“You need help, miss?” the clerk asked.
“May I leave a message for the guest in room three fourteen?”
The clerk pushed a pen and notepad across the desk. Caro bent over the paper and wrote, Dear Jude. She remembered the pressure of his lips against hers and the smell of Acqua di Parma. Maybe she should have finished that kiss.
She jolted, then glanced down at the notepad. She was still writing, and the e in Jude had squiggled across the page. She ripped off the sheet and started over. Jude, I’ll be out for most of the afternoon. But I’m looking forward to dinner. Caro
She handed the note to the clerk and headed toward the Ustra Restaurant. She glanced furtively over her shoulder for the thug in the Hawaiian shirt, but she saw only men in business suits. She walked over to the buffet, grabbed a plate, and spooned up hominy with garlicky walnuts, lamb kabobs, and cucumbers floating in olive oil. Soon there was no room left on her plate. Uncle Nigel used to say the Bulgarians served a multitude of dishes because they were excellent hosts, but they also used the abundant food as symbols for fertility and prosperity.
When she couldn’t eat another morsel, she settled her bill and walked back to the lobby. The clerk was bent over the desk, studying a ledger. Caro gazed at the knotty-pine cubbyholes on the wall behind the desk. The slot for her room was empty. So was Jude’s.
“When did the gentleman in three fourteen pick up his message?” Caro asked the clerk.
“I cannot remember. Maybe ten minutes ago?” The woman shrugged. “It has been crazy around here. A tourist has never gone missing.”
When Caro stepped into her room, hot, sour bile spurted into her mouth. The mattress hung off the bed. Drawers gaped open. The trash bin had been emptied and rubbish lay on the floor. Uncle Nigel’s backpack had been turned inside out. What had the burglars been looking for? She didn’t wear jewelry or flashy clothes. More to the point, who were the burglars? The purse snatchers, of course. But she couldn’t rule out Jude.
She found the phone under the mattress. It was time to call Phoebe. Her roomie might not know what was going on, but of all people, Phoebe had the means to find out through her father, Sir Edmund. Caro punched in the number to the Bow Street flat. A man answered on the second ring. “May I speak to Phoebe?” she asked.
“I’m sorry, I—” The man’s voice cracked.
“Sir Edmund?” Caro asked. “Is that you, sir?”
There was a grappling noise, and a woman came on the line. “This is Olivia, Sir Edmund’s personal assistant. To whom am I speaking?”
“Caro Clifford. I’m Phoebe’s flatmate,” she said. In the background, Sir Edmund began to wail.
“We were just discussing you,” Olivia said. “Are you in London, or have you gone to see about your uncle?”
“I’m in Bulgaria.”
“We were shocked to hear of his murder,” Olivia said. “First your uncle, and now Phoebe.”
Caro dug her fingers through the telephone cord. And now Phoebe? What did this mean? “Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.”
“Phoebe was killed in her flat, she was,” Olivia said.
Caro sucked in air. “Not possible,” she whispered.
“It’s beyond shocking, isn’t it? You were lucky not to be here or that madman might have gotten you, too. Women aren’t safe anywhere in this world. The police are saying that it’s random. But is it random to be drained of blood?”
CHAPTER 13
WILKERSON PHARMACEUTICALS
EAST LONDON, ENGLAND
Wilkerson paced in front of the boarded-up windows. He’d demanded a rush order to replace the glass, but the Kent factory couldn’t promise a delivery date. Wilkerson missed his view, and the gloom was unbearable. Throughout the day, the overhead fluorescents blazed with a sour green intensity that left him headachy.
The door creaked open, and the secretary led Mr. Underwood into the room.
“What is it now?” Wilkerson asked.
“Sir, a woman has gone missing from Kardzhali.”
“Not Caroline Clifford, I hope.”
“Not directly, sir.” Mr. Underwood licked his lips, leaving behind a glossy sheen. “I’m mainly concerned about a Russian tourist.”
“Why is this my problem?”
“Because your operatives might be involved.” Mr. Underwood’s voice shook while he explained the fiasco at the airport, Teo’s arrest, Georgi’s solitary pursuit of the Clifford girl, and the missing tourist.
Wilkerson blinked. “And you think Georgi snatched her?”
“I asked him and got nowhere. He’s like China—he denies everything. I’ve arranged for his partner’s release.”
“That’s good—Teo calms him down. But make sure the Bulgarians don’t rape and murder Miss Clifford.” Wilkerson sat down on his desk and grabbed a pencil. “By the way, Underwood, how is your wife?”
“She’s quite well, sir.”
Wilkerson wrapped his fingers around the pencil and leaned forward. “You’re married to a portly dominatrix who forces you to commute twice daily from Twickenham to London. I hear she has a lavish rose garden. Would you like her to keep it?”
Mr. Underwood nodded. He was breathing so hard, his glasses fogged.
“Then control your men.” Wilkerson snapped the pencil in half.
Underwood stumbled out of the office and shut the door behind him. Minutes later, Wilkerson heard shouting. His secretary threatened to call the police, and a strident, Cockney voice told her to shut her cake hole.
Wilkerson’s door banged open, and Moose limped into the room wearing a motorcycle helmet and a silvery, reflective jumpsuit. He threw a bulging garbage sack onto the conference table, then propped his leg on a chair. “Like my air cast?” he asked Wilkerson. “I got it when I dove through your window.”
He pulled off his helmet. Damp red curls were plastered to his head. His hands and face were covered with zinc oxide, but scratches were visible through the white ointment.
Wilkerson blinked. Some of the crazier vamps came out in daylight, smearing themselves with sunblock and piling on the protective gear. You’d think Londoners would have caught on by now—realized that immortals walked among them—but there were so many punks and weirdos in the city, the vamps slipped under the radar.
The secretary stood in the doorway, clutching a folder. “Sorry, Mr. Wilkerson. I tried to make him wait.”
“Where’s Yok-Seng?” Wilkerson asked.
The secretary pulled a face. “The loo.”
Wilkerson picked up the phone.
“Are you ringing the Zuba brothers?” Moose cried. “Let go of that phone or you’ll be making future calls with a stump.”
Wilkerson dropped the receiver into the cradle and frowned. He wasn’t frightened. Not yet. “I thought I’d seen the last of you,” he said.
“It takes more than the Zubas to scare me. They might have caused me to break my blooming leg, but I can still get around. So don’t get ideas.” Moose winked. “You should be flattered. I came out in daylight just for you.”
“I’m late for a meeting.” Wilkerson shifted his eyes to the boarded-up window.
“Surely you have time for a sit-down.” Moose looked at the secretary, who was still hovering beside the door, her breasts heaving. “Boo!” he yelled, waving his hands.
The woman squeaked and ran out of the office, slamming the door behind her.
“Are you tapping that bird?” Moose asked Wilkerson.
“What?”
“Are you diddling your secretary?”
“My private life is none of your concern.”
“Maybe not. But is it Cynthia’s concern?” Moose leaned forward. “That’s your girlfriend’s name, isn’t it? Poor Cynthia is clueless. Living by her lonesome self in that big manse in Kensington. Nothing but a snub-nosed dog to keep her company while you do the big nasty with others.”
“Get to the point.” Wilkerson’s eyes narrowed.
“I’m a tracker. I know where you live. Send t
he Zubas after me, and Cynthia hears about your bloody affairs. I’ve got mates. They know about you. And her.” He nodded at the door. “Your crumpet.”
“I don’t care what you tell Cynthia.” Wilkerson folded his hands.
“Maybe I’ll do more than talk to her. You care what the other toffee noses think. A dead girlfriend won’t get you knighted.”
Wilkerson’s right eyelid twitched. “Why are you here?”
“To finish the job.”
“The assignment has been passed on.”
“To who? Don’t I rate a second chance? Maybe I’ll ask your crumpet.”
“Leave her out of it.” Wilkerson said.
“I’d love to, mate. But I can’t.” Moose waved at the boarded-up window. “Don’t you want to hear about last night? I stole the air cast at Saint Mary’s—it was a fucking madhouse, by the way. Humans are so fragile. Then I went back to the crime scene.”
“That was foolish,” Wilkerson said. When vampires had OCD, they wreaked havoc. No matter what the bloody sods began, they felt compelled to finish. Wilkerson frowned. In his social circle, and in the circles just beyond his reach, a murder would be delicious fodder for the gossips. They would descend like magpies on an apricot tree, picking and shredding until nothing remained. The negative buzz could reach the newspapers, and he didn’t want anyone scrutinizing his company.
Moose’s head disappeared inside the garbage bag. He muttered to himself about toffee noses, then emerged holding a fuchsia leather scrapbook. With a flourish, he flipped back the cover, pulled out a small photograph, and slid it across the table. The snap showed a messy bedroom: an unmade bed, books piled on the floor, a tiny painting of some sort above a desk.
Moose waved at the picture. “This is her room, Miss Clifford’s. Rather tacky, innit? The snap was taken before I spent time with Miss Dowell—by the way, her blood was red, not blue.”
Wilkerson’s jaw tightened. “Quit pottering.”
Moose pointed to the photograph. “It was taken two weeks ago. The date is stamped in the lower right corner. We’ll call it the ‘before’ picture.”
Wilkerson shifted his gaze to the door. Where was Yok-Seng?
Moose reached into the bag again and pulled out an eight-by-ten glossy photo. It looked like something from an official crime scene. Moose arranged the snaps, whistling “Drowsy Maggie.”
“Tell me what’s different about these photos, mate.”
Wilkerson blinked. The eight-by-ten glossy showed a larger version of the girl’s messy bedroom. But the wall above the desk was empty. He looked back at the small scrapbook photo. The vibrant painting hung on the wall.
Moose thumped the tiny snap. “The art is missing, mate.”
Wilkerson shrugged. “Maybe it broke, or she threw it away. You know how women are. Always fussing with the décor.”
“I bet she took it,” Moose said.
Wilkerson squinted at the small photograph. The art resembled a plaque, roughly the size of a hardback book, but the top portion was curved. A buzzing filled his ears. His heart vaulted inside his chest, leaping painfully against tissue and bones. This was a Greek Orthodox icon—his icon. He’d thought it was lost forever and yet here it was, hanging on an idiot girl’s wall, exposed to environmental insults.
Moose stood, and the air cast squeaked. “Am I fired or not?”
“I haven’t decided.” Wilkerson looked away. “Come back in a few days and we’ll talk.”
“No tricks?” Moose’s forehead wrinkled. “No Zubas?”
“I thought you weren’t afraid.”
“I’m not, but I don’t want trouble.” Moose slung the bag over his shoulder.
The door opened, and Yok-Seng charged into the room. He lunged toward Moose, but Wilkerson pushed between them. “Moose was just leaving.”
The Cambodian gave a short nod and stepped against the wall.
“He’s a man of few words, isn’t he?” Moose laughed.
“Yok-Seng doesn’t need a vocabulary.” Wilkerson paused. “Mind if I keep these snaps?”
It wasn’t really a question, but Moose pursed his lips, as if giving the matter deep thought. Then he shrugged. “Sure, why the hell not?”
After he left, Wilkerson rummaged in his desk drawer for a magnifying glass and held it over the small photograph. A red-robed figure materialized, a woman holding an ostrich egg in one hand, a book with gilt pages in the other. Wilkerson reached across his desk and buzzed his secretary.
“Get Mr. Underwood,” he said.
CHAPTER 14
HOTEL USTRA
KARDZHALI, BULGARIA
Caro stepped out of the bathroom, pressing a damp cloth to her face. She’d lost her lunch and didn’t think she’d ever eat again. Two murders in two days and both victims had bled to death; yet the deaths had occurred in separate parts of the world. They couldn’t be related. Or could they?
The night she’d been informed of her uncle’s death, a prankster had kept calling the Bow Street flat. Maybe he’d been outside watching. And waiting. Jude had been on Bow Street that night. He knew her telephone number because her uncle had given it to him. How much time had elapsed between the time he’d approached her on the sidewalk and when he’d shown up at the airport? An hour maybe? Was that long enough to kill Phoebe and dash off to Heathrow?
Yes. No. His clothes would have been disheveled and bloody, right? But they were clean. She set down the washrag. Think, Clifford. Concentrate. The murders had to be related.
Maybe Phoebe’s killer had killed the wrong girl.
Adrenaline spiked through Caro’s veins. She felt an urgent need to leave the hotel and make her way to the embassy in Sofia. Her hands shook as she scooped up her clothes, her uncle’s pens, the rabbit’s-foot keychain, and the tiny flashlight. She stuffed everything into her bag and ran to the lobby.
The clerk with the hoop earrings stood behind the desk, but Caro didn’t take the time to settle her bill, just hurried outside and looked for a taxi. Clouds swabbed over the hills, blending into the scrubwater sky. Everything was damp and gray, reminding her of London, the winter days and nights forming a drab continuum.
Two men in red jogging suits walked toward her, ones she’d seen in the hotel. They wore wraparound sunglasses that reflected trees and buildings. Chalky, white cream covered their faces. Why were they wearing Kabuki makeup?
The tall man lifted one hand. “Miss Clee-ford!”
She’d seen him last night, in the bar. And the stumpy fellow had tried to steal her bag in Sofia. Her heart slammed against her ribs, and her mouth went dry. Run, run, run. She sucked in a mouthful of cold air, then sprinted in the opposite direction. She stopped at the first taxi she saw and climbed into the backseat, dragging the duffel bag onto her lap.
“Avtobusna spirka,” she cried. “Hurry! Pobarsai!”
The cab jolted forward and its headlights swept over the road. She clutched the seat as the driver pulled into traffic.
The other cars had their headlights on, too, and it was only late afternoon. She looked out the taxi’s back window, her breath fogging the glass. The men in jogging suits hurried across the parking lot and got into a brown Dacia. On the rear bumper was a sticker: I’LL NOT DIE TODAY.
What’s that supposed to mean? Caro thought. She saw a flash of movement near the front of the hotel. Jude ran out of the black doors and skidded on the sidewalk. He stared at her taxi, waving both arms. Caro almost told her driver to stop, but those men in the red suits alarmed her. She watched Jude run into the parking lot and climb into a white car. Then she lost sight of him as her taxi turned the corner. St. George’s golden domes flashed by. She couldn’t remember where the bus station was located, and she hoped her driver was going in the right direction.
She glanced out the back window again and looked for the Dacia and Jude’s car. She didn’t see either one, but that didn’t mean she’d lost them. Trucks and smaller vehicles jammed the boulevard, their headlights shimmering over the damp pav
ement.
Caro turned around and pulled a map from her bag. She found the Hotel Ustra and drew a line to the bus terminal on Bulgarian Boulevard. She glanced up just as a red Moskvitch darted out of a side street and plowed into the taxi. The jolt knocked her against the door, and her map went flying. The taxi spun around and skidded onto the sidewalk.
The taxi driver got out and waved his fist in the air. His forehead was bleeding. Behind him, the Moskvitch’s horn blared in a flat monotone, and smoke drifted up from its hood. The car’s occupant lay motionless over the steering wheel. The taxi driver opened Caro’s door. Blood ran down his chin and hit the pavement. He pointed east. “Avtobusna spirka,” he said.
He was telling her to make her own way to the bus station. Fine, she could do that. People circled the red Moskvitch and peered through the shattered windshield. She reached into her bag, yanked out a T-shirt, and handed it to her driver.
“To stop the bleeding,” she said and slid out of the taxi. Cars stretched out in both directions. No brown Dacia. She didn’t see Jude’s car, either. She stepped into the crowd and walked toward the intersection. While she waited for the light to change, she decided to call Ilya Velikov. As she groped inside her bag for the phone, a brown Dacia whizzed by. The taillights blinked, and the car angled into a parking slot. The creepy men got out, ignoring startled glances from pedestrians, and turned in Caro’s direction. She ran to the end of the block and darted in front of a redheaded woman who yelled something in Bulgarian.
“Sorry,” Caro said. Still gripping the phone, she looked over her shoulder to check on the men. The sidewalk was jammed with pedestrians, but she didn’t see anyone in sunglasses or red jogging suits. She turned around and bumped into something solid. She looked up into a man’s white-washed face. He smiled, and his makeup cracked at the edges. It was the tall, gaunt man, and his sidekick stood beside him.
He slapped the mobile phone from her hand. She started to run, but he grabbed her shoulders and spun her around. She ground her heel against his instep. He cursed, then a thin smile creased his face and he tightened his grip. His companion seized her right elbow. Their cold bodies gave off a foul smell.
Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) Page 8
