Текст книги "Blood Drive"

Автор книги: Jeanne Stein

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

Chapter Four

“What did you say?” I barely recognize my own voice.

“It’s true,” Carolyn says. “Trish is your niece, your parent’s grandchild.”

But although she’d guessed it, my mother pales at Carolyn’s words. She recovers quickly, moving past the shock and regaining control. I see it in the set of her shoulders. Her mouth forms a thin, hard line. “Why should we believe that this child is Steve’s?”

Carolyn holds up both hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I didn’t expect that you would.” The reply is direct and without rancor. “I brought Trish’s hairbrush from home. We can use the hair for a DNA test. If you don’t have anything of Steve’s, we can use a sample of your blood. It won’t be as accurate of course, but-”

For the first time my father speaks. His voice is cold. “Why are you telling us this now? Because she’s in trouble? What do you think we can do to help?”

Outrage reverberates in his tone. He takes a step toward her. “Why should we believe you?”

Carolyn doesn’t move away. Instead, she takes one of his hands, holding on though he stiffens and pulls back. “I’m sorry that I’ve upset you. I never intended to tell you about Trish. Not ever. I just planned to talk to Anna. To hire her to find Trish. But when your wife told me you were all here together, I thought it was a sign. I had to come. I don’t have anyone else to turn to. And I thought after you’d heard the story, you would want to help. She is your grandchild. I wouldn’t make that up.”

Mom’s voice is steady, controlled. “Why wouldn’t Steve have told us that you were pregnant?”

“He never knew. I didn’t find out until after the accident. When Steve died, I got sick. Very sick. I ended up in the hospital. While I was there I found out I was pregnant.”

Carolyn releases my father’s hand. “I thought it would be okay. I loved Steve. But I made the mistake of telling my parents. They didn’t share my enthusiasm. They tried to convince me to have an abortion. They were relentless.”

“Why didn’t you come to us?” Mom asks.

Carolyn’s expression hardens. “Would you have wanted to know?” There is an accusatory edge to her voice. “You didn’t bother to call to see why I hadn’t come to the funeral. I figured you would feel the same way my parents did, that we were too young to have had a real relationship. That the baby was a mistake.”

When no one responds, she waves the air with a hand. “It doesn’t matter now anyway. I ran away. I came here because I got a scholarship to nursing school. After I had Trish, I got a job at a local hospital. I raised Trish in the best way I could. We got along very well until Trish started high school. Suddenly, everything changed.”

“Tell us,” Mom says. “But what you say had better be the truth.”

Carolyn perches on the edge of the couch. “Trish and I moved here from downtown last year,” she says. “I didn’t like the group of kids Trish was involved with in her old school.” She looks up at my mother. “I didn’t know it was your school. Not until later.”

Mom says nothing.

Carolyn shrugs and continues. “There was an older group of kids in the neighborhood who took a special interest in Trish from the moment we moved in. Naturally, she loved the attention. I suspect they were smoking pot and drinking. I should have stopped it then. But if Trish was doing it, too, she was very clever at hiding it. She never missed a curfew. Never neglected her chores or lied about where she was going or with whom. A couple of months ago, things changed.”

She moves restlessly, crosses and uncrosses her legs. “Trish has always been a good student but suddenly her grades fell. She began to stay out late, was evasive about what she was doing. Sometimes she would come home stoned or drunk. Once she didn’t make it into the house before passing out on the front porch steps. I tried everything I could think of to intervene. That’s when I contacted Daniel Frey, the one teacher Trish seemed to respect. I hoped that he could offer insight into Trish’s behavior.”

She pauses and wearily shakes her head. “He promised to watch out for Trish and asked my permission for her to join a select group of students he mentored after school. But he said his techniques were a bit unconventional and he often took students to his home for overnight or weekend sessions. If I objected to that, I could say no and he wouldn’t pursue it.”

At this point my mother can no longer hold her tongue. “You didn’t think ‘overnight and weekend sessions’ an odd thing for a teacher to suggest? It didn’t occur to you that perhaps you should contact someone else at the school and report what this teacher said to you?”

Carolyn lowers her eyes. “He gave me the name of a parent of one of the other students in his ‘program.’ I called her. She told me in glowing terms how Mr. Frey had helped her daughter. You have to understand, Mrs. Strong. I was desperate. Trish refused the help I offered through the hospital. She was slipping away and I felt I had no one else to turn to. When Trish said she’d accept Mr. Frey’s help, I was relieved.”

Mom shakes her head. “You’ve leveled some very serious charges against this teacher. Once we’ve found Trish, I expect you to come with me before the school board. But right now, we need to help your daughter. Do you have any idea where she is?”

Carolyn shrugs. “No. She’s been gone two days. She left right after the disappearance of Barbara Franco. When I heard this morning that Barbara’s body had been discovered, that she’d been murdered, I was afraid Trish might be involved.”

Mom draws a sharp breath. “Barbara’s body was discovered?”

The tone suggests she knew this girl too. She catches my eye and gives a brief nod. “Another of our students. God, I can’t believe this is happening.”

I look at Carolyn. “Why do you suspect Trish is involved?”

Carolyn bites her lip. “Barbara is the one friend Trish made here that was her same age. They really seemed to hit it off. But she was as worried about Trish as I was. Barbara came to me last week with suspicions about Mr. Frey and what he was doing with Trish. I told her that she must be mistaken. I had talked to him, that he was helping Trish. But she kept insisting that Frey was supplying drugs to kids in exchange for sex.”

“And you didn’t believe it?”

“Would you? Trish was getting better. There were no more late night parties. She seemed happier. But I couldn’t convince Barbara. She said if I didn’t do something to stop what was going on, she would. She said she would go to you, Mrs. Strong, and tell you what was happening.”

I look over at my mother. “Did she?”

Mom shakes her head. “No. I wish she had.”

Carolyn’s expression crumbles and she begins to cry. “She didn’t because I talked her out of it.” Sobs shake her shoulders. “I told her she should go to Mr. Frey first. I told her he was a good teacher and it wouldn’t be fair to slander his reputation with gossip. I sent her to Frey. I think he killed her, and I’m afraid Trish may have helped.”

We let her cry, though part of me wants to ask her why she hasn’t told this story to the police. The other part acknowledges that if what she says is true, Trish is Steve’s child. She’s blood. And she’s in trouble.

After a minute, I go into the kitchen for a box of tissues. Carolyn accepts the box, pulls one free and mops at her face. She reaches down and pulls something out of the tote at her feet.

It’s a photo album.

She holds it out to us like an offering. “Pictures of Trish. I thought you might like to see them.”

Neither Mom nor Dad moves to accept it, but I can’t resist. I lower myself onto the couch beside her and open to the first page.

My brother’s eyes look back at me.

I can’t tell how tall she is from the school picture, or what body type she is, but the resemblance to my brother is remarkable. She has Steve’s dark, onyx eyes, huge, almond shaped. She’s looking straight at the camera, her facial bones delicate, her mouth full. Her hair is the same color as my mother’s, pulled back with a clip at the top of her head, tendrils resting on her shoulders, wisping around her face. She’s smiling but not quite. An almost spectral radiance surrounds her. I can’t stop myself. I suck in a breath, blow it out and hold the picture up for my parent’s to see.

This is my brother’s child.

***

Carolyn leaves at eleven, agreeing to meet us again tomorrow evening. She leaves behind the photo album. My parents and I spend hours poring over it. Mom brings out one of Steve’s baby pictures to compare with Trish’s. There’s no need for a DNA test. The two babies could have been twins. Before long, we are all hugging each other and crying.

They ask me to spend the night with them. I want to. But one of the sad truths about being a vampire is a keen awareness of the everyday things that make us different from humans. I have to avoid mirrors, for instance. And quite naturally, my parent’s home is full of them. Nighttime is particularly bad because I cast no reflection in brightly-lit windows either. So far, neither Mom nor Dad have noticed how I carefully pull all the drapes just before sunset. One of these days, however, they may question why I’m so diligent. They live at the top of Mt.Helix and the view from their home sweeps from Del Mar to Mexico. I used to love it, especially at night.

So at 2:00 a.m., I trek wearily home. I’ve rented a condo downtown while my cottage in Mission Beach is being rebuilt. I console myself with the thought that it’s logical for me to go home because I plan to be in the office early. I want to fill my partner David in on what we’ll be doing for the next couple of days.

Tracking a niece I didn’t know I had.

A niece who may be involved in a murder.

I reach into my handbag beside me on the seat and withdraw the picture I removed from Carolyn’s album. I hold it in front of me, just below my line of sight as I drive, so I can glance at it.

There is something about the girl that fascinates me. Not just that she’s my niece, but that I feel a connection to her unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Since becoming a vampire, I find my sentiments toward humans often seem to rage out of control. Culebra tells me it’s natural. That as long as I have ties to human family and friends, I will be sensitive to mortal concerns.

But this is more than mortal concern.

I can’t describe what I feel when I look at this girl. But it’s powerful and strong.

And it feels a lot like hope.

Chapter Five

Tuesday

By the time I get home, I’m exhausted. The myth about vampires being creatures of the night is just that. Some things don’t change when you become a vampire. If you were a morning person before the change, you will remain a morning person. I need my eight hours, so when the alarm goes off at six, I literally have to drag myself out of bed and into the shower.

The need for that first cup of coffee is another of those constants. I don’t bother to get dressed before I plug in the pot. By the time I’ve slipped on jeans and a sweater, the coffee is ready and so am I.

I take a cup of coffee and go to stand on the balcony that spans the front of my apartment. I have a view that extends over SeaportVillage and west toward Coronado. In early morning, the bay is quiet, the motionless water shimmering like liquid gold in the sun.

I sip coffee and let the caffeine awaken sleeping brain cells. Mom is arranging for me to spend the day at her school in the guise of an extra security person hired because of Barbara Franco’s murder. There will be grief counselors on campus, also, so another unfamiliar face shouldn’t be cause for alarm. The few teachers who might recognize me know what I do for a living. It’s not too far a stretch to imagine a Bail Enforcement Agent moonlighting as a security guard.

And the irony is not lost on me that for the first time, my choice of occupation is not a matter of dissension between my parents and me. Not once last night did they mention how much they wished I’d give up this quasi-law enforcement gig and go back to teaching.

Carolyn didn’t know the particulars about Barbara’s death, but I’m assuming there will be something in the newspaper. I finish my coffee, grab my purse and start down for the parking garage. There’s a newspaper kiosk just outside the elevator door. I drop in the requisite coins, pull out the paper and fold it under my arm. I’m busy searching my purse for car keys when I run head first into the last person I expect to see-my sometimes boyfriend, Max.

So much for a vampire’s catlike reflexes. I literally bounce off his chest. He laughs and gently holds me at arm’s length.

“Hey, sunshine. Where are you off to in such a rush?”

Max is one of those big, handsome men that makes a female’s heart beat faster-human or vamp. He’s six foot three and weighs in at a well-muscled two hundred twenty-five. He’s Latino, with eyes the color of the ocean. The combination of suntanned skin, dark hair, and those glorious eyes takes my breath away.

This morning he’s wearing shorts and a muscle shirt that emphasize most of his best features.

Most. Not all.

He’s holding my arms and smiling down at me. I gather my wits together enough to cleverly ask, “Where did you come from?”

“Originally?” he says. “Or just now?”

I shake my head. “You know what I mean. When did you get back from DC?”

He makes a move to turn me back toward the elevator. “I’ll be happy to fill you in. But let’s go upstairs. It’s been way too long since we’ve seen each other and I’ve missed you. A lot. Want to see?”

I’ve missed him, too. It’s been a long time since we’ve been together-really together. Since I became a vampire, in fact. First it was because feeding and sex are so intertwined, I was afraid to let myself go there with Max.

He doesn’t know what I am, of course. No human does.

And then I got involved in a thing with Avery, the vampire who mentored me.

That didn’t work out so very well. In fact, because of that relationship my home got burned to the ground and my partner almost killed. Not things I’m proud of. But during all that time, Max was working undercover as the driver for a Mexican drug lord. That case came to a close and he was sent to Washington to clean up the details. He’s been gone the last two months.

But now, here he is.

I stare into his wonderful face, heat rippling my skin with such a strong flush of sexual desire I almost succumb to the temptation to take him back upstairs. I think I’ve learned to separate feeding from sex in the time we’ve been apart, but unfortunately, I don’t have time to test the theory. I’m due at Mom’s school at eight, and I need to get David working on a trace.

Reluctantly, I extricate myself from his hands. “I can’t. Not now. I have to go to the office. Come with me. There’s something I want to tell David and you should hear it, too. In fact, you may be able to help.”

The corners of his mouth turn down. “Great. Spending the morning with you and David. Just what I fantasized about all the way from Washington.”

He takes my hand and follows me to my car. I use the remote to open the doors. When we’re both inside and heading out of the parking garage, he asks, “Help you with what?”

“Wait until we get to the office,” I reply. “I’ll tell you and David both at the same time. Fill me in on your case. What’s going on?”

He shrugs. “It’s a wrap. Martinez’s currency exchange houses in Mexico are history. The dozen or so businesses he used on this side of the border will be next. Martinez will have to find a new way to launder his drug money.”

Martinez is the head of the Mexican mob-the guy Max worked undercover for as his driver. I sneak a sideways look at his face. “But Martinez hasn’t been arrested yet, right?”

Max catches the real question I’m asking. He reaches over and caresses my shoulder. “I’m not in any danger. At least not yet. Martinez wouldn’t be crazy enough to come after me here, even if he figures out who I am. He may be a greedy, ruthless bastard but he’s not suicidal. He’ll lay low for a while. In fact, we have intel that he and his family are in Columbia. At the hacienda of one of his suppliers.”

“When do you expect to go after him?”

“As soon as we have extradition ironed out. So far, the Federales have agreed to cooperate. For the time being, it’s best to let Martinez think he’s in the clear. That it was just minions like me who got picked up. When the time is right, we want to catch him by surprise.”

He sounds very matter-of-fact and unconcerned, but I know as long as Martinez is loose, Max is not completely safe. Sooner or later it’s bound to get back to Martinez that the driver he thinks is in jail is actually a federal agent putting together the case against him.

But right now I’m pulling into the parking lot in front of my office so the conversation is put on hold. The office is on

Pacific Coast Highway

, in a low-slung, concrete building that used to belong to the Star-Kist people when tuna fishing was a thriving industry in San Diego. The building stood vacant for over fifteen years, prime waterfront real estate. A consortium of businessmen, my father among them, worked out a deal to convert the property to office space. He cut David and me a deal, and we got first pick of the renovated spaces-a corner office with a deck over the water. To top it off, we have designated parking spots, a luxury unheard of this close to SeaportVillage and the marina.

Nepotism is not always a bad thing.

David’s vehicle, a yellow Hummer with all the chrome bells and whistles, squats in its space. I ease the Jag in next to it. Max gets the hungry look of a little boy on his face as he traces a finger along the Hummer’s door as he goes past.

He catches my eye and grins. “I’ve been thinking of getting one of these.”

Right.Just what you need in Southern California-a gas guzzling monster truck. I didn’t understand it when David bought his and I don’t understand it now. Men and big vehicles. Go figure.

Dad’s largesse did not extend to springing for new furniture, so the office is outfitted with stuff we brought from our old digs. There’s a big oak partner’s desk in the middle of the room, two oversize captains chairs perched one on either side. They have to be big. My partner is six foot six and weighs two hundred fifty pounds. He was a tight end for the Raiders and stays in shape.

We have a filing cabinet along one wall. Next to it is an old scarred credenza with a coffee maker and mugs on top, supplies underneath. We each have computers and telephones on our respective sides of the desk. A printer and fax sit on a small worktable near the slider that leads to the deck. The only other piece of furniture is a small refrigerator, just big enough for a couple of six packs. It’s not much, but it’s all we need.

The smell of brewing coffee greets us as we come in. David is busy at the credenza, his back to us. He’s dressed in jeans and a Hawaiian shirt that stretches across the muscles of his back as he moves. He has the kind of smooth, olive skin that retains a tan all year long. He has short-cropped brown hair and blue eyes that can either sparkle with pleasure or cut you dead with cold precision.

When he turns around, he’s got two mugs and he thrusts one out to me.

“Glad you’re here. Just got a call. We’ve got-”

He stops short when he spies Max coming in right behind me. The animation drains from his face just as the oxygen seems to drain from the room. The blue eyes become crystalline. David’s spine stiffens, his brows crease, his mouth thins with displeasure.

It happens every time. There’s a dynamic at work here that I’ll never understand. The two men have a lot in common. Both are big guys, both went to college on sports scholarships. David played football at Notre Dame. Max, baseball at USC. After college, David went into pro football. Max played baseball for a while until he blew out his shoulder. They’re both adrenaline junkies, which explains their job choices when the sports gigs wound down. Yet, with all that, they can’t stand to be in the same room.

I refuse to play their silly game. I pass the mug that David holds out to me back to Max and proceed to fill another one. “You were saying?” I prompt, ignoring the way David is ignoring Max.

David swallows a mouthful of coffee, eyes shifting back and forth from me to Max. Finally, he says, “It’s not important.” His eyes settle on Max. “So, Max, you’re back from Washington, huh? For good?”

It’s obvious from his tone what he wants the answer to be. I’m sure Max picks up on it, too, but he doesn’t show it as he shakes his head. “No. There’s more to be done.” He puts a hand around my waist. “I just wanted to spend some time with Anna.”

David looks at me. “So what are you doing here?”

That’s my cue. I motion for them to sit down. David takes his seat, Max, mine. I perch myself on the corner of the desk. In as short and concise a way as possible, I tell them what happened last night. There’s a moment of silence when I finish.

David speaks first. “I never met your brother. But I know what you’ve told me about him. To find out he had a child must have been quite a shock to your folks. How are they holding up?”

“As well as can be expected.”

“Do they believe the kid is Steve’s?” Max asks. “Are you sure this Carolyn isn’t running some kind of scam?”

David shoots me a look that says it figures Max would ask something like that. But it’s a fair question.

“ Ididn’t believe it at first,” I reply. “Carolyn offered to run DNA tests. And we saw pictures. In fact,” I rummage in my handbag and pull out Trish’s picture along with one of my brother’s at the same age. “See for yourself.”

I lay the pictures side by side on the desk. David and Max lean forward.

“There is a resemblance,” Max says after a moment. “It doesn’t prove she’s Steve’s daughter.”

“No,” I admit. “It doesn’t. But if it turns out Carolyn is lying to us, there’s a murdered teenage girl, another who’s missing, and a teacher at my mom’s school that may be a pedophile, or worse. I think it’s worth looking into.”

Max is shaking his head. “This is a job for the authorities. If the girl has been kidnapped, the FBI should be called. They are far better equipped to handle this sort of thing than you and David.”

David frowns indignantly, but I speak before he has a chance. “You’re right. If we knew Trish had been kidnapped, I’d be the first to make the call. But maybe she’s hiding because she knows something about what happened to her friend. Her mother is afraid if the police find her first, they’ll assume she’s involved. If we find her first, we can make a deal with the authorities if we need to.”

David quickly nods in agreement. “What do you want me to do?”

I pick up a notepad and begin to jot down the names as I explain. “The murdered girl’s name is Barbara Franco. I don’t know anything about what happened to her except that her body was discovered yesterday. Could you call your contacts at SDPD and find out what you can? I brought the newspaper. There may be something there to get you started. I’ll be spending the day at Mom’s school. I want to see this Daniel Frey in action. Mom will give me access to his personnel records, but you could run a check on him, too. I plan to follow him after school. See what he does. Where he goes. We can meet back here, say at six?”

David takes the pad from my hand. “I’ll get started right away.”

“What can I do?” Max’s tone is resigned. He understands there is no point in arguing against our plan of action.

I’d actually forgotten for a moment that he’s in the room. “Thanks, Max,” I reply, smiling up at him. “I appreciate your wanting to help.” There’s a pause while I try to come up with something for him to do, but it’s an awkward moment.

Max puts the coffee mug down on the desk and stands up.

“Well, I should probably check in with the boys downtown. Maybe we can have dinner tonight.”

His eyes are guarded, but I catch the flash of disappointment. I walk him to the door. “I’m sorry I can’t spend the day with you,” I say, reaching up to hug him. “I mean it.”

His body relaxes against mine a minute before he straightens up and reaches for the doorknob. “I’ll be at my old office in the Federal Building if you need me,” he says. “Let me know about tonight.”

He nods over my head to David, and then he’s gone.

***

My mother’s school is in La Mesa, about fifteen miles east of San Diego. This is the first time a student at Valley Vista High School has been murdered. Combine that with Trish’s disappearance, and I have a feeling the media will be out in force.

And they are. I count four news vans in the visitor’s parking lot. Mom advised me to park in the faculty lot, so I make my away around a swarm of reporters and concerned parents to the back of the school. Most of the parking spaces are filled, leaving me to assume teachers, administrators and staff are already assembled at the meeting Mom had called for eight o’clock.

As I make my way on campus, I’m approached by a uniformed security guard. He asks for identification, which I produce. He ticks my name off a list on a clipboard and asks if I know my way to the administration building.

I assure him that I do. He doesn’t acknowledge that my last name is the same as the principal’s, which leads me to believe he’s been hired for temporary duty.

Valley Vista High is a typical Southern California school. Open, sprawling; the buildings buff colored, one-story stucco rectangles with red tile roofs. Like most schools in the district, it’s a closed campus, meaning students are not allowed to leave at lunch. Because of this, there are lots of “green belts” outfitted with benches and tables. Made of concrete, not wood. Prevents hormonally charged teenagers from carving their lascivious desires into the benches and tables. It is not impervious to tagging, however, and no matter how tight the security, a determined kid can sneak spray paint onto campus and mark his territory like a mongrel pup.

A maintenance man is busy scrubbing last night’s artistic endeavors off one of the benches as I pass. He looks up and gives me a nod, then returns to his labors. Here in the back of the school, at least, it’s business as usual.

Not so in the front office. I spy Mom through the door of her office. She’s talking with a couple of uniformed policemen. They are standing behind someone who is seated with his back to me. When she spies me, she crooks a finger, inviting me in.

I’m barely through the door when the person in the chair turns to face me. My heart gives a little jolt. It’s the Chief of Police, Warren Williams, and the last time I saw him, I nearly killed him.