At the end of the factory, there are two doors. Both locked. I’m prepared. I fish my lock picks out of another jacket pocket and go to work.
I remember from this afternoon that there was a door at the end of the corridor leading from the reception area. I’m assuming that door opened into the factory or to stairs leading from it. The first door I open, though, is a locker room and employee lounge area.
The other is the one I’m looking for. It opens to reveal a flight of stairs. At the top, the door leading into the corridor I spied this afternoon. On each side of that corridor are office spaces, six of them, all with doors now closed. My task is simplified, though, by the little brass plaques on each. I head right for the one that says “Simone Tremaine, President.”
It takes me about twenty seconds to pick the lock. I slip inside. The office space is big, about twenty by twenty, but not as luxuriously furnished as I would have expected. There’s a wooden desk and chair, a row of wooden file cabinets, a leather couch and glass-topped coffee table and two leather visitor’s chairs.
The desktop is clear. Nothing on it, not a blotter or a telephone. The desk drawers are locked but yield to a little persuasion. That’s all they yield. The only things I find are telephone logs. A quick perusal tells me business is brisk. Calls from area codes across the country.
Paper-clipped together on the inside cover are the most recent. I flip through the stack. One customer has called three times in the last two days. Must be desperate for her miracle makeover. I replace the stack as I found it.
In another drawer, web-generated order forms. Lots of them. Eternal Youth has struck a chord with middle-aged women in a big way.
No wonder I saw so many trucks going in and out. Must be preparing for the big launch the newspaper spoke of.
Now what?
The file cabinets.
Again, everything is locked. There are six cabinets, none labeled on the front so I have no choice but to start at one end and jimmy each open. As is usually the case, the last cabinet is the one I want. Personnel files.
One file is marked Personal. When I open it, I find info about Simone Tremaine. There isn ’t much—insurance forms, utility bills for an address in Coronado, an out-of-state telephone number printed on a piece of company letterhead. I memorize the address and number and return the file to the cabinet.
Then another file catches my eye.
Test Subjects.
It’s thick. I take it to the couch and get comfortable.
There must be one hundred cases. I go through each one. All include remarkable before -and-after pictures as well as testimonials.
They’re from local women in all walks of life—including some with PhDs and medical licenses. Women in their fifties and sixties look thirty again. With no adverse side effects reported. In fact, just the opposite, women report renewed vigor and increased libido. A few add that their figures are fuller, their hair more lustrous and their minds sharper. They call the cream miraculous.
I pull the jar out of my pocket and look at it. Miraculous, indeed, if it’s true. In fact, if I were still human, I’d be tempted to try the stuff.
No wonder Gloria wants to hook her wagon to this star. Besides the obvious, Burke would be richer than God in a very short time if the product lives up to its press. Too bad she won’t live long enough to enjoy it.
I return the folder and walk my fingers through the other tabs. I’d like to find a formula to take to Williams. He could duplicate it and see if there’s magic involved. I don’t find one so I’ll have to do the next best thing. I’ll give him the jar I took and let him analyze the product itself.
I relock the cabinets and offices and head back into the factory. I leap up to the catwalk, slip out of the window and secure it behind me while I cling to the wall outside. Then I let go and drop to earth.
Next stop: that address across the bay in Coronado.
I’m halfway up the bank to my car when my cell phone rings.
“Anna Strong.”
“Anna, it’s Williams. Where are you?”
“In National City. Why?”
“Meet me downtown, the end of the Navy Pier. Another body turned up, and if you get here quick enough, we can check it out before the police.”
He disconnects before I can object. I glance at my watch. The navy pier isn’t too far out of my way. I’ll give him five minutes. That’s it.
CHAPTER 16
THE WOMAN IS LYING ON A COIL OF ROPE, AWKWARDLY, her back bent, legs twisted. Dumped here, probably, after dark.
This is a busy pier during the day. Her form and face are obscured in shadow. The only light reflects from the pool of blood ringing her head like a halo.
And that looks black.
The scent of her blood is heavy on the air. “She’s human,” I say.
Williams is kneeling beside the body. “She’s human. I thought when the report came in it might be another vamp.” He stands and slips off the latex gloves he’d donned when we arrived. Cop habit.
“Looks like her skull was crushed,” he says.
Being around this much blood awakens the hunger always lurking beneath the surface, but I force it back and stoop to take a closer look. The woman is dressed in good linen slacks and a long-sleeved blouse.
“She’s wearing Jimmy Choos,” I say, pointing to her pumps. “There’s a good-sized rock on her finger, and I’d bet those earrings are a carat apiece. She wasn’t mugged for her jewelry.”
I lean in. The woman’s hair has fallen over her face. Gingerly I brush it away.
She looks vaguely familiar. She’s in her thirties, attractive.
The wail of far-off sirens distracts me.
Williams puts a hand on my shoulder. “We need to go.”
Still, I hesitate. I know I’ve seen this woman before.
“Anna, come on. We can’t be found here.”
Reluctantly, I get to my feet. Williams motions for me to follow him, and we make our way quickly back along the pier to the parking lot.
Flashing lights and sirens bear down on the pier. We turn to the right and head across the trolley tracks toward the Gaslamp district.
There’s a hotel with an outdoor patio still serving and we take a seat. We can see the pier from here.
The show starts as soon as the cops arrive. I recognize Ortiz in one of the lead cars. No surprise then, how Williams found out about the woman. A crowd forms, the media arrives, a coroner’s wagon pulls up.
I know I should be out of here—check that address in Coronado. But something tugs at the back of my mind. I’m sure I’ve seen that woman before. I sift her face through the sands of memory, hoping to shake something loose.
When it hits, it’s not who she is but what she is that does it.
Today. The literature I picked up from the receptionist.
I jump to my feet and leave Williams with an abrupt, “I’ll be right back.”
The Jag is parked down the block. The brochure is still on the front seat. I grab it and quickly thumb the pages.
She’s there. On page five.
She was one of Eternal Youth’s test subjects.
When I rejoin Williams, I thrust the brochure at him. “Look familiar?”
He studies the picture for a minute, then looks up at me. “A coincidence? One of Burke’s test subjects turning up dead?”
I shake my head.
Quickly I tell Williams about the other women in Burke’s files.
I hand him the bottle of cream.
“You’d better have this analyzed. She’s using magic, I’m sure. Can’t do anything about that. But if it turns out the product she’s selling at two hundred fifty dollars a jar contains nothing but animal fat and food coloring, maybe you can get her for fraud.”
He slips the bottle into a jacket pocket. Then he calls Ortiz on his cell and passes the information along.
He listens for a minute, hangs up.
I already suspect what he’s going to say. He doesn’t dis
appoint.
“Ortiz will join us as soon as he can, but the fact that this woman was one of Burke’s test subjects is not sufficient cause to get a search warrant for Burke’s warehouse.”
Ortiz is standing by his patrol car and he turns and looks for us in the crowd now gathered at the restaurant.
I stare back at him, a troublesome wariness beginning to build. Burke said she wanted to play a game.
“I don’t need a search warrant. I’ll get the file of her test subjects.”
For once, Williams doesn’t argue. “Bring the file back here. Ortiz and I will wait.”
FOR THE THIRD TIME IN TWELVE HOURS, I AM BACK at the warehouse. I perform my bat-woman routine and shimmy my way inside. It’s two a.m. I’m trying to decide whether to copy the file or take it when the decision is made for me. I hear a car pull to a stop outside.
No time to waste. I grab the file and lock the office door. I peek out front, but the lot is empty. The car must be at the loading dock.
Shit.
I run back through the factory and leap to the ledge. From the windows, I can just see the front of a white van backed up to the loading dock. I don’t hear any noise and the doors to the factory don’t open.
What are they doing? Trying to break in? A competitor trying to steal the formula?
It’s so quiet, I’m beginning to think whoever drove the van here left in another vehicle. Maybe it’s a vendor waiting to be the first in line for his supply of Burke’s miracle cream. I hunker down. I’ll give it twenty minutes and then I’ll take my chances and find another way out.
I don’t have to wait that long. Ten minutes later, the van starts up and pulls away. It’s a white Econoline with no markings and no tags.
I leap to the ground and look around. The loading bays are closed tight, no indication at all that anyone tried to get in.
I look in the direction of the retreating van.
Maybe I’m not the only one up to no good.
CHAPTER 17
BY THE TIME I REJOIN WILLIAMS, THE RESTAURANT and bar have closed. He and Ortiz are sitting in the hotel lobby in big overstuffed chairs arranged around a table. We have the lobby to ourselves. There’s no one behind the desk to eavesdrop. I see a clerk through an open door in the back sipping from a mug and reading a magazine. He looks up as I come in but, besides a curious glance my way, makes no move to intercept me. His eyes slide back to the glossy pages.
Williams follows my gaze.
It’s all right. He’s a friend of ours.
His imperiousness provokes the usual reaction in me. I snort. Of course he is. What are you, the Godfather?
It’s always the same with you two, isn’t it? Ortiz says before Williams can reply. His tone is reproachful and impatient like a parent addressing squabbling children.
My fault, I know. Williams brings out the bitch in me. And there isn ’t time. Embarrassed, I hand Ortiz the folder and watch as he and a visibly aggravated Williams divide the lot. Soon their thoughts are centered only on the task of sorting through the files. I wait, anxious and uneasy. If this doesn’t yield anything important, I’m wasting precious time.
I focus on the two men, willing them to hurry it up, marveling at how different the two are.
At some point, Ortiz changed into civilian clothes. I think it’s the first time I’ve seen him out of uniform. He’s wearing slacks with a knife-edge crease and a long-sleeved polo shirt. He’s a vampire who looks a like a thirty-year-old human. He’s about five feet ten inches tall and weighs a lean one-sixty. He has the darkly handsome look of his Hispanic/Native American heritage: an aquiline nose, dark hair and eyes and olive skin stretched over high cheekbones.
His expression is somber as he works. He’s been a deputy under Williams for as long as I ’ve known him, but there’s more to their relationship. I don’t understand it and I have no desire to. Ortiz is genuinely nice while Williams is decidedly not.
Finally, Williams separates one sheet from the stack and Ortiz, two. They look at one another.
Here’s one.
And two others.
They’re showing each other the pictures they’ve chosen from the file. The picture Williams is holding is of the dead woman we found across the street. She looks much better alive.
“Who are the other two?” I ask.
Ortiz reaches for a slim leather folder on the table in front of him. He retrieves two artist ’s sketches from inside. He holds the sketches next to the photos from Burke’s files, turns them around so I can see.
The resemblance between sketch and photo are remarkable in both cases.
Williams turns to me. “Remember the men who reported being attacked by women who cut them for their blood?”
“These are the women?”
“You tell me. These sketches were made from the victims’ descriptions.”
I take the photos and sketches and lay them out on the table for a closer look. “I’m sold. Is this enough to get a warrant?”
Williams shakes his head. “A warrant for what? We still don’t know what connection Burke has to these women except that they’ve used her product.”
“That’s not enough?”
He fans the thick file of photos. “Not when there are a hundred other women here who don’t seem to have gotten themselves into trouble.”
I pick up the two photos and look to Ortiz. “Can I take these?”
Ortiz nods. He makes a note of the names and addresses printed on the backs of the photos and slips the rest of Burke ’s file and the sketches back into his folder. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to Coronado,” I reply. “To the address I found in Burke’s file. If I’m lucky, it’s hers. After I take care of her, I’ll visit these two.”
Ortiz frowns. “You’re going to Burke’s alone?”
I’m afraid Williams is going to insist on coming with me. I jump in before he can.
“It’s better if I do. If I get caught, neither of you should be involved. Someone has to take care of Culebra and Frey. This is the address I found in her file at the warehouse.” I send it to him telepathically, adding, “If you don’t hear from me in two hours, then you can send the cavalry.”
“I will.” Ortiz’ dark eyes flash. He writes the address in a notepad and slips it into his pocket. “Be careful, Anna.”
Williams, for once, doesn’t say anything.
CHAPTER 18
THE ADDRESS I GAVE ORTIZ, THE ADDRESS ON J AVENUE I took from a utility bill in Burke ’s office, is across the bay in Coronado. I can’t even claim gut instinct that it belongs to Burke. All I can do is hope it ’s hers. If I’m wrong, I’ve wasted more precious minutes of Culebra’s life.
It’s a quick trip across the bridge and straight down Fourth Avenue to J. The neighborhood is old money—wooden shingles, tile roofs.
Multistoried houses with big yards and picket fences.
Not what I expected. I expected a black magic woman to live in seclusion behind high brick walls covered with poison ivy.
Doubt starts gnawing a hole in instinct.
The street is dead quiet in the early morning hours. I park half a block from the address and work my way on foot to the alleyway that runs behind each house. When I get to the right house, I leap the fence and crouch down, watching, listening.
I’ve got my gun in my hand. Ready this time. But I know it’s too much to hope that Burke will pass by a window. Too much to hope I’ll get a clear shot without giving myself away or allowing her to escape. Again.
I see and hear nothing out of the ordinary. The house is dark. The only sound, the faraway ebb and tide of the ocean a half dozen blocks away. I don’t feel anything, either. None of the strange vibrations I did around Culebra. A bad sign. Wouldn’t I feel something this close to the place where a powerful spell is being cast?
I touch the chain around my neck. Wouldn’t the amulet be sending a warning?
The windows along the back of the house are shuttered. I make
my way closer and try to peek between the slats. It’s no good. I sneak around to the front, staying low to avoid being seen from the street. It’s three a.m., but you never know when some insomniac pain-in-the-ass neighbor might decide to walk the dog.
As soon as I find a window with the curtains parted enough for me to look inside, I know why I’m not getting any vibes from the place.
The living room is empty. So is the dining room beyond it. No couch. No tables and chairs. Nothing. An empty expanse of space that goes from one end of the house to the other.
Shit.
My handy-dandy lock picks let me in through the back door. I pause to see if there will be an intruder alert, but none sounds. Doesn ’t mean there isn’t a silent alarm going off somewhere, but by the time a response team gets here, I’ll be long gone.
I run through the house, just to assure myself it isn’t a case of Burke not taking the time to go shopping for her new digs. But there isn’t a piece of furniture anywhere in the place. Not a pot or pan in the kitchen. The closets are empty. I don’t find so much as a scrap of paper. If she had been living here, she isn’t now.
A dead end.
Fatigue washes over me. Fatigue and guilt. Culebra is still near death and Burke has eluded me once again.
I slip back outside, call Culebra’s cell. Sandra answers. Frey is asleep. There has been no change in Culebra’s condition. I can’t bring myself to tell Sandra that I’m not any closer to helping them than I was this morning.
So, I lie. Tell her that I’ll have news tomorrow. That I’m close to finding Burke. If the despair I’m feeling is mirrored in my voice, Sandra doesn’t let on. She may be as good a liar as I am.
When I’m back in the car, I call Ortiz. Tell him what I found, that is to say, what I didn’t find. I also tell him I’m too tired to do anything else tonight. Tomorrow I’ll go back to the warehouse and start all over again. I’ll grill that receptionist. She must be in contact with her boss. Either the human Anna or the vampire will get the information out of her.
But now, I’m going home.
He offers to call Williams. I quickly take him up on the offer and we say good night.
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