“Can you call Dr. Blythe? We've got a traumatized minor.” I hooked my thumb at Theresa.
The receptionist snapped her gum. Made my last nerve twitch. She looked me from head to waist and back up again. Unimpressed. Unhurried. She smacked the gum with large, open-mouthed movement. I'd seen cattle chew their cud with less fanfare.
“Yo,” I said. “Now.”
She didn't even glance at the kid.
“Dr. Blythe doesn't receive new clients until the afternoon. You'll have to wait until three.”
“We won't be waiting that long. This is urgent. And I haven't eaten yet.”
“Take a seat please.” She picked up her novel and snapped her gum.
I slapped my palm on the glass. “Snap that gum again. See what happens.”
“Relax, Durant.” Sarakas approached the receptionist and smiled. “Miss, this is rather important. Please inform Dr. Blythe that he has a new client waiting.”
The receptionist saw Sarakas in all his Greek-manly-glory and batted her eyes. She abandoned the book. She gave him her full attention and tried a sultry smile with her pink lips.
“I'm sorry, Blythe really doesn't take new clients until the afternoon,” she cooed. “If you'd like to wait, I'll bring you a coffee. Do you take cream? Oh, look at that darling little girl! She's so cute. And clearly, she trusts you. Slumbering in those big...arms...”
“Oh good god,” I said.
I unlatched the waist-high gate at the start of the hall and slipped past the receptionist's booth. She was so busy making eyes at my partner that she didn't notice. I wandered down the long yellow hallway, reading door plaques, looking for Dr. Blythe. I found the correct door at the end of the hall. Corner office. Apparently Dr. Blythe was big shit.
Be polite, I told myself, and knocked very politely on the door. “Excuse me, Dr. Blythe?”
“Come in,” came a pleasant, female reply.
Be nice, I schooled myself. Professionals get uppity when people barge into their office and make demands. Prepared to be on my best behavior, I opened the door to reveal a stunning woman. It wasn’t just the wholesome and welcoming smile, but she had the most attractive face and frame I'd ever seen. The pencil skirt embraced her stylish figure and long legs ended in sensible heels. Her blond hair was wrapped up in a classy chiffon. Big green eyes. Smart. Glasses on a scholarly chain around a delicate neck. Perfect, pressed white blouse.
Blood and dirt stuck in the black fibers of my plain, assembly-line sweatshirt. My jeans were torn and my hair sat mussed under my scruffy cap.
“Dr. Blythe?” I said, buying time for my brain to start working again.
“That's me,” she said, like she never tired of clarifying who she was. Like she had to do it a lot.
“I'm Durant. From the FBHS. We escorted a minor here.” I cleared my throat. “Unfortunate incident.”
Such an idiot.
“Sorry to hear that, Agent Durant. Despite the circumstances, it is a pleasure to meet you.” She reached to shake my hand. No ring on her finger. My hands smelled of gunpowder, and I'd get her dirty. Crisis. It would be more impolite to leave her hanging, so I extended my right hand and shook hers. Warm palm. Firm grip, not all limp. Good.
I liked Blythe.
“Your receptionist said you don't receive until the afternoon?” Thinking about the bitch made my eye twitch.
Dr. Blythe smiled.
“Did she snap her gum at you?” she said.
“God, what is that? Is there anything more annoying?”
Blythe laughed a pretty laugh. Girlish, yes, but unassuming and plentiful. Simply pretty.
“I've tried to get rid of her, but you know how unions are. Can't run your own business without them poking their nose into every aspect of it.”
I liked her even more.
“Bring in the client,” Blythe said. “Due to a cancellation, I've got plenty of time this morning.”
I backed into the hall and went to reception. My partner was fending off the receptionist who had opened the little window so she could pet his muscled arm. I hissed, “Sarakas,” and wagged my hand. He instantly broke away and escaped down the hall.
“Thank you, thank you,” he said. Sometimes the poor sap was defenseless.
“The doc will see us. Turns out, you can't judge a professional by their union-placed, horny help.”
Theresa hadn't woken yet, and her little head draped over Sarakas' shoulder as we entered Blythe's office. He stared at Blythe. She stared at him. He was helpless again.
“Hi,” she said.
“Yeah,” he said. He roused, coming to attention and holding out his hand. “Andreas Sarakas.”
“Vanessa.” She took his hand. A look zapped between them.
They were having a moment. Awkward as hell for me. I watched Sarakas stare deeply into Dr. Blythe's eyes. My gut, once angry it didn't have food, instantly churned with different tension. I edged toward the door and gripped the doorknob. It clicked loudly. Sarakas saw me mid-flight and crooked an eyebrow.
“I figured, you know, you've got this handled and stuff.”
Sarakas explained to Vanessa, “She hasn't eaten yet and gets ornery.”
“You better be talking about the toddler,” I warned. They shared a laugh.
“I was about to place a lunch order,” Vanessa said. “Why don't I triple it? Do you like Mexican?”
“Lifesaver!” I instantly warmed to her again. “Tell whomever you're dating that he is one lucky fellow.”
God. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
The smile on her lips invited me to dig deeper.
“Are you dating someone?” I said.
“That depends.” She stared into Sarakas' eyes. “What are you doing Friday?”
He choked on his tongue. “Uh? Friday I watch the fights with Kaidlyn.”
“Are you two...?” Vanessa said.
“It's not a date,” I said. “We're pals!”
Sarakas shut his mouth and passed me an unreadable glance.
“No girlfriend?” she said.
Come to think of it, he never dated anyone seriously. He barely spoke to women around me. Hell, I must be at fault. Women who threw themselves at Sarakas were usually annoying or predatory and received my fierce comments. I was like a terrier attacking all the rats that came sniffing for cheese. Andreas, in this case, was the cheese. Goodness, I was cock-blocking him. He must hate me.
“Oh, he's free,” I said.
“Friday it is, then.” Her smile was like sunshine gathered in a pretty bow.
“Sure.” His eyes hit mine once more. “Why not?”
That made my gut worry again.
“On second thought, I'm more in the mood for Chinese. I have reports and papers and stuff. You can catch a cab back to the office, Sarakas?”
I made my escape. He gave me a look of disappointment before I shut the door. I loped down the hall and stuck my tongue out at the receptionist. She sneered and I laughed.
My phone rang. It was Contrell from PD.
“Hi, Durant. I was wondering, did you find any more bodies looking like our vic at Jingles?”
I'd forgotten all about the guy in the dumpster.
“Do you think you have another one?” I said. “Where's the scene?”
“The body is already in the morgue. She has repetitive incisions along her navel and her chest is full of silver shot. No FBHS agent claimed the mutt kill, so I thought maybe it was off books. When I looked closer, it seemed too much like the other body. Bruised, shiny wrists and low-grade silver shot. I'm starting to wonder how many similar incidents slipped past us. Can you check it out?”
“Send me the info.”
Another body? Time to put this issue to bed. I went to Yoshino. “Hey, do another favor for me, would you?”
“At your disposal,” he said. I think he meant it.
“Send inquiries to all the mortuaries. See if they have any more victims who look like that one outside of the gay club.”
&nbs
p; “Bondage boy?” He blushed. “That's what the police are calling him.”
I frowned. He ducked his head and adjusted the ergo dynamic keyboard.
“Look for similar wounds and homemade silver shot in the victim.”
“You think there's more of these?”
“We overlooked something. Officer Contrell suspects a serial killer, and I'd like to see how the theory pans out.”
“Sure.”
“Thanks. Want food? I'm ordering Mexican.”
“I'd love some.” He beamed. I tried not to imagine Sarakas and Blythe sitting in her office, sharing smiles over tacos.
While we ate, Yoshino chatted nervously and enthusiastically about a video game he was designing. I tried to listen, swear to god, but I can barely work my way around a computer. Either way, it was nice to see him excited about something, and he smiled when I said so.
I received an automated text from the postal office. Postal officers became really snippy when the boxes overfilled. Normally I didn't have to check the mail more than once a month on account of everything being electronically managed. I thought, ridiculously, someone sent me a present! Not that I could think of a person who would do such a thing.
Unable to contain my curiosity, I drove to the post office. I really needed a pick-me-up.
Seeing Sarakas with Vanessa made me feel emotionally icky, like I'd been holding him back. Only an arrogant bastard like me would assume I had such power. Sarakas was a big boy and could take care of himself. None of my business.
I pulled into the dim post office, went to my mailbox, and pressed my thumb over the security pad. It didn't ding merrily and open sesame. Instead, a loud buzzer sounded. I jumped in my boots. Three postal workers popped out and stared for a solid ten seconds of awkwardness.
“I'm here for my mail,” I said. “Kaidlyn Durant.”
Universal scowls overcame their faces, and they disappeared from sight. Cautiously, I approached the counter.
A puffy middle-aged man stood, arms over his chest. He glared like I had killed his brother. Of course, I may have shot his brother. I shoot a lot of people. His cheeks wobbled and he blushed.
“Your mother would be ashamed of you,” he said.
“Well, I don't think she'd like you very much either.” I had no idea what he was talking about.
“Chris, help the woman get her shit out of here.”
A younger man came out with a crate, an honest-to-god crate, full of stuff wrapped in black plastic. A sinking feeling weighed my gut. Black plastic meant pirating or porn, and I was guessing the latter.
“Only three more,” Chris said, eyes twinkling.
Four crates of porn?
“That's not mine,” I said.
“Sure, lady,” the supervisor said.
“Throw it away.”
“Discarding mail is a federal crime. Dispose of it yourself.”
Five people gathered to see what the fuss was about. I could hold mounds of porn and argue with an audience, or I could get the hell out and go home. Option B. I grabbed the crate, which was unbelievably heavy, and hauled it outside. Chris, bright eyed, loaded the crates in the back of my truck.
“So,” he said, leaning suggestively against the side door.
“Fuck off.”
I stomped into my truck and roared down the street. Anger and embarrassment churned in my gut. The porn didn’t bother me, but I resented becoming a lewd spectacle. People witnessed and judged an aspect of my personal life that should remain private. Bastards. Sheep. Meanies.
I called Yoshino. “Someone is sending me porn!”
“Ah!” he chirped.
“I know! Somehow I landed on the devil’s mailing list, and I want my name removed right now.”
“I'll get on it.” I heard the blush in his voice.
I hung up, sped home, and lugged the crates of porn into my backyard. My anger dissipated by then. Yoshino would take care of me, and who cared what others presumed about my sex life?
With the zippo from my pocket, I lit a bonfire that rivaled the Olympic torch.
Of course, I had to pull off the plastic because I didn't want a scorched chemical smell to linger around the house. Sure, I looked through some of the products. Why not? Most of them weren't to my taste. Several devices and toys I simply couldn't burn because, well, plastic is bad for the environment, right?
I wouldn't let myself be embarrassed by a crude joke. Instead, I'd glean information from the experience. I learned a few things while culling a stack of porn for the bonfire. One thing was alarmingly clear.
Someone was out to get me.
Chapter 9
Rainer
I stared at the screen as my friend emerged from the shower, towel wrapped around his waist. Marc came to the bunker once a week, like clockwork, and changed into his beast. He claimed frequent sheds kept him regular, like the equivalent of taking a fiber pill.
He kicked at castaway pieces of paper scattered over the floor.
“Practicing your penmanship?” Marc said.
“Forgery, to be precise.”
“It looks familiar. Why are you using this blotchy ink?”
“To appear authentic.”
He squinted at the monitor, not due to poor eyesight but because he didn't like what he saw.
“I heard you had a new obsession, Rainer. I can't say I approve. What is she doing?”
“You don't want to know.”
“Is she burning books?” he said, outraged.
“Porn.”
“How did you get this camera angle? I thought you said there weren't enough eyes in her neighborhood.”
“A passing Homeland Security drone. I'll lose the image in three and a half minutes.”
“Man, you're starting to obsess,” he said. “Why is the one woman you notice after your wife's death the one most likely to rain down hellfire-and-brimstone-grade destruction?”
Marc was the one friend who knew the entirety of how Shohreh died, that we were both killed for marrying outside our faith. Her family burned her like a medieval witch, beat me gang-style, dragged me behind a pickup until my flesh was gone, and left me in a gutter. Along came a hungry wolf. It saw my leftovers and blam. I was contaminated and eternal, but Shohreh was gone forever.
“It's not like that, Marc.”
“Shohreh would tell you to stay away.”
“The dead don't speak and this conversation is over.”
A snarl crept in my voice. I shoved it down so the sound wouldn't rumble, grow, and unleash the miserable beast inside. Marc took a step away to give me space. I breathed deep, staring at the screen.
I sighed. “If only I could see her.”
“She's right there on the monitor. You can see individual eyelashes. What more do you need?”
“If only I could put someone in the room with her, y'know, to read her energy. Taste her aura. Then I’d know what she was capable of.”
“Trouble, her aura shouts trouble. I can see that five kilometers away. Right there on her hip: a troublesome aura, silver-loaded.”
As I watched him stare at Durant’s image, lights dawned upstairs. In my brain, not literally upstairs (which is a valid point to make for someone who lives underground). Marc had more self-control than anyone I knew. He was tactical, capable, discerning, and proficient with means of violence.
“How's the Manhattan Manuscript?” I said.
“Great. Incredibly insightful. I'm looking forward to the next installment.”
“Are you? How much, exactly, would you say you're looking forward to it?”
He looked at me. When he caught on, his gaze narrowed.
“I see what you’re doing. Blackmailing me into spying on a trigger-happy fed so you can blackmail her into whatever twisted scheme you're cooking up?”
“When you say it like that...what could go wrong?”
He guffawed and started to walk away.
“I'll get you the next installment of the Manuscript for free and c
ancel your debt on the Patriotic Traitor manifesto.”
“Sneaky bastard,” he said, but I had his full attention.
“You're a great friend, Marc. The best. I'll set up the meet. I'd love for you to wear a wire when you talk to her.”
“Talk? No. I'll follow at a distance, but there will be no talking. Certainly no touching.”
“Touching? Now, I wasn't going to even suggest that. Why, do you want to touch her?”
“God, Rainer!”
“C'mon. It won't be that bad.”
“Didn't she kill Marley last week?”
“But you're better than that.”
“I can't simply walk up to her and say hi,” Marc complained.
“You're the calmest mutt I know.”
“She'll figure it out. She'll know I’m L-pos. Cop instinct or whatever: she'll be the end of me.”
“She won’t suspect a thing. What kind of crazy mutt would walk up to an agent and start a conversation?”
“Precisely.”
“Have faith, Marc.”
“Feels like a showdown at high noon while you linger on the sidelines to see who draws first. Your scenario ends with me dead. How do I get close without her killing me?”
“We'll distract her. I can arrange to meet at a place that will throw her off, and then she'll see the anxiety differently. She'll think whatever is wrong isn't you, it's her.”
“Spook her and she won't kill me? That's your grand plan? Doesn't sound fool proof.”
“Marc, you have a way of making this sound worse than it is.”
“How do you plan to lure her there?”
“She reads pirated literature which means she has a dealer. I've talked to all my guys, so I know who it isn't. Process of elimination led me to a busted library and a quiet codename, Lurch. Durant is the neurotic kind who plays in the dark. So does this Lurch character who no one has met.”
“And?”
“Pretend to be Lurch. Since Durant never met her black market contractor, it shouldn't be hard for you to step into his shoes.”
“Until she quizzes me about her reading list or some exotic item he procured for her, and then I eat silver bullets for lunch. Not happening, friend.”
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