by S. J. Harper
Zack removes his jacket, giving the punks behind him a good look at his gun and his badge. “Make that two.”
They may be stoned out of their minds, but they aren’t stupid. They don’t bother to wait and order sandwiches. They drop more than enough money to cover the chips and beer on the counter, and then beat it out of the store, leaving their receipt and whatever change they were due behind. Order is returned.
When Zack tries to hand the man a twenty for our lunches, it’s refused. “On the house, Officer . . .”
“Armstrong.” He drops the twenty into the tip jar along with his card.
The gesture earns us a big smile. “We’ll give a shout-out when your order is ready. You’re number forty-two.” He hands Zack a receipt.
Ten minutes later the two of us are strolling down Niagara toward the pier, subs in a brown paper sack, sipping our Limonatas.
“The kids were stoned.”
Zack nods.
I glance up at him. “That’s the second time today you’ve let a bust slide.”
Zack touches the side of his nose. “They didn’t have drugs on them. My guess is that those clowns smoked most of their stash. Small potatoes. I’ll turn Goldie’s name over to the DEA. No use getting sidetracked. You’ve got to pick your battles.”
I wonder at his tone—thoughtful, introspective. Is he talking about more than work?
I follow him down the steps to the beach. We find a place on the seawall in the shadow of the pier and sit side by side.
We tear open the wrappers around our sandwiches. The rich marinara and spicy meatball concoctions take concentration to eat without making a mess. We dispense with the pretense of small talk. I know Zack has got to be thinking about the same thing I am. Johnson’s niece.
I decide to wait until after we’ve finished to broach the subject. In between bites, I wipe my mouth with a napkin and hold my sandwich to the side to keep from dripping sauce on my slacks—my brand-new slacks.
Zack isn’t as patient. After consuming the first half of his sandwich, he dives in. “How do you think Deputy Director Johnson is going to react when we tell him that we need to speak to his niece?”
“He won’t like it—that’s for sure.” I pause to scrub at my mouth. “But he’ll play this by the book. He’ll bring her in. Johnson’s been at this a long time. He knows the sooner we talk to her, the sooner we can eliminate her as a suspect.”
He waits until I’ve swallowed another bite before pouncing. “Suspect? You think she might be a suspect?”
“I don’t know what to think. The Simmonses certainly didn’t like her.”
We continue to eat. The combination of breeze, salt air, and Zack are a bittersweet balm for my soul. I place my palms on the wall behind me, lean back, and close my eyes. “This is perfect. Let’s just hang out here for the rest of the day.”
“Crap! This was a brand-new shirt.”
A dollop of bright red tomato sauce the size of a Kennedy half-dollar now decorates Zack’s chest.
I dismiss his concern. “I’m sure Sarah can get it out. Hand over a napkin.”
He does. I put my sandwich aside and use the napkin to sop up the sauce. My cheeks grow hot from the memory of what it was like, being with Zack. I remember the curve of his biceps, his well-muscled chest, the very lickable washboard abs. My mouth is suddenly dry. I shake off the memory before it takes hold and I embarrass myself for the second time today.
“If you think Sarah does laundry, you don’t know her very well.” He takes the napkin from me and lobs it into a nearby trash can.
“Maybe not, but I do know how to get a tomato stain out. The longer it sets, the worse it’s going to be. If you rinse it back through from the underside now, it will be easier to treat later.”
An outdoor shower is running just a few feet away. Zack follows my line of sight, then he hands me his gun and removes his tie and shirt. It doesn’t take any more encouragement than that. He hands me the tie and strolls over to the shower.
I sit on the wall and try not to stare. Before starting on the stain, he sticks his head in the stream of cool water. By the time he tosses his hair back to shake off the excess, a blonde in a sky blue bikini is trying to make small talk with her breasts. Zack laughs at something she says, exchanges his soiled shirt for the towel she’s offering, and takes a stab at drying his hair. In the meantime, Blondie makes a concerted effort to further ingratiate herself by vigorously rubbing at the stain.
The shirt’s been off for less than a minute and already a fan club is forming. I’ve lost my appetite.
My cell rings. It’s Liz. I toss the rest of the sub into the trash can and answer. “Hey.”
One word and she knows. “What’s wrong?”
Liz recognizes my moods better than anyone.
“You mean besides that fact that I seem to be stuck. Here. Forever. Alone. That I have to walk around wearing some stupid Clark Kent disguise, saving people in hopes that one day the wack job of a goddess who banished me will decide that the good I’ve done has outweighed the bad?”
“Yeah, besides that.”
I smile.
Liz doesn’t skip a beat. “You know you’re not alone. You have me. And you have Kallistos.”
“He keeps asking me to move in.”
“Why don’t you?”
I frown. Zack is on his way back. “You know why,” I tell her.
Zack drapes his wet shirt on the wall, then sits back down and resumes his attack on the meatball and cheese. “Tell Liz I said hi,” he says between mouthfuls.
I do, then sign off, promising to call her back later and wondering how much of my conversation he overheard. I don’t have to wonder for long.
“So, it’s getting serious between you and Tall, Dark, and Pasty?”
“He’s not pasty. He’s fair. His people were Dorian.”
I hand him back his gun and holster.
“Still, centuries without sun. That’s got to affect a guy.”
I recall what Kallistos looked like this morning, out on the balcony. “I think it really makes him appreciate it now.”
“He probably has a vitamin-D deficiency.”
“He doesn’t have a vitamin-D deficiency.”
“That’ll lead to brittle bones as he gets older, you know.” Zack tosses the wrapper from his sub into the trash.
“He’s already older.”
“Not to mention dead.”
“Undead.”
“Whatever.” He knocks back the rest of his soda. “Why aren’t you moving in with him?”
The question catches me by surprise, the directness of it. “What do you mean?”
“It’s a simple question.”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I release a breath. “I guess because I’m not in love with him. Moving in with someone . . . Now, that seems like a really big commitment.”
He smiles and reaches for his shirt. “And now we’re talking about me and Sarah.”
I follow him back up the stairs to the parking lot. “You’ve been living together for what—five months?”
“Uh-huh.”
“She seems happy,” I finally say.
Zack keeps walking. Stoic. Silent.
“And you seem . . . happy,” I add.
We reach the car and Zack holds out a hand for the keys. He opens the back, throws his shirt inside along with the tie and suit coat, then slams it shut.
“Are you happy, Zack?” I ask. A dangerous question. One I have no right to ask.
I’m standing, my hand on the passenger door to the Suburban. He’s on the driver’s side, key in the lock.
“I’m not sure I ever will be. Something’s missing. I don’t even know what it is, but I know I want it back in the worst possible way.”
The locks on the car pop. We both climb inside. I look straight ahead, expression neutral. The engine turns over. For a second I think he’s going to say more. Then the moment passes and he’s grasping the steering wheel and slipp
ing into traffic.
I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing. Is he starting to remember? Liz swore to me he wouldn’t. Maybe old feelings are beginning to resurface? Maybe they never went away?
We turn onto West Point Loma Boulevard, then take Sunset Cliffs heading toward West Mission Bay Drive. I know exactly where we’re going. We’re heading back to the scene of the crime, my crime—to the place where I broke every rule. Where I let my guard down. Where I showed my true self. Where I loved Zack and he loved me. And where I, in the space of a moment, both saved and betrayed him.
We’re going to Zack’s house.
* * *
Zack lives in a two-story beach house right on Mission Boulevard. The luxury oceanfront property came fully furnished and decorated. The last time I was inside, Zack had been living here for just a short time. Back then the place looked more like a showroom than a home. It contained nothing personal, nothing that was clearly Zack’s—except for the cage where he sleeps during the full moon. I imagine all that’s changed now. Sarah strikes me as the kind of woman who would waste no time and spare no expense feathering her nest. The Spartan cage is probably adorned with matching his-and-hers monogrammed silk pillows.
Despite my hopes to the contrary, Sarah’s BMW is in the driveway. Behind it is an old, beat-up, red Chevy pickup. Zack parks on the street.
“Looks like you have company.”
“Hmm.”
“I’ll wait in the car.”
Zack shoots me a sideways glace.
“What?” I ask.
“Sarah’s convinced you don’t like her. If you wait in the car—”
“What are we? Back in junior high?”
Zack frowns. “Please, you were never in junior high.”
Well, he’s got me there.
“What could I possibly have against Sarah?” I ask him, hoping my pants don’t catch fire. “Sarah’s a long-legged blonde who wears designer clothes and lives on the beach . . . with you. If anything, she’s the one who makes other women feel insecure.”
“Other women, maybe, but not you. Not really. And she knows it.”
Insecure? No. Terrified? Yes. The spell Liz had worked to make Zack forget wasn’t originally intended to be far-reaching. The fact that Zack had told Sarah about our night in Charleston was an unexpected complication but not much of a challenge for Liz to rectify. Although her knowledge of the intimacy Zack and I had shared was obliterated, something lingering still remains. Female intuition? The instinct to mark her territory? Whatever it is, it’s reason enough to stay clear of the she-wolf.
“Fine.”
At the first sign of capitulation, Zack’s out the door. He pulls the still-wet shirt out of the trunk, then heads up the driveway. I trail behind like a reluctant puppy that knows it’s following its master into a room containing a big, hot mess. Once we get to the front door, being the gentleman he is, Zack holds it open and makes me walk in first.
Sarah is at the far end of the foyer, dressed in a gauzy peasant dress and strappy summer sandals. She looks at me with a sour expression and says nothing. She doesn’t have to. Her expression says it all.
I feign indifference and look around. Except for the presence of Sarah and a man I’ve never met before, the place seems surprisingly unchanged.
“Zack, good to see you again!” the man says.
“Seamus.”
The two men shake hands.
“Casual day at the office?” Seamus asks with a grin. His manner is easygoing, his smile infectious.
“I had a run-in with a meatball over lunch,” Zack says. “I’m just gonna run upstairs and grab a clean shirt.”
“His shirt became a casualty,” I add, offering my hand. “Emma Monroe, Zack’s partner.”
His grasp is firm, his hand calloused and warm.
“Seamus O’Malley. We were just heading out to grab a bite to eat.” He glances down at his white T-shirt before stuffing his hands in the pockets of his worn-out blue jeans. “Maybe we should avoid Italian.”
In his flip-flops and wire-rimmed glasses, the red-haired, freckle-faced thirtysomething looks unassuming, but he’s unmistakably Were. A member of the pack Sarah wants to join, perhaps?
“I have a sneaking suspicion you can hold your own against a meatball,” I tell him. “But I do recommend you settle on a place with air-conditioning. It’s really heating up.” I remove my jacket and toss it over the back of the sofa. “Don’t let me hold the two of you up.”
“Shall we?” Seamus asks Sarah.
She hesitates.
Zack bounds down the stairs, fresh, starched white shirt in hand. “Thought you two were on your way out.” Zack barely spares her a glance as he slips on the shirt and buttons it up.
Sarah heads for the door, pausing only to collect her purse. The cheerful yellow Miche bag perfectly complements her dress and sandals. “Will you be home for dinner?” she asks.
The first words she’s uttered since I walked in the door.
Her tone is casual, but the question is not. It seems to catch Zack off guard. His brows furrow. “Probably not. New case.”
She nods. I realize how little I’ve seen of the two of them together, but even so, I recognize the undisguised tension between them.
I want it back in the worst possible way.
I wonder how much of that tension has to do with me.
“Ready?” Zack asks.
My heart is pounding. “I’m just going to use the bathroom before we hit the road,” I say, anxious to escape the awkwardness of the moment. I make a beeline for the powder room. Once behind the closed door, I wash my hands, smooth my hair, then give myself a long, hard look in the mirror.
“Keep your eye on the ball, Monroe,” I tell myself. “He’s just another guy. He’s your partner. That’s all. That’s all it’s ever going to be.”
Sarah and Seamus have left by the time I return to the living room. Zack is ready to go, too, keys in hand. “Ready?”
I nod. Zack follows me out the door, locks it, and makes for the car. “How does Sarah know Seamus?” I ask, once we’re on the interstate.
Zack keeps his eyes on the road but I see his shoulders draw up ever so slightly at the question. When he doesn’t answer right away, I feel my own defenses go up.
“Seamus is a Were. I know that much. I figured maybe he’s part of that pack you mentioned. But, if you don’t want to talk about it, just say so.”
Zack releases a breath. “He’s not just a member. He’s the Alpha.”
“He is?” I recall his gently self-effacing manner. “Really? He doesn’t seem . . .”
“What?”
“Alpha-y?”
“His leadership style is unconventional. He holds the power of the pack because its members have given it to him. He’s earned it, don’t get me wrong, just not in the traditional way.”
“Does he have a job? No. Don’t tell me, let me guess. Organic farmer.”
Zack smiles. “Close. He’s a Park Ranger at Cuyamaca Rancho State Park.”
“That’s convenient. Lots of open space.”
“He also owns a kind of ranch-slash-commune that borders the park in the Cleveland National Forest.”
“Even better.”
“Yeah. It’s great.”
Zack’s tone says it’s anything but great. Suddenly, I wonder whether Sarah wants to do more than connect with a pack. Could she be thinking about wanting to live with them? And planning on taking Zack with her?
We’re nearing the office and I’m not sure whether I should ask Zack directly if that’s a possibility. He hasn’t volunteered very much personal information about his relationship with Sarah, even though he knows everything about Kallistos and me.
I’m still debating with myself when Zack’s cell phone chimes to life. It’s synced with the car’s audio system and once Zack connects the call, Johnson’s voice booms out over the speakers.
“Got a message you need to speak with me.”
Zack
glances at me, takes a breath, and says, “Sir, it looks like we’re going to need to talk with your niece. Can you have her meet us at the office this afternoon?”
“Rain? What’s this about, exactly?”
In a few short sentences, Zack recounts what happened at the Simmonses’—what we found in Julie’s hiding place and her parents’ accusation that Rain is somehow responsible not only for the money, but for Julie’s disappearance. He keeps his voice even, his tone detached.
I expect a heated response from Johnson, but it doesn’t come. “Deputy Director Johnson? Are you still there?” Zack finally asks.
A soft “Yes.” Johnson clears his throat. This time his response comes through loud and clear. “Yes. I’ll have Rain at the office in an hour.”
The line is cut.
Zack clicks his phone off.
“Well,” he says. “I think we’re in for an interesting afternoon.”
* * *
We arrive back at the office thirty minutes before Rain is expected. We spend the time checking with the three agents assigned to do the background checks on the missing girls. They’ve turned up nothing out of the ordinary—all three families are low to middle income, live in apartments or rentals, but are not heavily in debt. Their children have never been arrested, never been in trouble at their schools, never had complaints filed against them by the property managers of their buildings.
“Squeaky clean,” Zack comments.
“Except for Julie Simmons’ unreported stash,” I counter.
“Except for that.”
When Rain comes into the office, she is escorted not by her parents, but by the deputy director. I catch myself staring as he directs the girl into his office and closes the door.
Zack nudges me with an elbow. “That’s his niece?”
I understand his astonishment. I’m feeling it, too. The girl with Johnson is dressed head to toe in black. Black jacket, black T-shirt, black leggings, big, black clunky boots. Her hair, too, is raven black, pulled straight back from her pale face and secured in a short, wispy ponytail by a leather thong. She’s pretty but I doubt that’s what most people would notice. The tiny silver bars piercing her nose, upper lip, and one eyebrow compete for attention with a tattoo that wanders from the neckline of her tee to her right earlobe. It’s a vine of some kind done in bright green.
