by Chris Mooney
Danny had a point. Not about the whole new-world-order bullshit, but the fact that the privileged and the elite had access to things that regular people didn’t. She wasn’t naïve about the way the life worked, especially when it came to crime—the one person with the best political connections and the best lawyer, sadly, had the chips stacked in their favor. But when it came to carrier blood and whatever chemical cocktail worked—if there actually was one—so much was still unknown because the whole process had all been driven underground, made illegal. Younger carriers had blood that was “fresher” and, it was believed, more powerful and longer lasting—which was why kids were being abducted in record numbers not only in California but across the country, imprisoned and forced to live out their lives like golden geese.
At least that was the operating theory. No one had ever found or seen one of these mythical “blood farms,” as they had been dubbed by the media, so no one knew for sure if they existed. The blood world in LA consisted of two main factions: Armenian Power X was a cartel that, on the surface, seemed more organized than the second faction, the Mexicans, who seemed to favor draining and dumping carriers.
“The blood I’d want to try,” Danny said, “is Pandora.”
You and everyone else, Ellie thought.
“Bye-bye, wrinkles and belly; hello, smoother and tighter skin, thicker hair, more muscle tone, and less body fat. But wait—there’s more! Order now, and we’ll throw in, free of charge, the most intense orgasms you will ever experience in your entire life.”
“If Pandora actually exists,” Ellie said.
“Blood Unit believes it does.”
“But there’s no proof. No sample has ever been found, and no one has ever been caught using it. For all we know, we could be chasing a unicorn.”
“There you go with we again.” Danny rolled his head to her and cracked a grin. “That’s what all this stop-and-frisk shit is all about, isn’t it? You’re doing a little R & D, hoping to find something, something big, so you can try to secure a spot on that unit.”
Ellie smiled. “Look at you, playing detective. How cute.”
“It’ll never happen.”
“You becoming a detective?”
“You working on the Blood Unit.”
Ellie’s throat clenched. “That’s a real shitty thing to say.”
“I’m just giving you the lay of the land. It’s not about how good or talented you are; it’s who you know and who you blow. You don’t strike me as the type who—”
“Danny, look out!”
The patrol car’s forward-collision warning system sounded. The vehicle automatically decelerated, Ellie’s attention locked on a black Labrador retriever that had darted into the road and, instead of running away, stopped and looked at them, its tail wagging.
Danny swerved to the right. The Lab didn’t move, and Ellie let out a small cry when she heard and felt the front-left corner of the fender hit the dog, the yelp it let out freezing her heart.
Ellie was already out of the car before it came to a stop. She got down on one knee beside the dog and Danny remained behind the wheel, blinking in shock, Ellie knowing he was thinking about his Bernese mountain dog, Mickey. The dog had been the most loving thing during the final months of his marriage—his anchor, he had admitted to her more than once.
“Danny!”
He threw open the door, his gut brushing against the steering wheel as he got out. The dog lay on its side, shaking and panting, its eyes closed against the bright sun. Danny looked like he was going to pass out.
“Didn’t break any bones, as far as I can tell, and I don’t see any cuts,” Ellie told him. The Lab flapped its tail in agreement, then stopped when Ellie started rubbing its soft pink belly. “Probably just whacked Sasha here with the fender.”
Danny let loose the caged breath he’d been holding. “Sasha?”
“Dog’s name, according to the tag on his collar.”
The dog had several tags. Ellie was focused on the one shaped like a red fire hydrant. SASHA was etched on the front, along with a phone number and an address right here in Brentwood.
Ellie held the tag along its side. “Take a look at this,” she said, and flipped the tag over so Danny could see the words someone had written in black marker, beneath a bloody fingerprint:
Help Us.
CHAPTER 2
ELLIE BAGGED THE dog collar just in case this turned into something—and it had to be something; it was too bizarre not to be something. Afterward she placed the dog in the backseat, Sasha wagging her tail, the memory of being hit already forgotten. Ellie slid into the passenger seat, got on the horn to dispatch, and worked the laptop while Danny drove to the address printed on the dog tag.
One twenty-three Bleeker was a lot like the typical Mediterranean-style houses popular in affluent Los Angeles neighborhoods: a low-pitched red-tile roof with stucco siding and arched windows and wrought iron balconies. There was a fountain in the front, and the grounds were meticulously maintained—no doubt thanks to the abundant and cheap migrant labor.
A driveway wrapped around the front of the house. By the time they had pulled in and parked, Ellie had some background info on the home’s current owners. She showed Danny the license pictures on the laptop’s screen.
Louis Vargas was fifty-nine and wore every second of it on his face: dark circles under his eyes; jowly, wrinkled, and saggy skin. Sophia Vargas was fifteen years his junior but could have passed easily for late thirties: perfect complexion, black hair, and lovely dark eyes. No criminal record, either one of them. No traffic tickets or violations or citations. No children. No report of a missing dog.
Danny left the engine running. Before he got out, he cranked the AC up to its highest setting, since the dog would be staying in the back for the time being. Ellie slipped on her sunglasses, a pair of Ray-Ban Caravans, and followed Danny to the front door, a big ornate slab carved from oak. He rang the doorbell.
No one answered the door. He tried the doorbell again, and got the same response. Danny was about to knock when they heard splashing coming from somewhere out back.
“Let’s go check it out,” Danny said, and Ellie nodded.
They discussed the approach as they moved back down the steps. Ellie walked around the left side of the house, Danny around the right.
The fence was a custom job, made of redwood boards with a matching inset gate, the shrubbery incorporated into the fence. In the spaces between the boards, Ellie could see into the backyard. The surface of the swimming pool was still rippling from the person who had been in it: a tanned beanpole of a kid who couldn’t have been any older than sixteen. He had that surfer thing going on, and part of his long blond hair was tied up in a goofy man bun.
He sat on the corner of a chaise longue, hunched forward, texting on his phone. Ellie didn’t see anyone else in the yard. She opened the gate and walked across the cobblestones, underneath a roofed area off the back of the house. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked onto a good part of the downstairs—what real estate agents called “open concept.” In the adjoining kitchen, a big cooler, its lid open, sat on top of a dining table. She didn’t see anyone inside the house, and she gave the all-clear signal to Danny, who was moving with his hand resting on the butt of the nine tucked in his hip holster, on the other side of the yard, twenty or so feet away from the kid.
Then the kid looked up.
Saw Ellie, but not Danny.
Seeing one cop was enough. His body froze but his head swung across the pool, to the chaise longue sitting on the other side of the yard. The chaise was propped into a sitting position and faced the fence. Ellie couldn’t see who was sitting on it, just a woman’s tanned and slender arm hanging limply over the side, blood dripping from the fingers.
Ellie pulled out her sidearm, about to make the approach when Danny waved her back. “Stay with the kid,” he said. “And keep an eye
out.”
Then, to the boy: “You. Keep your ass parked right where it is.”
Danny lumbered across the area around the pool and stepped cautiously on the grass, eyes scanning the backyard. Ellie took up a vantage point near the corner of the pool; it offered her the best view of the kid, the inside of the house, and Danny.
“Mrs. Vargas?” Danny called out.
The woman didn’t answer. Didn’t move, either, Ellie noticed. Her gaze cut sideways, back to the house. The living room and adjoining kitchen were still empty—as far as she could tell. She thought about the two words written on the dog tag—Help Us—and wondered who was inside the house. Wondered if she was being watched.
Danny moved across the lawn, taking bigger steps. Ellie thought she saw the woman’s arm twitch.
“Mrs. Vargas?” Danny called again. “LAPD.”
Still no answer, and that set something off in Ellie—an uneasiness that made her move into the backyard so she could get a better look at the woman lying on the chaise longue.
Ellie had seen a lot of messed-up shit during her short time as a patrolwoman. What she was witnessing right now immediately shot to the number one slot: Sophia Vargas—and it was her, no question, the woman an identical match with her driver’s license photo—wearing a pair of earbuds, her eyes closed and her mouth open and her right hand, buried underneath the tight fabric of her black bikini bottom, moving up and down, up and down, like she was trying to coax a genie out of its bottle.
When Danny’s shadow passed over the woman’s face, she opened her eyes. She saw the blue uniform and swallowed—not in embarrassment but in pleasure.
“Wait,” she said to him. “I’m almost there.”
Ellie watched, thunderstruck. She could see the still-fresh IV puncture wound in the crook of her arm, the wound bleeding, she was sure, from a recent transfusion.
“Ma’am,” Danny said, “I need you to stop masturbating.”
Sophia Vargas ignored him. She kept going, moving her finger even faster, trying to climax, not stopping or slowing down even when Danny leaned forward and yanked out her earbuds. Ellie had been told one of the side effects of blooding, at least in the initial hours after a transfusion, was a heightened sex drive, but she had never seen anything like this before.
Sophia Vargas arched her back. Her limbs stiffened and she cried out in pleasure.
Danny’s face was as red as an apple. He had to clear his throat before he could speak. “What happened to your arm?”
The woman didn’t respond. She relaxed back against the chaise longue, trying to catch her breath.
Again Ellie glanced at the house—all clear downstairs, from what she could see—and then she looked back at the kid, who was sitting with his forearms on his knees and acting like what was unfolding here in the backyard was no big deal. Like he couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. He was way too young to administer a transfusion all by himself, but had he assisted someone? Was that person, maybe even group of people, hunkered down inside the house at this very moment?
Ellie had never heard of blooding being performed in someone’s home, but then again, this was Los Angeles, where if you were rich enough and willing to pay the price you could get anything you wanted, anytime.
“What happened to your arm, Mrs. Vargas?” Danny asked again.
“I gave blood,” the woman replied between breaths. “This morning.”
“Where?”
She licked her lips. Smiled. “One of those Red Cross mobile things.”
Bullshit, Ellie wanted to say. And why was Danny bothering with the whole Q & A dance? He had more than enough probable cause to arrest the woman on suspicion of receiving carrier blood.
The sliding back door slammed open. Ellie turned, saw a shirtless guy step out. He was tall and jacked with muscle, his chest and arms exploding with all kinds of shitty, colorful tattoos, like a box of crayons had vomited on him. The largest and oddest one was on his left shoulder: a gingerbread man with a bloody knife clamped between its sharklike teeth. He was a redhead—skin so pale it didn’t tan, freckles, and blondish red hair that had been shaved into a military-type crew cut.
Despite his intimidating build, Ellie didn’t feel threatened; his hands were empty, and she didn’t see a weapon in his shorts pockets. He was smiling, too, but there was absolutely nothing pleasant about it.
“Something wrong, Officers?” Gingerbread Man asked, his tone casual and relaxed, like he was receiving guests at a party. He didn’t wait for an answer, didn’t even give their presence a second thought; he walked away from them, to his right, heading toward a custom-made barbecue island.
Ellie was scanning the island surfaces, looking for a weapon, when Danny said, “Sir, I’m ordering you to stop right where you are and—”
Gingerbread Man lurched forward, had his hand on the grill handle when the kid, who had been staring sullenly at his feet the whole time, reached into the canvas bag beside him.
“Stop! Hands in the air!” Ellie shouted, just as the kid came out with an Uzi, the submachine gun looking way too big in his small hand.
“Down!” Ellie screamed, locked in the Weaver stance, like she’d been trained. Only this wasn’t a training exercise; this was real and this was happening and her career and life were hanging on whatever she did next. “Put the gun down now!”
But the kid wasn’t listening, and Gingerbread Man had flipped open the wide hood of the grill, revealing the AR-15 lying underneath. Two targets, both armed, spread across the area, a civilian and her partner in the middle. No good options.
She fired a warning shot at the kid, the round going high above his head.
“Drop it!” she screamed. “Don’t make me—”
But the words fell on deaf ears. The kid had the gun up and the safety off.
Ellie dropped to the ground, behind a waist-high wall made of blue-gray stone. The first rounds ricocheted off the stone and then more rounds cut across the grass behind her. She was trapped and she knew she had to deal with this; it was happening; it was full-on; she was in a gunfight, her first. She had to put both the kid and Gingerbread Man down. That was her only option. She said a quick prayer, begging God to keep her safe, and when she came up with her weapon, the backyard erupting in a hailstorm of bullets, she saw several rounds tearing into Danny’s chest.
CHAPTER 3
SEBASTIAN NEVER MET with his blood clients. Keeping his identity secret was paramount for his continued success, and besides, he had people for that. Still, he wouldn’t have minded saying a quick hello to the beautiful Italian woman in treatment room number 3, an actress he remembered fondly from his teenage years. Her name was Isabella Flores, and she had starred in a string of critically panned but monstrously successful action movies in which she played a demon hunter named Mistress Knight, who, with an old-fashioned .357 Magnum loaded with special bullets crafted by Lucifer himself, ran around at night collecting souls that had somehow managed to escape from hell. She had starred in the first nine films before committing the one cardinal sin Hollywood could never forgive, under any circumstances: she had gotten old.
Her real age, Sebastian had learned, was sixty-two, although her Wikipedia profile had it listed as fifty—and she could easily pass for fifty, maybe even for late forties. Based on what he could see, she didn’t appear to have had cosmetic work done, which didn’t come as much of a surprise. She filled out the black V-neck hospital smock and matching pants quite nicely, still had the thick black hair, perfect jawline, full lips, and fiery green eyes that had made her People magazine’s Most Beautiful Whatever for several years running, even when she turned forty-two. Well, fifty-four, in all honesty.
Sebastian stood on the other side of the one-way mirror, drinking his coffee and watching her pace across the room, this woman who had played the starring role in many of his teenage masturbatory fantasies. He
didn’t normally hang around this long, evaluating his clients; he didn’t have time for that, had a number of other places he was actively needed. The reason he was watching her had more to do with the fact that she reminded him of a woman he had dated a long time ago and still remembered fondly. Perhaps too fondly, he thought. Ava Martinez. She had been the great love of his life.
Still was, really.
His business partner, and the owner of the dermatology and laser center, Dr. Maya Dawson, entered the hidden chamber off her private office. Her expression was stern—always was, reminding him of the Catholic nuns from his youth, dour-faced, humorless women. She didn’t dress like one, though—nuns didn’t favor Armani business wear—and what he enjoyed about this petite middle-aged woman with brown eyes and a maternal-looking bob hairstyle was the sense of comfort and serenity she radiated, Maya the kind of person who could solve all your problems. Nothing ever seemed to rattle her.
But something had rattled her this morning. He could see it in her face, the way she folded her hands behind her back and straightened, as if bracing for an argument.
“Good,” she said. “You’re still here.”
Sebastian always showed up on transfusion days. His clients paid a ridiculous premium for his product and he wanted to make sure everything ran smoothly. It was more out of habit now than necessity. He rarely encountered a problem, because he ran a tight operation but also because he chose his people well.
“Why isn’t she sedated?” Sebastian asked, nodding to Isabella Flores.
“She is,” Dawson replied wearily. “That’s her, sedated.”
That took Sebastian by surprise. When clients were picked up at their homes, before dawn, they were given anesthetic injections. Once they were out, they were loaded into a van and transported here, where they would be brought out of sedation and given breakfast before the transfusion, which took the better part of the day. They’d spend the night, the staff monitoring for any side effects, and once Dawson pronounced them good to go, they would be sedated again, loaded back into the van, and driven home, where they would wake up in their own beds, having no idea where they’d been. Phones and other electronic devices were left at home, and the clients were given special clothing to wear on the morning of their transfusion, Sebastian always concerned about an undercover cop or Fed posing as a client, wearing a hidden camera, microphone, or tracking device inside a belt or a button, the sole of a shoe. It had happened to his main competitors, the Armenians, too many times.
