by S. J. Harper
“YBV?”
Rose walks back. “Young Blond Virgin, one of my personal favorites. We carry both male and female, of course.” This time when she smiles, I see the fangs. “Come. Simon is waiting.”
Rose leads the way. At the end of the first aisle, we turn right and cross several more before taking another left. I follow her up a short set of industrial stairs to what appears to be an office above. I’m not exactly sure where we are, but I’m certain we’re no longer under the tattoo shop.
Rose knocks on the door before entering. “Simon?”
He’s seated on a sofa, a game console in his hand and a pile of dead bodies looming on the television screen in front of him. Simon is most decidedly not the man I’d seen walk in. He isn’t even a vampire. With his unruly bed head, rumpled T-shirt, and khakis, the twentysomething looks like a typical college student.
“Come in! Agent Monroe, is it? Have a seat.”
There is an endearing and awkward nervous energy about him. I take the seat opposite the only other piece of furniture in the room, a glass and stainless steel desk. On top of the desk is a sleek, state-of-the-art desktop computer.
“I understand you’re looking for a missing vampire.” Simon reaches to open a small refrigerator beside the sofa and pulls out a Red Bull. “Can I offer you something?”
“I’m good.” His reference to the missing vampire is stated with casual indifference, as if an FBI agent walked in every day to ask for help. As if someone is running interference.
While he pops open the drink, I look around.
His office looks like a dorm room. There’s a large-screen television on one wall. In front of it is an old overstuffed sofa and a video game console. There are shelves on the opposite wall that contain an impressive collection of manga and a variety of comic book action figures that I don’t recognize. On the back of the door I entered, which is now closed, is a basketball hoop.
Simon frowns at something behind me. I turn around. Rose is standing on the other side of the door. I can see her through the glass window that gives Simon a bird’s-eye view of the refrigeration system below. There are several rows like the one I just walked through. I can see now it’s likely the operation stretches the entire subterranean length of the block.
Simon motions with his hand, shooing her away.
I don’t particularly care if Rose overhears our conversation, so I get down to business. “I’m looking into the disappearance of someone who I believe receives her blood supply from you, Isabella Mancini.”
He leans against the back of the sofa. “Does the FBI know that you’re here?”
I smile. “They don’t track my every move.”
“They do. You just don’t know it,” he says, jabbing the air for emphasis. “They can track you using your cell phone—FBI, CIA, NSA.”
“I’m here unofficially,” I volunteer, hoping to get the conversation back on track.
“That’s what they all say.” He crosses his arms over his chest and leans back on the sofa. “What department are you with?”
“Missing Persons. San Diego Field Office.”
“And they know about vampires? About this place?”
Whatever I say, I’ll be feeding into Simon’s paranoia. May as well tell him the truth. “No. This is off the books.” Sort of.
I’m tempted to use my powers to ensure truthful answers, but I’m not sure it’s necessary. I suspect the same person that called Rose on her cell phone already ordered Simon to cooperate with me. I wouldn’t be here with him otherwise. My eyes do a quick sweep of the ceiling. There’s a camera here, too. I pointedly look up at it when I add, “Time really is of the essence.”
Simon follows my glance, smiles, and slides into the chair behind his desk. “Isabella Mancini.” He types the name into the computer. “What do you want to know?”
“Did anything unusual happen the last day she was here?”
“She’s a drive-through customer. She never actually came in.”
“Drive-through?”
“We offer home delivery, drive-through, and pickup. Home delivery is more expensive and by credit card or direct withdrawal only. Pickup is the most economical, but not very convenient. Parking in this neighborhood can be a bitch.”
“Tell me about it. Where is the drive-through window?”
“On the Fourth Avenue side of the building. She picked up on time, as usual, paid cash. That’s all I can tell you. She hasn’t been back since.”
“Are there any security tapes I could review to see if perhaps she was being followed?”
“I’m sorry, no. We don’t have a camera on the pickup window. For obvious reasons. Our customers demand privacy.”
“Maybe I could speak to the person who worked the window that day? See if he or she remembers anything?”
“We have two people covering each shift. They rotate working the window and getting the orders prepared for pickup. Cash is picked up every hour when the supply for the next one is delivered. José was on that day. I remember him saying something about going to Baja for the weekend. I can try his cell, but you know how reception is down there.”
“Please. Try.”
Simon dials the number using a program on his computer. I hear it ringing, then going to voice mail. He leaves a message. “Dude, it’s Simon. Listen, an Agent Monroe is going to call you and ask you a few questions about a customer. It’s cool. Tell her whatever you remember.”
He scribbles José’s number on a Post-it and hands it to me. “The signal in Mexico totally sucks. You might not be able to reach him until Monday. Anything else I can help you with?”
I pocket the number. “I’ve heard there’s been some trouble in other states, some political conflicts resulting in vandalism and violence against mainstreamers. Have you encountered anything like that?”
Simon shakes his head. “No, the California operation runs like clockwork. There have been a few problems in New Mexico and Arizona, but we’re adding extra security at those locations.”
He’s sipping on his drink, answering my questions with the friendly candor of two college chums discussing one of those video games on his wall. “Simon, I have to ask. Just what do you do here?”
“My official title is Operational Director, Western Region. I was recruited from Cal Tech three years ago. Hey, you showed it to Rose, can I see your badge?”
So our mystery man isn’t the only one who’d been watching. I pull my badge out and hand it to him.
“Cool.” He hands it back to me. “Anything else I can tell you?”
“Amy Patterson and Evan Porter.”
“What about them?”
“They’re both missing. Do they get blood from you?”
His fingers fly across the keyboard. “Evan is on home delivery, and so is Amy. We deliver in Styrofoam chests containing dry ice twice a week, signature required.” He frowns. “Amy missed a delivery a couple weeks ago. She hasn’t contacted us since. We left several discreet messages about rescheduling. No response. Evan is scheduled for delivery today.”
I lean forward. It occurs to me this might be a way to identify additional missing vampires. “Would it be possible to get a list of others who have missed deliveries or appointments?”
“Missed them in the past week?”
“How about the past six months?”
“It would take some time. We have accounts in pending status for a variety of reasons, lack of payment, people who are on vacation, et cetera.”
“We only need those that don’t have an explanation and haven’t resumed. I’d appreciate it,” I tell him. “There could be more missing. So far the common denominator in these three cases is that they are all vampires and—”
“We sourced their blood, I understand. We’ll work on it. Shall I email you the file when it’s ready?”
I don’t bother mentioning the other common denominators, Barakov and possibly even Green Leaf, as I hand him my card. “Thank you for cooperating.”
He smiles. “The order came down to give you whatever you needed.”
“Order? From whom?”
Simon’s desk phone rings before he can answer. He picks up the receiver, listens for a moment, then hands me the phone.
A deep baritone voice on the other end says, “We’ll have the list to you within twenty-four hours. Find our missing, Agent Monroe.”
The man doesn’t give me a chance to respond or ask questions. I’m left listening to the dial tone. The voice wasn’t one I’d heard before. It wouldn’t be easily forgotten. “Who was that?” I ask, handing the phone back to Simon.
“The boss.” Simon presses an intercom button and Rose appears like a genie out of a bottle. “Nice to meet you, Agent Monroe.” Simon grins as if he’s got a delicious secret. “We’ll be in touch.”
• • •
Zack is at his desk when I get back, working on his computer.
“Did you find anything?” I ask, slipping out of my jacket and hanging it on the desk chair. I lean over his shoulder to view the monitor.
Zack gestures to the screen. “Well, I couldn’t find any checks from Isabella to Green Leaf. No automatic deductions from any of her accounts, either. But Amy supported them. I discovered five checks made out to Green Leaf in the last five months that were marked as charitable donations. She also contributed to the Red Cross, a San Diego food bank, and the Humane Society. And there’s another connection. . . . Green Leaf has a special grant program that subsidizes training for contractors and laborers who promote and install the latest and greatest in green products. It looks like one of those Green Leaf crews installed the shades on Amy Patterson’s windows.”
“Giving them access to her apartment.”
“Yup. You have any luck at Wicked Ink?”
I look around. Other agents are milling about within hearing distance. “It was . . . interesting. . . . I’ll fill you in later.” I take my own seat at the desk across from him. “Although they did promise to get me a list of other customers who have missed deliveries or pickups lately.”
Zack lowers his voice to a whisper. “You think there might be other missing . . .” He glances around, too, regroups. “Others like Amy and Isabella that we don’t know about?”
“I think it’s a strong possibility,” I say.
He looks over the top of his computer screen at me. “You still going to that benefit tonight?”
To myself I think, You betcha. Nothing’s really changed. I’m beginning to think getting Barakov alone might be the only way we’ll get a break in this case. Besides, I promised Liz. To Zack, I say, “Yes.”
“You have an extra ticket?”
“It’s black tie. You have a tux?”
He nods. “Don’t look so surprised.” He pauses. “Is that all you’re going to ask me?”
I smile. “Last night was the third night of the full moon. You’ll be safe.”
The corners of his mouth turn down. He leans forward. “Safe? Don’t kid yourself. Deep down I’m dangerous, a predator. Don’t ever forget it.”
I can’t tell if he’s kidding or not. There’s heat and intensity in his voice, sincerity in his eyes. But it doesn’t matter. He’s right. Forget that he’s dangerous? Not likely. Although this afternoon proved we could work together without letting personal feelings get in the way, I don’t think for a minute we’re out of the woods yet.
CHAPTER 15
The Hotel Del Coronado looks as spectacular today as it did when it opened over a century ago. Since that time, the red-roofed Victorian hotel has become a favorite of presidents, royalty, and Hollywood’s darlings. The beachfront resort is luxury at its finest and most elegant. There is a long line of cars sitting at the entrance. Zack veers to the left to Self Park.
“Why didn’t you valet? We’re never going to find a spot in here,” I grumble. To say nothing of dreading the idea of hiking across the asphalt parking lot in four-inch heels.
Zack raises an eyebrow. “O ye of little faith.” He pulls up to the console and pushes the big green button. The machine spits out a ticket, the gate goes up, and Zack drives into the lot. The taillights on a white Mercedes come to light as we round the corner. Just as we round the corner. The Mercedes pulls out, we pull in. We’re within a hundred feet of the hotel entrance.
“How did you do that?” I ask, properly impressed.
Zack grins. “Another of my many talents.” He springs from the car. “Let me get your door.”
But I already have it open. “I know how to open a door and get out of a car. I’ve done it a bazillion times.”
Just not in these damned heels.
The words are no sooner out of my mouth than I stumble.
Zack is there, reaching out a hand to steady me.
“Thanks.”
He offers his arm. “You clean up nicely, Monroe.”
I don’t take it. “This isn’t a date. We’re working, Zack.”
That’s what I say. What I’m thinking is, he cleans up nicely, too. The tux is obviously tailored. The white shirt is crisply starched and the shoes, if I’m not mistaken, are Italian.
“Okay, okay. Strictly business.” He touches his hand to his heart. “Just try to blend without falling.”
I ignore the hint of humor in his tone. A wisp of hair escapes from my French twist. I tuck it behind my ear, then smooth down my dress. The gown is off-the-shoulder, black lace with a nude lining. It fits like a surgical glove. The shoes like a medieval torture device. I lift up the edge of my dress and start to walk. “Easier said than done. I don’t know how Liz does it. These shoes are already killing me.”
Zack places his hand at the small of my back as we cross the drive and go up the steps to the entrance. “Want me to carry you?”
“What I want to do is find Barakov.”
Every time I walk into the Del, I’m hit by a wave of nostalgia. I feel as if I’ve stepped back in time—dark wooden paneling, rich fabrics, antique furnishings, and an abundance of fresh flowers all set the stage. Guests are milling about, dressed in formal attire—the men in tuxedos, the women in gowns. Except for the modern cut of the dresses and the scandalous height of our heels, we could be waiting for the Duke and Duchess of Windsor to sweep in the door.
A low whistle comes from Zack, telling me he’s impressed and that he’s never been here before.
“It is beautiful, isn’t it?”
“You don’t see woodwork like this anymore.” Zack pauses a minute to take it all in before asking, “Do you know where we’re going?”
I tilt my head in the direction of the Crown Room. “Michael Dexter said there would be tickets waiting for us.”
There is a man at the door welcoming guests. Zack mentions my name and he checks the list in his hand. Seconds later, we’re motioned through with a smile.
Once inside, Zack swipes two glasses of champagne from a passing tray and hands one to me. “We’re trying to blend, remember?”
And blend he does. Zack looks as relaxed and at home in a tux as he does in T-shirt and jeans. He takes a sip from his champagne and starts to check out the room. To the casual observer, he could merely be looking for a face in the crowd, but I know he’s taking in every detail, because I’m doing the same.
There are a couple of dozen ten-tops, covered in crisp white tablecloths. An extravagant buffet is set up on the far side of the room. There’s a bar in the corner. Waitstaff in black slacks and white short-waist jackets with gold brocade epaulets are circulating with trays. Some, like the one that passed by earlier, hold champagne, others hors d’oeuvres. In the middle of the room is a sizable dance floor, at the back, a stage. A very retro-looking orchestra is now playing “Moonglow.”
A plaque on the wall behind me catches Zack’s eye and he steps closer to better read it.
“Did you know this?”
I’m too busy scanning the crowd for Barakov to pay attention to the plaque.
“Not a single nail was used in this room.” Zack lifts his glas
s toward the ceiling. My eyes don’t bother to follow. I’ve heard this little fact before. “Just pegs and glue. Isn’t that amazing?”
“Fascinating. You take this half. I’ll start my sweep from the other side,” I tell him before stepping away.
I weave my way through the sea of unfamiliar faces, pausing to sample some of the appetizers and trade the champagne in my glass for ginger ale. Safer. I love champagne, and this is a good one, but tonight I want to keep a clear head.
There’s no sign of Barakov. Yet.
“More champagne?” It’s the third time this particular young waiter has asked me. Before I can refuse again, he leans in and smiles sheepishly. “I’m under strict orders to be generous with the booze. We were reminded that happy guests are more generous with the donations. You’re making me look bad.”
His Italian accent is charming, his smile disarming. I glance at his name tag—Fabrizio. What harm could come from one more glass? “Can’t make you look bad.” I’m placing my empty glass on his tray with the intent of taking a new one when I see Barakov at the exit, a cigar in one hand, a glass half-filled with an amber-colored liquid in the other. “Sorry. I’ve got to go. Excuse me.”
I resist the urge to kick off my shoes and run to catch up with him. Instead I move as quickly as I can, cutting straight across the dance floor. Once outside the doors, I spy Barakov heading into the deserted courtyard. There’s no one with him. He’s alone. Perfect.
I watch from inside for a moment as he lights his cigar and enjoys a few leisurely puffs.
Then I take a deep breath, step outside, and let the dampening spell fall away. I say a silent prayer that Demeter isn’t watching. The air stirs around me as I approach Barakov. The power begins to build, unleashing a warm, perfumed mist, unseen but felt by anyone in its sphere of influence. My hair loosens, a strand curling over my right eye. I move closer.
The courtyard is not deserted as I first thought. There’s a young couple standing off to the side. They look at me, startled by my sudden appearance, caught up in the wake of my power. “Enjoy your drinks in your room,” I say to them as I pass.
