by S. J. Harper
He clicks off and I settle back in the tub for a quick soak. I feel a certain sense of satisfaction that the mere mention of my being in the tub drove Zack to distraction. I wonder if he’s, at this very moment, thinking of me. I shake my head as I recall the zealousness with which he began typing. Barakov is the only thing on Zack Armstrong’s mind right now. And I’d bet everything I have that Zack is not picturing the doctor naked and in a bath.
CHAPTER 9
I’ve no sooner gotten off the phone with Zack than my cell rings again.
“What? You want a progress report on the bath?”
There is prolonged and pointed silence on the other end. I check the caller ID. It’s a number I’m not familiar with. Definitely not Zack.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “This is Emma Monroe.”
The silence gives way to what sounds like an embarrassed cough. “I’m sorry, too, for interrupting your bath. Michael Dexter here.”
I sit up straighter in the tub. “What can I do for you?”
Another pause. Then a heavy sigh. “I wasn’t entirely honest with you yesterday.”
“Oh?” I get the tingly feeling that comes with the possibility of finally catching a break on a tough case. I keep my voice curious yet detached when I ask, “What about?”
All I hear on the other end is breathing. He’s not going to confess to playing a part in Isabella’s disappearance, is he? Like Zack, I’ve been becoming more and more convinced that Barakov is involved in this somehow. I find myself holding my own breath.
Finally he says, “I held back something that might be important to the case. If I tell you, will you keep it in confidence?”
“I’m not a priest, Michael. I’m a law enforcement officer, a federal agent. You know if you tell me something incriminating—”
“Oh, Jesus, no,” he interrupts. “I didn’t do anything to Isabella—” He breaks off. “This is something I can’t talk about over the telephone. Can I see you this afternoon?”
“I’m free anytime after two. Do you want me to come to your place?”
“I’m having lunch with the Director of the Museum of Modern Art. I’ll be finished by two. Can you meet me at the Japanese Tea Garden in Balboa Park?”
“Yes. Michael, are you sure this can wait?” I don’t want him losing his courage between now and then.
“It can. And I have to see your face when I tell you this.”
Now I’m really curious. “All right. See you at two.”
I second-guess myself while I finish my bath, dress, and jump into the car to head for Evan’s place. Should I go to Balboa Park and catch Dexter before his lunch date?
What good would that do? Scare him? Embarrass him?
No. Better to trust he’ll show at two. And if he doesn’t, I know where he lives. Liz is always there for me and she needs me now.
Evan Porter lives in the Marina District downtown. The fact that he is doing very well at his law practice is evidenced by his home. His loft is located in the old Soap Factory, one of the largest all-brick buildings on the West Coast . . . and an exclusive address. Units run close to a mil and they come with guest parking. Unfortunately, an ominous-looking black sedan with tinted windows occupies the spot Liz told me to park in. I dial her cell.
“There’s a car in number twelve. You said twelve, right?”
“We just finished our meeting. He’s on his way down.”
Right on cue, the sedan comes to life. The engine fires and the driver steps out. With stiff precision he opens the rear passenger door, then waits at attention. He looks like a military man, close-cropped hair, compact body, dark well-tailored suit.
Who the hell has Liz been meeting with?
Before I can swivel around to look, a man walks past the driver’s side of my car. Undoubtedly, it’s the man. I never saw him coming. He’s a study in black: black boots, black slacks, and black leather coat. His stride falters when he reaches the hood of my car. There’s an almost imperceptible hesitation. His head turns, but only slightly. His shoulder-length dark hair, decidedly not military, masks his profile. He continues to the car and the waiting driver. The pause was so fleeting I now find myself wondering if I’d imagined it.
I still have the cell in my hand. “Who’s the mystery man?”
“He’s a long-standing client,” Liz answers.
The man climbs into the back of the sedan. The driver slams the door. A moment later he’s back behind the wheel. I put my SUV in reverse and roll back a couple of feet, giving them plenty of room to pull out.
“I assumed he was a client,” I say after the sedan has pulled away. “Who is he?”
“Why do you ask?”
“He hesitated as he walked by the car. Like he might have sensed something.”
Liz dismisses the idea. “Through one of my spells? Impossible. Come on up.”
She clicks off and I steer into the now-vacated space.
By the time I get to Evan’s door, Liz is waiting for me. I’d normally describe her as one of the most grounded, self-confident women I’ve ever known. And one of the most beautiful. Tall and willowy with gleaming light brown skin and a long mane of hair that’s never had a bad day, she turns heads wherever she goes. Today, though, she’s all wringing hands and breathless anxiety. She’s wearing a pair of old flannel pajama bottoms and a T-shirt at least three sizes too big. Evan’s, I imagine. And not her usual business attire.
“You saw a client looking like this?”
“It was an emergency.” She pulls me inside. “There’s some political unrest in the vampire community, trouble brewing. Vampire-on-vampire hate crimes are on the rise and . . . Never mind about that.” She thumps her chest. “What am I going to do?”
“Well, if Evan saw you looking like this before he left for work this morning, you might not have anything to worry about now.”
She runs her fingers through her hair. “I didn’t sleep a wink.”
I find myself looking around the loft. “So, this is Evan’s place. How about a tour?”
She waves a hand. “Living room, dining room, kitchen, two bedrooms upstairs. Should we talk in the living room or maybe in the kitchen? I have lunch.”
I’ve never seen her so upset. I reach out and attempt to smooth down her hair. “How about we start with lunch? If I know you, you probably skipped breakfast.”
She leads me through a designer’s showcase of a place. Comfortable but sterile. Living room painted all white with overstuffed sofa and large media unit, dining room with whitewashed fireplace and a modern glass table, kitchen the Top Chef would feel at home in. Only here and there do I see touches that can only be Liz’s—a funky black-and-white rug under the coffee table in the living room, a crystal vase on the fireplace mantel that catches the sunlight streaming in from terrace doors and reflects a rainbow of color on the wall behind it, a pot of herbs on the granite kitchen counters.
I barely have time to take it all in before Liz is pushing a plate into my hand. “Help yourself. We’ll sit on the terrace. I could use some fresh air.”
She’s set up a salad bar on the counter separating the kitchen from the living room. I pile my plate with greens, spinach, artichoke hearts, olives, red pepper, sliced tomato. She has a tiny plate of shredded chicken breast. I know it’s for me. Liz is vegan. I dump it on top of the other stuff. The only dressing I see is some kind of raspberry vinaigrette.
Vinaigrette? Liz knows me better.
“Where’s the good stuff?” I ask, holding up the offending bottle.
She lets out an exaggerated sigh that telegraphs the level of her impatience, tromps to the fridge, and pulls out a bottle of ranch dressing. “Sorry. I meant to put it out.”
Much better. It’s my favorite. I get it at a local farmers’ market. I try to be subtle as I check the expiration date.
I’m not subtle enough.
“It’s still good,” Liz huffs. “I bought it for you the last time you ate at my place.”
I shake the bottle. “How’d it end up here?”
“I brought the perishables from my fridge so they wouldn’t spoil. They had to unplug and move it to paint. Jeez. Has it only been a couple of days?”
My salad is ready. I pick up a napkin and fork. “Aren’t you eating?”
“I can’t. I’m too upset.”
She’s across the floor and out the terrace doors before I draw another breath.
I settle into a wrought-iron chair at the glass table facing Liz. I resist the urge to scold her for not eating. What she needs me to do now is listen. I’ll have to remember to scold her before I leave. “I don’t understand why this has you so spooked,” I say between bites. “It’s not as though you and Evan just met. And you like him, don’t you?”
“Of course I like him,” Liz snaps. “That’s the trouble. We have fun. We understand each other. He lets me have my space and I let him have his. But there are complications, if you know what I mean.”
“Of course I do. Evan is a vampire. There are naturally some things you’ll never be able to share.” For thousands of years vampires have lived among, but separate from, humans. Now that’s changing. The boundaries are blurring, with more and more vampires like Evan blending in, holding down jobs, buying homes, and participating in all aspects of society. I make a point of looking around the spacious condo. “But he’s mainstreamed pretty well, I’d say.”
“He has. Evan’s not the problem.”
“So who is?” I ask.
“I am.” She leans toward me, hands clasped on the table. “He really wants to take our relationship to the next level. These last few days have been great. And he sees that as a sign we should make this living arrangement permanent.”
“And you don’t?”
Her hands unclasp and fly upward. “I don’t know. What if I move in and it doesn’t work out? I don’t want to lose Evan.”
“So keep your place.”
Now her hands flutter like hummingbirds’ wings. I reach over and grab them. “Have you talked with Evan about how you feel?”
She shakes her head, her eyes suddenly brimming with tears. “I’m afraid.”
“Of Evan?”
She gasps. “Goddess, no, not afraid like that.”
“Then what?”
“I’m afraid if I don’t agree to move in, he’ll end our relationship.”
I sit back and look at my friend. “I wish I could tell you what to do,” I say at last. “But you need to talk to Evan. From what you’ve told me about him, he’s a pretty levelheaded guy. If he respects you, he’ll respect your feelings.”
Liz’s smile is rueful. “I just wish I knew what those feelings were.”
“Well, the way I see it, you’ve got until your apartment is painted, a week, to decide. In the meantime, enjoy roughing it in this überluxurious condo with a man who obviously adores you. I’m sure it will be tough, but you’ll muddle through.”
Liz laughs. A real laugh. “Hurry up and eat. I want you to help me pick out a cocktail dress for a benefit Evan and I are attending tomorrow night at the Hotel Del.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Yeah. Real tough.”
While I eat, Liz asks me questions about work in general, my new partner in particular. I answer in nonspecific, noncommittal terms.
When I’ve finished eating, I ask in what I hope is an offhand way, “Does my dampening spell need a boost, you think?”
Liz jumps on what I’d hoped was an innocent enough query with the intensity of a witch who smells a trick question. “Why? What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I just wanted to be sure I’m not giving anything away.”
“Because of what happened with my client in the parking lot?”
Why not? I nod.
She tilts her head and peers at me through narrowed eyes. “Nope,” she says at last. “Spell’s holding just fine.”
“So nothing’s leaking through. The glamour and dampening spells are both solid, safe?”
“Safe as houses.”
Shit. That’s what I was afraid she was going to say. Zack got a zap of my powers in the kitchen, all right, but what’s going on now is something else entirely.
CHAPTER 10
At one forty-five I leave Liz in a much better mood than I found her in. We didn’t resolve her dilemma with Evan, but she seems calmer and ready to look at the situation through less hysterical eyes. And we picked the red Badgley Mischka for her date with Evan tomorrow night.
It’s a short drive from Evan’s to Balboa Park. I take an outside table in the Tea Pavilion after ordering the Spicy Green Dragon Chai from the menu. I sip it while I wait for Dexter, and consider whether I should go back inside and order a curry rice bowl with beef. I love Liz, but salad just isn’t my idea of lunch.
Before I make a decision, I spy Dexter coming toward me with the determined look of a man intent on unburdening himself. He doesn’t stop at the Pavilion to pick up anything to eat or drink. Instead he comes directly over and slumps into the chair across from me. He is out of breath, even paler than yesterday, and I’m alarmed at the haunted look in his eyes.
“Can I get you something to drink? To eat?” I ask.
He shakes his head, passing a hand over his face. “No. Thanks. The walk over here took more out of me than I expected. I’ll be fine. Just let me catch my breath.”
It takes a few minutes for Michael’s breathing to return to normal, for some color to come back into his face. Still, his eyes are troubled when they meet mine. It’s more now than physical illness that’s clouding them. He reminds me of the way Liz looked when I first saw her, anxious, uncomfortable, uneasy in his own skin.
I take a few sips of tea while I wait. Then I gently prod him to begin. “Whatever you need to tell me, it’s not going to shock me. I’ve heard it all before, Michael.”
He closes his eyes for a moment, exhales. “I doubt you’ve heard this before,” he mumbles.
“Want to try me?”
He breathes in, slowly, deeply, like a man about to plunge underwater. Then he lets go. His words come out in a pent-up rush.
“Isabella is a vampire. I know it sounds crazy, but hear me out. She was bitten her first week of grad school—taken by force when she wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time. She was gone two weeks. She called me once right after it happened to tell me some bullshit story about having met some old friends from her undergrad days. She didn’t want me to worry, but she was going to go on a trip with them and would be gone for a little while. That’s the only time I heard from her until she came back home. I knew something was wrong the minute I saw her. I kept after her until she told me the truth.”
He gets all the words out without drawing a breath. Then he stops abruptly. He’s waiting for me to react. He expects me to be shocked; I read it on his face. After a moment, he points out the obvious. “I just told you Isabella is a vampire. You aren’t calling me crazy. Why?”
I stall by pouring another cup of tea, swirling my spoon around in the cup, taking a sip. Gathering my thoughts. How should I answer Dexter?
I, too, know vampires exist. Their existence, like that of other supernatural creatures, is a well-guarded secret. One I wouldn’t normally betray. But this cat is out of the proverbial bag. More important, I now have another angle to explore, one that might lead us to finding Isabella.
I push at my cup, edging it away, deciding the only way to find out is to be blunt with Dexter. “So she was turned just a few months before her disappearance. Do you know if Isabella had sworn fealty to any of the vampire factions?”
Dexter’s shoulders wilt with relief. “You believe me? You know vampires exist? You’re not trying to humor me?”
“I’m not trying to h
umor you. Vampires are as real as you and me.”
His hand flies up to cover his mouth, and his eyes fill with tears. “I can’t tell you what a relief this is.”
I nod and give his hand a squeeze. He doesn’t have to tell me. I know what it’s like to have to hold a secret inside because you fear no one will understand or believe you.
After a few seconds he pulls himself together and continues. “Isabella never let go of her humanity. As soon as she was strong enough, she abandoned her sire. He was a junkie who could barely take care of himself, never mind show Isabella the ropes. It took time, but she came to terms with what happened. She made up her mind that she was going to finish school and she’s been working toward that goal ever since.”
“But she must feed to survive.”
“She never feeds directly from people. She gets her supply from one of the Blood Emporiums. Or she did.” He peers at me. “You know about those, too?”
I nod. Emporiums opened up a couple of decades ago, around the same time that Protectus was discovered—a drug that allows vampires to tolerate sunlight. It’s these two things that really sparked the mainstream movement. It started here in California and spread east, then into Europe and other parts of the world.
Most Emporiums are located in the back of businesses catering to those who pursue alternative lifestyles, tattoo shops, and heavy metal clubs. For vampires they offer fresh blood from paid donors who, for the most part, have no idea where the blood ends up or who is paying for it. Would-be vampires and goths simply believe they are indulging in a fantasy. They never see the real vampires who come to buy their blood bags and the drugs that allow them to function during the day.
Dexter continues. “She used a drug called Protectus to be able to walk in daylight. She went back to school, held down a part-time job, lived like everyone else. Even our friends didn’t know.”
“So she mainstreamed.”
“Totally. And as far as I know, she never had contact again with the vamp who sired her. Or any other vamp, for that matter.”
“Can you tell me the address of the Blood Emporium she frequented?”
