When It Comes (Vampire Assassin League Book 31)

by Jackie Ivie

  The info said he was in a relationship.

  Addie’s heart reacted. Her eyes widened. Everything went red. Fiery hot. Addie shoved the laptop off the table. Listened to it smack against the wooden wall with a thunk that echoed through the old mining tunnels. She snarled at the useless piece of technology, although the destruction didn’t matter. She had other laptops. Her heart was a live thing, sending spurts of rage-infused beats through her breast. She didn’t have to check on the status of her fangs. They were fully extended. Murderously sharp. Vibrating with the extent of her anger. As was her entire body.

  She needed to calm down here.

  Think.

  The woman was a minor problem. Addie was reanimated because she’d found her mate. It wasn’t open to discussion. Or flexible. It was fate. Mitchell Harnett was Adelaide’s mate. Period. Besides, this woman was mortal. Her life extremely fragile. Especially at the moment.

  Addie’s weapon of choice was a blade.

  She had a lot to choose from. Long daggers. Sharp stilettos. Nasty-looking sharp knives.

  Addie ignored her weapons cabinet and yanked the next one open. Grabbed a sealed laptop from the top. They arrived every so often from VAL Headquarters. Already programmed. Every link secure. She had dozens in there. She’d been told they were upgrades. Addie rarely opened them. She wasn’t interested. She’d come from a different era, where things were difficult to obtain and expensive to own. You made do or went without. If something wasn’t broke, why fix it?

  She set the latest model onto the tabletop. Ripped off the packaging with such force, she left long scratch marks on the cover. Grabbed the plug with fingers that trembled and stuck it into the electrical outlet. She was trying for calm here, but her body wasn’t listening. She inhaled a deep breath before opening the unit. Exhaled. Took another.

  Crikey.

  Manufacturers kept altering things with every keyboard. It took several moments to even find the power button. Another few seconds before the monitor gave her an opening screen. Her password worked instantly. As did her search. This laptop reacted a lot faster than the ruined one. She noted that immediately.

  Her search didn’t yield much. She couldn’t find one mention of where he lived. Not one picture of a house. Not even an interior shot. Nothing she could use. Addie had a cell phone out and was ready to call VAL when it occurred to her. Mitchell Hartnett was a closed book. Extremely secure. But, like all males, he didn’t check on what his woman did.

  Addie went back to the original Mitchell Hartnett site. Selected a picture of him and the brunette. The name Brittney came up. Hmm. Attractive name. It fit. The woman wasn’t going to be attractive for much longer. Addie hissed at the image before clicking on the woman’s picture. Got directed to her social media site, listing plenty of photos. Addie scanned down to find a useable photo.

  Oh.

  This was so easy.

  Humanity didn’t know how much privacy they lost with every stroke of a key, especially since they were the instigators of it. Every insertion into the internet left something traceable.

  There!

  A picture came up of the couple standing in the driveway of a gated community. They were embracing, which didn’t anger quite as much as it had before. Addie realized the reason. His relationship status was the means for finding him. And that was what mattered. Brittney was collateral damage.

  Poor woman.

  Adie was smiling at the thought. So was the couple in the picture. The sun was setting behind them. Its rays went right through the wrought iron of an arched entrance gate above them, emblazoning the name. A map search later and Addie knew where he lived. It was a massive complex of condominium units. She didn’t need to go through the Freedom of Information Act to access property deeds, either. She had a laptop programmed and linked to the Vampire Assassin League. Moments later, she was viewing an image of the actual document Mitchell Hartnett had signed when he’d purchased his home. By himself.

  It even gave her the unit number.

  “Gotcha!”

  Jubilation filled her cry. And her movements. She probably damaged the laptop more with the way she slapped the lid closed.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  This was complete shit.

  Mitch looked over at the sketch artist. They’d just finished the third attempt. Every picture looked the same. Denver PD had a really good artist. The woman should be making a fortune at an art gallery. The pick-pocket’s eyes loomed right off the page. As if she stared straight into his soul...

  Shit.

  Mitch rubbed his eyes. It was obvious to him. He’d been up too long.

  The artist handed the sketch to the FBI guys. Randy looked at it first. Snickered. Gave the picture to Tom who then passed it to Sam. Tom’s brows rose. Sam nodded. When he wasn’t jumping around like a meth addict in need of a fix, he acted downright sedate. He handed the picture to the captain. She pursed her lips as she looked it over, which put lines in evidence all about her lips. Captain Thomas wouldn’t like that. She was in her mid-fifties and looked like she hung onto youth with every chemical method known to mankind.

  Randy spoke up. “Well. I gotta say, he’s consistent.”

  “Is that her, or not?” The captain asked. Everybody waited.

  “Can’t say that it isn’t,” Randy finally replied.

  Mitch spoke up. “Look. Cap. I got a really good look at her. I have excellent recall. I appear to be able to describe that efficiently to an artist. We need to move onto something else.”

  “She’s quite the looker.”

  “So?”

  “So. You’re single. She’s very attractive. And she now has possession of all your personal stuff. I’m just making sure it wasn’t intentional.”

  “She busted my cuffs. Broke open a safe.”

  “It does kind-a look like that. Doesn’t it?” Captain Thomas answered.

  Randy snickered again. Mitch sighed loudly. They were in the large interrogation room. The door was open. It wasn’t a legal proceeding. This space was just less hectic than the rest of the place. Mitch was on one side of the table, half-way down. The three FBI agents sat across from him. The sketch artist was at one end of the table. The captain was seated at the other. Donny, a desk sergeant, was on the captain’s right, standing behind a seat two down from Mitch. Donny was responsible for seeing to amenities. Food. Drinks. Rotten conversation.

  At least the females in attendance seemed to keep the amount of testosterone-fueled antagonism at bay. That was one good part of this. Mitch had a headache coming on, either from dehydration, lack of caffeine, or lower-than-normal caloric intake. They’d been at this for hours. Taken several breaks. He’d gotten a couple of quick naps in. Swigged some of the station brew that went for coffee. Sucked down at least a half gallon of water. Eaten some meat and veggies from the inside of the breakfast burrito they provided. Did the same with lunch.

  It was the chick’s fault.

  Mitch had been witness numero uno ever since prints from his car and the bag and even some of the wallets from the trashcan matched an unsolved homicide from 2015 in Orlando, Florida. A folder with newly printed documentation sat on the table somewhere in the pile of folders. The murderer had used a sharp object. Blood evidence should have been everywhere. The pattern analysis experts had been baffled. The DNA seemed to be a scrambled mess.

  Which was just the first oddity in this.

  The chick’s prints had also been found at an unsolved homicide in Houston in 2012. Murder weapon had been another sharp instrument but that fellow had bled out. A third homicide was from 2005. Syracuse, New York. Same type of weapon. They’d run the DNA on that homicide. Couldn’t seem to get a DNA profile. The lab analysis was inconclusive. A fourth murder was from 1999 – which was impossible, as well as ridiculous. The pick-pocket would have been a toddler.

  Mitch hadn’t known forensics could work this fast. Apparently, it helped that the prints matched those from unsolved open cases, they were in the National dat
abase, and the matches just kept coming despite the absurdity of it.

  It also helped that the FBI was involved.

  “Can we call it a day, Cap?” Mitch asked. “Start again in the morning? I could use some real food. And some decent sleep.”

  “What? You don’t like breakfast burritos? Half-pound cheeseburgers, large fries? Chocolate shakes?” Randy asked.

  “Hell. He’s such a health freak, he doesn’t even eat doughnuts. And I waited for them to frost these, right out of the cooker.”

  The speaker was Donny. He stuffed the last half of a glazed doughnut into his mouth for emphasis. Washed it down with cream and sugar-filled coffee. Mitch watched without expression. Everyone knew he didn’t eat fast food if he could help it. He didn’t care who heckled him over it. Donny was one of the worst offenders, however. And the guy wondered why the spare tire worth of flab around his gut kept increasing.

  “What kind of chow do you eat?”

  Randy asked it. The guy had his aggressive edge on display again. Mitch watched Captain Thomas note it with a glance in the agent’s direction and another pinched-lip look.

  “I can go to a Chinese joint if you want,” Donny offered.

  “Oh, brother. Don’t tell me. Let me guess. You’re the rice and sushi type, aren’t you?”

  Mitch considered Randy for a moment. “I’ve got a black belt in tae-kwan-do. Aikido. And karate.” He paused between each martial art as he listed them. “If you’d like, I’d be happy to demonstrate.”

  “Why, you—!” Randy replied.

  “Stop it, gentlemen. We have to work together here. We’ve lucked onto the trail of a serial killer. Looks like she’s been hidden for years. Macho crap isn’t going to find her. Can we agree on that, at least?”

  Randy had shoved his chair backward, but then he settled back as though stopped by Captain Thomas’s words. Mitch didn’t exhibit any expression. He didn’t much care why. The agent’s attitude was only adding to the complete shit package facing him.

  “Good. Now. Let’s go over it one more time,” Captain Thomas said.

  At her words, Mitch’s shoulders sagged. Not far. And he caught it before anyone noticed. Especially Randy.

  “Special agents? Is this a decent sketch of the woman Detective Hartnett had in custody when you approached the trashcans? He had a cuff on her. The other was on his wrist. Yes?”

  All three men answered in the affirmative.

  “All right. Mitch? Is this the woman you arrested and secured in your vehicle?”

  The captain turned toward Mitch’s side of the table, lifting the newest sketch into Mitch’s line of sight. He made the mistake of looking at it again. And the same thing happened as before.

  The eyes...

  Mitch locked gazes with the drawing as if it were real. The artist had gotten the eyes perfect every time they’d worked. The pick-pocket had astounding eyes. They’d snagged Mitch’s attention in the real world. The rendition did it, too. They drew him into a mesmeric state somehow. He got the sensation of his heart enlarging. His heartbeat got fuller. Deeper. The organ sent thumps resounding through his chest. His pulse joined in next, only it moved at a rate that sent surf sounds through his ears. And as he watched, unable to even blink, the noise got interspersed with the oddest sensation of whispering. Indecipherable words. In a feminine tone...

  “Mitch? Yo.”

  A hand waved before the picture. Mitch started. Blinked. Looked down at his lap. Barely caught the flush of reaction.

  “You gonna answer my question? Like...today?” the captain asked.

  “Uh. Yeah. Sorry. Lack of sleep. That’s her.”

  “You stated she was approximately five foot six.”

  “Five two. Maybe three.” Mitch kept his voice even-keeled. Non-emotional. The captain was trying to trip him up now? More shit.

  “A hundred and fifteen pounds.”

  “Give or take.” Mitch looked back up to Captain Thomas.

  “Age range could be eighteen to thirty? Wide gap there, Hartnett.”

  “I said she looked about twenty-two, but could be anywhere from eighteen to thirty. I don’t know for sure. I didn’t ask. She didn’t offer.”

  “She gave you her name, though.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Told you it was Adelaide? Addie for short?”

  “Yeah,” Mitch repeated.

  “And then she wanted to know your name?”

  “Yeah.

  “And you didn’t tell her, which is a normal response to anyone who asks for just about anything about you. That is probably the only normal portion of this.”

  Mitch sighed again.

  “But you did tell her you weren’t there for pick-pockets. That’s a strange answer. Might have piqued her interest as to what you really wanted.”

  “She didn’t react to it.”

  “No?”

  “According to your statement she answered that she was much more than just a pick-pocket.”

  “Yep.”

  “You missed a big one there. But...we do have some light here. You did ask for specifics and she wanted to know if you’d use it against her. And you told her ‘yes’. That shows that you gave her Miranda Rights, and apparently she understood them.”

  “Apparently,” Mitch answered. He was on auto-reply. This was the fourth reading of his statement. He was being taped this time. He didn’t much care. He had nothing of use. He’d had very little contact with her. He’d already entered all this into the database and printed it out. There were multiple copies. The captain held one copy in her hands. The FBI agents had their own.

  “And then she said something about daylight.”

  “Yep. You got the entire conversation. In a nutshell. She wanted to make sure I was coming back. Before daylight.”

  The captain looked steadily at him. Mitch returned the gaze with the same lack of expression. A long silence ensued. Nobody said anything. One of the FBI agents shuffled. Mitch didn’t care which one. The silence lengthened. This kind of tactic worked especially well on perpetrators getting interrogated. Mitch was immune.

  Randy spoke up finally.

  “Well. Guess that solves it.“

  The captain looked at him. Mitch didn’t bother turning his head. It was going to be a smartass remark. And he was too tired to react.

  “How so?”

  “Looks like we’re dealing with a vampire.”

  Donny laughed. Sam and Tom chuckled. Even the sketch artist coughed. The captain blew out a sigh. Randy’s phone vibrated on the table. Randy picked it up and looked at the screen. His voice matched his astonished expression.

  “They just matched the prints to a murder scene in Cleveland from 1985. Same M.O.”

  “Nineteen eighty-five?” the captain asked.

  “No way. I mean, no way. Even I can tell you she was not that old.”

  Oh. This sucked even more. Mitch really didn’t want to thank Randy.

  “Well. Looks like you’ve got your break, Hartnett. We’ve got a really weird case here. Be back at eight o’clock. Sharp.”

  “Can we make it earlier or later, Cap? So I don’t have to deal with rush hour traffic?”

  The captain regarded him for long moments. She finally answered. She wasn’t smiling, but her voice sounded it. “How about nine-thirty? We’ll get all this information verified in the meantime. Until tomorrow?”

  “Be here at eight,” Randy inserted. “This is our case now. We’ll have all kinds of info ready tomorrow. And I don’t give a crap about rush hour in Denver.”

  The guy stood and looked down at him. Mitch looked at his lap again. Waited. Any answer would cause trouble. So he didn’t make one. He didn’t know what it was about that woman, but meeting her was complete shit.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  He couldn’t kick the image of that woman. Adelaide. It was like she’d imprinted in his psyche. Her eyes were haunting. Always there and easily brought to mind. Her image followed him about the Asian market. Accompanie
d him on the drive home. Regarded him through his rearview mirror when he glanced at it, occasionally prompting a quick check of the back seat. It was akin to a physical presence.

  And it was worse when he got home.

  His home should have felt unwelcoming. Empty. Like usual. At least, it had felt that way since Brittney had told him to kiss her ass, and proved she meant it by moving out. Mitch told himself, as he unlocked the door and entered, that it didn’t matter. He had a problem with love and commitment. Not only was one of those a four-letter word, but he was a fourth generation cop. Hartnett males seemed to gravitate toward the field, as if it was encoded in their DNA or something. Trouble was, his mother had been widowed when he was a toddler. His grandmother had been widowed early. His great-grandmother. Great-great-grandma. They’d all been widowed early.

  Brittney didn’t deserve that.

  No woman did.

  Mitch’s mother hadn’t been pleased that he’d joined the Denver PD right out of the military. She’d never said it, but her eyes had misted over more than once. He knew the reason. Despite how he’d tried to up the odds in his favor, the sand in his hourglass was depleting daily. It was just a matter of time. She hadn’t wanted to lose him, too.

  But then she’d been hit head-on by a drunk driver. He’d been the one left to handle the mortician and burial plot and estate.

  And, that was that.

  Mitch smacked the light switch on with his elbow before setting his two bags of groceries on the floor. Bolted the door behind him without looking. Pulled off his sleeveless hoodie. Resettled his t-shirt. Rolled the hoodie into a small cylinder. Put it in the laundry bag hanging on the handle of the coat closet. All by touch. He squatted next, untied, and removed his shoes with the same deficit of attention on his actions. Stood and slid his feet into the leather-soled slippers he kept at the entranceway. The entire time, he scanned his living room and the shadowed area of his kitchen while shivers lifted the hair at the back of his neck. Everything looked the same but it sure felt different. He concentrated. Heard his breathing. Heart beat. Pulse. Everything seemed to have the weirdest echo. Mitch spent long moments at the entrance foyer. Waiting. Watching.