by S. J. Harper
The sedan is once again on the move. Traffic opens up and I luck out. There’s a parking space just around the corner on J Street. I park, then hurry to catch up with the man in black.
The bell over the door rings as I walk into the shop.
It’s not at all what I expected.
For a tattoo parlor, Wicked Ink has one fancy reception area. To my right is a large, round dining room table, surrounded by high-back red velvet chairs and piled high with black leather-bound books and two sterling silver candelabras. Each holds half a dozen black candles, all lit. There are more candles blazing in the standing candelabras that line the north and south walls. The walls and ceiling are padded, tufted, and covered with an elegant black on black brocade, the floors a dark polished wood. A series of ornate silver-framed floor-to-ceiling mirrors covers the east wall across from me. I see myself reflected in several of them.
It’s eerily quiet, too. No heavy metal blaring from hidden speakers. Only the barely discernible hum of an air conditioner pumping refrigerated air into a room I’d guess is about sixty degrees already. A shiver races down my spine. To my left there’s a sitting area. I wander over. There are two red velvet sofas facing each other. Between them is a round black velvet ottoman with silver-beaded fringe. More leather-bound volumes are stacked on it. I take a seat and flip through the first one. They’re filled with designs, each one labeled and indexed.
“Can I help you?”
I turn toward the voice just in time to see a door close. It’s cut into the brocade-covered wall and, once closed, is all but invisible. A touch of a button and a large flat-screen monitor that’s recessed into the wall comes alive. It displays the store’s highly stylized black-and-red logo. “Most of our clients prefer searching the online database.” The voice belongs not to the man I was looking for, but a young woman.
More precisely, a young female vampire.
She couldn’t have been more than sixteen when she was turned and looks to be completely at home in these surroundings. Her black, off-the-shoulder taffeta gown has a fitted bodice and a full skirt. I hear the rustle of silk and crinoline as she glides toward me. Her face is heart-shaped. The narrow chin and delicate cheekbones serve to further accentuate her enormous green eyes. The clothing is late Victorian, but the hair and makeup are contemporary goth. Smudged kohl eyeliner, dark red lipstick, and flawless, pale skin. Her jet-black hair is piled atop her head in an organized mess. Feather accents finish the look that must have taken hours to painstakingly create. The ink she’s sporting is dramatic, an intricate pattern of black thorns and bloodred roses that start at the top of her neck and run down, disappearing into the gown. More peek out from the edges of the long sleeves of the dress and run over her hands and fingers. I wonder how much of her petite body is covered.
With the experience of one who knows exactly the reaction her image projects, she stretches out a hand. “All my work is done here. What, exactly, are you looking for? I’m sure I can point you in the right direction.”
Her question is spoken in a purr. I rise from the couch, shake my head, and flash my badge. “Beautiful ink, but that’s not why I’m here. Special Agent Emma Monroe.”
“FBI?”
“That’s right. You are?”
“Rose.”
Appropriate. I slip the badge back into my pocket. “A man came in here a minute or two ago.”
The vampire makes a show of looking around. “I don’t think so. It appears we’re quite alone, Agent Monroe.”
“Perhaps he’s back there?” I point to the door that she’s just emerged from.
“There are three tattoo stations back there. All of them are currently empty. I was just setting up. The artists don’t normally come in until late afternoon. You’re welcome to look.” She steps back and waves toward the door. “The man you’re looking for, is he a criminal of some kind?”
“No.” I don’t take her up on her offer to search behind door number one. If she’s so willing to have me do it, there’s no point.
I decide to go for the direct approach, hoping my candor will loosen her tongue and that I won’t have to resort to using my powers.
“I want to speak to someone who works the other side of the business.”
“The other side?”
“Someone with the Emporium. I’m working a missing person’s case. Actually, it’s a missing vampire. We have reason to believe she was here the day she went missing.”
At the mention of vampire, Rose allows a slow smile to form on her lips. “Missing vampire? Can I see that badge again? This is a joke, right? Max put you up to this, didn’t he?”
Rose’s skirt starts to ring. She turns her back on me, reaches into a pocket, and pulls out a cell phone.
“Yes?” The vampire looks up into a corner of the room where a discreet surveillance camera is positioned.
I’d bet my badge that my mystery man is watching.
“Of course, sire. Right away.” She turns back to face me, the cell once again concealed in the folds of her skirt. “Follow me.”
Sire? I have no time to ask the question. Rose is on the move. She crosses the room, pushing one of the tufted wall panels aside to reveal a keypad. She enters a series of numbers, and a door, like the first one she came through, swings inward. I follow her down a short hallway to a staircase. Apparently there are floors not only above, but below us. We head down. Despite the dress, Rose negotiates the steep steps rather well.
When we reach the door at the bottom, we’re immediately buzzed through. I feel as if I’ve gone down the rabbit hole and ended up in my local grocery store. Real basements are extremely rare in Southern California. This one has a polished white floor, harsh fluorescent lights, and a long double row of industrial-grade refrigerators with glass doors.
The refrigerators are filled with blood packs. The lower shelf of one contains insulated bags that are tagged with names, dates, and times. The signs hanging on the outside that normally point shoppers to the vegetables or ice cream instead have written upon them things like A+ and B-. I pause in front of a door marked YBV.
“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 an
d 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 Patterso
n’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.
