My cell phone chirps, saving me from having to answer. I dive for it in my bag and flip it open.
"Anna Strong."
"Anna, it's Williams."
I rise from the desk and turn my back on the lovebirds. "Are you calling about this morning?"
"No. I figured if I hadn't heard from you, either Fisher was dead or you were."
His tone, however, is light.
"Thanks. I appreciate the vote of confidence."
"Actually, I'm calling about Max." He's serious now, the undertone of humor gone. "I had a talk with Max's boss over at the DEA. He's sending someone over to police headquarters in half an hour. He thinks you should talk to him."
My heart starts pounding an alarm. "Why?"
"Max hasn't checked in for over a month. Not since he quit. They think he's gone rogue."
I don't know what's more shocking—Max quitting the DEA or the idea that he's a rogue agent.
Both concepts are ridiculous. I almost blurt the same out loud. But I stop myself. Gloria and David are watching me. I feel it and when I turn around, sure enough, David's face reflects curiosity, Gloria's reflects the profound hopefulness that this is a permanent summons to somewhere far away.
"I'll be right there." I flip the phone closed. "Sorry. I have to leave. David, I'll check in later, okay?"
He opens his mouth but I'm out the door before he gets a word out. I do catch Gloria muttering "same old, same old," under her breath.
I really hate that bitch.
CHAPTER 7
MAX GONE ROGUE? IT'S BEYOND RIDICULOUS. Yet, I knew something was wrong when I saw him last night. I thought it was fatigue and weariness. Maybe it was guilt that he'd kept something as big as quitting the agency from me. Especially if he was now after Martinez on his own.
Why would he not tell me that?
The drive from the office to SDPD headquarters isn't a long one. Morning commuter traffic, though, is heavy and it's slow going. I have more than enough time to run through every scenario I can think of to explain Max's actions. None of them makes sense.
The lobby of SDPD headquarters is quiet when I arrive. And there's a familiar face behind the counter—Patrolman Ortiz, a fellow vamp who works for Williams. I don't know how old he is in vamp years, we've never had the opportunity to discuss it, but in human terms he looks to be in his early twenties, five foot ten, 160 lean pounds. He's cute with an aquiline nose, dark hair and eyes, and olive skin stretched over high cheekbones. The only creases in his uniform are straight and sharp, and exactly where they're supposed to be.
"You stand up there behind that counter all night?"
He greets me in his usual chivalrous Latin way, with a little bow and a smile. "Good morning, Anna. Williams is waiting for you." Even though we're all alone he leans forward like a conspirator and adds, "Good work this morning. I take it you are unhurt."
I pat my stomach. "Only a raging case of indigestion."
He nods. "I understand. Cleanse yourself as soon as possible."
Fisher's blood roils in my system. I want nothing more than to rid myself of it. Drinking of Ortiz would at least get the bad taste out of my mouth. I get a flash of ravishing him behind the counter, putting some wrinkles in those perfectly ironed slacks. I lean toward him. "Is that an offer? Because I might just take you up on it."
He caught the image, too. He grins and holds up a hand. "I'm afraid my girlfriend would not approve. Not even if I explained it was a favor for a friend." He hands me the code and points deliberately to the elevator. "I will tell Chief Williams you are on the way up."
Girlfriend, huh? Curiosity prompts the next question. Vamp or human?
Human. He mimics my gesture of a moment before, patting his stomach. Keeps me strong and off the streets. You should settle down, too, Anna.
I fear Ortiz has been inducted into the "let's get Anna a human of her own" club. I can't face another lecture. I ward it off by heaving an exaggerated sigh. Okay, okay, I'm on my way.
I sense his amusement and it follows me into the elevator. When the doors slide open on the top floor, Williams is waiting to greet me. He's not laughing, though. He's frowning.
"When did you see Max last?" he asks without preamble.
I catch myself before blurting out the answer. "Why?"
He motions me to follow him to his office. He's changed into formal chief of police mode, tailored gray suit, white shirt and gray-striped silk tie. I can feel him probing my mind, but I learned early on in the vamp game how to close off my thoughts if I need to.
Which is a kind of giveaway in itself to an old soul as powerful as Williams. He waits until we're both seated to comment. "It must have been recently or you wouldn't have asked me to check on him for you. Well, maybe it's just as well that you don't tell me. The Feds have you in their 'bad news' file after what happened with your niece."
Old news. I wonder why he's bringing it up?
That he picks up. "I'm not going to get involved in whatever is going on with Max, Anna. I'll let you handle it on your own."
It's not surprising that the Feds don't like me. I sent an FBI agent away for what I hope amounts to life. But the last part of Williams' statement is. He's always been reluctant to unleash me without being somewhere in the background to mitigate the damage. "Any particular reason why?"
Do you need my help?
I have to consider that a minute. Having an ally in the police department, especially such a powerful one, is something I've come to take for granted. At the same time, this is not the Watcher organization. I follow my own counsel on most things and that can put Williams in a precarious position. So far, he hasn't had to choose between his job and me, though what happened with Trish came close. I don't want that to happen again. Ever.
Idon't know what's going on with Max. That's the truth. I have no problem meeting with the Feds on my own. Do you know anything about the agent they are sending? Is he likely to tell me anything?
Williams shakes his head. The only thing I know is that his name is Foley. He glances at his watch. And he should be here any minute.
We spend the time waiting for Foley by talking about Fisher and what happened on the beach. Williams is satisfied with the way I handled it, a great compliment in itself. He starts to shift the conversation toward a different subject, Avery again, but his phone rings.
Good. I caught the gist of what he was about to say and I don't want to discuss Avery. What happened with the vampire who first seduced and then betrayed me hangs like an ever-present specter between Williams and me. I just want to forget it.
Williams replaces the receiver. Foley is here. He's on his way up.
Williams comes around the desk to stand by me and we wait for the knock that announces Foley's arrival. I don't know what to expect since the last time I had dealings with the Feds it ended badly. So I'm surprised when the guy Williams invites in actually has a smile on his face, a smile that doesn't fade even when Williams introduces us.
The guy holds out a hand. "Name's Matt," he says.
I take his hand and shake it. Briefly. My hands are always cold. "Anna Strong."
If he notices the icy hand, he doesn't remark on it. Williams makes his excuses and leaves us. Foley motions to a chair. He's dressed in traditional Fed garb, dark suit, cream-colored shirt, discreet tie. He's short, shorter than me, probably just made the height requirement, and carries a little extra weight around his middle. He has a good face. Not handsome in the traditional sense, but even featured and square jawed. He looks friendly. Unusual for a Fed.
He watches me as he settles into the chair. "I know about the trouble with your niece. I'm sorry one of our own was involved in it. If you haven't gotten an apology from the Bureau, I'm here now to offer it."
The Bureau? Surprised, I ask, "You're not DEA?"
He shakes his head. "FBI." Before I can comment, he follows with, "You are exactly as I pictured you. Or rather, as Max described you."
Another unexpected revelation.
"Max told you about me?"
Foley nods. "Of course. Max and I are friends. I know a lot about you. I know how you and Max came to be acquainted. How it was your contact that supplied the information needed to get Max that job with Martinez."
Okay. I suppose if Foley was Max's friend and a fellow federal agent, he might know about that, know that a skip I caught was a drug runner for Martinez. He used me to leverage a deal with the Feds. Information in return for immunity. It's how Max got his job as Martinez' driver.
But then Foley continues, ticking off the items as if reading from a mental checklist.
"I know that you were a schoolteacher who left education to pursue a rather unusual career path as a bail enforcement agent. I know you have been at odds with your family about that decision, but that they have come to terms with it, probably because of what happened with your niece. I know you have a relationship of some kind with Police Chief Williams, though not the details of that relationship…"
He seems prepared to go on but I hold up a hand to stop him. There would be no reason for Max to share any of this with Foley. "Max told you all that?"
Again, the slow smile. "Not exactly."
Suspicion turns to anger. "Have you been investigating me?"
"It's routine."
"Routine?"
He nods. "You're involved with Max. It's policy to run a background check on anyone close to an agent—especially an undercover agent. Don't look so disapproving. It's for your protection as well."
"Does Max know what you're doing?"
"He set it in motion."
"How?"
"I told you. Anyone involved with an undercover agent comes under scrutiny. Max knows this."
"Scrutiny? Or invasion of privacy?" But the rankling goes deeper. "Max didn't tell me about this."
Foley sits back in his chair. "You think he should have?"
I don't know what I think. I only know what I feel— anger. What else has Foley found out about me? When I meet his eyes, he seems to read the question reflected in mine.
"Max doesn't know everything," he says quietly. "I didn't see the point in telling him about your lovers—Dr. Avery, that teacher at your mother's school. I will tell him, if I think it necessary."
Foley's kindly demeanor suddenly rings false. The smile is the same, the straightforward manner relaxed and open. But there is an undercurrent. He's playing a game with me. The only consolation is that I get no vibe that he thinks I'm anything other than a female who likes to sleep around.
"What do you want from me?"
"Your help. We need to find Max."
"Is he in trouble? Because I don't believe he quit the agency."
Foley shrugs. "I can only tell you that he hasn't checked in in a month." His eyes narrow a little. "In fact, the last contact we had with Max was the day after he spent the night with you. Do you remember?"
I do. I was chasing the scumbags who exploited my niece at the time—including the one who turned out to be an FBI agent. I knew then something was going on with Max, but I was too involved in my own troubles to follow up on it. Maybe I should have.
I shake off the thought. Max is a successful and resourceful undercover agent for the DEA. He wouldn't have accepted help from me even if I'd offered it.
I look up at Foley. "Why are you here? What is the FBI's involvement?"
"Interdepartmental cooperation."
"Bullshit. I know enough about government bureaucracy to know there is no such thing as 'interdepartmental cooperation.' What's the real reason?"
Foley lets a sigh escape his lips. It comes off as dramatic and practiced, something meant to divert suspicion.
It doesn't. I don't move a muscle and I don't lower my eyes, forcing him to be the one to shift in his seat and look away. He does, finally, pushing himself to his feet. He crosses to the window and says over his shoulder, "Max is a friend. We've known each other a long time. If he's in trouble, I want to help. Before he gets in any deeper."
A friend? Somehow I don't think so. "Gets deeper in what? Isn't he doing his job?"
Foley isn't looking at me. If I wasn't aware that he would surely notice that I cast no reflection in the window he's so determinedly staring out of, I'd jump up and force him to meet my eyes. I don't buy this friendship thing and I don't trust his motives. "You think he's in danger because of Martinez?"
At that, Foley turns. "No, Ms. Strong." He isn't avoiding my eyes this time. "I'd say he's in danger because of you."
CHAPTER 8
WHAT FOLEY SAYS IS SO RIDICULOUS, IT'S ALL I can do to keep from snickering. But I stay quiet and stare right back at him.
The silence stretches while Foley eyes me. What is he expecting? That I'll crumble under his thousand-mile stare? He's a manipulator and, I suspect, a liar. I'm beginning to really dislike him.
"Wow, Foley, you're pretty good." I let sarcasm drip off each word. "Just the right amount of threat and concern. You've convinced me that I'm the danger to Max, not the vicious, murdering drug lord he's worked to bring down these last two years."
Foley's mask slips. The open, frank expression morphs into anger.
"Max has been in deep cover for years," I say. "He's put his life on the line every day getting close to one of Mexico's most dangerous men. And you tell me he's in trouble now because of me? Why on earth would I believe that?"
Foley comes back to the chair and sinks into it, holding up both hands as if offering up an apology. "You're right, of course. I shouldn't have said that."
"Then why did you? What do you think I know?"
Foley lifts one shoulder. "Where Max is, maybe. What he's doing. Why he's gone off on his own."
For once, it's nice not to have to lie. "I can't answer any of those questions."
His eyes narrow. "You're telling me you haven't had any contact with him?"
Define contact. We spent only a few moments together last night. Hardly qualifies as "contact." And I'm sure Max is long gone from Beso de la Muerte. I shake my head. "I can't help you, Foley. And I don't believe Max has gone off on his own. He's too much of a company man. If he hasn't been in contact for a while, there's a good reason."
I've risen from my chair. Foley stands up, too. He fishes in a jacket pocket and comes up with a card. He holds it out. "Call me if you hear from him."
I push the card away. "When Max shows up, he'll contact his superiors in the DEA. But if he does get in touch, I'll be sure to tell him a friend in the FBI was asking about him."
Again, there's a spark of dark anger that's smothered before it does more than tighten the corners of Foley's mouth. It's instantaneous and almost undetectable. If I weren't such a suspicious bitch, I would have missed it.
Foley realizes I caught his little display of temper, too.
He pushes the card back into his pocket, smiling now with smooth concern. "Have it your way, Ms. Strong. But remember what I said. Max is in trouble. You can believe it or not. I hope you won't have cause to regret refusing my help."
Help? What help?
He tries the stare again, but when I don't stutter my thanks or recant and beg him to stay, he takes his leave.
Williams is back almost before the door closes. His eyebrows lift. "What does the FBI want with Max?"
Good question. I wish I knew.
Williams' phone rings and he crosses the office to answer it, giving me the opportunity to slip away. I feel Williams' thoughts reach out to me, telling me to hang on a minute. I pretend not to get it. All I want to do is be alone to figure out what this "friend" of Max's was really after.
It doesn't make sense.
Not this minute. And not a few minutes later, when I'm sitting behind the wheel of my car, trying to decide what to do. I'm restless and antsy. As far as I know, David and I don't have any jobs today. If I go back to the office, Gloria and her love-struck minion will no doubt try to drag me into their plans for the big party. I need that like a stake through the heart.
My stomach rumbles in d
istress. Fisher's poison. What I do need is an infusion of good, clean, human blood to rid myself of it. I could head for Beso de la Muerte now, not wait for tonight. Also, Max was just there. I don't expect him to be there still, but maybe he told Culebra something that might point me in the right direction to find him.
Because the one thing I'm sure of is that Max needs to be warned that the FBI is on his tail.
CHAPTER 9
I THINK I COULD DRIVE TO BESO DE LA MUERTE IN my sleep, I've done it so many times. And even though it's almost November, a warm Santa Ana wind has turned up the heat and chased all traces of clouds and smog out of a sapphire sky. Even the Bay sparkles with diamond-tipped swells. I put the top down on the Jag and let the wind tickle my skin and play in my hair. It's the kind of day that I imagine the chamber of commerce pays photographers to capture. Postcard perfect.
The kind of day even a vampire enjoys. Makes me glad for adaptation. A few centuries ago, I could have only dreamed of days like this. I'd have been confined to some dark hole to await the safety of the night.
We've come a long way.
I've come a long way.
But not far enough, evidently. I pick up the tail in my rearview mirror just as I get on 5 South, heading for the border. I noticed the car first on Pacific Coast Highway, a blue late-model sedan. It stuck with me as I cruised along the Bay, turned up Grape, and now it's two car lengths behind on the freeway. Coincidence? Could be. But more likely, it's Foley. I've had experience with the Feds. They don't take no lightly. And they don't believe anything you tell them that doesn't fit into their preconceived notions. Foley believes I know more than I told him and he's damn well going to prove it by letting me lead him straight to Max.
Sorry to disappoint you, Foley. I slow down and swerve onto the right shoulder. May as well let the jerk know that I've made him.
The blue Ford cruises past, the driver, not Foley, neither slows nor looks over at me. And he doesn't get off at the next exit, either.
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