Jeanne C. Stein - Retribution

by Jeanne C. Stein

  I don’t mention that he’s a vampire or that he was the one who found the girls and turned them.

  Or the dream.

  I don’t know why I don’t tell him. Maybe the thought of another lecture on my ignorance is more than I can stand tonight.

  I take another gulp of scotch. It burns in a good way, and a comforting burst of warmth radiates from the pit of my stomach. I cradle the glass against my cheek. Scotch was a much better choice than coffee. I’m not feeling nearly as anxious.

  Williams reaches over and takes the glass out of my hand.

  “Hey. I need that.”

  “Tomorrow,” he says in reply.

  “Tomorrow?”

  “You’ll start looking for Jason tomorrow.” He takes the glass to the sink and empties it. “You look beat. Making love to a bottle of scotch isn’t going to help. Sleep is going to help. Go to bed. I’ll work on finding Jason. And in the morning, we should have the analysis of that face cream.”

  He lets his voice drop off, but I pick up a feeling that he’s guarding something from me much the same way I’m guarding my uncertainty from him. What comes through is Ortiz, his sorrow at his loss. The sensation is gone in a heartbeat but it sobers me.

  “What do you think Burke was doing with the blood she was collecting from the ampires? ” I ask after a minute.

  “If I was to guess? The blood is an ingredient in her cream.”

  I close my eyes for a minute, processing the idea, repulsed by it. “How? For what purpose?”

  “It’s an antiaging cream.” His tone is abrupt, accusa tory. “Women will go to any lengths to recapture youth. Burke found a way to capitalize on that compulsion.”

  His indictment of all females should spark an argument. Tonight it only sparks a weary sigh.

  “How would it work? Have you ever heard of vampire blood being used to enhance a human product?”

  “No. I’ve never heard of a topical application of vampire blood having any power. That’s not to say it doesn’t.” He stands up. “We’ll know tomorrow. Now get some sleep. I’ve arranged for one of our security patrols to—”

  “Security patrol? What for?”

  He casts a glance toward the bottle. “To make sure you have a tomorrow. Burke may be having you watched. If she is, she’ll know how you spent your afternoon. She’s bound to be pissed you got those girls out of that warehouse. I would have suggested you sleep somewhere else tonight, but you’re never inclined to take my suggestions. I did the next best thing.”

  For once, I don’t argue, object or balk at what he’s saying. Truth is, I never gave a thought that Burke might come after me directly. She seemed to be having too much fun watching me dance. But saving those girls may have ratch eted the stakes up a notch.

  “Culebra.”

  It’s all I say. Williams shakes his head. “I’ll check in with Sandra. If there’s any change, I’ll let you know.”

  I walk him to the door, close it, lock it and trudge upstairs.

  Now drinking all that scotch doesn’t seem like the good idea it was earlier. My brain is fuzzy, my limbs heavy. I eye the bed, still unmade. The scotch and lack of sleep make that detail as unimportant as the fear I should be feeling that any minute Burke might strike.

  For once I hope Williams was telling the truth about assigning a security patrol. Idly, I wonder if will be composed of vampires or some other supernatural member of the Watchers. The one thing I am sure of is it will be no ordinary security patrol.

  I shed my clothes, grab up a blanket and pillow and fall across the bare mattress. My last thought before I drift off is how my conversation with Williams tonight is the only one in a long time that hasn’t ended with our threatening to kill each other.

  CHAPTER 33

  IT’S RAINING WHEN I WAKE UP WEDNESDAY MORNING. I’m in bed listening to it beat against the windows and the deck and wishing I could pull the covers up over my head and go back to sleep.

  Then I think about Culebra and those girls and I roll out of my blanket cocoon and propel myself up.

  The newspaper is on the front porch next to its plastic sleeve. The exposed half of the paper is soggy and drips all over the floor when I carry it in.

  Shit.

  I get it over to the kitchen counter and spread it out. Page one headlines blare “Police Officer Killed. Fire at Cosmetics Company Warehouse Claims Life.” Piecing together the story from rain-soaked newsprint, there isn’t much to learn that I don’t already know. The article says the warehouse was destroyed along with all the product being prepared for next week’s gala launch of Eternal Youth, the heralded new antiaging cream. An unidentified spokesperson for the company issued a statement saying how devastated they are about the fate of policeman Mario Ortiz, who died a hero when he entered the building to make sure no one was inside. Their condolences go to his family. Second Chance management plans to have the factory back up and running in the next few months.

  Not happening.

  Simone Tremaine, president and CEO of Second Chance, was not available for comment.

  I’ll bet. Burke has gone to ground.

  I tap a fingernail against the paper. The article claims all the product was destroyed in the fire. I saw something being loaded into trucks when I arrived at the warehouse on Monday. And there was nothing at all on the conveyor belts just before the fire broke out. Burke stockpiled her precious cream before she had the place torched.

  Not that she’s going to have a chance to sell it. I’ll make sure of that.

  Williams calls just as I’m about to step into the shower. “I got the product analysis back,” he says.

  “And?”

  “A lot of stuff with chemical names I can’t pronounce along with one I can. Animal glycoprotein.”

  “Animal glycoprotein? What the hell is that?”

  “Vampire blood.”

  “Animal glycoprotein? How can that be vampire blood?”

  Williams pauses a long moment before he says, “You seem unable or unwilling to accept the fact that we are no longer human, Anna.”

  His words send a tremor through me. “I am not an animal.”

  He waits even longer this time to respond. “And you are not human, either,” he says at last. “But this is not the time for debate. The point is, she was using vampire blood in her cream.”

  “Where would she get an idea like that? Didn’t you say you’d never heard of vampire blood having any topical application?”

  “I also remember saying just because I hadn’t heard of it didn’t mean it might not be possible. We now know it is. The extraordinary results she was getting must have been due to the infusion of vampire blood. It has to be. The remaining ingredients in the cream are found in every commercial product on the market.”

  I get another shiver of disgust. Explains the smell I detected—raw meat.

  Williams continues, “I also found out from an associate that Burke seems to have disappeared. He said Simone Tremaine has disappeared and I didn’t correct him. The PR rep for Second Chance has no idea where she is. The fire is being investigated as suspicious, possibly an insurance scam, though the same rep swears the cream is legit. They claim they lost everything in the fire, including formulas and the names of test subjects.”

  Not everything. I saw those trucks. To Williams, I reply, “Convenient, that. What about the security guard?”

  “No record. He’s an employee of Nelson, has been for several years.”

  “Then I’ll be paying them a visit.”

  Williams releases a breath. “I wish I could go with you, but my place is with Brooke.”

  Certainly out of character for Williams, placing concern for a human over his own desires, but I’m not going to argue the point. I don’t want to spark more animosity between us.

  A bit of the conversation I had with Gloria flashes into my head. “Is it true cosmetics are not regulated by the DA? ” I ask.

  Williams launches into cop-speak. “The FDA’s legal authorit
y over cosmetics is different from other products regulated by the agency. There’s no premarket approval process. The exception is color additives.”

  “Great. You can use blood but not red dye.”

  “Not really. Burke took a huge chance. Maybe she realized it.”

  “And had the place burned to the ground.”

  “Odd, considering the success she seemed to be having with the cream.”

  Maybe not. Something obviously went wrong. Like the fact that the test subjects were attacking people. Or maybe it was my involvement. Still, she’s got a fleet of semis full of the stuff somewhere. Perhaps Jason can shed some light on that.

  There doesn’t seem to be anything else to say. I ring off, promising to call Williams as soon as I’ve had my talk with Jason Shelton.

  BY THE TIME I HIT THE ROAD, THE RAIN HAS LET UP, but clouds still hang heavy over the beach, blurring the line between sea and sky. As usual, the commute is a bitch. Southern California drivers don’t make exceptions for road conditions. They forge ahead at well over the legal speed limit, figuring if they ignore the standing water on the freeway, it can’t hurt them. Unfortunately, I’m forced to slow to a crawl twice on my way to the Nelson Security office because some jackass in an SUV hydroplaned himself into an accident.

  It’s always an SUV.

  By the time I get to the address listed for Nelson Security, I’m a coiled spring of aggravation. I’ve experienced enough shock, horror and frustration the last couple of days to be wound so tight, I can’t wait to come face to face with Jason Shelton.

  I’m ready to kick some vampire ass.

  CHAPTER 34

  NELSON SECURITY HAS ITS MAIN OFFICE LOCATED in a strip mall in Chula Vista. Not a particularly nice office in a not-so-nice neighborhood. Two Hispanic teens in baggy jeans and dizzyingly white T-shirts lounge in front of the 7-Eleven next door. They eye me first, but it’s my car that holds their attention. And not in the car-enthusiast kind of way, but the wondering-what-they-can-get-for-it-from-the-neighborhood-chop-shop kind of way. I’ve seen the look before.

  I make a point of sounding the beep on the Jag’s remote. I have a state-of-the-art alarm system. Not that it did me any good when a pack of werewolves attacked it a few months ago. These guys don’t look like werewolves. And I can keep an eye out through the window while I’m inside.

  There’s no one behind the reception counter when I walk in. There is a two-way mirror behind it.

  Shit. Let’s hope I can keep the attention of whoever comes out to greet me before he or she notices I’m casting no reflection.

  And wouldn’t it be nice if that someone was Jason Shelton.

  No such luck.

  A woman pushes through a door to the right of the desk. She’s about thirty, a little thick through the middle but with the biggest breasts I’ve ever seen. They strain at the buttons of a pink cotton blouse like two overripe melons. It’s hard to keep my eyes off them, but I force myself to look up, noting that she has beautiful green eyes and a great smile. I doubt many men have ever noticed, either.

  “Good morning,” she says. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for an employee of yours. Jason Shelton.”

  She sniffs. “Welcome to the club.”

  The reply raises my eyebrows. “He doesn’t work here anymore?”

  “Good question. He never quit, just hasn’t shown up for work for the last two weeks.”

  “Great.” I let a whine of irritation creep in. “And his phone has been disconnected. He’s my cousin. He invited me to stay with him for a few days but this is the only address he gave me. Shit. My place is being fumigated. I can’t believe he forgot.”

  She raises a shoulder. “Sorry, I can’t help.”

  I blow out a breath. “How about giving me his home address? Maybe he hasn’t left town, just got a new job. It really isn’t like him to walk out without giving notice. I could tell him he needs to get in touch with you.”

  She eyes me. “We are a security company. We don’t give out employee’s personal information.”

  Okay, lie number one didn’t work. I blow out an exasperated breath and reach into my jacket. I pull out a small leather wallet and flash a badge—quickly.

  “Okay, I’ll be honest with you. My name is Cordelia Case. I’m an undercover cop working a robbery detail.”

  I repocket the badge before she gets a good look at it. Otherwise, she’d see it was a tin sheriff’s badge I’d picked up in Deadwood on vacation three years ago. David and I have used it in our work. No one yet has looked at it closely enough to realize it’s a fake.

  Green eyes, here, is no different. However, her expression does change from suspicion to concern. “You think Jason—?”

  “We suspect Shelton is involved in a series of burglaries. Most of the houses involved belong to your clients. The robberies started two weeks ago. About the time you say he stopped showing up for work. The address we have for him belongs to his dead mother. We’re hoping you’ll be willing to cooperate. Save your company the embarrassment of being implicated.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “We haven’t had any reports of burglaries.”

  Smart cookie. “We’ve encouraged the victims to keep it quiet. When our investigation is over, you’ll be given full credit for cooperation. And exonerated from any hint of complicity.” A pause. “Of course, you have to swear you won’t mention this to anyone until we have Jason in custody.”

  She fixes me with a steely gaze that makes me think she may ask to see the badge again “Not even my boss?”

  “Especially not your boss.” I lean over the counter and lower my voice. “He’s not out of the woods yet himself.”

  Her eyes widen. Then abruptly, she turns away from me and heads for the desk.

  I barely have time to dive below counter level, out of mirror range. I fumble with my shoelaces until I hear her once more at the counter. When I straighten up, she’s walking her fingers through a Rolodex. She pulls out a card and hands it to me.

  “This is the address we have for Jason. You’re sure we’ll get exonerated when Jason is arrested? My boss will kill me if I keep this from him and something goes wrong.”

  I raise my right hand. “You have my word.”

  Now to get out of here before she thinks too long about my story or turns around and glances in that mirror.

  I’m almost at the door when she calls out for me to stop.

  I freeze.

  Shit.

  I swivel to face her, prepared to bolt.

  But she’s looking at me, not at the mirror. “When you arrest Jason,” she says, “think you can get him to return the magnetic car signs? Those things cost us fifty bucks a piece.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Back in the car, I release a long breath and take a look at the card. The address is here in Chula Vista, but at the other end of town. Since the streets are still slick with rain, I forgo the freeway and take surface roads. Might take me a little longer to get there, but I don’t need any more frustration.

  Jason’s address is an apartment complex on H Street right on the boundary between Chula Vista and unincorporated San Diego County. It’s close to the freeway and there’s the constant drone of fast-moving traffic in the background. With the rain, the sound is muted and rhythmic, almost like the sound of the ocean at my place.

  That’s the only romantic illusion. The place is a dump. Reminds me of the apartment Trish lived in with her mother. Could have been built by the same developer. The building is squat, two-storied, flat-roofed. The place is in bad need of a paint job. Asphalt tiles curl like withered leaves exposing the tar paper roof underneath. I wouldn’t be surprised if residents in that top floor aren’t scurrying around to find pots to catch the leaks.

  Jason’s apartment is on the ground floor. I pick my way through a courtyard littered with broken bottles and fast-food containers. His door sports an unpainted patch, as if someone kicked it in and nailing up a square of rough plywood was
the extent of the repair work. Fits though. Anything else might have spoiled the trashy ambience of the place.

  I stop outside the door and listen. First I hear music, both the volume and type of which surprises me. It’s soft jazz, played at a softer level. I would have expected something along the lines of heavy metal played at an ear-splitting decibel.

  Then I hear voices—two. Male and female. The man is being gently persuasive. It takes me a second to realize what he’s being persuasive about.

  When I do, I put my shoulder to the door and burst through.

  CHAPTER 35

  JASONSHELTON’S VAMPIRE FACE IS UNLIKE ANY I’VE seen. The pupils of his eyes haven’t turned catlike the way mine do, but cornea and sclera blend together so there’s no white at all. It’s like looking into black marbles. He has two needlelike fangs that descend past his lower lip. He’s clutching something in his right hand. His face looks normal except for the fangs and strange eyes.

  We stare at each other for a moment, he looks as shocked by my appearance as I am by his.

  The only light in the room is streaming in from the broken door. Heavy black-out drapes cover the window. We appear to be in a living room, though the only pieces of furniture are a bed and a dresser. The music comes from a radio perched on that dresser. Next to a half dozen condoms.

  Condoms? Since when do vampires use condoms?

  The smell of sex is strong.

  “Jason Shelton?” I ask.

  That galvanizes him into action. He lets something drop to the floor and scuttles over the bed like a crab.

  “What are you?” he rasps by way of answer.

  What am I?

  I reach down and pick up the thing he’d dropped. It’s a capped syringe filled with a pale gold liquid.

  Is this the way he’d subdued the girls after he turned them? Am I too late to save this one?