Blood Bond asc-9 Page 2

  Tracey is about to start asking questions again, I can see it in the confused way she looks from David to me.

  I made this mess; I’d better clean it up.

  I wave a hand and laugh. “Foget it, Tracey. Gloria is old news—a joke between David and me. It was over a long time ago.”

  I see David’s shoulders relax ever so slightly.

  But so does Tracey. Her eyes tighten at the corners. “Are you sure?”

  And then, as if stage directed to enter at precisely the right moment, someone opens the door to our office.

  The three of us swivel toward it. I might be imagining it, but a wave of relief at the interruption is so palpable, our visitor seems to feel it, too. He pauses, hand on the door, his expression curious but detached.

  “Am I interrupting?” Detective Harris says.

  Shit. “When aren’t you interrupting?” I groan under my breath.

  He comes in and closes the door behind him. He is smiling, but he’s a cop. A middle-aged, built-like-a-boxer, craggy-faced bulldog of a cop. His smiles can’t be trusted. He was involved in the Gloria Estrella fiasco, which brings David’s shoulders up again. But we both know he isn’t here about that long-closed case.

  Harris strides over to the visitor’s chair and pulls it up to the desk. He turns it around and straddles it backward, grinning. “Hope you all had a good holiday.”

  Small talk? And now he’s grinning. Christ. This can’t be good. When no one follows up with the usual banalities about how good their holidays were, I pipe in. “What can we do for you?”

  Harris ignores my question and directs one to Tracey. “How’s the bounty-hunting business treating you, Officer Banker?”

  “Ex-officer,” Tracey spits back with the malevolence of a striking rattlesnake, her ferocity startling us all.

  Jaw clenched, she adds, “As you well know since it was at your recommendation that I was granted disability retirement.”

  I snap to attention at this unexpected bit of information—and at the heat in Tracey’s response. I’d assumed Tracey had agreed to retirement after an off-duty scuffle with an armed bank robber resulted in a hero’s commendation and a back injury. Should have known after seeing Tracey in action with us that it hadn’t been her choice to retire from the force.

  She’s on her feet now, gathering the tax papers we’d assembled and the sheaf of receipts I was working on and stuffing them into a large envelope with jabs that would do a boxer proud. “I’ll take these downtown,” she says, jaw tight. “Finish it there. See you later.”

  And she’s gone . . . fairly flying out the door. David and I look at each other and then at Harris.

  “Well. I don’t think she likes you very much,” David says.

  Harris shifts in his chair. The fact that he didn’t jump to defend his actions with Tracey makes me think he might realize he acted precipitously in forcing her to retire. “I’m sorry she’s still so angry,” he says.

  David shakes his head. “It’s not Anna and me you should be apologizing to. It’s Tracey.” He pushes back his chair and gets to his feet. “I’m going with her.” He’s looking at Harris, daring the detective to try to stop him.

  Harris lifts his shoulders. “Tell her I didn’t mean to upset her,” he says quietly.

  David mumbles something that sounds a lot like “right, you fucking jerk” and brushes past Harris.

  Then it’s just the two of us alone in the office.

  Yippee.

  “I see your social skills haven’t improved.”

  Then, since I think I’m going to need fortification, I get up and head for the coffeemaker in the corner. “Want coffee?”

  If Harris hears the reluctance in my offer, he ignores it. He joins me at the credenza and takes a mug off the counter. He pours creamer and what looks like a quarter cup of sugar into it before swirling the mug until I think the contents are going to spill over the sides and onto the floor. They don’t.

  I watch the performance with raised eyebrows. “Ever heard of a spoon?” I ask dryly.

  He’s already tipped the mug to his lips, but he allows a smile. “Haven’t spilled a drop yet.”

  We take our coffee back to the desk. This time he plops himself down in David’s chair. We drink for a couple of minutes until I can stand the staring contest no longer.

  “Christ, Harris, are you ever going to tell me why you’re here?”

  He tilts his head back, draining his mug. “You can’t guess?”

  Sure, I can guess. He’s been badgering me ever since the former chief of police, Warren Williams, was found murdered, burned to ashes, outside of Palm Springs several months ago. Of course, he doesn’t know that Williams was a vampire. But the details of his death and the unconventional forensic evidence found at the scene, two-hundred-year-old DNA to be precise, and the fact that Williams and I were known to have had a contentious relationship have elevated me to the top position in his list of “persons of interest.” No matter that there is not a shred of evidence to link me to the crime.

  But I want him to bring it up so I stay quiet.

  Finally, he does.

  “It’s about Judith Williams.”

  Not what I was expecting, though as bad luck would have it, I have knowledge of that Williams’ death, too. Warren Williams’ wife, also a vampire, met her own grisly end at the point of an arrow.

  I feign innocence. “Chief Williams’ wife? Didn’t I read that she’d gone missing several months back?”

  “You did. Is that all you know, what you read in the newspapers?”

  Now I’ve been around long enough to know the cops don’t generally ask questions they haven’t already answered—at least to themselves—so I frame my reply around a question. “I thought the FBI had taken over the case?”

  “They had, yes. But I was informed yesterday that they’re no longer pursuing it. Which means to us real cops that they hit a dead end. Decided to clear it off their books and throw it back to the locals.”

  He pauses, watching me, as if waiting for some kind of response. You’d think he knew me well enough by now to know the odds he’ll get one are as infinitesimal as the odds we’ll ever share a bed. When I stare back at him, mouth clamped tightly shut, he finally gives up.

  “So,” he says, picking up the conversation as if he’d never hesitated, “I’ve got all these reports from the FBI investigation. And I’m exercising due diligence by going over each and every one, and imagine my surprise when a familiar name pops up.” He gets up and walks back to the coffeemaker, casual as an old sweater, taking time to pour himself a second mug and going through the “sugar, cream, swirl and slosh” routine. Then he takes a breath and turns to face me with the smug expression of a movie detective about to expose the villain in a room full of suspects.

  Only there’s no room full of suspects. Only me. I know what he’s going to say. Before he gets the chance, I figure I’ll pop his balloon. “It’s no biggie, Harris. Yes. I was in Monument Valley same time as Judith Williams. But I only saw her once. Ran into her at the lodge. She was with a man I’d never seen before. I was there with Daniel Frey, visiting his son. We said hello to her, went our separate ways. End of story.”

  I touch the tip of my nose. Nope. It’s not growing.

  Harris puts his mug down on the credenza. “That’s what the report said. Funny thing, it’s just about word for word the same thing that you said about being in Palm Springs when Warren Williams was killed. And Daniel Frey was with you then, too.”

  I eye him over the rim of my mug and snort. “My, that is a coincidence.”

  I shouldn’t have pushed it with that last sarcastic remark. Harris’ patience explodes with the impact of a rock through a window. “There are a hell of a lot of coincidences with you, lady. I don’t believe in coincidences. The FBI may have dropped the case, but I won’t. Not ever. Get used to this face because I’ll be looking over your shoulder every minute until I figure out how you managed to be in the vicinity of no
t one, but two murders.” He pushes out of the chair. “There’s something not right about you. You’re a puzzle. I don’t like puzzles. But I’m damned good at solving them.”

  He turns on his heel and storms out of the office. His threat, because that’s just what it was, trails behind him like a bitter wake.

  I put my head against the back of the chair. Harris and I have a relationship that teeter-totters up and down. Not too long ago, I thought we might be on our way to becoming if not exactly pals, at least tolerant of each other. Obviously I overestimated.

  His words echo in my head. Something’s not quite right with me?

  I get up and take our mugs back to the credenza.

  A little overly dramatic but what a master of understatement. I’m vampire, for shit’s sake.

  I’m surprised he didn’t ask me again about the mysterious two-hundred-year-old DNA found where Warren Williams’ was killed.

  At least that’s one sleeping dog he didn’t kick.

  CHAPTER 3

  I TAKE MY COFFEE OUT TO THE DECK THAT SPANS THE back of our office. I sink into a chair and let the sun soothe my frazzled nerves. Harris is not going to let his suspicions about me go, no matter how circumstantial they appear to be.

  Only I know his instincts are dead-on. Just my luck to get a really good detective on the case.

  I’m still on the deck when Tracey and David come back to the office less than an hour after Harris’ abrupt departure.

  David looks in to make sure Harris is gone.

  I get up and come inside. “It’s safe. Harris left to find somebody else to harass.”

  He motions Tracey inside. She goes right to the coat-rack, grabs her jacket and waves a hand at me before standing on tiptoe to give David’s cheek a peck.

  “See you at the condo?”

  Her good humor has obviously been restored.

  David gives her shoulder a squeeze. “I’ll stop at Sammi’s for takeout and see you in twenty.”

  She smiles at me. “See? You’re not the only one who found a good guy. Want to join us for lunch?”

  “Good guy?” I feign shock and look around. “Where?”

  Tracey laughs and I continue. “Rain check for lunch. I have some stuff to do.”

  “When your guy gets to town, we’ll double-date for sure.” She reaches up and pinches David’s cheek. “Won’t that be fun?”

  David groans and closes his eyes. “I can’t think of anything funner.”

  Tracey heads out. When the door has closed behind her, David drops the comedy routine and turns anxious eyes to me. I expect him to tear me a new one over the Gloria Estrella thing this morning. Instead, he surprises me.

  “What did Harris want?” he asks.

  Relieved, I fill him in. Ever since David started having fractured memories of an evening not too many months ago when he and Judith Williams spent the night together, he’s had more than a casual interest in her, too. I could help him fill in those gaps but doing so might trigger another memory I’d rather leave buried . . . the memory of Judith telling him that she was a vampire.

  And that I was one, too.

  The fact that she disappeared (and I know is dead) granted me reprieve but left David with questions he’ll never get answered. I made up a story of a drunken rave where he was drugged and had sex with not only Judith, but others as well. A story part true—he was drugged and he actually did have several sexual partners that weekend—part fiction—there was no drunken rave. Judith Williams kidnapped him to ensure my presence at a little soiree she had planned. But casual sex is so far out of character for David, he was determined to question Judith Williams himself.

  Something that now is never going to happen.

  David listens to me as I reprise Harris’ frustration that he can’t pin either Williams’ disappearance on me.

  “Why would he do that?” David asks, his own frustration adding an edge to his voice. “Just because you were a friend of her husband’s? He’s making you a scapegoat for his own incompetence. If he comes sniffing around again, I think you should file a harassment suit.”

  He grabs his jacket from the back of the chair. “Got to run. Finding a place to park around Sammi’s at this time of day is going to be a bitch.”

  “David?”

  He stops at the door and turns around.

  “I want to fix up the guest room in the cottage for John-John. I don’t have any experience decorating for a boy. I thought maybe you could help me pick out some stuff?”

  His eyes widen. “Wow. You aren’t kidding about this relationship being serious, are you?”

  I shrug. “And who knows? Maybe this will be good practice for you and Tracey?”

  He holds up a hand. “Whoa. Not even remotely ready for anything like that.” Then he grins. “But I’d love to help you. When do you want to go?”

  I look over the desktop calendar. “We don’t have anything going on tomorrow. After lunch?”

  “Sounds good. I know just the place to go, too.”

  Before I can ask where, he’s out the door. Is it my imagination or was that smile on his face one of genuine delight at the prospect? Who would have thunk it?

  * * *

  THE CLOSER IT GETS TO FREY AND JOHN-JOHN’S VISIT, the first time they’ll be staying at the cottage, the more excited I get. I had all the furniture in my guest room moved into a storage area I share with my parents and set about deciding on a color for the walls. They’re vanilla-bean bland right now. Perfectly suited for the (very) few adult visitors I’ve ever had and for the cherry bed and dresser formerly occupying the space. Not suited for an active five-year-old. I spend the afternoon looking through home-decorating magazines and the next morning at Lowe’s picking up swatches and paint samples.

  It’s one when I get to the office.

  The voice mail indicator is blinking. Since Tracey and David are MIA, maybe at lunch, I dial in and take the message. It’s one of the bondsmen we work for out of L.A. and he has a tip. A skip he’s been looking for was spotted eating lunch at Jake’s in Del Mar. I call him back, tell him we’re on it. I pull the guy’s file. Wanted for two counts of aggravated assault. Skipped his first hearing. If he’s not in custody by five p.m. this afternoon, his bond is forfeit. Fifty thousand dollars. Not a big payday for us but it’d take care of the tax bill, so after scribbling a hasty note to David and Tracey, I take off.

  Since becoming vampire, much of my life has been consumed with adjusting to a dual nature. Most of that has been concealing that dual nature from the people I care for most. Every once in a while I enjoy giving the vamp free rein and setting out on my own to bring in a skip (especially one wanted for violent crimes) without Tracey and David along. I don’t have to pretend I’m not as strong as I am or as fast or as invulnerable.

  The guy is right where the bondsman said he’d be. He’s seated in the patio area in the back of the restaurant so I watch as he finishes his meal, pays the check (with cash), takes one last pull of a cup of coffee and starts for the door.

  He isn’t a big guy, five-nine I’d guess, and slight of build. He’s wearing a suit and tie and good shoes. He looks like any other businessman grabbing a quick lunch before heading back to the office. He doesn’t look like the type who beat the crap out of his ex-wife twice before she got the nerve to press charges. What he’s doing here in Del Mar I have no idea. And I couldn’t care less.

  The suit is well tailored and I see no telltale bulges that would indicate a gun. ’Course, he could be wearing an ankle holster. Or carrying a knife. The vampire hopes he goes for it.

  I’ve already set the trap. The hood on my Jag is up and I’m leaning over the engine with a puzzled look of feminine bewilderment.

  He has to stroll right by and right on cue, he stops, whether from my predicament or the outline of my ass against a pair of tight jeans, I can only guess.

  “Having trouble?” he asks.

  I straighten and sigh. “It’s the third time this week. Can’t get it
to start.”

  He joins me so that our hips are touching. “Don’t know too much about foreign cars, but let me have a look.”

  He bends over and begins touching this cable and that piston, checking gaskets and pulleys. “Well,” he says at last, “I can’t see anything. Do you have AAA?”

  I nod. “Just called them. It’ll be about thirty minutes.”

  My left hand is resting on the edge of the engine well and he places his right hand over mine. “You’re cold. Let’s go inside. I’d be happy to buy you a drink while we wait for them.”

  I slip my hand out from under his, grasp his wrist and he’s handcuffed before he can say, “What the fuck?”

  He struggles, but not too much. My grip is tight. He looks at me and snipes, “You’re strong for a woman. What are you? A fucking dyke?”

  Nice. I pat him down, none too gently. No gun. No knife.

  I manhandle him into the backseat of the Jag. He’s cursing and yelling and demanding to know what I’m doing. But he doesn’t try to fight back or make a break for it.

  Damn it.

  I ignore his howls of protest, snapping the cuffs through a metal bar I’ve had installed on the door of the Jag for just this purpose. Once I get him to SDPD, he’ll catch on. Now I’m just disappointed I didn’t get to have any fun after all.

  * * *

  DAVID AND TRACEY ARE WAITING FOR ME WHEN I GET back. The whole episode didn’t take more than two hours. I throw the paperwork on the desk and David looks it over.

  “Didn’t give you any trouble?”

  Not really a question. Little veins are bulging at his temple. He’s pissed.

  I pretend not to notice, knowing what’s coming. “Nope. Cakewalk.”

  He purses his lips. “I thought we decided we wouldn’t do any lone-ranger pickups. This guy is wanted for aggravated assault. He could have given you trouble.”

  I can’t say what I’m thinking—that a little trouble was what I went looking for—so I just smile like I don’t understand his irritation. “Worked out fine. Came along gentle as a little lamb.”