with a question-lifted eyebrow.
    “Do I open this now?”
    “You can if you like. Or save it for later, whichever you prefer.”
    I picked at the metal tabs and squeezed the envelope to make its opening gape. Within, there were smaller envelopes, documents with black bars all over them, and something with a CONFIDENTIAL stamp that had been stamped over yet again with a mark that read DECLASSIFIED . I didn’t pull any of it out to examine it then and there. He might have been comfortable with it, but I wasn’t.
    He told me, “That’s everything I have, and it ought to be everything you need. The short version is this: A group of animal rights activists used the Freedom of Information Act to release a pile of paperwork that had nothing to do with animal experimentation.” He set his wine off to the left side and started using his hands to gesture in time with his statements. I thought it was kindof cute. He’d been so uptight and controlled when I first arrived, and here he was wiggling his fingers over the table.
    Ian continued, “The military had been deliberately tweaking the documents to indicate that the subjects were apes and chimpanzees, though they had an internal shorthand that designates the falsehood.”
    “What’s this shorthand look like?”
    “For vampires?” He said the word in a normal speaking voice; I doubted we were overheard, but it still made me itchy. “It’s a nine-digit serial number that begins with six-three-six.”
    “Okay.” I made a mental note of it and continued to gaze down into the shadow of the envelope. “That’s easy enough to remember.”
    “And keep your eyes open for anything relating to Project Bloodshot,” he said.
    “Keep my eyes open. Very funny.”
    The look on his face told me he hadn’t noticed he’d made a joke, but when he caught up to me he laughed, giving me a flash of teeth. They were nice teeth—picket-fence-straight with good, uniform shapes and a milky blue-white color. I’m something of a connoisseur of teeth, I suppose. You can learn a lot about someone by his teeth. Or her teeth. Especially vampires. For some of us, hygiene goes out the window when our body temperature drops. We might not need much in the way of deodorant, but I swear—a little Listerine never hurt anybody.
    I could appreciate the fact that he couldn’t see for shit, but he cared enough to keep himself presentable. That’s dedication, right there. Or maybe it’s vanity. I didn’t know him well enough to say.
    “Project Bloodshot,” I mused as his wine-fueled mirth ran its course. “Tacky.”
    “I couldn’t agree more.”
    “So they pretended on paper that you were a chimp and tinkeredwith your eyes, and the animal rights people got hold of the news, and they were incensed on your behalf. Or they would’ve been, if you’d been a monkey. Do they know you’re not a monkey?”
    “I hope not. I certainly don’t intend to set them straight. It horrifies me enough that the