Текст книги "Retribution"

Автор книги: Jeanne Stein

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

CHAPTER 21

WHEN I WAS HUMAN, I’D FALL ASLEEP AFTER SEX. It’s what Edie does now. She has a half smile on her face, a look of contentment. I cover her with a quilt from the foot of the bed and watch for a moment. The vampire is content; the human Anna wonders what the hell just happened.

I close the bedroom door behind me.

Ortiz and Brooke are nowhere to be found. The house is quiet. I let myself out.

What a bizarre way to start the morning. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at Ortiz the same way again. But the anxiety that had been building with the hunger is gone. I’m clearheaded, refreshed.

Horny.

Too bad Lance is in New York.

Too bad I have a witch to kill.

I call Frey’s cell phone to check in.

Sandra picks up.

Her voice on his phone causes a ripple of alarm. “Where’s Frey?”

“Don’t worry,” she says. “He’s sleeping.”

“And Culebra?”

She sighs. “The same. Any news?”

“I’m heading back to the warehouse now. I’ll get that receptionist to talk if I have to scare the shit out of her to do it.”

After I’ve finished, Sandra waits a beat to say, “Hurry, Anna.”

It’s all there in her voice—concern, uneasiness, fear. What isn’t there is the antipathy she displayed toward me when I showed up two days ago. I ring off without bringing it up. When Burke is dead, when Culebra and Frey are safe, there will be time for us to talk.

It’s not yet seven. Too early to head for the warehouse. I doubt the office staff reports before eight. I still have those two women Williams’ identified as the blood-hungry pair who attacked their dates. The pictures are on the seat beside me. One has an address not far from Ortiz’ house. I’ll head there first.

I’m doing the thing I hate seeing others do, holding the pic up against the steering wheel while I drive so I can read the notes printed on the back. The first woman’s name is Valerie Storm. The before picture shows a heavyset forty-six-year-old with dishwater blond hair. The woman in the after picture looks twenty-six with a good bleach job and glamour-shot makeup.

Maybe that’s Burke’s secret. Diet and a dynamite makeup artist.

Valerie Storm lives on Hilltop Drive. It’s a nice neighborhood. I’m halfway down the block when police cars scream up behind me. Shit.

Did Ortiz send these guys after me? Is he so pissed that I ruined his playdate he’s having me arrested for that woman Burke dumped in my bed? I pull over, shoulders tight with aggravation. If he did this—

But the cars don’t stop. They keep going. After a second, I do, too, still looking for Valerie’s address.

I should have simply followed the police cars. We all end up at the same place.

There are three police cars at Valerie’s, one in the driveway, one in the street, one on the front lawn. The cops in the two that passed me are racing toward the front door. I pull up across the street and watch. Neighbors are beginning to venture out to see what all the commotion is about. I join them.

The chatter among the neighbors tells me that the Storms are nice people, that no one can imagine trouble in the family, that if there was trouble, it probably had something to do with Valerie’s remarkable transformation from suburban duckling to bombshell swan.

One of the men makes a comment about the transformation that earns him an elbow in the ribs from another of those suburban ducklings.

She must be his wife.

It gets quiet when the coroner’s wagon pulls up. The attendants go inside, followed a minute later by a man in a suit. I recognize him. San Diego’s medical examiner. Either Valerie or someone in her family is dead.

My money is on Valerie.

The second of Burke’s test subjects to turn up dead.

My stomach is queasy with the speculation that I may be responsible. Didn’t Burke say she wanted to play a game with me? See how clever I was? I know she’s capable of murder—she killed an innocent out of spite when Frey and I stopped her demon -raising last Halloween. But why is she killing the very women who are living proof of the effectiveness of her wonder cream? If her plan is to implicate me in their murders, I can’t see how she’ll do it. They have no connection to me. Even with her power, I doubt she could conjure up the kind of evidence necessary to make it look like they did.

After all, it didn’t work last night.

What game is she playing?

I return to my car and flip open my cell. I call Ortiz. His voice mail picks up so I tell him where I am now and where I ’m headed next—

to El Cajon. To the home of the third of Burke ’s test subjects. I ask him to call me when he finds out what happened at the Storm residence.

That’s two of three women connected to Burke to wind up dead. I hope I get to the third in time.

CHAPTER 22

MADDIE COLEMAN LIVES ON EMERALD HEIGHTS Road. I’ve never heard of it and it takes my trusty GPS to get me there. It turns out to be a winding street off the end of Magnolia Avenue. It’s a surprisingly nice neighborhood above an old and run-down area with views that stretch out over the El Cajon Valley. Maddie’s is a low-slung ranch house with a tile roof and high chain-link fence that appears to circle a good-sized piece of property. When I stop in front of it, it becomes clear the reason for the fence. The biggest damned German shepherd I’ve ever seen appears out of nowhere and charges the fence before I get the car door open.

I stay put.

I can see the driveway and partway into the backyard. There’s a swing set and slide. The garage door is closed. Except for the incessant barking of that damned dog, it’s quiet.

What to do?

Dogs don’t like me. It has nothing to do with being a vampire. I know this because dogs didn’t like me before I became vampire. I have no doubt I could break the neck of the snarling beast, but that means getting close, and getting close means putting myself in range of those teeth. I may be a kick-ass vampire, but I still have an aversion to pain.

I hunker down. Surely, somebody will come to the door to see why the beast is raising such a racket. While I wait, I take another look at Maddie. In her before photo, she’s standing beside a tall, pimply -faced teenager in a cap and gown. She looks midfifties, plump, mousey. She’s dressed in a flower-print cotton skirt and pale blazer with a handbag on the arm that isn’t clutching the graduate. Her shoes look like the kind nurses stereotypically wear—square-toed, functional, ugly.

The transformation in her after photo is more remarkable than Valerie’s. Again, it’s a glamour shot. Maddie is almost wearing a black, tight, low-cut cocktail dress. It’s slit up the side to reveal long legs and four-inch stilettos. She has a Veronica Lake haircut, long, shiny dark hair that falls over one eye. She’s smiling at the camera with what can only be described as a “come fuck me” expression.

She looks about twenty-six.

Whew.

The dog is still going crazy in the yard. Maybe I should shoot it. Do the neighbors a favor. Except I haven’t seen a neighbor peek out to see what’s going on, either. Where in the hell is everybody?

Just when I decide I’m going to have to tackle the dog after all, a long black limousine whispers up to the gate. The driver honks the horn and the front door opens. A man appears in the doorway, calls the dog inside, disappears for a minute, then returns without the beast.

So, that’s the trick? All I had to do was honk the horn? The man walks down to the gate. He’s dressed in a black suit with a white shirt and dark tie. He walks with shoulders slumped. The lines of his face droop. When he opens the gate, he does it slowly, as if this simple task requires all his energy. When the limo pulls past him, his gaze falls on me. His expression doesn ’t change. It reflects neither curiosity nor concern.

The only thing those eyes reflect is pain.

He turns without acknowledging my presence and walks back to the house with the same slow, shuffling tread.

The scene is sickeningly familiar.

I know what he’s feeling. See it in a face drawn in lines of sorrow. Sense it in the heaviness of his spirit. Recognize the unbearable sadness that weighs him down and makes the pain of loss the only sensation he’s capable of experiencing.

I know it because I’ve been through it all myself. When my brother died.

I don’t wait to see anything else. I don’t have to. Maddie is dead and this is the beginning of her funeral procession.

What the hell is Burke doing?

This time I put a call into Williams.

He picks up on the second ring.

“What’d you find out from the receptionist?” he asks in way of greeting.

“Haven’t been there yet,” I reply. I tell him what I did find. Then I say, “Wouldn’t three dead bodies elevate this in a judge’s eye from coincidence to probable cause?”

“You don’t know yet if Storm or Coleman are dead.”

“Come on. What are the odds they aren’t?”

There’s a moment of silence. “I’ll do some checking. In the meantime, maybe you’d better track that receptionist down.”

We ring off and I put the Jag in drive and head back for the freeway—just in time for Tuesday morning commuter traffic.

Shit.

I’m stuck in stop-and-go traffic and I can’t get the picture of that man as he came down the driveway out of my head.

Rage burns like acid. Burke is behind this. Why? And what ’s the connection between what she’s doing to these women and that miraculous antiaging cream she’s about to launch on the world?

Launch on the world.

Jesus.

I want to bang my forehead against the steering wheel. What an idiot I am.

There is one other person I can go to for answers. I don’t want to do it. But I have to.

Gloria. Spokesmodel for Eternal Youth. She’s certainly one person I know I can shake information out of.

Only idly do I wonder—has she used the stuff?

CHAPTER 23

WHEN GLORIA IS IN TOWN, SHE STAYS IN A PENTHOUSE at the Four Seasons. The clerk who takes my call refuses to put it through. His tone implies that the queen does not like to be disturbed.

I swallow back the impulse to say something rude and put a hopeful smile in my voice when I reply, “Look. I understand. If you’ve been around at all, you’ll remember a few months ago Gloria got in trouble with the law. My name is Anna Strong. I helped her get out of that trouble. If you just call up to her room and ask, I’m sure she’ll take the call.”

And if she doesn’t, I’ll come over there, climb the fucking building and yank Gloria by the short hairs until she begs me to stop.

The clerk finally agrees to try. He puts me on hold. I’m on hold two minutes. I know because I’m timing it, plotting how to exact revenge if the bitch refuses my call.

The Kenny G elevator music I’m forced to endure during this interminable hold cycle suddenly cuts off to be replaced by a ring.

Thank you.

The phone is picked up.

“Hello?”

It’s a man’s voice. Or rather a male voice—a sleepy, sexy, incredibly young-sounding male voice.

“This is Anna Strong. I need to speak with Gloria.”

No reponse.

“Hello? I’m calling for Gloria. Is she there?”

This time, the voice purrs, “Ms. Estrella is still asleep. I’m not sure I should disturb her. If you tell me the nature of your call . . .”

I get it now. Gloria is directing the conversation from somewhere in the background. From the sound of this guy ’s voice, they’re most likely in bed.

“Look, dickhead, I don’t care if Ms. Estrella is asleep. Put her on now or I’ll come up there and make it difficult for you to fuck anything else for a long time. Ask Gloria. She’ll tell you I’ll do it.”

I hear a sharp intake of breath, a muffled conversation as he relays my message and finally, “Jesus, Anna, you never change, do you?”

“I could say the same for you, Gloria. The kid sounds like he’s about sixteen. His voice is still changing. Should I send the police?”

Her laugh is short, brittle. “Did you have a reason to call? Or do you get off badgering me?”

I did have a reason to call. An important reason. It galls me that just the sound of her voice makes me lose mine.

“Yes. This Eternal Youth thing you’re involved with. I have some questions.”

“Then contact my lawyer.” Her tone morphs from aggravation to boredom. “Unless you’re asking me to slip you a few jars. Are you suddenly feeing old? See a few wrinkles when you look in the mirror?”

Laughter bubbles up. If she only knew—

“No, you idiot. I think there’s something wrong with the stuff. Have you tried it?”

Now it’s Gloria who laughs. “Are you kidding? Why would I put that crap on my face? I don’t need it. And when I get to the point that I do, I’ll have my own formula made up. This is purely a moneymaking thing. Tremaine seems to have stumbled on a unique product. She asked me to be the spokesmodel. I agreed. Period.”

Part of me is relieved; part of me wants to howl in disappointment.

“How do you know Tremaine?”

“Why are you asking?”

My hands clutch into fists on the steering wheel. “Jesus, Gloria, will you just answer the fucking question?”

“Not the way to encourage cooperation, Anna. Okay, I’ll answer your questions if you agree to answer mine. Quid pro quo.”

I feel the blood rush to my face. If I had the time, I ’d find her and snatch every hair from her head. Instead, I speak with slow deliberation. “Fine. Ask.”

“How’s David?”

My first impulse to deny her any information about her ex is quickly swallowed up by a better idea. “He’s just great. He’s in the Bahamas with his fiancée.”

It provokes the desired result. A sharp intake of breath followed by an equally sharp, “Fiancée? When did that happen? Who is she? Do I know her?”

“That’s three questions, Gloria. Now answer mine. How did you meet Simone Tremaine?”

At first, I think she’s hung up on me, the silence stretches so long. Finally, though, she says, “Through my agent. She contacted him, he contacted me. We did a deal.” Tiny voice, “What’s her name?”

“You don’t know her, Gloria. David met her after you broke up. Do you have an address for Tremaine? A telephone number?”

“Not here. The contract’s in my office in L.A.”

Another dead end. At least if I can’t track her down any other way, I’ll follow up with Gloria. A surprisingly subdued Gloria. She’s not snapping back with another question, so I take the initiative.

“The cream, has the stuff been tested?” I ask. “Approved by the FDA?”

That revives her. She snorts. “Your ignorance is showing. Cosmetics are not subject to FDA approval. It’s left up to each company to substantiate the safety and effectiveness of their products.”

Too formal.

She’s been asked that before? “How do you know that?”

“I’m not stupid, Anna. I looked into it. I’m not going to jump into something I might get sued for later.”

Ah. Meaning, her lawyerlooked into it. Still, no human lawyer could have known or suspected that Tremaine was not what she appeared.

“Look, Gloria, I can’t believe I’m about to say this.” True enough, I’d like nothing better than to see her go down in flames. “But something is not right with Tremaine. I’m warning you. Get out now while you can. Disassociate yourself from Eternal Youth before it’s too late.”

There’s a moment of silence and I think Gloria might be considering what I ’ve told her. I brace myself for the barrage of questions sure to follow.

“Oh, Anna,” she says finally. “You’re still jealous of me. It’s so childish.”

The line goes dead and I’m left gaping openmouthed at the phone. How like Gloria to interpret concern for jealousy.

I toss the phone onto the seat beside me.

Then I smile.

I tried to warn you, Gloria. Don’t blame me when this Eternal Youth thing bites you in the ass.

CHAPTER 24

THAT GLORIA REFUSES MY ADVICE DOES NOT SURPRISE me. I’m only glad I was able to take the wind out of her sales about David. Sure, it was lie; he’s not engaged. And she’ll likely find that out on her own, but it shut her up for a minute at least.

It’s a tiny victory, even though I learned nothing new about Tremaine.

What is surprising is arriving at the warehouse, my next destination, and finding the parking lot empty.

I pull up to the door, park and look around.

Apprehension replaces the brief feeling of satisfaction. This cannot be a good sign.

I get out of the car, shut the door quietly and approach the front door.

The office is dark. I walk around the building. There is one car parked beside the loading dock, a late-model Ford sedan. On the sides and trunk of the car are those magnetic signs with “Nelson Security Services” and a telephone number superimposed over a logo.

Did Burke hire security after I broke in? Surely, though, she wouldn’t have suspended operations because of a missing file.

I walk back around to the office door and knock.

After about thirty seconds, two armed security guards appear from the back. One has a dog, another German shepherd naturally, on a short leash.

The guard with the dog comes to the door. He mouths through the glass, “Closed.”

He’s short and heavy-lidded and looks mean. So does the dog, eyeing me with a sneer and a trail of drool.

“Where is everybody?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Not a clue. Come back tomorrow. The place is supposed to reopen then.”

He turns and walks back to his partner. They both watch me through squinty eyes.

Shit.

Guards now.

With a dog, no less.

I get into my car. I’ve got to find that receptionist. I don’t want to bust my way in and subdue those guards (and dog), but I might have to.

Until I remember.

The receptionist uses Eternal Youth. Is she one of the test subjects? If so, she’ll be in that file I gave Ortiz. All had contact information on the forms. When I try to call Ortiz, his phone goes again to voice mail.

I have no choice but to drive back to Chula Vista. Even if he ’s already left for work, it’s likely Ortiz would have left the file at home.

Burke is not yet an official suspect in the death of those two women. I’ll just have to charm sweet Brooke into letting me see it.

This time, when I pull up, Ortiz’ garage door is open. There are two cars parked inside. One is his—I recognize the Navigator—the other is a candy-apple red Miata with a San Diego State bumper sticker. Brooke is probably a college student. Ortiz, you are a dog.

At least my timing is good. I’d rather deal with Ortiz than his petulant girlfriend.

And there are no other cars around. I’m assuming Edie has left, which is a relief.

I don’t know if vampires are capable of blushing, but I get the uncomfortable feeling I might if I was to see her again.

Brooke answers my ring. She must have just gotten out of the shower because her hair is wet and she’s dressed in sweats. She doesn’t say hello when she sees me, just turns on her bare feet and pads away with a curt, “He’s not here.”

I’ve accepted less cordial invitations. I let myself in and follow.

She’s trounced off to the dining room table. That she’s a student is reinforced by the open college chemistry text perched on a notebook next to a bowl of Cocoa Puffs.

She sits, thumbs a page of the text, takes a spoonful of cereal, ignores me.

I wait.

Another page, another mouthful of cereal.

Finally, I break the stalemate. “Where’s Ortiz?”

She doesn’t look up. “I told you he’s not here.”

“So. Where did he go?”

“He left for work. Ten minutes ago.”

“Who picked him up?”

Finally, a question that gets more than a bored monosyllabic reply. She turns and stares at me. “Why would anyone pick him up?”

I jerk a thumb toward the front. “Because the garage door is open and his car is inside—”

She jumps up and takes off for the door. Her reaction triggers my own alarm. When we get outside, she clasps both hands over her mouth and gasps.

“Oh god—I heard a noise, but I thought—”

I pull her hands down. “What noise?”

She’s crying. “A loud pop. Right after Mario left the house. I didn’t go look. I was still mad . . .”

She takes a step into the garage, but I’m there first. The car doors are closed but unlocked. I open the passenger side door and look in.

Ortiz’ folder, the one he had last night, is on the seat. It’s unzipped and open.

It’s also empty.

I get Brooke back inside and call Williams. He comes right over. We get Brooke calmed down and convince her that this is just some silly misunderstanding and one of Ortiz’ cop buddies did pick him up for work. When she tries his cell, it goes right to voice mail. Not necessarily a bad thing, since she says he often turns off his phone when he checks in for duty.

The tears are dried, her fears at least momentarily alleviated. We ask if she has classes today. She says yes. We convince her to go, that we’ll let her know as soon as we get through to Ortiz. She heads back to the bedroom to get ready.

Williams releases a long, pent-up breath. “Jesus. She got Ortiz.”

I feel like knocking my head against the wall. “I never should have taken that file. I should have made a copy. I’ve let Burke know we can connect her to Eternal Youth. Is she going to kill every one of those test subjects? Why? It can’t be simply to get even with me.”

Williams shakes his head. “Maybe we’ll know when we get an analysis of the product. I dropped it off on my way here. I put a rush in.

We should hear in three hours or so.”

“I can’t wait that long. I’m going to the warehouse. There were personnel files that should tell me where the receptionist lives.”

If she hasn’t gotten rid of those, too. I rub my eyes as if to rub away the thought and look up at Williams. “Where will you be? I’ll call as soon as I get to that receptionist.”

“I’ll be at the park. I’ll get the witches started on another locator spell.” He looks toward the house. “I’ll give Brooke my cell phone number, to let her know as soon as we reach Ortiz.”

His tone is lower, huskier than I’ve ever heard. His concern for Ortiz is genuine.

Maybe there’s hope for Williams yet.