by Karen Diem
Wyn perked up, no doubt eager to go home. Andy shook his head and left the room with the flashlight.
Miguel sighed into the phone. Papers crackled. “No. Don’t ask what’s going on with the case. I can’t tell you anything, other than Ms. Stone’s father hired a private company to search as well once he finished his ill-advised reward offer.”
“What can you tell me?” She shook her head at Wyn, who deflated and poked at a carrot.
“Zita, I couldn’t tell you any more even if I knew it. As of an hour ago, I’m off the case. Between Quentin’s disappearance, the attempt on you, and the unknown victims in your complex, my superiors have decided it’s a conflict of interest for me to remain on the case.” Miguel’s voice reflected her frustration.
She paced. “That idiot Parzarri’s not in charge, is he? He was acting like Quentin was a criminal.” As he returned, Andy set her laptop on the table with exaggerated care, opened it, and began tapping keys. He whispered to Wyn, whose answer was indistinct.
“He was exercising due diligence.” His voice sounded as unconvinced as she felt. “He’s not in charge of the case, but he’s a full detective and investigating.”
“So do you need to go back to Bumble?”
Her brother gave a disgruntled snort. “No, I’m assigned to consult on cold cases; my boss knows how important it is for me to be in the area for you and Quentin. I have to go home once it’s resolved or if it goes cold, but he bought me time to be here. Are you safe at your friend’s place?”
Truthfully, she replied, “It’s safe. I’m going back after this.” Once I check Boris’ drop off address for Quentin, she amended mentally.
Miguel paused, and then issued orders, proving the universe still spun, even with Quentin missing. “Be aware of your surroundings, and lock the doors. Check in with me tomorrow. Go rest.”
A raspberry into the phone expressed her feelings far better than words could. “I love you too. Any other words of wisdom, macho?” She ran her finger through the hummus on her plate.
He paused. As if he could not resist, he threw in his favorite bit of advice with his farewells. “Take one of those stun guns I gave you everywhere. I love you too. Goodnight.”
She laughed and hung up, sucking hummus off her finger. Her mirth ran out as she took the battery out of the phone and hid both in the ornate box by the front door. “Right, so the plan is on.” When she returned to the table, she started on her food again. Wyn shook her head, watching the sandwich disappear.
Andy proved his attention was not completely on the laptop or the dishes he set by the sink. “You hid your phone in the box with all the novelty condoms?” He snickered.
Zita shrugged, hating the defensive tone in her voice. “I wanted it near the door, and it was handy. It’s not like I’ll move it any time soon with the losers that Miguel and… and Quentin have been sending me.” Her throat tight at her brother’s name, she choked. “Bit of food, sorry.”
As Andy set down his glass, compassion shone from his eyes. “I can’t believe Quentin’s been kidnapped. Did you know he still came to the hospital to see us after you left for Brazil?”
Her eyes teared up, and Zita sniffed. “Horseradish is strong, just warning you,” she claimed. “That’s so like him.” She took another bite, despite her complaint.
Wyn nodded, her eyes misty. “He knew how to kiss even then.”
“You kissed my brother?” Zita made a face.
Her friend nodded. “Yes, both of them.”
She choked again, this time on a bite of food. “Wait, what?”
A teasing grin flirted with Wyn’s lips. “I’ll tell you about it another time.” She pulled out the pencils that secured her hair, and finger-combed it.
Andy looked back and forth. “I didn’t kiss anyone in your family, if that helps,” he proffered.
Zita shook a finger at Wyn, opened her mouth, and then closed it again. “I’m not certain I want to know how you ended up kissing my brothers.” She chomped on her sandwich while the other woman smirked.
“Fine by me,” Wyn said.
After clearing her throat, Zita nodded. “Right, I’ve got to get going.” She stared at her plate. The red dish sat empty, except for a few crumbs and parsley. Munching on the parsley, she deposited it in the boring white sink.
Andy nodded, sympathy still on his face. “For the record, I’d like to state this is a bad idea.”
“I’ve only one mask for the three of us, so I need to go alone unless you know a place selling masks at one am,” Zita said, assuming that would forestall any debate. When she pulled the mask from her pocket, she spun it on a finger by the elastic. The black plastic mask only covered her eyes and part of her cheekbones, but it would work well enough combined with the altered face and hair she had used earlier.
Pinning her hair back up with a pencil, Wyn speared her with her gaze. “You’re not going alone. If we have to, I’ll wear the mask and you can go in animal form. We can talk mentally or Andy can go. He’s bulletproof and only needs a way to escape. If you hide nearby, you can teleport the two of you here. ”
Andy looked between them and then back at the computer. The sounds of his tapping gained speed and strength. He shook his head.
“I hate not doing anything!” Zita said. She gathered up leftover food and put it away, the wash of cold from the fridge a welcome respite from the sticky air of her apartment. Filling a water bottle from the sink, she sipped the lukewarm liquid and planned, checking hydration off the lists of needs to fill.
Andy interrupted before they could argue. “Go get dark t-shirts. The miracle of the Internet will teach us Padawan how to create ninja masks from them. We can all go. Zita can teleport us to this traffic cam, and then back here when we’re done. We’ll take my car from here to wherever we want to call the police from. I’m not getting left behind, or going in alone.” His lips twitched into a smile, a lock of hair falling over one eye.
“Pada-what? The Internet isn’t just for porn and shopping? Seriously?” Zita answered. “Huh. Ninja masks are cool. You don’t have to go at all. I’ll meet you back at your place tonight later, Wyn, so I can rest, unless I’m followed. If I’m being chased, I’ll shift and sleep hidden as an animal and call you in the morning.” Staying away would keep her friends safer.
Even as he enlarged the pictures on-screen, Andy ignored her. “We’re in. You’re not doing this alone.” He muttered about contagious stupidity, but Zita elected to pretend she had not heard.
Wyn shook her head. “We will all go. Andy and I will hide close by and you will slink around—”
“Scout,” Zita corrected.
With a raised eyebrow, Wyn continued. “Fine, sneak around to verify they are performing illegal activities. As soon as you have information we can entice the cops with, you return, and we leave. I’ll wear the mask. Fighting’s not my forte, and I’ll have my illusion anyway. It’ll be my alternate cover if I get too distracted.”
Spinning the laptop around, Andy tapped a grainy image. “This is a few blocks from where we want to go. Think it’ll work, Zita? What am I doing in your plan, Wyn?”
“You’re backup. If anything goes wrong, you go in for Zita, and I’ll use an illusion to distract them.” Wyn paused and tilted the lamp to shine more light on the petite Latina. “Are those pants purple?”
Zita glanced down and smoothed the cotton on her legs. They seemed fine to her. “Oh, I guess so. They’re dark and I can move in them. The only issue is they don’t have pockets, which is why I dug out this old fanny pack. It should be small enough that you can carry it for me.” She pulled the laptop closer and peered at the screen. Buildings in the sort of neighborhood that specialized in desperation, she assessed. The smeared, uncertain gang sign visible on one wall served as a usable landmark, though.
Her friend protested. “They’re purple.”
“Camera looks workable.” With a grimace, she checked her pants. “They’re dark purple. Why, do I need to chan
ge them? I found black ones, but they have sequins.”
Andy patted her hand. “There, there. Wear the purple sweatpants. It’s a scientific fact that the purple ones have the most stretch.” He made an odd face, between a sneeze and a smile.
Zita pursed her lips. “You realize that makes no sense, right?” Remembering his aversion to people pointing at him, she turned the finger she had been about to point at him to a hand wave.
He shrugged. Andy bit his lip and his eyes crinkled at the corners. “It’s science. One of those things, I guess.”
Wyn exhaled dramatically. She rubbed her eyes and covered a yawn. “Are there many sequins?”
“It’s a phoenix pattern from ankle to thigh on both legs. I like them, but I thought they’d be too distinctive. Oh, and the pants are leather, so not good for this weather.” Zita shrugged.
The other woman winced and buried her face in her hands. “Right. Purple sweatpants it is. I’m not even going to talk about the fanny pack. Sartorial decisions aside, let’s make a plan, and then you two can make yourselves masks. Go get those shirts so you and Andy can have masks.”
“How many do you think I have? Is orange dark enough?”
The answer was a unanimous “No!”
Chapter 15
Bargain basement ninja masks in place, they hid in a narrow lane between a building and a fence that was probably meant to be a driveway. Lingering scrapes marred the walls with previous drivers’ carelessness. The building they watched was a duplex in a neighborhood that had seen an economic downturn so bad that most gangs might consider even perfunctory territory battles excessive. Prostitutes and dealers had more convenient and profitable places to be. Most of the stoops sat empty, save for trash, and tattered foreclosure notices hung on multiple doors or boarded-up entry holes. A grimy tricycle, missing a wheel, hung from one rusty railing as if it had tried to jump. The occasional scuttle from inside a building suggested the presence of life inside, but most of the inhabitants hid and as if hoping to go unnoticed. Another driveway went down the side of the target building, and hid behind the duplex itself, a house converted into two residences. The basement windows were boarded over, and no light escaped the windows on the ground and second floors.
“I have to say it or I’ll explode. I have a bad feeling about this,” Wyn whispered. She bit her lip and huddled closer to the dubious shelter of the fence. The silvery hair of her illusion practically glowed even in the poor light.
Andy sighed. “Now we’re doomed. Never say that,” he hissed back.
For people sneaking around, they talked too much. Wyn kept trying to stand under the feeble streetlights, too. Zita made a mental note to make a top ten list of ways to improve sneakiness, with limiting talking at the top of the list. Second on the list would be choosing disguises that did not include glitter or light colors, she decided, as Wyn’s dress glinted. She pulled her sweaty mask away from her face, but the muggy air offered little respite. As she let it fall back into place, she inched toward the street. In an undertone, she said, “If you’re out, wait in that fast food place while I search for Quentin. If you hide behind the roaches, they’ll scare off any robbers. I can do this. With any luck, they’re all asleep and I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
“Stop trying to weasel out of having us here,” Andy answered, his voice almost inaudible. “We’re fine, just hurry. At what point have we had the sort of luck that would make this go smoothly?”
Despite her unhappy expression, Wyn agreed. “Keep us updated.” She folded her arms across her chest and rubbed her arms, despite the oppressive humidity.
Zita sighed. Fine. Focus on not being seen and not talking aloud. Stored heat seeped through the thin soles of her shoes from the rough concrete sidewalk. Eyes adjusted to the partial darkness, she verified the street was empty, and then darted across and into the alley masquerading as a driveway beside the target house. Her nose wrinkled, and she shut her mouth, grateful for the thin barrier of the shirt. Warmed pavement was acceptable, but the stench of urine, putrefying food, and rotten eggs was overwhelming. This place stinks.
You should have used your cat form. It would have been easier and I like your cat shape. It’s so… fluffy and huggable, Wyn commented.
Andy’s soft chuckle resounded mentally. Yes, it’s like having a tame cat.
Tame cats are mythological, Wyn sent, cats only humor you until they get what they want. Zita in cat shape comes close, though.
Andy replied. I bow before the cat expert. It is true we don’t suffer through the cat butt hello as much when Zita plays cat. Remember when we got her chasing the laser pointer?
Zita had the mental impression of both of the others laughing. Focus, haters. As she padded up the overgrown drive and toward the back of the house, a car rumbled nearby. Lights flared on the street. Moving back toward the front, she did a low vault onto the narrow front porch, lying down to prevent detection. She suppressed a shiver. A few seconds later, a car careened down the stingy driveway, lights cutting out as it pulled up behind the house.
Car! Wyn warned her.
Sarcasm dripped from her mental voice as Zita levered herself up with her arms. Thanks, I noticed. With a cautious audit to ensure no other oncoming vehicles, she scurried after the car. A dark SUV rattled as it settled down, throwing off heat, while an old Mustang sat quiescent beside it. Despite the fabric tacked up over the windows, two of the windows on the first floor leaked light that puddled in the parking lot comprising the entire back yard. An ancient shed squatted in the last bit of space in the yard. The other windows were closed tight, with no light or sound escaping. Stealing near, she hid behind a dented trashcan and the side of the house as a car door opened, and footsteps crunched across the gravel to the door. Rotten eggs, chemicals, and sickness overpowered all other scents here, overriding even the odiferous remnants of spoiled Chinese food in the trash. She peeked around the corner of the house. Blond hair haloed a tall man’s head, as he exchanged a few words with another man inside before he stepped in. The door shut. The blond man’s movement looked familiar. I’m going to get closer and see if I can eavesdrop, she sent.
Leaving the dubious safety of the garbage bin behind, Zita sped across the yard to leap onto the Mustang, and then on top of the SUV. Once there, she unzipped her fanny pack and pulled her spray chalk. This is a public service announcement, so when they inevitably hit someone or something, investigators know who’s what. She smirked.
What? Wyn asked.
I am marking the vehicle, per your suggestion, so we can identify it from a distance, Zita replied with a snicker. Standing near the edge of the vehicle, she checked her work. The word ASS stood out in white letters on the roof. “My work here is done,” she whispered, somersaulting off the car on the side opposite the house. She shadowed up the cement stairs and then crouched under the windowsill closest to where the blond had entered the house.
Andy’s mental voice held concern. Wyn echoed him a second later. Be careful.
Someone inched the windows open for air, and the murmur of conversation and a methodical scratching sound teased her ears. Her vision was limited to a narrow strip where the sheet over the window did not completely meet the frame. Inside, a short man in a surgical mask scraped at matches. He sat in a kitchen covered in pots, pans, and assorted paraphernalia more suited to a science lab than a room with a border of roosters and a dancing pig potholder. Two of his fingers were shorter than the others. Canisters sat on the table beside with one of those miniature brown refrigerators she had not seen since college. A door hung open behind him, a bare bulb burning. Wrong window, she thought, this one’s either making drugs or into hardcore cooking.
Both of her friends made disgusted noises in her mind.
Zita moved to the window on the side of the house, noting with disgust that she was just a few inches too short. After a moment, she reached up to the windowsill, and pulled her body up to bring her face close enough to see inside. She prayed the neglected window fr
ame would hold her weight. Her hearing picked up the thread of the conversation inside once she was closer. Zita angled herself to see through the gap in the makeshift curtain. This window looked into cluttered dining room/living room combination, where worn easy chairs retrieved from the trash fought for floor space in front of a massive flat screen television. Discarded beer cans and an empty pizza box gave the whole thing a festive slob party air.
Their voices low, people moved inside, and she caught glimpses of a man she did not recognize before the dangerous blond man paced into view. She froze. It’s one of Jones’ bodyguards! He held an envelope in his hand, striking it on his khaki-clad leg as he listened. A shoulder handgun rig rode openly over a plain black shirt, one tight enough to confirm her earlier impression of muscular shoulders and a trim chest. She would have enjoyed the view had the circumstances been different.
Andy asked, Jones?
Miguel suspects he is a serial killer. He had a pair of bodyguards, and this looks like the more competent one. The subject of their speculation turned and paced away, exposing a glimpse of a hefty knife belted at his waist, and a firm derriere. It’s a shame; the man is built.
Wyn snorted mentally. We’re the ones that need to focus?
The bodyguard frowned. “Where are your guards?” His voice held an accent—South African, she guessed.
Stepping into view, the other man set down a dingy blue refrigerated lunch bag on a small laminate table near the window. He was average in height, weight, and fitness, she judged, with a sullen mouth and hard eyes, framed by stringy brown hair. His thumb gave a sulky jerk toward the kitchen.
Taking a deep breath and setting a hand on his belt, the big blond said, “He seems otherwise occupied.” He scowled.
His companion cracked open a beer. “I sent the rest upstairs after you got here so we could have privacy. Don’t worry, Pretorius, he’s multitasking. When he starts cooking, I’ll get someone else. The new pink ice sells mad good, and for three times the amount of the regular kind. For that scratch, we don’t need a distracted or tweaked cook. The others are resting up before their shifts.” He held out the beer to the bodyguard.
