“Ridiculous? I could have been shopping for Frey. Or John-John.”
“Were you?”
I open my mouth to snap back but arguing will just prolong the interrogation. I change tactics. “Where is Howard’s bookie located?”
“Right here,” David answers, pulling off the interstate.
Howard DelMonico’s bookie was operating out of a warehouse block in a seedy part of LA. Same city, maybe, but a world away from Janet’s neighborhood. I don’t think there’s another place in the U.S. where “skid row” is marked with its own boundary sign. The bookie, Harry Sullivan, has an office a stone’s throw from the famous sign on San Julian Street.
We pass the doorway twice before we realize the scratches over the door jamb were actually numbers.
“Should we knock?” David asks. He adjusts his Glock then smoothes his jacket over it.
“We’d probably be the first,” I reply, grabbing the door knob and giving it a twist.
The door swings open and David and I each take a step sideways before peering inside.
The precaution is unnecessary. It's empty. It’s a big square room littered with betting slips and beer cans. Marks in the dust on the floor indicate where a desk once sat. A wall-spanning whiteboard covers the rear. The light bulbs had been removed from a tarnished brass fixture in the middle of the room. Other than some wires dangling from a bracket in the ceiling corner, there’s nothing else.
“He’s been gone a while,” I remark, rubbing a foot in the dust.
“Looks like he took everything with him,” David says. He points toward the ceiling. “Including a surveillance camera and the light bulbs.”
I take a desultory look around. “What now?”
But before he can answer, we’re startled by a rustling sound, loud and insistent.
“Where’s it coming from?” I whisper.
David unholsters his gun and moves toward the rear of the office. He examines the back wall, peering intently at what looked like nothing more than a standard whiteboard. With a finger to his lips, he points to a barely discernible outline along the perimeter of the whiteboard. He runs his fingers over it, pauses at a point about waist high, and pushes.
A section of the board releases, swinging outward.
I’m just behind David, ready to pounce if anything runs out.
Nothing does.
David lowers his gun and takes a step forward.
“Be careful,” I hiss. “You don’t know what’s in there.”
He sticks his head inside, then turns back to me. “It’s a tunnel.”
I join him. “To where?”
He shrugs. “Only one way to find out.”
I’m a vampire. I'm not supposed to be unnerved by anything, but the prospect of stepping inside a cobweb strewn, dirty, damp tunnel makes my cold blood run even colder.
“You lead the way.”
David grins and slips by. I’m happy to let him forge the trail. The rustling we heard earlier must’ve come from packing material strewn on the ground. What disturbed it is not in evidence. As soon as we take a dozen steps into utter darkness the door behind us snaps closed.
“Great,” I mumble. My eyes already adjusted to the dark but the door closing is like a punctuation emphasizing that we now may be trapped.
It takes an instant before we’ve both drawn our cell phones and the tunnel is flooded with light.
“What is this?”
David shrugs as we find ourselves in the middle of an underground bunker. It must be fifty feet across, ten feet high, and constructed of concrete bricks. One wall is stacked floor to ceiling with wooden crates. More packing material litters the floor. Three walls look solid, the fourth has a door. I push it—it opens to an alley that runs the length of the building. I let the door close behind me and turn my attention to the crates.
“What do you suppose is in those crates?”
David is whispering, though I’m doubtful there’s anyone around to hear. My vampire senses detect no sound other than our own breathing. They do, however, detect the odor of decayed flesh.
I cross the floor and peer between the slats of a crate at eye level. “Looks empty.”
David joins me and reaches up to pull one of the crates off the stack. It lands with a crash.
“This one’s not empty,” he says grimly.
No. It’s not. A human hand lies curled at our feet.
By the time the cops come, it’s well past six in the evening. A detective, who we recognize, arrives to take our statements. Contrary to popular opinion, not all cops hate bounty hunters. In fact, we’d worked with this detective, Phil Connolly, before. He’s just this side of forty, a little pudgy, with the dark, serious gaze of a cop who’s seen too much. We told him who we were looking for when we stumbled on the hand.
“Sullivan hasn’t been around for a while,” Phil tells us. “Wouldn’t be surprised if that hand turns out to be his. Word is he’s gotten on the bad side of some pretty rough people.”
David raises an eyebrow. “Care to elaborate?”
“Care to tell me why you were looking for him?”
“He’s not a skip,” David replies. “We were hoping he’d give us some information about someone who is.”
Connolly runs his fingers through a crown of thinning brown hair. “If he’s not wanted for something, I’d say you’ve reached a dead end with this one.”
His pun is not lost on us.
Connolly puts his notepad into a jacket pocket. “I don’t see any reason for you two to hang around,” he tells us. “If we find anything concerning your bookie, I’ll give you a call.”
David and I shake hands with Connolly and start back through the tunnel to the deserted office.
Connolly calls after us. “Ryan, is that your Tesla outside?”
David turns and nods.
“Sweet ride. I think I’m in the wrong business.”
Chapter Nine
Day Five
When we get back to San Diego, David drops me off at the office so I can pick up my car. We agree to meet the next morning at eight and plan our next strategy to find Howard DelMonico. It’s after ten by the time I pull into my driveway.
The message light on my landline blinks. Since no one important has this number, I figure it can’t be anything urgent. Tired from a long drive, I ignore it and turn in.
I’ve got a cup of coffee in my hand when I get around to checking voicemail.
The first call is a hang up—10AM
Second call—ditto—11AM
Third call—an irate voice barks a message. “You’d better not be ignoring my calls,” Janet Carlysle says. “I’m ready to come to San Diego anytime. I can be there by midmorning tomorrow. Call me back.”
Jesus. I hadn’t given her a telephone number. This was exactly why.
I punch in her number. I don’t even hear the phone ring once before it’s snatched up. “It’s about time,” Janet says. “When should I come?”
I inhale slowly to modulate the irritation out of my tone. “How did you get this number?”
“It’s listed online,” she snaps back.
It is? I make a mental note to have this line disconnected as soon as I hang up.
I can hear Janet exhaling impatiently into the phone. I purposely let a long moment go by before I say, “Janet, I told you I’d call you when everything is ready. I have a day job, you know, I haven’t even had the chance to let my contact know you’re arriving. I need time to set things up.”
“If you think you can put me off indefinitely…”
The vampire flares. “Listen to me. I will let you know when I want you to come, do you understand? If you dare show up before I’m ready, I’ll turn you over to Chael and believe me, you won’t like the way he deals with you.”
There’s a long moment of silence. “Okay.” When she replies this time her tone is much softer, much more acquiescent. “Sorry. I’m just very anxious to start my new life. I have a lot of plans…”
>
Plans? That doesn’t sound good. But at this point, I’m still convinced that between Culebra and me, we’ll be able to talk her out of her insane desire to become vampire. I soften my tone, too. “Give me three or four days to wrap up a job I’m on. Trust me. I will be in touch by the end of the week.”
“I have your word?”
Is she kidding? If you can’t trust a vampire’s word, whose word can you trust? “Yes. You have my word.”
The call quietly disconnects.
Shaking my head, I rinse out my coffee cup and head for the garage.
How do I get caught up in these things? Now, with everything else, I have to make time to head south to see Culebra. On the way to the office, I put in the call to my service provider and have that damned land line disconnected.
David is on the phone when I arrive at the office. He waves me to the desk and I take a seat, listening to both sides of a conversation I can follow thanks to vampiric hearing.
“Duke, are you sure you don’t know anyone else who’d have a line on your nephew? So far there’s been no action of any kind on his bank accounts, no plane ticket bought in his name, his car was found abandoned in Chula Vista, and the lead his ex-wife gave us was a dead end.”
Maybe literally, I mouth to David, thinking of what Connolly said yesterday. David nods.
Duke sighs into the phone. “I wish I had something else to give you. He’s got to be somewhere. Five hundred thousand can buy a lot of cooperation but anyone I know who could make someone disappear, denies being contacted by him.”
“Would they tell you if he had?” David asks.
“I doubt they’d lie to me,” Duke replies. “In the long run, my services are far more valuable to them than one score.”
The second line rings and I grab it on my side of the desk.
It’s Detective Connolly. “Got some news,” he says. “The forensics team found the remains of two individuals in those crates in various degrees of decomp. Two males they identified through DNA. One is your missing bookie. The second is a Howard DelMonico, last known address, your neck of the woods.”
Not exactly what I expected. I catch David’s eye. “Thanks for calling, Detective Connolly. Won’t waste any more of your time.”
I hang up and signal for David to put us on speaker.
“Got some good news and some bad news for you, Duke,” I say. “LAPD just called. The good news is they found Howard. Or what was left of him. In an abandoned warehouse in Los Angeles.”
Duke inhales sharply. “What about the money?”
“That’s the bad news. No mention of any money being found.”
Duke slams his hand down with a crash that resonates through the phone lines. “Christ. Where did you say he was found?”
“In the office of a man we believe was his bookie. His body was discovered in the same place.”
“Which,” David chimes in, “might explain why there was no money found. Whoever killed them probably took it.”
“Our LAPD contact mentioned the bookie was on the bad side of some shady characters,” I add.
Duke is quiet for a long moment. David finally asks, “What do you want us to do?”
Another four or five heartbeats of dead air. Then, “Trace his last steps. See if you can find out if he and that bookie were connected in anyway except the obvious. Then find out who he had gunning for him.”
“Tall order,” David says. “Might take some time.”
“Take as long as you need,” Duke snaps back. “I need some answers.”
David catches my eye and shrugs. “Okay, Boss. We’re on it.”
David hangs up and we stare at each other over the tops of the computer monitors on the desk. We’ve had harder assignments, but not many.
“We’re flying blind here,” I mumble to David. “Doesn't Duke know any of his nephew’s friends? He must have known something about the man before he was hired.”
“He says not. He took him on as a favor to his aunt, who has since died.”
“Any other relatives?”
David shakes his head.
I push myself back from the desk and stand up. “Listen. I have something I have to clean up before I can devote full time to this,” I say. “Let me have the afternoon. If I get back before dark, I’ll come right to the office. If not, I’ll be in early tomorrow.”
If I think David is going to argue with me about leaving, I’m wrong. “I can use some time, too,” he says. “Before I go, I’ll call Connolly back and see if he’ll fax what he has on Howard’s bookie. Maybe they had mutual friends.”
I start for the door. “Or enemies.”
Chapter Ten
I try to remember the last time I’d been to Beso de la Muerte. I honestly can’t. I know it was before I married Frey and my mother passed away, but those months are a blur.
Still, I make the drive almost by rote. It’s too early for the border crossing to be busy and I’m waved through. The route to Beso de la Muerte isn’t marked on any map. Most of it is a dirt road wandering through clumps of cactus and scrub oak. Even if you were tempted to give the unremarkable route a try, you wouldn’t get far. A magical barrier that protects the place opens only for those Culebra allows in. Anyone else faces a foreboding landscape and an overwhelming feeling of dread designed to make the most intrepid of four-wheelers hang a quick U-turn.
Once past the barrier, a familiar arroyo greets me on the right, a lone pine on the left. This is the turn-off. Soon, Beso de la Muerte comes into view, a rickety collection of dilapidated buildings with corrugated tin roofs. Only the saloon shows any signs of life— Corrido music spilling out of an old-fashioned swinging door that hangs drunkenly from hinges twisted with time.
There are a couple of cars parked in front. Unusual for this early in the day. Most of Culebra’s patrons prefer to come after dark. I park and glance around. Now that I’m here, I’m doubting what I’m about to ask Culebra. Janet Carlysle is certainly not his problem. I won’t blame him if he sends me packing.
I open the car door and step out.
Culebra was the closest thing I ever had to a mentor when I was adjusting to becoming vampire. He helped me in more ways than I can count. I feel guilty that I haven’t seen him in a long time. Even worse, I haven’t thought about his ward either, a young Mexican girl we saved from some Narcos over a year ago. I don’t even have a gift to bring her.
Guilt doesn’t suit you, Anna.
Culebra’s voice in my head makes me jump, then smile. Taking a deep breath, I push through the swinging door.
Culebra is behind the bar. He’s grinning, a cigar clamped firmly between his teeth.
He looks exactly as I remembered—a long, lean drink of water with a Clint Eastwood squint and more lines on his face than a road map. He comes from behind the bar and holds out his arms.
All the hesitation I had about coming melts away with that hug.
“So,” Culebra breaks away first and motions me toward the bar, “to what do I owe this unexpected visit? I can see just looking at you that you don't need a host. Marriage obviously agrees with you.”
I take a seat on a bar stool and accept the Dos Equis Culebra holds out to me.
“How are you? How is Adelita? I can’t believe I haven’t seen either of you in over a year.”
He puts a hand on my arm. “You’ve been through a lot in that year. Losing Max. Then your mother.” He quirks an eyebrow. “Marrying Frey. Becoming a stepmother. Lots of changes in your life.”
“I wish you and Adelita had been able to attend the wedding.”
Culebra swipes at the bar with a towel. “I know David told you the reason. Adelita was in a school production—her first. It was the only thing that could have kept me away from your celebration.”
“You made the right decision,” I say, nodding. “If I’d been here, I’d have gone to her play, too.”
Culebra reaches behind him and takes a photo from the wall. “Her last school picture. Isn’t she beau
tiful?”
The curtain separating the bar from the back room parts. A woman comes through. She’s human and, from the rapturous look on her face and the unmistakable funk of sex and blood emanating from her, I recognize her as a host. She nods to Culebra and me, then heads for the door.
She’s followed by a male vampire. He’s unfamiliar to me, but when he glances my way, his step falters. I don’t know what vibe I give off, but it’s always the same. Vampires sense who I am and react with wary deference. I take another swig of my beer and turn away. His retreating footsteps beat a quick path to the door.
Culebra is grinning again. “It’s probably a good thing you’re not a regular anymore, he says. “You would be bad for business. Which brings me to the reason for your visit. What do you want?”
No beating around the bush. I blow out a breath and tell him about Janet Carlysle.
He listens, his face giving nothing away. When I’ve finished, he says, “You really think this is a good idea? To have her live here while she’s going through the change?”
“No. Not while…before. I want her to live here and see firsthand what it means to be a vampire.”
He laughs. “You saw the woman who just left. Did she look like she suffered from the act? If anything, this Carlysle woman would think she’s doing humans a favor by feeding from them.”
“That’s not the only way it happens. When a vampire loses control, all kinds of hell breaks loose. You know you’ve had to clean up after a feeding gone wrong. My idea is to let her be a host for a while. Maybe get a taste of a not-so-sociable vampire. I don’t want her killed, you understand, just given a better appreciation of what kind of club she wants to join.”
Culebra hesitates. I don’t blame him.
“I shouldn’t have asked you to do this,” I say, standing up. “Chael tells me I’m crazy not to put this woman out of her misery. I thought maybe—”
“Typical Chael,” Culebra says. “Your plan might work. I can show her a side to the undead life not romanticized in books. What if it doesn’t dissuade her? Or if it does, and she writes about what she’s seen, what happens?”
Paradox Page 6