Текст книги "Legacy"

Автор книги: Jeanne Stein

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

CHAPTER 35

WHEN I AWAKEN THE NEXT MORNING, LANCE IS gone. I didn’t hear him leave. The emotional exchange with my parents at dinner, the terror I felt at Sandra’s, the mind-numbing relief of sex with Lance left me exhausted. When I finally succumbed, it was like falling into a great dreamless pit.

The sleep of the dead.

I only wish I felt rested. Instead, I feel restless. Restless and full of dread for a day that holds no promise of resolution for any of my problems. When my eyes drift to a bedside clock, however, those feelings are swallowed up by a moment of panic.

Shit.

It’s eight thirty. I’m supposed to meet Jason at the coffeehouse at nine.

I throw back the covers and head for the shower. Lance’s smell is strong on me—the musk of sex and sweat and healthy male vampire. I’m not about to go out smelling like I spent the night doing what I did. Especially when meeting a teenage boy.

I turn the shower on full force and hot. Since I don’t have the body temperature of a human, I can stand under a steamy hot shower and not feel the burn. I lather up head to toe, paying particular attention to the nether regions, rinse off, and jump out.

Slather on perfumed body lotion. Comb out my hair. Pull on jeans, a T-shirt and black leather boots. Grab a leather jacket, and I’m out the door by eight fifty.

Lestat’s. The onboard GPS tells me the address is 3343 Adams Avenue. The Normal Heights area. It’s Sunday, so though I know I won’t make it by nine, I also know I shouldn’t be too late.

At nine ten, I’m pulling up in front. The storefront has big picture windows, and through them, I can see an array of well-worn couches and chairs clustered around well-worn tables. Not many people inside. Two hippie types in a corner. No Jason.

Did he think I wasn’t coming and leave? Would he do that after only ten minutes?

Cursing myself for being late and Jason for being on time, I climb out of the car and dart across the street.

The first surprise comes when I walk in. The shop is a long, narrow space with the counter area along one wall. There’s a guy with his back to me pouring beans into a grinder. He gives a start, puts the bag down, doesn’t turn around.

Vampire?

It’s my turn to be startled. The guy looks at me over his shoulder. He’s a nerdy-looking, chunky fellow with dark hair combed across a wide forehead, black horn-rim glasses perched on a narrow nose and thick lips.

I nod. This your shop?

He turns toward me. His name tag reads “Gordon.” He shrugs. I wish. I work here. Pretty cool decor, huh?

The walls are hung with original art along with a few scattered crucifixes, an assortment of miniature cast-iron “death skulls,” a half dozen ornate mirrors (I send Gordon a raised eyebrow at those although I notice they’re set high enough that you’d have to be ten feet tall to see your reflection—or not) and a crystal chandelier over the wood-and-glass alcove where the two guys I spotted before are playing chess.

There are also festoons of garlic. I don’t smell or feel anything. Another raised eyebrow gets this response: They’re artificial. Made of raffia. Look real, though, don’t they?

Too real. Are you trying to keep vamps out?

He shakes his head. I don’t like it, either. It’s my cousin’s idea. He owns the shop.

He’s not a vamp, I take it?

A nod. He imagines himself a rogue vampire slayer. He’ll be in soon. Dressed in black with a stake in a holster and pretending to be all broody and shit. He gets his ideas about what a vampire is from Anne Rice. I think it’s pretty funny, really.

You’re not worried he’ll find out about you?

He blows air through pursed lips. It comes out a disdainful pffft.

Look at me? Do I look like a vampire to you? When I decided to change, I thought I’d get all buff and cool looking. I was hoping for Spike and got Xander. The only thing that got buffed was my brain. I’m smarter and faster but no less nerdy looking. Go figure.

I give him a sympathetic shrug. At least you had a choice in becoming.

You didn’t?

I don’t want to talk about that, so I look around. The windows are covered with something that looks like amber Saran Wrap. The two humans playing chess in the corner don’t cast a reflection.

How’d you do that with the windows?

He smiles. Nonreflective film. Told my cousin it would decrease the heat and glare in here. It does, but it also allows me to be in here during the day or night.

Before he can say anything else, a couple steps up to the counter. They have short, unisex haircuts and are dressed in silk sweat suits that scream uptown chic. I move aside so they can place their order. The case under the counter is full of baked goods and they take their time making a decision. I don’t blame them. The stuff looks so good I wish I could eat again. Once they have their goodies in hand (lattes and chocolate muffins), they move off to a table.

I want to ask Gordon how he came to be a vampire. I don’t get many opportunities to talk, really talk, with other vamps. There are more people outside, though, getting ready to come in. Time to get down to business. I jab a thumb toward the door.

I’m supposed to meet a kid here. He’s about fourteen, blond, stands about five feet tall. Have you seen him?

He points behind me. You mean him?

Jason has come in and is looking around the shop, a hesitant expression on his face. He doesn’t see me at first, his eyes flit from the couple who just sat down in front to the long hairs playing chess. Then he spies me at the counter and walks straight back.

“I’m Jason. Sorry I’m late. The bus—”

He’s held out a hand. I take it without thinking. “I’m Anna, Gloria’s friend.”

He pulls his hand back out of mine. “Your hands are really cold.”

“Sorry.” Shit. Gotta learn to curb that reflex. I rub the offending hand on my jeans. “Poor circulation.”

He shrugs. “Do you want some coffee?”

I’m surprised and impressed that he made the offer first. Shows maturity. “Yes.” I look over to Gordon. “Coffee, double cream, one sugar.”

“You want something to eat?” Jason says.

Gordon, meanwhile, is smiling at me. You dog. Isn’t he a teeny bit young for you?

This is business, Gordon.“No thanks, Jason. Coffee is fine. You get something if you’re hungry.”

Jason orders a double espresso and a whole-wheat blueberry scone. When I make a move to pay, he holds out money to Gordon and says, “No. This is on me.” Then he looks around again, and points to a table in the back of the café. “Let’s sit over there.”

I let him take the lead. The last time I saw him, he was in a panic, running up the court steps to Gloria and collapsing in her arms. Today, he’s calm and composed. He’s dressed exactly like a rich teenager on holiday break from prep school would be: Abercrombie & Fitch baggy jeans, red polo with the collar up, Vans with the laces untied. His young face is drawn, however, and he’s projecting the manner of someone much older—fourteen going on forty.

Maybe that’s what finding your father’s dead body does to you.

Once we’re seated, he starts right in. “How do you know Gloria?”

“She’s my business partner’s girlfriend.”

“What’s his name?”

“David Ryan.”

“What did he used to be?”

“A football player. For the Denver Broncos.”

“What’s he do now?”

“He’s a bounty hunter.”

He pauses. I guess I passed the audition because then he blurts, “Gloria didn’t kill my father.”

I stir my coffee, watching his face. “Your mother seems to think she did.”

“ Stepmother. My real mother died two years ago. Right after my dad left us.”

The words are heated, but his face remains impassive, aloof.

“I’m sorry, Jason. I didn’t know about your mom.”

He shrugs. “She was sick. Had been for a long time. Timing sucked, though. You’d think my dad could have waited before leaving us. He knew how sick she was, but he had a new girlfriend and I guess he wasn’t thinking too clearly.”

Again, no rebuke, no real emotion in his response. Is it an act for my benefit? I pause a heartbeat before saying, “Must have made you pretty mad when he left.”

He meets my gaze. “My mom and dad had problems for a long time. Laura wasn’t his first girlfriend. Mom should have left his sorry ass years before he walked out. He was my dad and I guess I loved him, but he wasn’t nice.”

The answer is well thought out and delivered so calmly that I’m unsure how to proceed. Something about this kid’s demeanor is setting off warning bells in my head. No fourteen-year-old is this poised two days after his father’s murder. Maybe I should switch gears. “And Gloria? How do you know her?”

“She’s my dad’s business partner—” He pauses, re-phrases. “ Wasmy dad’s business partner.”

“That’s it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I saw you with her at the courthouse. You looked pretty upset.”

He picks at his scone. He hadn’t yet touched it or taken a sip of his coffee. Now he breaks off a tiny piece and raises it to his mouth. He doesn’t take a bite, though, and his hand falls back to the table. “I like Gloria. She’s nice. She always treats me like an adult. I know she was spending time with my dad. I know they had a relationship. She couldn’t have killed him.”

“And you know this . . . how?”

He folds his hands and places them in his lap. His shoulders hunch. “Because I know who the killer is.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You do?”

He sets his jaw. “It’s my stepmom. It’s Laura.”

“I thought you were with your stepmother all day. At least that’s what you told the police.”

For the first time, his composure slips. His eyes widen, fill with tears. “I don’t care. She did it. I know she did it. I even know why.”

I nod for him to go on.

“It’s because of the trouble my dad was in. I think he was going to be arrested. He was going to jail.”

Jason looks close to breaking down. I don’t want him to become so flustered that he runs out on me so I sit still and give him a moment to collect himself. He does. More quickly than I would have expected. The eyes lose their panic, his face relaxes.

Tentatively, I begin. “Why do you think your dad was going to be arrested? I don’t remember seeing that mentioned in any of the newspaper articles. It’s something I’m pretty sure the police would have known.”

He blows out a breath. “Maybe not. I heard Dad and Laura the morning he was killed. They were talking in the study and didn’t know I’d come in. I could hear it all from the hall. Dad said something was about to come out. Something bad. Dad said we had to leave the country now. Laura didn’t want to.”

“Did he say what the trouble was?”

“No. Only that we couldn’t stay here. If we did, we’d lose everything. Laura was furious. Said he was exaggerating. She said her life was here and she’d leave over his dead body.” He puts subtle emphasis on the last words. “That’s why I know she did it. I just don’t know how.”

I lean in toward him. “Why didn’t you tell the police what you just told me?”

His expression shifts, back to anger. “Would the cops believe a kid? And I told you, we were together all day. I’m her alibi. I don’t have any proof. But you can investigate. You can find something to prove Laura is the one who killed my dad.”

I sit back in my chair, studying Jason. He’s doing the same—studying me. Gauging my reaction to his charge that his stepmother killed his father. Hefty charge. He’s got his jaws clamped so tight, I see the muscles twitch.

After a moment, he says, “You believe me, don’t you?”

I’d like to. It would make more sense than Gloria killing O’Sullivan over—well, over anything. The realist in me knows that thinking something and proving it are two different things.

CHAPTER 36

I’VE WAITED TOO LONG TO ANSWER. EITHER THAT, or my expression isn’t reassuring enough because Jason bangs a fist on the table. Our coffee cups, dishes and everyone in the place jump. Me included.

Gordon says, Everything all right over there?

Yeah. Sorry.

He turns back to his customers, but I feel his mind probing into my head. Great. Now I have to make sure I don’t project anything I don’t want him to pick up on. This is private, Gordon.

He doesn’t shut down right away, but finally, after a moment of dead air, his attention is back on coffee and scones and I feel the conduit close.

“Jason,” I say sharply. “Getting pissed is not going to help.”

“Then what is? You don’t believe me. I can see it on your face. You’re going to let Gloria be blamed for this and I’m telling you, she didn’t do it. Laura did.”

I hold up a hand. “I didn’t say I don’t believe you. Gloria doesn’t have a motive for killing your dad. At least not a credible one.”

Relief softens his face and shoulders. “The love affair thing? It’s bullshit. Laura didn’t know anything about Dad and Gloria. She couldn’t have. She wouldn’t have been so nice to her when Gloria came over to discuss business with Dad.”

“Well, she sure knew two days ago. Any idea how she found out?”

He shakes his head. “The only thing I can figure is that she must have started having Dad followed.”

“By a private detective? Why would she if she didn’t suspect an affair?”

He fiddles with his still untouched coffee cup. “Maybe she did suspect something. Not with Gloria . . . necessarily.”

I peer at him. “Your dad was seeing someone else besides Gloria?”

Jason’s eyes fill again. He looks down at the table. “I think he was seeing one of his lawyers, too.”

“What makes you think that?”

Again, he doesn’t look at me. “I walked in on him once. At the office. We were supposed to meet for lunch and I was early. He and this woman were kissing. They made some lame excuse that he was helping her get something out of her eye.” He grunts. “Yeah. Her eye. His hand was on her boob. How stupid do they think I am?”

“Did you tell your stepmom?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

His expression is suddenly cautious, hesitant and shadowed by guilt.

“You think you should have?”

“Maybe.” Again, he’s avoiding my eyes. “Truth is, I was happy to see it. I don’t like Laura. Never did. I thought if Dad was seeing someone else, it meant he and Laura were having problems.”

I dig in my purse and pull out a small notepad and pen. “What was the lawyer’s name?”

“Connie Crandall.”

“She works at your dad’s office?”

He nods.

I give Jason a sympathetic smile. “Were there any other women?”

He shakes his head. “I’m not sure but I can find out.”

Uh-oh. “What do you mean?”

Eagerness replaces the uncertainty of before. “If Laura did hire a private detective, there’s got to be a paper trail, right?”

Paper trail? He’s been watching too much television. Before I can comment, though, he’s already forging ahead.

“I’ll go through her desk. Look for a bill or a canceled check.”

I hold up a hand to stem his enthusiasm. “Uh-uh,” I say firmly. “No. I don’t want you to do anything. If your stepmom was involved in your dad’s death, she’s dangerous. Let me take care of it.”

“But how—?” A craftiness creeps into his expression. “I know. Laura and I have to go to the funeral home today. To make arrangements. I’ll leave Dad’s study door open and you can come inside. Laura’s office is off their bedroom upstairs. We’ll be gone at least two hours.”

“What about the staff?”

“Laura gave them the day off. Some of them have been with Dad and me for a long time. They were all pretty shook up by what happened.”

I can’t believe I’m actually considering his suggestion, but it does make sense. More sense than my trying to break into their house on my own or calling every private eye in the San Diego area to see if Laura is a customer. Something they may or may not tell me. Unless the price is right.

“Okay. What time are you leaving?”

“Two.”

“Here.” I dip a hand back into my purse and pull out a business card. I circle my cell number. “Take this. If your plans change or you come back sooner than four, call me. I’ll make sure I’m in and out by then.”

Jason takes the card, then gestures for my pen. I hand it over. He scribbles a set of numbers on a napkin. “The security code for the front gate.”

I slip the napkin into my pocket.

Jason is looking at my business card. “Bail enforcement. You’re a bounty hunter, too?” he says. “Very cool.”

Yeah. Bounty hunter turned private detective. Very cool.

CHAPTER 37

I LEAVE JASON AT THE COFFEEHOUSE. HE’S FINALLY started in on the scone, his demeanor calm, almost detached. Not normal for a kid who spent the last hour discussing who could have killed his father.

And yet, how should he be acting? He’s doing what I’d do in the same situation. Especially if I suspected my stepmother had engineered my dad’s death.

I’m hardly normal, though, am I? Probably not a good idea to compare what I’d do in any situation.

Maybe his detachment can be credited to shock. Jason has had a rough couple of days. It could also be something more sinister. I don’t want to believe it, but I know it’s possible that Jason had a hand in whatever happened to his dad. He stood to lose as much as his stepmother if his father was indeed in trouble with the law. If that’s true, going to the house this afternoon could be risky. Could even be a setup, a trap to make Gloria look guiltier. I can see the headline now: Gloria Estrella’s friend caught breaking into O’Sullivan home.

Well, nothing to do but take the chance. I have no other leads. Now the quest becomes to discover what kind of trouble his dad was in.

I know who might be able to help me.

The question is, after last night, am I ready?

Gordon throws me a parting invitation to come again when we can talk and then I’m back in my car, wondering if I have the courage to face my family and knowing I have no choice. Reluctantly, I crank over the engine and head for La Mesa.

SUNDAY MORNING USED TO BE SPECIAL IN THE Strong household. When I was a kid, we’d go to early Mass at St. John’s in Lemon Grove, pick up donuts at the parish hall after and head for home. Steve and I always managed to wolf down a donut or two on the way, even though we knew we were supposed to wait until after we had a “good” breakfast of pancakes or eggs or French toast. We’d sit in the backseat trying to be sneaky, giggling at how we were fooling our parents even though we knew the three feet separating us in the backseat was hardly distance enough to muffle the sound of the paper bag rustling or our greedy chomping on hot, jelly-filled donuts. Mom and Dad always let us get away with it. Never mentioned the jelly stains or powdered-sugar mustaches.

Steve went away to college. Mom, Dad and I still went to church, but it wasn’t nearly as much fun sitting in the backseat alone with that greasy bag. I waited until we got home and proper breakfast was consumed before nibbling on a plain cake donut.

Then Steve got killed.

We stopped going to church. We no longer ate donuts over the Sunday paper. It became another morning to get through, prelude to another day without Steve. Another day without warmth, without joy.

Over time, things returned to a kind of normalcy. Dad went back to his job, Mom went back to work, and I went back to school. There was a gaping hole in our lives, but to their credit, my parents rallied. For my benefit, I know. I’ll always be grateful to them for that.

Some things, however, were not as before. After the funeral, we never went back to St. John’s. The parish priest tried many times to coax my folks back, but the answer was always the same. Like Steve, God vanished from our lives. Utterly and completely.

I missed Steve much more than I ever missed God.

Now, approaching the house, I’m haunted by the past and nervous at what awaits me. My mother was so angry with me. Will she still be? Will Trish? Will they forgive me for ruining their evening?

I never should have left them last night. The meeting with Sandra was a disaster, accomplishing nothing except making me feel like a fool this morning. I don’t know what happened. I don’t care. I only know the spell is broken, not in the way I’d planned, but broken all the same. I’ll never step foot in Avery’s house again.

By the time I pull up in my parents’ driveway, I’ve worked myself into such a state of anxiety, I debate the wisdom of coming here at all. In fact, when I go up to the front door and let myself in and find that they’re not at home, I wilt in relief. I scribble a note to let them know that I was here, then beat it back out to my car.

I did what I promised last night. I came over. As far as I’m concerned, the ball is now in their court.

I’ll call Dad tomorrow at his office and ask him if he’d heard about Rory O’Sullivan being in trouble. He’s an investment banker. He knows the dirt.

Relief that I don’t have to face my mother is tempered by unhappiness that I won’t see Trish. I scared her last night. Made her afraid the bubble of happiness she’d been so carefully constructing was about to burst.

And for what? Sexual delusions about a woman who is obviously psychotic.

Good job, Anna.

I almost make a clean getaway. I’ve got the Jag turned around in the driveway and am halfway to the road when my folks come back. If they’d been thirty seconds later, I would have made it.

Shit.

I put a smile on my face and the Jag in reverse, and back up the driveway. Mom and Dad pull up front and park beside me. Trish opens the rear passenger door and jumps out, a relieved smile brightening her face.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she says. She lofts something for me to see. “We bought donuts after Mass. They’re still hot. You’re just in time.”

She lifts a brown paper bag.