Текст книги "The Hell Yo "

Автор книги: Josh lanyon

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

behind me, his hand stroking the curve of my ass, lingering. The head of his cock whispered

the password, and my well-massaged ring of sphincter muscle gave him entrance. Arms

braced stiff, his cock buried deep in my body, I rocked back against Jake’s hips. He shoved

back against me. We quickly slipped into our rhythm. The fingers of one hand bit into my

hip, holding me in place as he thrust hard. His other hand wrapped around my cock,

pumping up and down, occasionally losing the pace. I shifted weight onto one hand, moved

my free hand to join Jake’s, working myself.

We knew each other well by now, knew what we liked – and when we liked it. It was

comfortable, and it was familiar, and it still shook me to the bones when I least expected it.

Like now.

Blood throbbed in my temples, pounded through my veins, so that I could barely hear

the harsh, fast sound of our breaths, the hard slap of flesh on flesh, the music of the mattress.

Jake’s hot breath gusted between my shoulder blades, sending little chills of sensation down

my spine. And all the while that pleasurable scrape and slide, smooth exit and stiff entry,

over and over and over.

I dug my fingers into the bedding, relinquishing control, letting him take me further

and faster.

“Oh, baby …” he gritted between his teeth, and I felt a grin breaking across my tense

face, even while I clenched, focused as that slow wash of liquid heat flooded my groin.

My whole body seized, clenched like the fist wrapped around my cock, the electric

intensity of orgasm holding me in place while relief bordering on bliss shuddered through

nerves and muscles and bones. I creamed over our joined fingers, his hand slipping a little in

the sticky wetness. Jake went rigid, groaned like he was mortally wounded, and I could feel

that wet warmth pulsing into me, a man’s cum flooding my ass.

I collapsed in a limp sprawl, Jake’s body covering my own. Wet beneath me, wet

seeping out of my hole. Held hot and wet in Jake’s powerful arms and never wanting to move

again while pleasure echoed through me.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about this all day.” His voice was rough on the admission.

“Feels so fucking good with you.”

I nodded, managed, “It is good.” In fact, sometimes it surprised me how good it was

with Jake, given his various hang-ups and extracurricular interests.

He kissed the back of my neck, and I felt my heart turn over. The sex was great, but it

was those moments of quiet tenderness…

“Lisa is thinking of remarrying,” I said later, when we had both had time to catch our

breath.

He made a noncommittal noise and turned his head on the pillow to face me.

“It’s kind of weird, that’s all,” I said in answer to the question he hadn’t asked. “She’s

had plenty of opportunity. Probably should have done it years ago, but she always made such

a thing about never loving anyone but my father.”

“Do you know the guy?”

I shook my head. “Councilman Dauten. I’ve heard the name, but I’ve never met him.”

“You want me to run a background check?” He sounded amused.

“Forget it,” I said, smothering a yawn. “It’s Chinatown, Jake.”

“Nah, it’s only Pasadena. You’ll be fine, baby.”

* * * * *

Angus wasn’t exactly a blabby guy. Maybe that’s why I remembered the infrequent bits

of information he let drop. I recalled him saying that he was a teaching assistant for a

Professor Snowden.

I made a few phone calls, learned without too much trouble that on Monday morning

Dr. G. Snowden was supposed to be at Bunche Hall giving a lecture on the occult in popular

film and fiction.

UCLA is like a small village, with its own police department, fire marshal, radio and TV

station, restaurants, shops. It even has a Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender Campus

Resource Center. I don’t know if they were offering this back in The Day. My father

graduated from Stanford University, so Lisa’s expectation was that I would grace the halls of

the old alma mater. That suited me fine, as I was attracted by the university’s proximity to

San Francisco and the gay community.

But because I’d had friends at UCLA, and because I’d attended various cultural events

there, I was reasonably familiar with the campus. I knew that Bunche Hall was located close

to the Sculpture Garden, which was about five acres of grass and trees and studded by the

works of Matisse and Rodin, among others. It was especially beautiful in the spring when the

jacaranda trees were in bloom.

They were not in bloom that gray autumn day. Bare trees and stark sculptures provided

a suitable backdrop for Bunche Hall, which had to be one of the ugliest buildings on campus.

It looked like a concrete slab of Wasa bread.

I found #1209B without a problem. Slipping inside the dark classroom, I took a seat in

the back row. It was one of the few empty seats in a room that looked like it seated about

two hundred, indicating Professor Snowden was either popular or an easy pass. At the

moment, he was showing a videotaped Yu-Gi-Oh cartoon on a pull-down screen at the front

of the class.

Every so often Professor Snowden’s tall silhouette loomed menacingly on the screen in

front of Yugi and the gang, as he skewered the notion that occult elements in the popular

kid’s cartoon were dangerous. He had an attractive speaking voice with a hint of a British

accent.

“The Religious Reich takes the view that despite overt themes of friendship, loyalty,

and courage, Satan is using Yu-Gi-Oh, Pokemon, and Harry Potter to prime innocent minds

for occult suggestion and demonic influence. The idea being that if your brats are going to be

brainwashed, it should be by Pat Robertson.”

The class rumbled into laughter.

On the video, a girl cartoon figure said, “It’s a symbol of our friendship. So when Yugi’s

dueling, no matter how tough it gets, he’ll know that he’s not alone!”

Snowden drawled, “Not that Yugi is ever alone, as he’s possessed by the spirit of Yami

Yugi, the ancient Egyptian pharaoh.”

More laughter. Nothing like a captive audience.

There was a smattering of discussion before Snowden turned off the video. Someone in

the back row hit the lights.

The lecture concluded, students rose, talking, gathering books and papers, shuffling off

to the next dog and pony show.

Snowden stood at the front surrounded by a flock of the faithful, mostly female, vying

for the final crumbs of his attention. I made my way down the aisle watching him dispatch

them with smooth ease.

He was medium height, lean, with long, loose silvery hair and a haughty world-weary

face. He reminded me vaguely of Alan Rickman’s Professor Snape, except that he wore Levi’s

and Birkenstocks and a T-shirt that read, I’m not Satan, I’m merely one of his highly placed

minions.

When he smiled, which seemed to be rarely, it transformed his face, and I had a hint of

what the attraction was. I stayed on the outside of the circle until the last little bird, a

chickadee with a black mohawk, pink heart-shaped glasses, and an upside-down crucifix

necklace departed with a final curious look at me.

The professor was ejecting the video tape from the VCR as I approached. He looked up,

his eyes brilliantly green in the artificial light. Contacts, I thought. Nobody’s eyes were that

color.

“I enjoyed your lecture,” I said. “Is it your opinion, then, that the media don’t have any

particular influence over the young and suggestible?”

“That would be an indefensible position,” Snowden replied in that lazy public-school

accent. He tilted his head. “You arrived toward the end of my lecture. I prefer observers to

ask permission before they sit in.”

“Do you take a lot of heat over your curriculum?”

“This is UCLA,” he said. “I’m expected to be controversial. And you are –?”

“Curious.”

He arched a querying eyebrow.

I introduced myself, explained my relationship to Angus. I said all the usual stuff about

hoping I wasn’t catching him at a bad time and could I have a moment.

He was very brown and very muscular, like polished teak – but he exuded energy, a

virility that was anything but wooden. “So you’re Adrien English,” he murmured. “Well,

well.” He looked me up and down with a certain appraising glint that you generally don’t get

from straight guys. “Angus has spoken of you.”

I didn’t doubt it, since I’d had to read Angus the riot act on more than one occasion

when he’d blamed Snowden and the demands of academia for not getting his job done. No

stretch to think he’d used me and the bookstore in reverse circumstances.

“Have you seen Angus lately?”

He looked…guarded. Or maybe I was reading into a natural reservation about what

concern of mine it was. He said finally, “He missed class Friday and again today. No word of

explanation.”

“There may be extenuating circumstances,” I said. “Were you aware that he was being

harassed by former classmates?”

Once again Snowden raised the most supercilious eyebrow this side of the royal family.

“I was not,” he said finally.

“Apparently Angus and some other kids took a course with you called ‘Practical Magic.’

Witchcraft in modern society. Anyway, the enterprising little tykes went off and started

their very own coven – but I imagine you already know that.”

“Ridiculous,” he said sharply.

“What is ridiculous?”

“Why, the idea that a student – my students – would attempt to put into practice –”

He stopped.

I shrugged. He smelled a bit like pipe tobacco, which I like, and Masculine, which I

wear myself on occasion. I found it just the least bit distracting.

“You think these…classmates are harassing Angus? Exactly what do you mean by

harassing?”

“Curses – I don’t mean cussing, I mean threats – I’ve heard a few of the phone calls.

Alexander Graham Bell would not be happy.”

The green eyes narrowed. I had to admit that expression was not quite as enjoyable as

the way he’d originally looked at me.

When I failed to be razed to cinders, he asked, “What is it you think you can do about

this?”

“Well, I can start by talking to you. If you have any influence over the little shits,

perhaps you can warn them off. Maybe they don’t get that making threatening phone calls

violates both state and federal law.”

“And if I don’t…if I am unable to influence them?”

“Then I’ll talk to them.”

He spluttered. “Talk to whom? What makes you think I know who these…these

juvenile delinquents are?”

I’d figured this was likely a waste of time. If Angus trusted Snowden, or believed

Snowden could help him, he would have gone to him himself. But I was working at a

disadvantage. Snowden was the single lead I had. I said, “If you didn’t know, I think you

probably would have said so up front.”

His eyes flickered, acknowledging the truth of this. He either knew or strongly

suspected who these assholes were. “How are you qualified to deal with this sort of thing?

What makes you imagine you won’t make it worse by butting in?”

“It’s my experience this kind of thing thrives on secrecy. When you drag it into the

light, when you make it public, it tends to shrivel up and blow away.”

“Had a lot of experience with cults, have you?” he asked sardonically.

I said evenly, “We’ve all had experience with bullies. You can dress this in black and

teach it to quote bad poetry, but it’s still the same animal.”

His turned off the television set. Back to me, he said quietly, “I have no proof, but I

have my suspicions. Will you allow me to deal with this in my own way?”

“If you truly will deal with it.”

He glanced over his shoulder, his smile askew. “Word of honor.”

He offered a well-shaped, strong hand.

We shook on it. His grip was warm, just the right amount of pressure. I wondered how

far I should trust to the honor of one of Satan’s highly placed minions.

* * * * *

Bob Friedlander was waiting for me at Cloak and Dagger.

“We wanted to stop by and thank you for Friday night.”

We, White Man? Maybe he meant the publishing house; there was sure no sign of

Gabriel Savant.

“The pleasure was ours,” I said. “We had a great turnout. One of the best ever.” Angus

was the fan. He had pushed for that signing – and he had been right. It had been a success.

The shame was that Angus hadn’t been around to enjoy it.

“I hope you sold a lot of books?”

“We did very well.”

Friedlander appeared to be perusing the bookshelves behind the desk where Gabriel

had signed books.

Curiously, I inquired, “Was that announcement at the end for real? Is there a cult

expose in the works?”

He spared me a harassed look. “No. I can’t imagine what Gabe was thinking.” He stood

on tiptoe to examine the shelf above his head.

“So there is no book planned?”

“Absolutely not. It was a publicity stunt. A dumb stunt.” He removed a couple of books

from the shelf.

“What did you lose?” I asked.

His heard jerked my way. “Huh? Nothing. Well, actually…yes. You didn’t happen to

find a…a disk, did you?”

“What kind of a disk?” I was thinking favorite CD.

Friedlander looked flustered. “A floppy. It has research notes on it.”

“You think you lost it here?”

“I didn’t lose it,” he said irritably. “Gabe thinks he lost it. He’d had a lot to drink Friday

night, in case you didn’t notice.”

And he was walking around with a floppy disk stuck in his skin-tight leather jeans?

“I’m pretty sure I would have noticed a loose disk by now,” I said. “I can keep an eye out for

it.”

This must be some valuable disk if Savant was afraid to go anywhere without it – in

which case, how had he managed to lose track of it?

Reluctantly Friedlander turned back to me. “That would be great,” he said without

enthusiasm.

“This research,” I said, “would it have anything to do with the book Savant isn’t

writing?”

The glasses glinted blindly. “There is no book.”

“But maybe there should be?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. You have no idea what you’re talking

about.”

“And Savant apparently had no idea what he was talking about, so that makes it

unanimous. All the same, this isn’t idle curiosity. I’ve heard rumors of a group here in LA.”

Friedlander stared at me. “My advice to you,” he said. “The next time you hear rumors?

Cover your ears.”

Chapter Three

Toward the end of Saturday’s brunch, Lisa wrangled a promise from me to meet “our

new family” for dinner Monday night. When I questioned the urgency, she had blushed, said

that she and the councilman were considering a winter wedding.

“You mean…this winter?”

She nodded eagerly. “If we can pull it off.”

Having spent years watching Lisa organize all kinds of last-minute emergency fund-

raisers and charity functions, I figured she could have marshaled a full-scale military

campaign in less time. I had no doubt the “golden, mellow wedding bells would be ringing

through the night, ringing out in all delight,” or whatever the hell it was Poe said in “The

Bells.”

“How extended is our new family?” I’d inquired cautiously.

“Bill has three lovely daughters.” She gave a long, sentimental sigh. “I never had a

daughter, and now I’ll have three.”

“You don’t even like girls.”

She looked indignant. “Of course I like girls!”

“You sure never liked any girl I brought home.”

“None of those girls was right for you, Adrien.”

She had a point there.

I figured the least I could do was keep the English end up – in a manner of speaking. I

closed the shop as soon as I reasonably could, showered, shaved, and hauled the charcoal

gray Hugo Boss suit out of the back of my closet. The last time I’d worn it had been to Robert

Hersey’s funeral. My mood wasn’t a lot more cheerful that evening.

I brightened a bit driving the Forester. Nothing like a new toy. I did a kind of Car and

Driver interior monologue – smooth ride with decent acceleration…light but responsive

steering – as I pulled onto the freeway. Thoughts of battling the forces of evil temporarily

took a back seat.

We were meeting at Pacific Dining Car on West 6th Street in Los Angeles. Starting out

as a railway dining car parked on a rented lot in downtown Los Angeles, the legendary

family-owned restaurant has been around since 1921. This was the place where the city’s

bigwigs, politicians, lawyers, and businessmen broke bread and cut their deals. It was pricey,

but unpretentious. The food (and wine list) was excellent. I thought it was a good sign that

we were dining there rather than at another overpriced, trendy eatery.

Our party had already been seated by the time I arrived, but Lisa came to meet me as I

made my way across the dining room. She looked radiant in something blue and beaded. Her

eyes were shining, her cheeks were flushed; she didn’t look a day over forty.

“Oh, darling, you look so handsome,” she whispered before hauling me off to meet the

Gang of Four.

Dauten rose from the head of the table to meet me. I’ve got to admit he was not at all

what I expected.

“Adrien.” He gave me a curt nod, though his handshake was hearty. He was big, bigger

than Jake even, though soft around the middle. Big and bald. His eyes were a shrewd Dutch–

Boy blue in his darkly tanned face. He would never have been good-looking, and I didn’t get

the impression he wasted a lot of time being charming. But he had a definite air of authority.

The aura of power. It would have been hard to find anyone more unlike my slim and

sophisticated father.

“Sir.” I tried to apply the right amount of pressure returning his handshake. Did these

people know I was gay? Was that going to be a problem? Not that I gave a damn what they

thought, but if Lisa had her heart set on this, I sure as hell didn’t want to be the deal breaker.

“Call me Bill.”

Thank God, because I was never going to call this guy Pop.

“And here are the girls,” fluted Lisa, sounding nervous.

There seemed to be a mob of them. Lisa was right; they were lovely. I was briefly

enveloped in a butterfly swarm of scented breasts and long legs and silky hair as the girls

maneuvered around each other, hugging and bussing cheeks with me, smiling meaningfully

at each other, and changing their seats for some unfathomable reason.

Once we were all seated, I realized there were only three of them. The eldest, Lauren,

looked about my age. She wore a wedding ring, though there was no sign of a husband. The

youngest, Emma, was twelve.

Their drinks arrived. My order for a double was taken by a sympathetic-looking waiter.

Everyone proceeded to talk at once.

“Adrien writes murder mysteries as well as owning a bookstore,” Lisa was explaining to

Dauten. I wondered if she’d waited till five minutes before dinner to break the news that she

had a grown son. “They’re terribly clever and terribly malicious, which is so surprising,

because he was always the most gentle little boy.”

“Her accent is too adorable,” Lauren said of my English-born mum, mercifully breaking

my concentration. “I just love to hear her talk.”

“Oh, me too,” I said. “Especially right now.”

On my right, the kid, Emma, giggled. I grinned at her.

Lauren and the middle girl (what the hell was her name?) were tall, willowy blondes,

good-looking in an All-American, Ralph Lauren advert way. The kid was thin and lanky

with glossy black hair and rosy cheeks. She had inherited the family blue eyes, which were

striking with her dark hair. She looked a lot like Lisa. She could have passed for her

daughter – or my sister.

“We adore Lisa,” the middle one (Nancy? Natasha?) reassured me. “She’s so good for

Daddy. He worships her.”

I saw Dauten patting Lisa’s hand with his giant paw as she chattered away. He wore a

gold signet on his pinky finger. The backs of his hands were covered in black hair. I reached

gratefully for the double Chivas Regal the waiter appeared with and knocked half of it back

in one gulp.

“Was the traffic awful?” Lauren asked sympathetically.

“We’ll all have to come to your bookstore,” the Middle One told me. “I love mysteries!

That’s all I read. We’ll tell everybody. We’ll get all our friends to go. You know, I always

wanted to work in a bookstore.”

The kid, Emma, who had been eyeing me steadily, said all at once, “You look like

someone. I know who. You look like the actor in that movie. Red River.”

“John Wayne?”

She giggled. Yeah, she was a cutie.

The Middle One, Natalie – Natalie – said proudly, “Emma likes black-and-white

movies,” as though the small fry had just received her Mensa card in the mail.

“What movies do you like?” I asked Emma.

I never heard her response, because Lauren leaned across the table, whispering like the

Girl from U.N.C.L.E. on duty, “So, what do you think about this plan for a New Year’s Eve

wedding, Adrien?”

“Uh…”

“It doesn’t give us nearly enough time,” Natalie put in, equally covert ops. “We’ve got

to stall them.”

“We’ve still got to get ready for Christmas,” Lauren told me. “Oh, by the way, you’re

having Christmas with us this year, did Lisa tell you?”

“I’m going to be a junior bridesmaid,” Emma piped next to me.

“You’re going to give the bride away,” Natalie told me.

I signaled for another drink.

* * * * *

We said our good-byes in the restaurant parking lot, Lisa and the other girls piling into

Dauten’s Jag as the rain began to patter down. The Jag sped past, a blur of waving hands and

smiling faces. I pulled off my tie, tossed it on the passenger seat.

The misty rain got heavier as I turned onto the 110 freeway. I popped a CD in the new

player: Patty Griffin’s 1000 Kisses. The melancholy opening notes filled the silent car in time

with the swish of the windshield wipers.

Of course, the perfect finishing touch would have been getting pulled over for a DUI,

so I was very careful driving home. Careful and depressed. I think it was hearing all the

details of the forthcoming Christmas extravaganza that sent my emotions into a tailspin.

I like Christmas. Not as much as I liked it when I was a kid, but I do enjoy it. Yeah, I

know it’s become cheapened and tawdry and commercialized, but that doesn’t change the

reason for the season. And, of course, it’s absolutely the best time of year for Cloak and

Dagger Books.

The problem I have with Christmas is the problem most single people have with

Christmas, which is that, if you’re single, it is absolutely the loneliest time of year.

It would have been a lot lonelier if I hadn’t had Lisa and a handful of good friends. And

this year I had Jake. Sort of.

Naturally I wanted to spend Christmas with Jake, but I realized that was unlikely. He

would spend it with his family, who after forty years apparently had no clue that James

Patrick Riordan had a yen for men. Despite the fact that he spent a couple of nights a week

under my roof and in my bed, there was no way that Jake was going to set them straight (as it

were).

Nor was he likely to spend Christmas on my turf. He wasn’t thrilled about the fact that

my mother and Chan, his partner on the force, knew we had a relationship. Add four more

strangers to the mix, and I’d probably never see him again.

Jake had vacation time coming – he always had vacation time coming, because he was

a workaholic – and for a while I had toyed with the idea of trying to persuade him to take a

trip for the holidays. I thought that on neutral ground, someplace where no one knew either

of us, he might relax again, and we might regain the closeness we had shared the previous

spring. But I had never got around to asking him – mostly because I was fairly sure he’d say

no.

There were a few forlorn Christmas lights as I drove down Colorado Boulevard. The

lamppost holly wreaths had a windblown, ghost-town look. I turned off onto the quiet side

street, driving past mostly dark shops and closed businesses.

I lived over the bookstore. The building had originally been a small hotel built back in

the ’30s. I’d bought the place not long after I’d inherited a chunk of change from my paternal

grandmother. I’d graduated from Stanford with a degree in literature and a vague idea that

running a bookstore would be a good day job for a writer. A decade later it turned out that

writing wasn’t a bad hobby for a guy who ran a bookstore.

Old Town was a happening place at night, but not in my neighborhood. Around here it

emptied out about eight o’clock. Generally I liked the privacy. Tonight it felt lonely.

I wondered if Jake might have left a message on the answering machine, but I knew

that was unlikely. I wouldn’t see him tonight, not two nights in a row. The CD started over. I

listened to the sweet sorrowful chords of “Rain,” reached over to turn off the player.

Turning into the alley behind the store, my headlights slid across the brick wall of the

back of the building. I caught a gleam, like eyes shining in the gloom. I had a confused

glimpse of something uncomfortably like heels disappearing out of the spotlight of my

headlights. I jammed on the brakes.

Had I imagined it?

I waited, engine idling, exhaust red in the Forester’s taillights, windshield wipers

squeaking against the glass.

No movement in the shadows.

A cat, I thought.

A really tall cat.

A really tall cat wearing sneakers.

I took my foot off the brake, rolled quietly into my parking space. After a moment’s

hesitation, I turned off the ignition.

A gust of wind sent a milk carton skittering along the asphalt. It was the only sound in

the alley, the only movement.

I got out of the SUV and went inside.

* * * * *

Things looked brighter in the morning, but that was due to sunshine slicing through

the leaden cloud cover, not any emotional epiphany on my part.

I had requested that the temp agency open another can of sales associates. They sent

me Mrs. Tum. Mrs. T was a diminutive and elderly lady with practically no English, which

provided insight into how the agency perceived my business.

Mrs. Tum also appeared to be rather excitable in nature, as I discovered when she tried

to explain to me about the graffiti on the front step.

Finally, when I was still no comprende-ing, Mrs. T grabbed my arm with her doll-sized

hands and hauled me outside, where I had an up close and personal view of what appeared to

be a pentagram drawn in blood on my threshold.

Chapter Four

“Still think it’s harmless fun?” Jake inquired, after I had finished filing my complaint

with the uniformed patrolman who answered my call.

“Refresh my memory. When did I ever say I didn’t take this crap seriously?”

“Quiet,” he muttered, as the officer returned after a brief conference with his

compadre.

“It’s not blood,” Officer Hinojosa informed me. “The color is a good match, but it’s

paint.”

Not blood was good. Very good. I let out the breath I seemed to have been holding for

the last hour.

“Not blood? Just…custom color, huh? Well, is it okay if I wash the evidence away? It’s

liable to wreck the Christmas vibe.” I had already used my digital camera to take several

photos of the artwork. Not that I had high hopes that they were going to be bringing anyone

to trial in the near future.

Hinojosa shook his head regretfully. “It’s enamel. Quick drying. I don’t think you can

wash it. I think you have to paint over it.”

“Nah, it’ll come off with paint solvent,” the other uniform said, joining us.

“Not if it’s dried.”

“Yeah, it’ll come off if you put some elbow grease into it.”

“No. But you might be able to cover it with that concrete resurfacing paint.”

“You could try that Goof Off stuff.”

It was like Home Improvement with guns. Jake gave it up after a minute or two and

stepped inside the shop. I waited it out. Eventually they called a draw, told me to have a nice

day, got back in their patrol car, and drove away.

I located Jake cornered by Mrs. T at the coffeemaker.

I wasn’t exactly sure why or how Jake had appeared on the scene of what, after all, was

merely a vandalism complaint, but I had been glad to see him. Mrs. T did not seem similarly

reassured. Her doll arms were flailing around like the button on her remote control was

stuck. I made out one word in ten of that rapid-fire exchange.

“What language is that?” Jake inquired, sotto voce, as I joined them.

“I thought it was Spanish, but I’m beginning to think she’s speaking in tongues.”

“It’s not Spanish.”

I nodded earnestly, smiled at Mrs. T like I’ve seen legions of immigrant workers do to

Lisa when they don’t have a clue what she’s requesting of them.

She shook her head at my obvious stupidity and stalked away. Jake took off his

sunglasses, picked up my camera. He studied the photos in the monitor.

“What did you plan on doing with these?”

I knew I was going to have to come clean sooner or later, so I said, “I’m not sure. I

thought I might show them to Angus’s professor at UCLA.”

His gaze narrowed on me like he was lining me in the crosshairs.

“What professor is that?”

“Van Helsing,” I said at random, hesitating (not sure why) to give up Snowden to the

long arm of the law. “Didn’t I mention –?”

He was not amused. “I don’t recall the name of the professor being mentioned. I wasn’t

aware you knew the guy’s name. Are you telling me you’ve talked to him?”

“Briefly.”

“Why would you do that? Why wouldn’t you just give me his name and let me deal

with it? Seeing that it’s what I’m paid to do.”

He had a point, so I responded a little irritably. “I don’t know, Jake. Speaking from

personal experience, it’s not exactly a joy ride when the police show up at your place of

employment asking questions. I didn’t know that it was warranted.”

“Warranted?” His face tightened. “That’s not for you to decide. You’re not a cop. I told

you I wanted to talk to Angus, that I thought there was a chance he might be able to provide

a lead on these killings. You didn’t think I’d be interested in knowing the name of the