The Billionaire's Heir (Sucubus For Hire Book 1)

by Michael Don Anderson

  “The Feds don’t put a full team into place until there’s been a money demand.”

  I frowned, rubbing my face to simulate the blood. “That’s not right.”

  “Let me rephrase it. When a ransom-demand’s made, the FBI begins a full scale effort to track the incoming phone calls. They identify the voices of the callers. They run a hundred checks and double-checks they don’t do if no money’s requested. Because no phone call’s come in.”

  “And what would the benefit of that be?”

  “I don’t follow?”

  “If there’s no money to be had and the FBI doesn’t try to identify the ransomers—what does it buy the kidnappers?”

  “Time. Only time.” Chandler whistled softly. “Time to do what?”

  “Can Vincent get them access to his grandfather’s assets? Safe deposit boxes? A hidden vault? Real estate titles?”

  Chandler shook his head. “The old man’s too savvy for that. Vincent can’t help them in anyway. Not financially. Other than his personal accounts.”

  “So then time for what? What else? What are we missing!”

  “To get him out of the country?” suggested the man.

  “Again, why? To ask for money later, once he’s overseas? Seems unnecessarily complicated.”

  “Fine, smarty pants. You tell me why then.”

  “I don’t know. I’d have better guesses if the two missing security guards turned up.”

  He was quiet a minute. “Anyone checking recent John Does at the morgue?”

  I stared at him. “Wouldn’t the FBI do that? Or even Amperdyne itself?”

  “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  He frowned at me. “You won’t like it. I’m a bit of a pessimist.”

  “Wow me.”

  He shook his head. “Better still, let’s check it out personally.”

  He refused to tell me his suspicions. I couldn’t take him entirely serious. Surely two powerful security-conscious groups like the Feds and Amperdyne would check everything even remotely plausible.

  I actually dozed off. Content. A smile playing on my lips when I woke. No dreams. Succubi don’t dream. At least, I never did. Never reached REM state. Not the way humans did.

  The car slowed. We were in underground parking. “Where are we?”

  “LA County Morgue. Just pulling into the garage now.”

  “They just let us in?”

  He grinned. “I have my ways, Missy.”

  “Whatever. Now you gonna tell me what we’re looking for?”

  “What part of ‘see for ourselves’ don’t you understand?” His expression was playfully mocking. But I saw a hint of pain in his eyes. How many men’s or boy’s ego could I crush in one day?

  “Fine. Forget I ever thought you were a great communicator.”

  His eyes widened. “You did?”

  “I said forget it.”

  I wasn’t dizzy getting out of the car. The blackout had been the result of a biofeedback loop. It had happened once before. I’d done it to myself when I’d shut down my power that hard and fast. Now I was fine. No. Better than fine. I was well fed.

  I realized there’d been a goat waiting for me at the office most of the day. The bleating would’ve driven my renters mad. Oh well, nothing to be done about it now.

  We took the elevator down to the basement. There was an annex to the morgue that the county used during heavy casualties. Today that section was closed.

  Chandler brushed through the swinging double-doors ahead of me. I entered in time to hear a doctor with a facemask challenge him.

  “Who are you?”

  She was blonde. Hair in a bun. Hands covered by latex gloves. Held up like before surgery. A habit to avoid touching something unintentionally.

  Chandler gave her his best scoundrel smile. “Me? I’m nobody. My friend, she’s definitely somebody. But we don’t use names in our organization. We’re here to help you out.”

  “Help me out?” The doctor reached for a button that I was sure called security.

  “I wouldn’t touch that if I was you. The police might find an extra body in one of them drawers.”

  I stared at Chandler but he didn’t bat an eye.

  “What do you want?” she demanded. Afraid. The beret was still in my car. She stared at my horns.

  “I told you! To help you out. Where are your John Does?”

  Her brows knit together in annoyance. “We don’t have any.”

  “None? Is that even possible?” Chandler looked doubtful. Whether he doubted the morgue attendant or himself I couldn’t tell. “I’m thinking maybe incomplete remains? Charred? Amputated?”

  “Oh. Those.” She nodded, and motioned with her upheld hand.

  We walked to a far set of metal tables. They were pushed up together to form a bigger station to work. She eyed him anxiously. Something about him more frightening than my horns. He hadn’t drawn his weapon, but if she dealt with enough law enforcement, she’d have seen the weight of the guns under his jacket.

  “We’re associated with law enforcement. Ignore his earlier threat. Please.”

  I smiled. She didn’t return it. But she seemed to believe me. Her fear turned to begrudging cooperation.

  “Well, we weren’t sure just how many bodies there were so we haven’t categorized them yet. All we can tell so far is that they’re human.” She glanced at my horns and jerked her gaze away.

  “What state are they in?”

  She walked to the far side of the tables, putting them between her and us. Her attention stayed on us, not on the body parts clustered together. I looked down. The smell alone warned me what we’d see.

  “Burned. Down to the bones. Arms and legs cut into individual servings.”

  I glanced up at her. “They were eaten?”

  The doctor had the grace to look embarrassed. “No. Just a poor turn of phrase.”

  “Cut how?” asked Chandler. He nudged me with a sleeved shoulder. “See why I didn’t want to say anything?”

  “A warning might’ve been nice. I don’t like it when my victims smell like barbeque.”

  The doctor eyed us with interest. Our banter reassured her further. Refreshingly, she wasn’t preternatural-phobic. “Limbs were cut by a chainsaw. Nothing unique about the make or model. One of thousands sold yearly in the city.”

  “Damn.”

  I touched him. Forcing him to look up at me. “You were hoping torn off? Bitten?”

  “Either would’ve told us more than a chainsaw.”

  “Fair enough. You think it’s the two security guards.”

  Chandler nodded and glanced at the doctor. “Any DNA available?”

  “Cooked through and through. Faces smashed in, too. No dental records until we figure out how to put the teeth together. If even then.“ She paused, hopeful. “You know how many bodies we should be looking at?”

  I looked back down at the pile. “You can’t tell?”

  “Some of the pieces are charred together. Really intense heat. Hotter than a furnace. Maybe something industrial. Dunno. I admit, we’ve been slow to get to these. Gangland killings have been rampant this week. Weird though.”

  “Weird how?” I was beginning to suspect anything that occurred around the time of the kidnapping as related. At least, enough to at least question it.

  “No gunshots. Broken necks. Strangulation. Gangs don’t operate that way. But the victims were definitely bangers. Possibly a serial killer, I suppose. Don’t usually get many of those. And never ones who target gang-bangers in LA.”

  “The whys have it.”

  She blinked and then glared. “The whys have what?”

  Chandler eyed me. “Who’s on first?”

  I frowned disapprovingly as I answered her question. “Why is a serial killer attacking now? Why would it make a difference? What would happen as a result?”

  “That’s technically a what,” gibed Chandler.

  “Oh grow up!” I hissed at him.

&nbs
p; The doctor shook her head, ignoring the man. “We’d focus all our forensic resources on those bodies. We’d put available officers on tracking down the killer and his next victim. Serial killers are always LAPD top priority. Rare though they may be. And preventing retaliation from the gangs themselves against likely enemies.”

  “Which means these charred remains go to the bottom of the queue.” Chandler was getting it. No longer playing the rogue. “Which buys more time, as you keep suggesting.”

  “Time for what?” asked the morgue attendant.

  “That’s exactly the right question, Doctor.” I smiled but there was only frustration in my eyes. Not that she could see them through my sunglasses.

  “Amperdyne could probably process the remains faster than the FBI. Definitely faster than LAPD,” suggested Chandler.

  I scowled. “Have them run forensics on their own people? No. Conflict of interest. It matters if they colluded or not.”

  “Then we wait for the FBI to get around to it.”

  I pulled out my phone and called Olivia Wisniewski. She’d given me the address of the werewolves. My turn to return the favor. Although, looking at the burned mess in front of me, Wisniewski might not see it that way.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chandler was gone before the FBI arrived. I watched over the charred remains as if they might disappear now that we’d discovered them. They didn’t. No one came into the morgue except for the doctor who turned out to be the head coroner. I’d bothered to learn that her name was Helen Llewellyn. She’d graduated from UCLA medical school with the realization that she didn’t like dealing with living patients. Human ones, at any rate. Hence, the morgue.

  “Your friends are here.” Helen wasn’t happy at the intrusion. Or maybe she was and couldn’t show it. The charred remains would no longer be on her plate. That should’ve excited her.

  “Thanks.”

  Olivia Wisniewski strode in. Her partner, Abigail Hardwicke, close behind. Wisniewski didn’t even say hello. “How do you know who the remains are for sure?”

  “I told you on the phone. I don’t. Odds are just good that these are our missing security guards. They’re the only John Does in the morgue. The only lead as to what happened to them.”

  “When’d they appear?” asked Hardwicke. She watched the coroner with professional impatience.

  Doctor Llewellyn glanced at a chart rather than stating anything from memory. “Not my shift. Two days ago.”

  “Right after Vincent was kidnapped.” I eyed Wisniewski. “Burned to make identification hard, if not impossible.”

  “Faces smashed,” noted Hardwicke.

  “Exactly.”

  Hardwicke turned all of her focus to me. I suspected part of her motivation was to avoid the unpleasantly pleasant smell of the remains. BBQ human and BBQ pork had a lot in common.

  “You act like you know something. That how they were disposed of’s relevant.”

  “I have a vague theory that everything’s about buying time.”

  “Time for what?” asked both women simultaneously.

  Dr. Llewellyn barked with derisive laughter. “That’s apparently the question.” She eyed the remains and looked at me unpleasantly. Not my horns. Me. The agents. Our intrusion into her morgue had left a bad taste in her mouth. “Time isn’t something I have in excess. If you’re done with me, I’ve got bodies to process.”

  “Don’t mind us,” replied Wisniewski with a questioning glance at me.

  I watched the coroner disappear into another room before speaking. “Is forensics on its way?”

  Hardwicke nodded. “We were close when you called. They’re not too far behind. You wanna have the conversation you know we’re gonna have someplace more private?”

  “I was thinking maybe back at my office?”

  The black agent shook her head. “That’s halfway across town.”

  “Fine. I just have an annoying goat that I know is pushing my tenants’ limits.”

  “You need to eat?” Wisniewski expression was full of implied warning.

  “No. The werewolves took care of that for me.”

  “Werewolves?” Hardwicke looked from me to her partner. Wisniewski didn’t react. Gave herself away. “What’ve werewolves got to do with this?”

  “I went to check in with Killian’s pack.”

  “That conversation we’re going to have just got a lot longer.” Hardwicke poked Wisniewski in the shoulder. “And you should’ve told me what was going on before it got to this point.”

  “A judgment call. We’ve been busy.”

  The pretty black agent put her hands on her hips and glared. “Busy my ass. Don’t start that Lone Ranger shit again.”

  “I just gave her an address.”

  I nodded reassuringly. “Really, that’s all she did.”

  Men and women in FBI tech uniforms came into the morgue carrying what looked like hi-tech tackle boxes holding tools and equipment. One of them waved at us when he saw the remains. “We’ve got it, Wisniewski. Looking good, Hardwicke.”

  “Keep in your pants, Cruz.” Hardwicke gave me a very serious look. Less glare than Wisniewski had earned. “Then we can go have that talk, now. Again, someplace much closer than your office.”

  I shrugged. “Where do you suggest then?”

  Wisniewski smiled. “I know just the place.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I left my car in the morgue parking-lot after retrieving my beret. They’d insisted. Hardwicke drove us in the black FBI sedan which surprised me. Wisniewski seemed to have control-issues. I figured she’d make her partner take the passenger seat. I’d been wrong. It happened. Not often. But still.

  The interior smelled good. New with a trace of two different perfumes. Faint enough that most people wouldn’t have noticed. “Where we going?”

  Neither of the women spoke. I thought at first that we’d talk while driving around in the privacy of the car. We didn’t. Hardwicke made a few turns and parked in front of a shabby looking Polish café. Signs in English and Cyrillic indicated homestyle, old country cooking. At least, I assumed the Cyrillic said the same thing as the English next to it. I spoke some Russian but couldn’t read a word of it.

  Hardwicke didn’t strike me as the type to eat at anything so casual. She was classy. Dressed well even for a Fed. No, this had to be Wisniewski’s hang-out. Clearly Hardwicke had adapted.

  “The food good?” I asked the black woman.

  She nodded wryly. “Surprisingly. Lots of carbs though.”

  “Just get out of the car,” grumbled Wisniewski, opening her door.

  I followed the women inside. It was smaller than it appeared from the outside. A reverse Doctor Who experience. The men and women occupying the round tables sat close together. Chatting loudly in what was probably Polish. Some Russian thrown in for measure.

  My nose was keen for some reason. Scents hitting me before visual images. The people smelled of hard work, soap and cigarette smoke. Even though it was illegal to smoke indoors in California.

  “No place to sit.”

  I eyed Wisniewski. She went straight for a door marked ‘Private’ in English. Hardwicke followed without any hesitation. I figured this was part of the ritual.

  Through the door, we passed a busy kitchen. A woman shouted orders. A man shouted back. He slapped some of the dishwashers on the backs of their heads. Sons, given the resemblance. A family business.

  There was a bathroom on the right that smelled clean. But it was desperately in need of repairs. Broken tiles. Chipped mirror. A plastic bucket with water that served in lieu of a handle for flushing.

  At the end of the hallway, there was another door. The sign in Cyrillic. Polish probably. Given the type of food they served.

  “Is this some kind of mob hit?” I teased.

  Wisniewski didn’t smile. She pushed the door open and waited for us to follow. There was a large, elongated table. Some miscellaneous furniture. A buffet. China cabinet. Portraits of
stoic figures from Eastern Europe. It felt like a family typically clustered around the table for meals. I was betting the family in the kitchen.

  “You don’t eat, right?” asked Wisniewski. She didn’t wait for me to answer. “Hardwicke, the usual?”

  The black agent nodded. “Get Miss Savage a sweet wine.”

  “Been reading up on me?”

  Hardwicke shrugged. “Professional hazard.”

  “And it’s Bianca.”

  Wisniewski went back out the door. Presumable to place an order. I fought the urge to rest my fingers on the hilt of my Glock just under my jacket. In case this was a trap. Like Hardwicke had said. Professional hazard.

  “Fine. Bianca. But we call each other Wisniewski and Hardwicke. Part of the job. Keeps everything feeling businesslike. Real. Please do the same.”

  “I understand.” She was making sure that I knew her earlier lapse had been just that. A mistake. Don’t take liberties. Keep it impersonal. Message understood.

  Wisniewski returned and sat down across from where I stood. She motioned impatiently to the chair beside me. I sat, still surveying the room. No sign of cameras. Nothing to suggest the place was more than it seemed.

  “So what about werewolves?” asked Hardwicke. “We’ll start there.”

  I leaned back in the heavy wooden chair. It felt solid. Like the people in the café. No pretense. No need for fancy decorations. Good food. Good company. That was the old saying. Granny Oglethorpe had said it about me. That I was good company. A lot of people would say she’d been wrong. Not that she had much to compare it to.

  I placed my hands face-down on the table. Watching the FBI agents as I tried to figure out how much to tell them. “I think they know something. About Thrace’s disappearance.”

  “Why?”

  “Intuition. Years of honed skills at observing people. Picking up signs of truth and lies. He knew stuff he wouldn’t have if Thrace hadn’t been in contact. And he wasn’t surprised that the bodyguard was missing. Yeah, I know you called him but even still, he knew something.”

  Wisniewski frowned, annoyed. “He?”

  “Sorry. Killian. The alpha.”