by Mary Hughes
Gretchen’s hand, setting crackers on a shelf, faltered. “Elena, you don’t understand. It’s not that simple.”
“You’re right, I don’t understand. So explain it to me.”
Gretch didn’t turn. “It’s because of the attack.”
“Everything is, these days.”
She shot a glare over her shoulder. “Do you want to understand or criticize?”
I held up a hand. “Sorry. Go on.”
“The attack—” Gretchen heaved a breath. “There were two of them. Strong, and fast. I sheltered Stella from most of it. But she…heard them. Heard them rip Steve…to shreds.”
I had seen the remains. A rabid wolverine would have left more. It was one of the excuses Gretchen had for a closed coffin. Sensible, except Steve looked fine at the viewing.
“Stella was traumatized.” Gretchen stuffed away a few more boxes. “Hell, I was traumatized. I did everything I could to make us feel safe again.” She turned to me, eyes burning. “I’ll do anything to keep us safe. Anything. If it takes Stella’s father living with us to make her feel safe…even if it’s only the memory of him…” She dropped the empty bag into the recycling bin. “Whatever it takes.”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it.” I pulled a bag of cans over to the pantry. “I don’t mean lying to Stella about her dad being dead. I mean you passing off your date, your lover—” slammed cans emphasized my words, “—as Stella’s father.”
“My…lover?” Gretchen’s face went white. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Say, I told you Carla Donner called me, right? From New York. She’s finally on Broadway.”
Did I remember Carla? It was why I’d come. Right now I could care less. I opened my mouth but Gretchen sailed on.
“Only took her three years, but it’s expensive living there, waiting to be discovered. Napoleon Schrimpf gave her the money that made it possible. What a coincidence, huh?”
Another suspect gone, but it no longer mattered. I felt my sister’s evasion like a punch to the gut. “Gretchen, I heard a laugh. A male laugh.” I smashed my empty bag into a ball, rammed it into the bin. Before I could stop myself, I added, “Was it Bo?”
“Don’t be silly.” Gretchen’s color returned to normal. “He’s out on patrol. Elena, I don’t want to argue.” She picked up a bag of frozen food. “I have some good news. A lead on a job. You’ve been badgering me to get out of the house.”
“Gretch, don’t. No more avoidance.”
“The Blood Center’s hiring.” She tugged open the freezer. “Did you know they’ve been picked as the new Midwest regional distribution center for the Hemoglobin Society? I guess the old one in Springfield burned down. Imagine, thousands of units will pass through.”
She was babbling. I slapped the freezer shut. Willed her to look at me. “I need to know. Who was the man you left Stella with? Alone?”
That, at last, got through. She stiffened, then whirled to face me, color high. “Implying I’m a bad mother? If Stella wants to think of him as her daddy, then that man was her daddy!”
“Fine.” I walked away. Spun. “Why does an apartment building have a butler?”
I wanted to knock her off balance. Gretchen simply jerked a cupboard open and dragged out a pot. “You must have misheard. He’s not a butler. His name is Butler. Mr. Butler.”
“Mr. Butler, I see.” I let my sarcastic tone tell her I wasn’t buying it.
“You’ve changed, Elena. You used to be at least a little trusting.” She stared at me as if I’d sprouted fangs. “Now it seems you’re always on the job.”
Implying I was a bad sister. It stung. “That’s not true.”
“If you say so.” Her sarcastic tone matched mine. “Mr. Butler’s in One-A. He answers the door as part of building security, so people don’t just get buzzed in. Did you come to ask me that? You could have picked up a phone.”
My bullshit meter was pinging off the scale. My sister was lying to me. Big, obnoxious, toxic lies. The last time she’d done that, she was sixteen and covering for her lover Steve. What—or who—was she hiding now? “Where’s Bo?”
“I told you. On patrol.” She stuck the pot under the tap, jerked it on.
That rang true, which surprised me. “Right. For his neighborhood watch.”
“Is that so hard to believe?” Gretchen turned and smiled, not nice. “Or do you just not believe me?”
“I’m doing this as your sister, Gretch. For your own good.”
“Sure. Your obsession with Bo is obviously not the issue.” She slammed the tap closed. “Don’t start harping on Bo, Elena. He works harder than you can imagine.” She dragged the pot to the stove.
Obsession…! “Works hard, right. Building super, incredibly hard work. Collecting rent once a month, plunging the occasional toilet.”
“He does far more than that.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Like…like…stuff.” Gretchen turned a stiff back on me and stood, quivering.
“Sure. Like seducing my little sister so she lies for him. Massive hard work.”
She spun to me. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. Don’t harass Bo, Elena. He’s overburdened as it is.”
“Overburdened. Yeah.” I leaned against the wall. Bo, overburdened? Maybe as in needing a back brace for his cock. But with actual work? I didn’t think so. “Sure.”
“He is!” Gretchen stalked to the pantry, pulled out a bag of spaghetti. “You should know. You get the exact same way when you’re overworked. All crabby, then banging at it twice as hard.”
“I do not.”
“Do too. Both of you have too much responsibility. But you have a whole department to help. Bo has just Thor and Stev—just Thor to help.” She tossed the bag on the counter, marched to the stove.
But I’d caught it. “Thor and who?”
“No one.” My sister twisted the burner dial so hard she almost broke it. “Do you have any more questions? Because if you’re done with the interrogation, I have some supper to make. And a story to read my daughter.”
“I’m done. For now.” I left. The set of her jaw told me I could get answers out of her, but only if I broke bones. I wouldn’t do that unless the secrets hurt her worse.
Anyway, there was only one more question, and I didn’t have to ask it. I could find the basement stairs on my own.
Chapter Ten
Moving silently through the cool, empty foyer, I kept alert for Mr.-my-ass Butler. Any minute, the silver head would pop around the corner. Any minute I’d hear a ringing “Detective!” as I eased open a door and saw—
Wow. Kitchen with a capital Itch. Vast tile floors, gleaming stainless countertops, institutional-sized refrigerators and freezers. Oddly, the grandeur was frosted with homey touches. Crayon art was pinned to the refrigerator with photo magnets. Hand-knit dishrags hung from the sweeping faucets. A cookie jar sat on a butcher block island.
Bo’s “apartment” building was getting weirder by the minute. I slid through the empty kitchen toward the back door, hoping it led to the basement stairs. Hoping I could clear up at least one mystery.
The last time I was here, the butler let slip that the master was downstairs. Jeeves obviously didn’t want me down there. Naturally, that meant I wanted to see it. Bad.
Grasping the black metal knob, I opened the door. To my left was a walk-in pantry the size of China. To my right was the backyard, as vast as the Russian steppes.
Straight ahead were a set of bare wooden stairs leading down. Bingo.
I put one hand on my weapon and crept down, skimming my other hand over a rough wood handrail. Step by step I went, feeling blindly for each with a toe. Creak. I sucked in a breath, held it. Counted sixty slowly before I started down again.
An eternity later I got to the bottom of the stairs. And at the bottom was—
A perfectly ordinary basement.
Cinder block walls. Concrete floor. To the left were four washers and four dryers li
t by a small shop light. The rest of the basement was dark.
I let out a disappointed breath. So normal. Wandering a bit, I tried to figure out what had panicked Jeeves so. Maybe Bo had been downstairs doing his laundry. Jeeves hadn’t wanted me to know Viking-manager was doing something so domestic and unmanly.
But what had I expected? Dungeons? Buried bodies?
Coffins?
Disgusted with myself, I crossed back to the stairs. My sister’s behavior, this apartment-cum-manor house, Bo himself—it all argued there was a mystery. I hated an unsolved mystery.
But nothing was out of place or odd, certainly nothing dark and dangerous. I trotted up the steps but hesitated at the top. Something was bothering me. I had seen something.
Slowly, I came back down. No. I hadn’t seen something—I had seen nothing. Half the basement was dark. But the furthest corner was not quite the same dark as the rest.
It was a door.
I crept toward it, hand on gun. Like a bad Christmas ballet, Visions of Coffins danced in my head. I stretched out a tentative hand. The door, metal painted gray, was cool and enigmatic under my fingers. No window. I couldn’t see what was on the other side.
Whatever—whoever—was there, we would both be surprised.
I eased the door open.
No one jumped me. But that might only mean they were waiting further on.
Beyond the door, the dark was completely solid. Even straining my eyes, I couldn’t see a thing. But I smelled…earth.
Rain-fresh, newly tilled soil. Coffins? Or mass burial?
Sucking in a fortifying breath, I stepped into the gloom. The door swung shut behind me with a clang.
I jumped. Tore out my XD. Dammit, I was trapped. The dark hung on me like a heavy black wool blanket. My eyes were fish-wide. I was trapped and I couldn’t see. I couldn’t hear anything over the pounding of my own heart. I tried to spin but my legs weren’t working, mired in the nightmare darkness.
My gun hand trembled.
That snapped me out of it. I’d trained long and hard with that weapon. I was acting like a kid, not a cop. I had questions, I wanted answers. The fact that this was a private residence and I had no warrant was not an issue. I wasn’t gathering evidence for court, just worried about my sister and niece. Digging in my pockets, I found my flashlight and switched it on. It revealed a rather ordinary-looking hallway. The floor was concrete.
A concrete floor. Why had I smelled earth?
Eight doors notched the hallway. I tried the first door on the right. It was locked. The next door was also locked.
Carefully I twisted the third knob. It turned.
I cracked the door, shone the light through the opening. Walls, pictures, a dresser…it was a bedroom. A perfectly normal bedroom, with a chest of drawers and a bookshelf filled with books.
The only even slightly unusual thing was the bed. The four-poster was huge to the point of absurdity. Its blue comforter look more like the Norwegian Sea than a bedspread.
I wondered if this was where Bo sailed his Viking longboat. And what nymphs played with him in this bouncy sea.
Phooey. Gretch was right. I was obsessed. I was obsessed with a big gorgeous man I knew nothing about—who I wanted to know nothing about! I pulled the door shut with a decisive click and stomped back up the hall.
Only to stop. Where was that earthy smell coming from?
I returned to the Norwegian Sea room. Sniffed. Went two steps to the door on the other side of the hall. The scent was stronger here. I tried the knob. It turned silently. I eased the door open and shined my light cautiously in. The beam hit pay dirt.
Literally. Dirt. The source of the smell. Fresh-turned earth, amazingly sweet.
But why? Indoor farming? I felt around for a light switch, found nothing. The ceiling showed no light fixtures of any sort. Without light, what could grow—mushrooms?
I flashed the beam around the room. It took me a moment to realize what I was looking at.
The room was the size of a cozy den. Like a den it had bookshelves and DVD racks. An entertainment center on a raised metal platform held a huge HDTV and a kick-ass sound system.
But no couches or chairs.
And the floor was nothing but carefully raked soil.
Maybe I was dreaming. Normal basement, normal bedrooms…and this. Why? Were any of the other rooms like it? And what did Bo Grunt Manager have to do with this?
Rather than a mystery solved, it was a mystery deepened.
–—
Within moments of hitting fresh air, I felt like a fool. I tramped west on Lincoln, heading for Nieman’s Bar with some idea of double-checking the parking lot for blood. It wasn’t the long way around it seemed (Meiers Corners’ streets were laid out like a checkerboard—any way that didn’t involve air and wings was the long way around) but that wouldn’t have mattered. I was mad.
I was mad at Captain Titus for assigning me a partner simply because I hadn’t solved the case in twenty-four hours. I was mad at the case, for not being solved in twenty-four hours. I was mad at Dolly Barton, for having spoiled any chance of a trap that would let me solve the case in twenty-four hours. I was mad at Kiefer Sutherland, for solving all his cases in twenty-four hours. I was mad at Dirk, just on general principles.
Of course, I was really maddest at me.
My escapade in Bo’s basement embarrassed me. However I justified it, it was not by-the-book behavior. Dad would have been appalled. I was worried about my sister, yes. Scared for her and her small daughter. But breaking into and entering a man’s den…and bedroom… I almost didn’t recognize myself.
Was Gretchen right? Had I changed? Had fear for her overcome my personality as well as my better sense? Had something about Bo so unhinged me (well, besides his überhot kisses…and his suckling my nipples…and oh, yeah, those big hands down my…ngh) so unhinged me that I fell off that line of rules and regs that defined Elena O’Rourke?
Automatically I pulled out my phone, hit speed dial two. Dad.
“’Sup, Badge-Bitch?” Nixie.
I groaned. I’d reprogrammed dial-two six months ago, when the phone company had finally reused the number and I’d woken Annie Roet (and her new baby triplets) the third straight night. The screaming had been deafening. And the kids were noisy too. “Sorry, Nixie. Wrong number.”
“Calling your dad again, huh. What about?”
“Oh, something stupid I did. I’ll never break the rules again. No matter what.”
“Yeah, I’m so onboard with that. Rules and authority über alles, woot.”
I snorted. “You can get away with acting different. I am different.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I am. I’m a too-tall Irish-Latina cop who looks like a beauty queen and has the sexual luck of a spayed cat. Rules and regs are the only things that keep me balanced.”
“And I’m a too-short punk rock musician who goes a little nuts around Christmas because they butcher the same five songs in so many new yet unoriginal ways. Elena, did you ever wonder why rules are such a BFD to you?”
Big effing deal, I translated. “Well, I always thought it was because I’m a cop.”
“And why are you a cop?”
“I don’t know. Justice seems to be in my blood. Like my dad.”
“Exactamundo, mi amiga. Like your dad. Do you have any idea how awesome that is? To be so like someone, they can understand you with only a few words—or none at all?”
I shuddered a breath. “God, I miss him.”
“I hear you. That kind of connection, it’s rare. That’s why you’re so snarky. You’re lonely, you want to fit in.”
“And rules make me fit.”
“Well, I think that’s baka. But in your world, rules equal normal. Follow the rules, hey-presto! You’re normal.”
“You’re saying it’s only an illusion.”
“True dat. A symptom of you being lonely. If you had another partner like your dad, you wouldn’t be such a rules-slave. You wouldn
’t have to be.”
–—
My cop sense started tingling at the corner of Fifth and Lincoln. Someone behind me, but several yards away. Hand to holster I turned. Movement flickered farther up the street. Dolly Barton’s or the Blood Center.
Tiptoeing toward Dolly’s, I took another reading of my cop sense. Not exactly dangerous, but not totally innocent, either. Not at two thirty in the morning. Could be Strongwell. I didn’t relax my guard.
A slight figure flitted through the shadows in front of the Blood Center. I edged closer. The figure was slim, moving with a flutter and crinkle peppered with blehs. Oh, joy. Count Ickula. He was popping around, trying to peer in the windows.
“They don’t take donations until morning,” I said.
The fake Count Dracula startled badly. He tottered, wheeled a few times and nearly landed on his keister before catching himself. “I do not wish to donate,” he said with as much dignity as a man in a kid’s costume and bad Lugosi could muster. “I want to make a withdrawal.”
“Withdrawal? This is a blood center, not a blood bank. What are you really doing here, Drac? And what the hell is your real name?”
“I have told you my real name. Dracula.”
“Right. Name and address, buddy. Legal name.” I flipped open my notebook to a fresh page, shoved it and a pencil under his nose.
He took it and scribbled. “Why are you so suspicious of me, Detective O’Rourke? I am not your nemesis.” He cast me a sly look from under his brows. “Strongwell, though, is another matter.”
Not again. After Tin-Can Ruthven, that poked my suspicions twice as hard.
Of course, suspicion was my middle name. Elena O’Suspicion Rourke. “Just what do you mean by that?”
He passed back my notebook. “I have only heard rumors, you understand. A spree of similar killings in Meiers Corners in the past. Strongwell’s…involvement.”
Bo’s name in conjunction with a killing spree jarred me. I glanced at the page, saw Drac had written a name and an address, and pocketed it.
“Really. What kind of killing?” I meant to trap him. Conveniently, I had forgotten about DNN (Dolly’s News Network).
