by Debra Dunbar
“Same hourly rates apply,” he informed me.
Fuck. Well, at least I didn’t have to worry about paying the doctor. That would leave more in my budget for repaying Bishop. “Okay. As long as you’ll take payment on time. Or trade.”
He smirked. “Still trying to fuck your way out of paying me, Trouble?”
I laughed. “Can’t blame a woman for trying. Hell, I’d take a discount in trade at this point.”
“Like I said before.” He glanced in the rearview mirror, then took the left to merge onto the freeway. Yeah, yeah. If he asked me into his bed, it wouldn’t be because I was paying off a debt. I got it.
“So…do we have a deal?”
He nodded. “We do. Let me see if I can get ahold of Bob. Do you have the address where we’re going?”
I handed him my notes, feeling rather smug that I’d been right about Bob. Clearly he was a weredog or something, otherwise Bishop wouldn’t be dialing him on his cell phone.
I listened in on the conversation, waiting to hear if Bishop was talking to someone at his house who would bring Bob out to meet us—someone like a kennel manager, or a wife, or boyfriend.
“Hey. I’ve got a job. I’m texting you the address in a few. Meet me there right away.” Bishop hung up and stuck the phone in the truck’s cup holder, still leaving me to wonder if he’d spoken to Bob in the man’s human form or someone else.
The freeway was a mess, and Bishop made illegal use of the shoulders and both entrance and exit ramps to get around the mass of cars, flipping people off if they honked. After two miles we passed by what looked like a giant bonfire in the two left lanes with two lizard looking creatures cooking hotdogs on sticks from the shoulder. The guy ahead of us yelled at them and one of the lizards dropped his hotdog and raced through traffic to dive onto the hood of the man’s car. Bishop navigated around as the man swerved, trying to get the lizard person off. When I glanced back, the creature was hanging onto a bent windshield wiper going back and forth on high, washer fluid spraying all over him as well as the glass.
Within half an hour we were in Silver Lake, pulling up in front of the yoga studio where my bike and helmet still sat in the parking lot next to a shiny white Bentley. I hopped out, lowered the tailgate, then wheeled my bike over.
After watching me struggle with the thing for a few minutes, Bishop sighed. “Get in the truck bed,” he instructed.
I had no idea what he was going to do, but I wasn’t about to argue. Grabbing the top of the bed, I stepped on the bumper and hopped to swing myself up. Bishop grunted, picked my bike up, and slid it up to me as if it weighed no more than a ten speed Huffy. The dude had a weredog friend that he could telepathically communicate with, he could twist a man’s head around like the cap on a bottle of ketchup, and he picked up a four-hundred-and-fifty-pound bike as if it were nothing. Bishop was one scary guy. And I was glad he was on my side right now.
I carefully laid the bike on its side and secured it with some rope, then vaulted out of the bed. We got in. Bishop texted the address to Bob, and off we drove.
It was another half an hour before we pulled up in front of the studio.
Both the city and the Valley were filled with little studios for rent—some geared toward audio recording, and others for video. Yes, there were huge Hollywood studios with massive sets and millions of dollars in equipment, but many of the film, music, and audio productions were produced in little rent-by-the-hour studios such as the one we were parked in front of.
Camera, Lights, Action was in a strip mall with a gyro joint on one side and a liquor store on the other. Judging from the faded lettering on the concrete, the studio was occupying what used to be a bail bond place. Bail bonds businesses generally didn’t go under, so I was assuming the former occupants had experienced enough success that they’d been able to move out of the strip mall and to a higher rent spot, probably closer to a detention center or courthouse.
Bob sat outside the liquor store, a brown paper bag by his side. I peeked into it as we walked up and saw the top of a pint.
“Seriously?” Bishop picked up the bag and pulled out a bottle of Bacardi Gold. Bob did the dog equivalent of a shrug. Grumbling something under his breath, Bishop walked back to his truck and put the bag with the pint inside.
“Do you drink it straight, or mix it with soda?” I asked Bob. “Are you whipping up a batch of dark-and-stormys later tonight?”
Bob bared his teeth at me, then turned to watch as Bishop came back from his truck. We walked into the studio, which looked to be little more than a ten-by-ten room with a green sheet stapled to the wall and a few lights on tripods. A woman loudly chewing gum sat on a metal chair behind a card table. She eyed us, pushed her glasses up her nose with her middle finger, then looked down at the spiral notebook on the card table.
“Name?”
Bob began sniffing around the room and Bishop wandered toward the back, leaving me to deal with the woman who may or may not have been passive aggressively giving me the finger.
“Jimmie Pollina? I mean, I’m not Jimmie Pollina, but he was here last night. He had the studio from six until nine.”
The woman ignored me, scowling at Bob as he sniffed around the fabric green screen. “Your dog better not take a piss in here.”
“He won’t,” I assured her. “I’m wondering if you could give me any details on who Jimmie Pollina was working with last night? Names, or companies, or if anyone else was here when he was?”
She watched Bob for a few more seconds, then gave the weredog the middle finger as she pushed her glasses up once more. “I can’t give you any information about other clients. Did you all have a reservation? If not, there’s an extra fifty dollar fee for on-the-spot rental of the studio. And a two hundred dollar fee if the dog pees or takes a shit anywhere.”
I might not get any information out of this woman, but I needed to stall her long enough for Bob to do his sniff test. It would suck if we got kicked out before he managed to get enough of Nevarra’s scent to track her.
“How much is an hour rental?” I asked the woman, knowing full well that it would be more than I’d be willing to pay.
“One hundred an hour. Six hundred for the full day.”
Yeah. No.
“Do we get the studio completely to ourselves, or is there always an employee present while we’re here?”
She shot Bob another suspicious glance and adjusted her glasses once more, letting the middle finger linger. “Someone always has to be here. It’s a liability thing. Otherwise you can say it wasn’t your dog that peed on the green screen, or that the crack in the drywall happened after you left and was probably just from the building settling.”
Okay, so Jimmie would have had an audience. Clearly he wouldn’t have been doing kiddie porn at this studio, but maybe if the employees were slipped some cash, they wouldn’t say anything about reluctant children being photographed.
“Is there someone else who hangs out when the studio is in use, or just you?”
“Are you joking? You think the owner would actually come here and watch amateurs film used car commercials and Taco Tuesday ads? It’s me. It’s always me.” This time she turned the glare my way. At least I didn’t earn the middle finger.
“What if someone wants to make questionable videos? Or take pictures of kids that are upset, or scared, or drugged?”
Now I got the middle finger. “I’m not renting to any weirdos. You wanna film your mangy dog attacking drugged kids, or take porno pics, then you gotta do it elsewhere.”
Bishop came up to me before I could even attempt to reply to that.
“She hasn’t been here. There’s no suspiciously blank spots in the scent that would hint at magic either.”
Damn it, she had to have been here. How else would Jimmie have gotten pictures of her for the website? I couldn’t imagine Desiree would wait more than a day to get a photo up for a new kid. None of the other pictures looked like they were candid shots. They were all profes
sionally done with good lighting and props, with makeup and costuming, with Photoshopped backgrounds. Nevarra wasn’t on the proof sheet I’d stolen from Jimmie’s office—the one with pictures I’d seen already up on the website. He had to have taken Nevarra’s picture last night—or maybe he was taking it tonight? But if that were the case, why wasn’t there anything on his schedule?
There had to be another studio he was using—one that he wasn’t writing in his planner. But just in case…
“I need to know what Jimmie Pollina was scheduled to do last night.” I sent Bishop what I hoped was a significant glance, then looked back at the employee.
“Well, tough luck, tootsie, because I ain’t telling you that.” I got the middle finger again, followed by arms folded across her chest.
“Do it,” I told Bishop.
His eyebrows went up. “Do what?”
I waved a hand at the woman. “That hypnotizing thing you do.”
The woman jumped up so fast she knocked the metal folding chair to the ground. “What? You what?”
Bishop’s eyebrows remained elevated and he slowly shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Oh for fuck’s sake. “The compulsion thingie you do to get people to tell you things. Just like you did with the guy in the warehouse right before you twisted his head around backward.”
The woman shrieked, pushed past me, and ran out the door.
“Well now it’s too late,” I complained. It wasn’t too late to look at the scheduling notebook she’d left behind, though. I’d need to hurry because she was probably dialing 911 as she ran to hide in the gyro place. Not that we needed to hurry that much, since the police would probably take two hours to respond at the quickest.
Last night. Six o’clock. Jimmie Pollina—photos for a juice cleanse ad campaign. That was it.
I shut the notebook in disgust. “Did Bob smell any kids at all? Any?” Maybe juice cleanse was the covert name for the human trafficking operation’s business.
“None. Bunch of men and women. Gyros. Sawdust. Oranges and pineapples. The woman who just ran out chews cinnamon gum. One of the people was wearing some sort of spicy aftershave that made him think of his grandfather.”
The weredog’s grandfather wore aftershave. Huh. I wondered what he looked like? Actually, I wondered what Bob looked like when he wasn’t a dog. Would I ever get to see him as a human? And would I recognize him if I did? Probably not.
All that was keeping me from thinking about the fact that I was back at an absolute dead end. It had been a long shot thinking Bob could pick up Nevarra’s scent from here and track it back, but I’d pinned my hope on that long shot and now I had nothing.
Some guy named Thumbs. Someone named Desiree who was probably a demon and who might or might not contact me in reference to a job. Jimmie who was definitely taking pictures of the kids for Desiree, but might not even know where they were holding the kids.
Wait. I looked up at Bishop, wondering if his services would extend beyond using Bob to track. I mean, he had mesmerized that guy at the warehouse for answers. He might be trying to deny it now, but I knew what he’d done. And I really wanted him to do it again.
“If I go back to Lenasco Communications on Monday morning I can wait for Jimmie and grab him.” I figured I’d throw that out first since it was the least objectionable of what I was proposing.
Bishop stared at me. “So you grab him and what? Drag him out of the office and down the street? Haul him away on a bike that you can’t start? Hog tie him and strap him to the back while you walk the bike all the way to Sun Valley? That’s got to be the worst plan you’ve come up with to date, and you’ve come up with some real doozies.”
I winced. “By me, I actually meant we. We grab him and put him in your truck.” I added quickly because it was clear from the scowl on Bishop’s face he wasn’t going along with this plan.
“Then do what? Beat the answers out of him? Kill him afterward so he doesn’t report us to the police or call and warn the Disciples and Desiree that you’re after them?”
Pretty much, yeah. “We might not have to beat the answers out of him. You can mesmerize him like you did with the guy in the warehouse. He’ll tell us everything he knows about Desiree and where they keep the kids and other stuff. Then we can kill him. Oh—and I promised a friend I’d send him a picture of Jimmie’s balls and dick after I cut them off.”
Bishop rolled his eyes. “What a great plan. Sign me up, Trouble, because I’m eager to get started on this new caper of yours.”
I scowled. “I’m not going to lose sleep over offing a guy who made kiddie porn and worked with human traffickers.” One who I suspected had raped Telaney when she was fourteen.
Bishop just stared at me. The moments ticked by and I fidgeted, uncomfortable with his non-response.
“So? How about it?”
“It’s Saturday. We won’t have a chance to grab this Jimmie until Monday. That’s a long time to wait.”
I threw up my hands in frustration. “There’s one guy I can go to who might be able to find me Jimmie’s home address. Otherwise Monday morning is the earliest I can find him. Besides that, I’m waiting for a possible job interview with Desiree. The only action I can take in the meantime is trying to find more Disciples to interrogate and kill.”
“You’re going to get yourself killed with the last two.” Bishop let out a sigh. “Look, why don’t you go home, work on your bike, and check on your youngest sister. I’ll track down this Jimmie, then swing by and get you as soon as I find him.”
I was going to owe this guy so much money. But he was right. With my bike broken, I’d need him to drive me to Alfie’s and back, and end up paying for his time anyway. I might as well let him do the digging around while I got my ride up and running. If he couldn’t find Jimmie, then I’d go back to hunting down Disciples.
“Okay. Thank you for helping me.” I turned to look over at the weredog. “Thank you too, Bob.”
I wasn’t sure why I was thanking them. I was paying them what was going to be an obscene amount of money, and hadn’t gotten anything for it outside of a couple of names and a few cases of chili and toilet paper. Still, it never hurt to be polite.
Bob waved a paw at me then headed out the door. I followed him, and waited in Bishop’s truck as he carried Bob’s bottle of rum over to whatever form of transportation the weredog was using. We were silent on the drive home. Bishop helped me unload my bike, wheeling it up beside Bea’s car. I thanked him again and watched him drive off, once more feeling bereft as his truck turned the corner.
I liked him. He was grumpy and growly and laughed at me. Most of the time it seemed like he just stood back and let Bob and me do all the work. He was scary, and I got the feeling the compulsion and the unusual strength were just the tip of the iceberg when it came to his abilities. But something about him drew me in. I felt weirdly safe when he was around, I felt…happy.
Chapter 21
The electricity was off, but I smelled roast pork the moment I walked through the door. I popped into the kitchen and saw a pot of barbeque that had been warmed up on the little butane cookstove, a basket of rolls and a bowl of potato salad on the table. Dinner. But where we would normally all gather around the table to eat together, tonight would probably be just Bea and me.
I’d called out when I came in and assumed Bea was in the bedroom with Sadie. When I entered, Sadie was by herself, sitting up in bed with a smile on her pink-cheeked face. There was a fresh bag on the IV stand, and a basket next to the bed held rolls of gauze and bottles of ointments and water.
“How’s it going, peanut? See any more elephants and angels?”
She shook her head. “Nope. My fever is gone, and I’m hungry.”
That was a good sign. I sat in the chair beside the bed and gently lifted the sheet to look at her leg. Thick white bandages covered her entire calf, making it look twice the size of the other leg. I couldn’t tell if some of that was swelling o
r just overzealous application of gauze and cotton pads.
“It hurts,” Sadie admitted. “If I hold very still, it’s not too bad. Aunt Bea said a doctor was here to see me and that she doesn’t think it’s broken. I can’t remember the doctor, so I guess I was pretty sick.”
“You were.” I reached over and gently tugged a lock of her silky brown hair. “When you were ranting about elephants in the room and an angel visiting you, we got worried.” It was amazing what IV antibiotics, fluids, and painkillers could do. I could hardly believe in less than twenty-four hours she was sitting up and wanting food.
Her brown eyes turned serious. “Did you find Nevarra?”
I thought about lying, but she’d known something was wrong even when she’d been racked with fever. “Not yet. I’ll find her. You just worry about getting better.”
Sadie shifted on the bed, wincing. “They took her, didn’t they? I remember hearing the back door and a bunch of noise while I was under the kitchen sink. I couldn’t get out and sat there until you came. That’s when I knew Nevarra was gone. She would have come and helped me if they hadn’t found and taken her.”
“They did take her.” I took her hand in mine. “I’m looking for her, and other people are as well. We’ll find her. I’ll find her.”
She smiled. “I know you will. You can do anything, Eden.”
If only that were true. “What are you hungry for? Bea’s got barbeque, rolls, and potato salad on the table, but I can make something else if you want.”
“Maybe just a roll.” She shot me a mischievous grin. “Unless you’ve got candy.”
I remembered the chocolate bar in the fridge and grinned back before I headed into the kitchen. Bea came through the back door just as I’d put a roll and the chocolate bar on a plate. She had three eggs in one hand and a gorgeous dark red tomato in the other.
“I’ve got something for Sadie, I told her. I’ll be back in just a sec, and we’ll have dinner together.”
Sadie cried over the message attached to the chocolate bar, then broke it in half, saying she was saving that for Nevarra. I left her in the throes of a sugar high, and changed my clothes before returning to the kitchen. Over dinner, I told Bea about the day, unloading all the frustrations and fear that I never wanted anyone else to see. Like Sadie, she expressed faith in my ability to find Nevarra, then shooed me away, saying she’d do the dishes tonight.
