Cursed fs-1

by S. J. Harper

  His lips purse together and he nods. “I’m gonna take a shower. Get dressed. You still up for dinner?”

  “Sure.” I reach for the knife. “I’ll finish slicing the cucumber. I’m not a great cook, but even I can put together a simple salad.”

  “Help yourself to whatever,” he says, before backing out of the kitchen and racing up the stairs.

  “Emma Monroe, you are an idiot,” I whisper to the four walls.

  With Zack gone, my heartbeat returns to normal. For the first time I take in the surroundings. Zack’s kitchen is palatial compared to mine. The professional-grade appliances, custom cherry cabinetry, and cream-colored marble countertops are just what you would expect in a house like this. I spend a moment taking everything in, trying to connect the home I’m standing in to the guy who is my partner. A rectangular dining table, which matches the cherry cabinets, is to my right, surrounded by cream suede chairs. A modern glass chandelier hangs above it. The living room is in front of me, on the other side of the counter, which also serves as a breakfast bar. A pair of brown suede sofas are arranged around a cozy fireplace. Above the mantel is a flat-screen television. To the left stand two gleaming guitars. To the right, a black baby grand. There are decorative pillows and throws, candles, place mats, fresh flowers, and even some artwork. But there is nothing that feels personal.

  Maybe it’s because he’s just moved in. Maybe it’s because the place is more of a designer showcase than a home. What I do know is that if I want to find out more about Zack Armstrong tonight, I’m going to have to do it the old-fashioned way—and in this case, that means asking questions. Any other way is too dangerous.

  The shower comes on upstairs and I throw myself into the mission of making salad. Trouble is, the assignment doesn’t take long enough. My work is soon done; the shower isn’t. I look up, not because the ceiling is interesting, but because that’s where my eyes are drawn. Lasting love is something I can never have. Blistering, hot sex? That is fair game and experience tells me it’s just one floor away. Hot. Soapy. Shower sex. Perfectly natural. Not to mention efficient.

  I pluck a cherry tomato out of the salad bowl and pop it into my mouth. “And so much more fun than interrogation.” The fate of the next tomato is rescued by the ringing of my cell. It’s Liz. Thank God. I push the images of Zack that have been forming—naked and wet—aside.

  “Distract me.”

  I don’t have to ask twice. Liz is in the midst of a meltdown.

  “I’m in Evan’s bathroom. I don’t have a lot of time.”

  Evan Porter is a thirtysomething attorney vampire. I’ve met him several times. He’s hardworking, earnest, loyal, and completely in love with my best friend. They’ve been dating for three months, which for Liz is probably some kind of record.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Are you kidding? I’m calling you from the friggin’ bathroom. I’m a wreck!” she whispers. “We have to talk.”

  “We are talking,” I remind her.

  “Tomorrow, after Evan leaves for work. Emma, he wants me to move in.”

  Whoa.

  “And?”

  “I told him I needed to think about it.”

  “And?”

  “And then I ran in here to call you! You know I’ve been staying here for a few days while my place is getting painted. Tonight we’re eating dinner and he tells me he doesn’t want me to leave. He wants me to put my place on the market and move in here. He’s talking about putting down roots. About making a life together. That’s insane. Right? Hello? Vampire. Sure, I can work some mojo, extend things a bit. But eternity? No can do. He has this vision of happily-ever-after. I’m not even sure I can commit to happily-for-now. What the hell am I going to do?”

  The shower’s no longer running. I’m not sure how long ago Zack turned it off.

  “Let me get this straight. You’re asking me for relationship advice?”

  “See? I’m a total and complete wreck!”

  This time I hear a smile in her voice.

  Zack bounds down the stairs dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, his hair still wet and slicked back from the shower. He walks straight past me into the kitchen and opens up the fridge.

  “I’m free for lunch tomorrow,” I tell Liz. “Can we talk about it then?”

  “Yes. Come here around noon?”

  “You got it. See you then.”

  Zack hands me a beer. “Friend having troubles?”

  I don’t end the call quickly enough. Liz hears his voice and before I know it, I’m being barraged with questions.

  “Who is that? You’re with someone? Are you out on a date?”

  “It’s not a date. I’m working. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I disconnect before she can get in another word.

  Zack is leaning against the counter, eyeing me.

  I wonder how much of the conversation he heard.

  I hold up my phone. “My friend Liz. She has a handsome, successful, and honorable guy wanting a commitment.”

  “There must be something seriously wrong with him.” Zack tilts the beer he’s holding to his lips and takes several long swallows.

  “That’s what Liz is afraid of.” I stroll over to the sliding glass doors that lead onto the deck. There’s a grill on one side, along with a table and a few chairs. On the other, a built-in fire pit and two love seats. The entire area is surrounded by a waist-high wall. Beyond that is sand and ocean. “Tell me something, Zack. Where did the money come from?”

  “For the house?”

  “Yeah.”

  “If we’re sharing secrets now, I have a question for you.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “Your scent. It changed. I noticed earlier . . . It’s different from when I first met you. How do you explain that?”

  How do I explain that? The best defense is a good offense.

  “Scent?” I raise my eyebrows. “What are you—part bloodhound?”

  Color floods Zack’s face. “Keen olfactory senses,” he replies.

  If there are secrets shared tonight, they aren’t going to be about our supernatural origins.

  I look away, shrug. “It’s some new perfume. I made a detour to Nordstrom after I left the DA’s to pick up something. The idiot perfume girl sprayed me before I could stop her. I think the fragrance is finally wearing off.” I turn back around to face him. “I finished the salad. Should we light up the grill?”

  Our eyes meet for one long moment. Zack seems about to say something, but then simply walks into the kitchen and picks up the salad bowl. “When are you going to tell me?” he asks without turning around.

  “Tell you what?”

  “Your secret. I know you have one.”

  I fling it back at him. “You tell me yours first. How can you afford a house, like this, on the beach? And what’s the deal with your SF-86? Why is your application to the Academy missing? The only thing I can think of is that you were part of some unacknowledged Special Access Program. But you’ve been in the Bureau what, two years? That seems unlikely.”

  “You have been busy.” He turns to face me. “To get that far into my file? Well, you managed to gain access to some highly classified records.”

  I feel the color creep up my neck. His implication is clear. I’ve just admitted cutting a few corners of my own. “Point taken, though I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize a case we’re working on.”

  “Neither would I.” He smiles. “Still, gaining unauthorized access to my records? You continue to surprise me, Agent Monroe.”

  “Zack, if our partnership is going to work, you need to come clean with me. I don’t want to go digging into your past. I want to be able to trust you.”

  Zack puts the bowl down, then stares into it. A full minute passes before he speaks. “Before I worked for the Bureau, I worked as a kind of government mercenary. Black ops, off the books.”

  There can’t be more than fifteen feet separating us, but the distance in his eyes makes it seem like miles. He’s someplace
else, reliving the past he’s trying so hard to escape.

  “What department?”

  He shakes his head.

  “You can’t tell me.” Or won’t. “How long?”

  “Too long. I spent too many years on my own, in situations where rules don’t count and being morally flexible can do more than give you an advantage. It can keep you alive.” Zack finishes his beer, then sets the empty bottle on the counter. “I’d like to keep the past dead and buried. It would be dangerous not to.”

  “Dangerous for whom?”

  “For a lot of people, Emma. Let it go.”

  He goes back to the fridge. This time he pulls out a plastic bag. Inside is a huge London broil, soaking in marinade. “I’m gonna light the grill.”

  I can tell he wants to leave it at that. I open the sliding doors and follow him out. While he fires up the grill, I lean my arms on the wall and survey the beach. It’s the middle of the week, early evening, but there are still a few surfers and sunbathers out. Zack joins me. He notices my beer is empty.

  “Want another?”

  “Sure.”

  He’s gone for less than a minute.

  “I won’t press you about this,” I say when he returns. The beer is ice cold and it goes down easy.

  Zack takes up the position I’ve left at the wall. “I appreciate that. I’ve done things I’m not proud of. Things I’d rather forget. Not just for the government.”

  We stare out at the ocean. I understand what it’s like, having to live with monumental regret. “It wasn’t my intention to dredge up bad memories.”

  “You were worried about the money for this.” He waves a hand. “Whether I came by it honestly.”

  “Yes.”

  There’s a long pause. I wait while he struggles to find the words. Finally he does.

  “I spent more than a decade in constant danger, putting my life on the line every day.” He shakes his head as if ridding himself of an unwanted memory. “What I did paid obscenely well. I’ve struggled with what to do with the money. Admittedly, this place is an extravagance. But it reminds me of a life I once had.” He pauses. “Did I come by the money honestly? At the time, I thought what I was doing was legit—for the greater good.”

  “Now?”

  “Now . . . I think some of it wasn’t. I know some of it wasn’t.”

  “That’s how you paid for the house.”

  He closes his eyes and inhales deeply. “Yes. That’s how I paid for the house.”

  I draw a breath, too. I can taste the salt in the air. When I open my eyes again, Zack is watching me. I look out toward the ocean. “You couldn’t ask for a more beautiful view.”

  “I love the ocean. I grew up in Hilton Head. My family had a place right on the beach.”

  I remember Sarah was born and raised in Hilton Head. Perhaps they have even more of a past than I thought.

  “Do your parents still live there?”

  His shoulders tense. “No. They died some years ago.”

  Yet he spoke of his mother in the present earlier. “My mother will be relieved. . . .”

  Zack turns his back to me, attending to the grill, a not so subtle way to close the subject.

  I walk over to the wall, giving him time and space. I want to ask about his mother. I want to ask about Sarah. But it’s clear he’s already revealed far more to me than he ever intended to. Instead I back off, drink my beer, and watch the waves. In a moment he joins me and we stand in companionable silence, gazing out at the ocean.

  “The crashing of the waves lulls me at night,” he confesses. “Without it, I don’t sleep.”

  A sense of melancholy settles over me. I, too, spend sleepless nights, being chased by past demons.

  He leans in and bumps my shoulder. “I’ve told you my secret. Quid pro quo. You gonna come clean now and tell me yours?”

  The playful tone and gesture lifts my spirits.

  It doesn’t, however, change how I answer. “Probably not in this lifetime.”

  “What happened to partners not having secrets?”

  I return the shoulder bump. “Now, you and I both know you’ve yet to spill all of your deep, dark secrets. You just threw me a little ol’ bone.”

  He doesn’t reply. Doesn’t push.

  Instead he returns to his post at the grill. But the message in the look he sends back over his shoulder is clear.

  I’ve been granted a reprieve, all right. But it’s only temporary.

  CHAPTER 7

  “More steak?”

  I lean back in my chair and shake my head. “I’m stuffed.” I take another sip of wine and watch Zack as he refills his own glass. Dinner was far more comfortable than lunch. Zack filled me in on what was happening with the Mason prosecution and I filled him in on his new colleagues.

  I gesture toward the now empty plates. “Everything was great. Do you cook like this often?”

  Zack shrugs. “When I can. You know how it is, crazy hours. Most days I grab something on the way to work in the morning, stop someplace for a quick lunch, and then it’s dinner alone at a restaurant or takeout.”

  “I’ve got a delivery service on speed dial. Hector is probably filing a missing person’s report as we speak because he didn’t hear from me tonight.”

  Zack smiles. “Hector? You’re on a first-name basis with the delivery boy? Please tell me the two of you don’t have a thing going.”

  “A thing? You, my friend, are watching too much porn.”

  “Can a guy watch too much porn?” Zack checks his watch.

  He tries to be subtle, but I notice—trained observer that I am. I glance at mine, too. We probably have a little over an hour before the moon rises and our evening has to come to an end.

  I stand up and start to clear the table. “I’ll do the dishes.”

  Zack follows me into the kitchen with the salad bowl and bottle of dressing in hand. “Just leave them. I’ll throw them in the dishwasher later. We’ve got about thirty minutes of tape to review.”

  “Mind if I make some coffee?”

  Zack is already on his way over to the flat-screen. “Help yourself. Beans are in the container next to the coffeemaker. It’ll take me a few minutes to hook this up.”

  I make short order of grinding the beans and within a minute or two the kitchen fills with the aroma of a dark French roast. Zack has hooked his laptop up to the flat-screen television. The display shows eight labeled views of Barakov’s offices divided into blocks: Lobby, OR, Recovery, Reception, Elevator, Stairs, Break Room, Hallway.

  “Mugs?” I ask.

  “Next to the sink.”

  I pour two cups, adding the requisite cream and two sugars to Zack’s, then join him on the sofa.

  “All set?”

  “I have this paused close to the time Isabella Mancini’s car went through that light. This way we won’t miss her.”

  I nod. “Hit it.”

  Zack presses PLAY and the various blocks on the screen begin to change. People walk in and out of the lobby. The OR and recovery room remain empty. We watch Silvia Barton move from her post in reception to the break room and back. Barakov walks down the hallway into what I guess is an exam room. A minute or two later he emerges and goes into his office. A woman comes out maybe a minute after him and then joins him. Her face isn’t visible, but her stature and hair color are wrong for Isabella. There are two elevators, and the block showing those images alternate between the two.

  “There’s no view inside Barakov’s office or the exam rooms,” I point out.

  Zack has been quietly sipping his coffee. “No. But we’ve got the stairwell and the hallway. If anyone were to go in or out, we’d know. Keep watching. I’ll be right back.”

  Zack gets up suddenly and heads for a door at the far end of the living room, past the stairs. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him go through it. I reach for the mouse on the coffee table in front of me and pause the video.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  Zack
is already on his way back, a set of rolled-up papers in his hand. “I picked these up from the city. They were filed at the time of the renovation of Barakov’s office.”

  He spreads the plans out next to the laptop. “Unless you’re Spider-Man, there’s only two points of entry. The way we came in and the way we went out.”

  “So if we don’t catch Isabella in the stairwell or lobby . . .”

  “She didn’t enter the building,” Zack finishes.

  We resume play. Ten minutes go by, then another ten. It’s past Isabella’s appointment time.

  “What about the parking garage below? Any cameras there?”

  “No. I swung by there after picking up the plans. There are no cameras on or in the garage, so no visual records. But there’s also street parking and several nearby lots.”

  I reach over and click the mouse to fast-forward. Within a few minutes, the video comes to an end.

  I set my cup down on the coffee table. “How do we know she wasn’t late? Or maybe Barton or the doctor did something to the footage?”

  “I’m the one who stipulated the start and stop times. The file was emailed to me within minutes. That kind of seamless editing would have taken longer to pull off. But I think you’re onto something about the parking. Where did she park and what the hell happened to the car?”

  “The police must have run the plates.”

  Zack’s eyebrows rise, expressing his lack of confidence. “I’m gonna check myself.” He looks at his watch, then gazes out at the darkening night sky.

  He stands up, a flush of concern flashing in his eyes. “I have to go,” he tells me. “I have an appointment.”

  I know what it is, so I make it easy on him. It’s the second night of the full moon.

  “And I should get home before I turn into a pumpkin. Thanks for dinner.”

  “Anytime.”

  I wonder where he spends those three nights a month when the beast emerges. It’s curiosity, though, not alarm. I make no comment, just gather my stuff and go. Relief replaces the concern in his eyes as he shows me to the door.

  I pause on the way out. I have to ask, “Do you still feel we’re on the right track with Barakov?”