by Mary Hughes
“Yeah. No time,” I echoed as Mom made goodbye noises and hung up.
After that I slung my purse over my shoulder, headed for dark sewers and moving mannequins and crazy men calling me snack…I paused, hand on the knob. I wanted to know what had happened. I wanted to see if Logan had called an ambulance for Razor and Maim. But what if the gang had come back? What if the explanation really was as Logan claimed? Bo and Elena seemed to accept it readily enough.
Though I’m a tiger when other people’s safety is involved, when it’s just me I’m not that brave. I decided sewers and mannequins could wait and went to bed.
Where I tossed and turned for hours. Again, not because Logan was so sexy he made my eyeballs boil. Because I got to wondering if the golden Adonis (Ewan McGregor of the Greeks) who showed up tonight was really the Logan Steel, CEO of Steel Security.
Sure, Elena had called him Logan Steel, but he might have tricked her too. And sure, Steel Security was legitimate. But how many men rose to such positions of power so young? Logan looked no older than twenty-nine—if a powerful, self-assured twenty-nine.
The problem was that Steel Security’s CEO had never been photographed. With all the articles done on him, all the word-of-mouth he generated in the industry, no one had ever caught him on film. Some people said he was a mysterious hermit. Some said he was intensely private. Others said he wasn’t photogenic (or, as Botcher put it, uglier than a five-drink lay). Whatever the reason, I couldn’t use a picture to prove his identity.
Logan had suggested that I call the executive director to confirm his story. If that was a clever ruse to reassure me that he couldn’t be lying, he didn’t know how mistrustful I really was. I picked up the phone and punched in Dirkson’s home number.
Three rings and a harsh voice barked, “What?”
Executive Director Dirkson looked like Spider-Man’s J. Jonah Jameson with a handlebar mustache tacked on. Gruff and abrupt, he sounded like Jameson too. He even chewed the cigar.
“Chief Dirkson? It’s Liese Schmetterling.”
“Schmetterling, do you know what time it is?”
I glanced at the clock. Oops. Two a.m. was late even for me. “Sorry to bother you, Chief, but I had a visitor tonight. He claimed to be Logan Steel. Said Steel Security’s putting in a system at the Center. Like our tiny facility needs space-age technology.” I laughed, willed Dirkson to do the same.
“You’re calling about that? Yes, we contracted with Steel. About time we got some real security. Past time, what with the trouble we’ve had.”
I sucked in a breath. “Trouble?”
“The blood trouble.”
Cold lanced through me. Dirkson knows about the missing blood. Did he blame me? Had he brought in Steel because I wasn’t cutting it?
I heard a scrabbling of papers. “Schmetterling. As long as I’ve got you on the line. There’s a new board member, Ruth-something or other. Damn it, I know I wrote it down. Guy from Chicago, first name Lorne, or something. Ah, here it is. Got a pencil?”
Well, at least he wasn’t firing me today. I palmed my PDA and forced myself to radiate ultra-efficiency. “Shoot.”
“Lorne Ruthven.” Dirkson recited contact information. “One of the high mucky-mucks at CIC Mutual Insurance. Too high, you ask me. Guy’s snootier than old money.”
“Maybe he’s just spent too much time in the adminisphere. Lack of oxygen can damage the brain.” Dirkson obviously didn’t care for this Ruthven, which struck me as unfair. Everyone should get a break when they were new to a job, especially when it was only a few pints… I determined to try to like Ruthven. “I’ll add him to the database.”
“Do that. And Schmetterling.” Dirkson’s tone was abruptly severe.
Anxiety returned in a rush. “Yes?”
“Be nice to him even if he’s a jerk. There’s a center in Indiana that lost some blood and the board fired the whole lot, from the ExDir down to the third assistant peon. We don’t want to end up like Indiana, do we?”
“No, sir.” I expelled a breath and hung up.
Another bit of Mom-wisdom was work hard and don’t worry over might-bes. So the next morning as I walked to the Center I pumped myself up to prove what a good and indispensable employee I was.
I scanned complete inventory in half the usual time. Pleased with my indispensable self, I sat down at my desk and plugged the scanner into my laptop. With a flourish I hit the switch that synced the scanner with my inventory program—and stared at the screen in disbelief.
We were missing a case of blood.
Chapter Four
A whole case, gone. I couldn’t figure out how. I had checked inventory just yesterday. This morning the Blood Center door was locked. But sometime between eight last night and eight this morning, poof.
This was bad. A missing unit or two could be explained away as breakage or spillage. I’d half-convinced myself that was all they were. Now a case was gone, on my watch. How would I explain this to Dirkson? Would he give me a second chance, or would he just fire my ass—if hiring Logan Steel didn’t mean that already?
In my numbness, I barely registered the roar of a large motor outside. A bus lumbered up the street, one of those big coaches with cushy seats and TV screens in the headrests. With a squeal of brakes it stopped in front of the Blood Center. The motor cut.
That broke through. Craning my neck, I saw Iowa plates. Out-of-towners, then, bound for Tourist Central one block south. Probably this was the only place they could find parking. I went back to brooding.
The bus’s door shooshed open. A tanned, hard-bodied blonde bounded down the stairs. Talk about eleven-inch fashion dolls. Lush hair spilled around a heart-shaped face. Stylish capris showed off tanned, toned calves. A cropped tank bulged with unnaturally buoyant breasts and revealed a super-flat stomach, a diamond winking discreetly from the dent of a navel.
I stared. This was Illinois in March. Wasn’t she freezing?
The blonde headed straight for my door and popped in with enough energy to fuel an Apollo booster. Her voice, when she killed me, was as smooth as honey. “I’m looking for Logan Steel.”
Dammit, this was why I didn’t trust men. They tell you you’re beautiful, then Venus rides in on her clamshell and they dump you. Maybe I was leaping to conclusions, but past experience told me the only part we hadn’t gotten to yet was the dumping.
I twisted my ring, kept for just this purpose. My constant reminder of the world of hurt I’d invite if I left my emotional flank open. “He’s not here.”
“When is he expected back?”
I shrugged, wishing she’d leave. No, actually I wished she’d burst into flames, but that seemed a little extreme.
“Maybe you can tell me where to find him?” She smiled, teeth Miley Cyrus bright.
Perky and dogged. I hated her. Flames was not extreme. “Sorry.”
Cold air whooshed in. I craned my neck around the blonde—and cringed.
Not at the guy in bus driver uniform who had flathanded the door open. He was a heavyset duplicate of Ralph Kramden down to the dark hair curling around his blue cap and bouncing belly. No, what grabbed me in a chokehold was the blond boy who sauntered in past the driver. About twelve years old, inhumanly handsome, moving with lazy grace. Except for his blue eyes, the boy could have been Logan’s twin. He stopped in front of Ms. Perky Buns. “Mom?”
Logan’s twin—or his son.
My insides went Arctic. Logan’s son…and Ms. Clamshell was his mother, meaning…I couldn’t quite figure out what it meant except that I wanted to put my fist through her face and tear out all my hair while shrieking.
“Bud, what have I told you about interrupting?” The woman spoke with a fond exasperation. “Now come in so the driver can close the door.”
Bud drew himself up. “I beg your pardon, Mother. Miss.” He gave me a small bow. “Please excuse me.”
Please? And a bow? Amazing manners for a thirty-year-old, much less a kid. Drilled into him by Sergeant Mom, no
doubt. Not only a mom, but a Super Mom.
Great blue screens of death. Could things get any worse?
Of course we all know the answer to that one. The boy said, “I wouldn’t have interrupted but Lilly needs to use the potty.” He drew forward a golden-haired little girl.
No taller than my desk, the girl looked about three. Absolutely adorable, sweet as a honey-frosted sugar cube.
Yep. Things can always get worse.
I managed to force my voice past the snarled cable in my throat. “Sure. Bathroom. There.” I pointed.
“Thank you.” Bud gave me that little bow again.
“T’ank you,” the girl piped, cuter than a kitten. I watched them disappear into the restroom. Such lovely, well-behaved children.
How different from their devilish, suave father.
Okay, I didn’t have a shred of proof. But the resemblance was uncanny and I knew Logan would make beautiful children. Even if I were the mother they’d be beautiful and blond—but a helluva lot sassier.
Violently I shook that thought away. I wasn’t jealous and I certainly wasn’t wistful. I was mad. How could Logan come on to me when he had Suzy Supermom at home? This was worse than Botcher, who’d at least had the decency to wait until after he dumped me to take up with my replacement.
The bus driver slouched around the perimeter of the office, hands in his pockets. He didn’t look at anything in particular and ended up outside the bathroom door so I assumed he had to go potty too.
“I don’t understand.” The woman was clicking away on a slim PDA. “I was told Mr. Steel would be here. Meiers Corners Blood Center, Fifth and Lincoln.”
“Steel Security’s putting in a system, but Logan’s not here. Something about meetings all day.”
From the bathroom, “Itsy Bitsy Spider” echoed in a clear little soprano.
I drew a cleansing breath. Kid couldn’t help it that she was adorable. Supermom probably couldn’t help it that she was perfect. I could at least be a little helpful. “He might show tonight. Maybe you could come back then.”
“Tonight, of course!” Her eyes widened. They were disgustingly, brilliantly blue, framed by stupidly long black lashes. “How silly of me. The sun’s still up.”
Before I could comment on that odd phrase, she stuck out her slim hand. “Thank you, Ms.…?”
“Schmetterling.” My hand met a firm, warm clasp. I hated her even more. “Liese Schmetterling.”
“I’m Zinnia,” she said brightly. “Schmetterling? That means butterfly in German. What a beautiful name.”
Super-clucking-terrific. Gorgeous, athletic and smart. I now loathed her. “It still sounds like a pile of poop.”
“To the uninformed. It is some people’s lot in life to be misunderstood.” Zinnia took my hand in both hers. “We who are more fortunate must fight for the rights of those limited by racists or sexists or speciesists!”
“Species-ists?”
She released me. “Prejudice is prejudice, Ms. Schmetterling.”
“But…because someone’s a different species? Like—not human? Is speciesist even a word?”
But Zinnia was only getting started. She struck a pose, one finger pointed heavenward like she was lecturing God. “We must fight, sister! Take our righteous stand against the provincialism that would paint all breeds of humanity with one brush.”
“Uh, humanity doesn’t have breeds. We have races, and even that line is blurred—”
“Against the intolerance day walkers have for people of the night!”
“You mean second and third shift workers?”
“Mom! Ix-nay on the amps-vay.” Bud had emerged from the bathroom, the door just shutting on the bus driver. Bud held his sister’s hand and looked a bit shocked. Seeing me he gave a somewhat self-conscious bow. “Thank you, Miss, for the use of the facilities.”
“You’re welcome.” Ix-nay was Pig Latin for nix. But amp-vay? Vamp—naw. “I’m surprised there isn’t a toilet on the bus.”
“It’s broken.”
Supermom Zinnia gathered up her two perfect children. “I’ll come back tonight. It was nice meeting you, Ms. Schmetterling.” With that she bounded with them out the door. It was unfair that she had that much energy, even more unfair that her butt was so tight I could probably bounce my state quarter collection off it.
As the bus driver emerged from the bathroom and left without a word, I slumped in my seat.
I set the mood-timer on my PDA for five minutes and sat back to indulge in a good feeling-sorry-for-myself (when you have issues you figure out ways to cope) but almost immediately the door whooshed open and several men and women bustled in. Their jackets were discreetly embroidered with the Steel Security logo. I punched the timer off, feeling cheated. The industrious eager-beavers proceeded to thread ceiling cable and snake filaments through the walls, busily installing all manner of high-tech equipment. An outside crew was even busier digging up the lawn.
Workers bolted a shiny new rack into the corner. They slotted two slim cases into the rack, then wrestled my sturdy Dell in between. My six-year-old eBay special looked like a minivan parked between a couple million-dollar sport coupes.
At three thirty the phone rang. I connected my headset, bracing for Dirkson or even “Dracula”, but to my surprise it was Logan. He greeted me warmly.
I greeted him with, “You cheating fuck”—though I didn’t actually say it out loud.
“Are my people there, Liese?” he asked. “Are they working hard?”
“Yes.” I scowled at his eager-beaver, hard-working people. No, not beavers. Nothing so furry and loveable. Maybe bees, swarming and stinging…or ants, scurrying across a picnic, taking over my Blood Center, but I didn’t say that either. “They left my server running. I thought you wanted me to convert my data to your programs.”
“That’s phase two, tomorrow. Today they’re putting in the base security network. I had them rush it, after the sewer incident last night. I don’t want you vulnerable, Liese.”
Almost as if he cared. But I knew better. I hit him with, “Zinnia stopped by. Looking for you.”
“Zinnia? The name sounds vaguely familiar. Did she say what she wanted?”
Probably to offload your kids on you. “Only that she’d be back tonight.” I couldn’t stop myself from adding, “It seemed like she knew you.”
“Huh. What’d she look like?”
Like your wife. “Blonde, blue eyes. Early thirties. Good figure. She came on a bus with Iowa plates.
“Iowa plates?” Logan groaned. “The interviewees.”
Interviewees? I wanted to chew thumbtacks and spit computer chips. Not only was Blondie Bop here to warm Logan’s bed, the whole bus was here to warm his little manager heart. If Logan was going to replace me, couldn’t he have waited to interview until he was back in Iowa? Sure, his time was valuable, but so valuable he had to ship the whole busload here?
“Liese, I know this is short notice, but is there a place at the Center I could use to talk to people? Someplace private?”
“Why not just use your motel room?” I said nastily.
“I’m putting up at Strongwell’s.”
“What?” Elena knew Logan well enough to host him, and she hadn’t told me?
“Bo has a few extra rooms in his basement. He opens them to out-of-towners every so often.” Sounding harassed, Logan didn’t catch my reaction. And something caught at his tone, just at the edge. Something like—that wasn’t pain, was it?
One of the discreetly embroidered busy-bees started buzzing under my desk, invading my personal space. Fine. I felt antsy anyway. Ha-fucking-ha. I got up and paced, twisting my ring. “Strongwells have a big parlor. Do your interviews there.”
“I would, but the Viking’s used to running things. Sometimes he sticks his nose into other people’s business.” He expelled a breath.
Like Logan sticking his nose into my Center. Although it would be his Center soon. Yet I found I didn’t like the idea of Logan feeling har
assed, much less being in pain. I released my ring reluctantly. Maybe he had some right to be asking for interview space. “You can use the office. I’ll work in the back room.” I tried not to sound too grudging. There was an outside chance he would let me interview too.
“I don’t want to uproot you from your area. The back’s good enough for me. I’ll see you tonight, Liese, before seven.” And then, to my utter consternation, he had the nerve to blow me a kiss before hanging up.
“You’re married!” I yelled at the empty line. How could he be flirting with me when he had a wife? Especially when he knew she was here?
Although…he hadn’t reacted to hearing her name. Maybe Supermom wasn’t really married to Supersuave.
Or maybe Logan was simply a better actor than Botcher. That rat-bastard.
I wasn’t sure if I meant Mr. Ex or Mr. Sex.
The phone rang again almost immediately. Popping on the Bluetooth, I resisted the urge to answer, “Grand Central Station”.
“Hey, Liese. It’s Nixie.”
Nixie Emerson was a punk musician I went to school with. I’d known her all my life, but she rarely phoned me, and then usually texted. I wondered what was up. “How’s the tour going?”
“Fan-fucking-tastic. It’s been extended another two weeks.”
“The tour” was the round-the-lakes circuit her band Guns and Polkas was doing in preparation for their big Milwaukee Summerfest gig in June. “Wow. That’s great!”
“Yeah, really sweet. What, Julian?”
The last must have been to her husband. Julian Emerson was a high-powered Boston attorney (and, frankly, awesome studmuffin) who Nixie had married a few months ago.
“Oh, right. Sorry, Liese. Julian was just reminding me we have practice in five. So I’ll get right down to business. Can I talk to Steel?”
“You know Logan too?” Punk rocker, international businessman—they didn’t exactly travel in the same circles. And how would Nixie know Logan was here? Last night was the first I’d heard of Steel Security putting in a system at the Blood Center, and I worked here.
