“If he’s still alive.”
Frey lays his fork on his plate. “We need to do something about that.” He eyes the gym bag on the end of the counter.
“Tomorrow morning we’ll put it into our safe in the office,” David replies. “It’s too much money to take to the bank without having to answer questions.”
“I suggest we go to Duke’s tonight,” I say. “Maybe we’ll find something that points us toward whoever has him.”
“You have a way to get in?” Frey asks.
“Only years of picking locks,” David answers.
Duke lives in a city south of San Diego, Chula Vista. You wouldn’t expect a successful bail bondsman to live in this type of neighborhood. It’s an average, middle-class, cookie cutter, family street complete with picket fences and mini-vans in the driveways. His house is a two-story stucco box with climbing roses on either side of a gated driveway.
We park on the next block and walk over in case whoever took Duke brought him back to his home. The house is dark. The neighborhood is quiet, creepy. It’s a change from the bustle of the beach community where I live, or the lights and noise of David’s block downtown.
A few people are taking evening walks, some pushing strollers, some with dogs on leashes, but they nod and smile and generally pay us no attention when we stroll into Duke’s driveway, and make our way to the back. Duke may not be acquainted with many of his neighbors but they, on the other hand, appreciate a quiet, single man who keeps to himself and maintains a well-manicured yard.
The back yard is the same as the front: neat, grassy, a flowerbed along the rear fence. David works on the door. We are aware Duke must have wired the place with an alarm, but we’ll cross that bridge once we’re in. It takes David less than five minutes before the tumblers fall and the door opens. We pause, waiting for indication that we’ve tripped an alarm.
Nothing.
We venture further inside and look for the alarm panel. We find it in the front hall. It’s not set.
Duke must have either been taken, or he left in such a hurry, he neglected to set it.
David flips on a light in the living room. It doesn’t look disturbed. Puzzling, since it makes sense whoever was looking for money would start here.
“I don’t get it,” David says, indicating the same thoughts.
We go from room to room. No open drawers, no strewn clothes. Not even a chair pulled out from the dining room table. Duke’s taste runs to spare, modern neutral tones—and the only decorative items are a couple of pictures on a console. I pick one up. The couple are in their twenties, standing arm in arm against a backdrop of the Belmont Park coaster.
I show the picture to David, who shrugs. “Have no idea,” he says.
I don’t either. Duke never spoke of family, and I’m ashamed I never asked. I replace the picture, hoping our next job won’t be tracing Duke’s next of kin.
“We’re back to square one,” I announce to no one in particular.
“Not exactly,” David says. “We found the money.”
The front doorbell chimes and we jump.
“Should we answer?” David whispers.
“May as well,” I reply, heading for the door. “We aren’t doing much good just standing here.”
I look through the peep hole. A Mr. Roger’s look-alike is smiling as if knowing I’m staring at him. He’s tall, thin, dark hair peppered with gray, wearing a cardigan sweater complete with white shirt and knotted tie.
I pull open the door.
“You must be Anna,” he says, taking a step inside.
Startled, I take a reflexive step back.
He holds out a hand, “I’m Steven Peters. Live next door. Norman said to expect you, and here you are.”
Norman? In all the years David and I worked for Duke, I never knew his first name. It’s clear why he’d want to be known as Duke professionally.
Mr. Peters looks over my shoulder.
“You must be David. Norman described both of you perfectly. You, sir,” he eyes Frey, “I don’t believe he mentioned you.”
Frey steps forward. “Friend of a friend.”
Mr. Peters accepts his hand.
“You said Du—Norman—said to expect us.”
Mr. Peters turns toward me. “Yes. Day before yesterday. He came to see me. Seemed nervous. Said he had to leave town for a while but had a message for you and David. I asked why he didn’t deliver it himself. It was too important to leave on an answering device. He knew you’d be coming by and said to watch for you.”
He straightens his tie. “I said I would. Norman has done me favors many times. I was happy to return this one.”
I shift from one foot to the other with impatience. “The message?”
“It’s a post office box. Number 796.”
I practically wilt with frustration. “That’s it?”
I can’t keep the disappointment from my voice.
Mr. Peters looks at me with a mixture of his own disappointment and irritation. “What were you expecting?”
David steps between us. “That’s the entire message? There isn’t anything else?”
“No. That is it. Your reaction is puzzling. Norman thought he passed on some very important information. Obviously, he is mistaken.”
It was important information a day ago. I wonder how he figured out we had the key?
“Thank you, Mr. Peters.” David takes the guy by the elbow and ushers him toward the door. “We appreciate your giving us Norman’s message. We’ll lock up here and be on our way.”
“Before you go,” I say on a whim, “have you seen anyone hanging around the neighborhood? Any strangers? I imagine a nice, quiet neighborhood like this has an active Neighborhood Watch program.”
That brings a smile to his face. “We do. Yes. A day ago there was a stranger. I noticed him because he wore a long coat during a seventy-five degree day. He walked back and forth in front of Norman’s house. I was about to confront him when he left. Got into a car and drove off.”
“You wouldn’t have a license plate number, would you?”
The smile widens. “Better than that. I have video.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
I fight an overwhelming urge to throw my arms around Mr. Peters. A video! We can finally get a look at this elusive “duster man” we’re chasing. If we’re really lucky, a license plate to pin a name on him!
Frey and I run Mr. Peters out of Duke’s house. David stays behind to lock up but he’s soon with us, ushering into a chintz and tchotchke living room worthy of an English revival country house. Flower curtains, flower upholstery on the chairs and couch, every inch of table/shelf space full with vases, figurines, and porcelain figures. I wonder what Duke, with his simple Spartan tastes, thought the first time he came here.
Mr. Peters walks over to a desk and returns with a laptop. He motions us to take seats around a coffee table. He opens the laptop, taps on the keyboard, then turns the screen to us.
“This view is from the camera mounted on my front porch. It’s motion activated.”
I’m puzzled by the system’s sophistication. The camera is mounted on the roof. It sweeps back and forth a couple of times, reacting to cars passing by on the road. The view encompasses the front of the houses on either side of Mr. Peters and the three across the street.
“This is a pretty elaborate system,” I remark, “and this neighborhood, pretty quiet and cohesive. What made you install it?”
Mr. Peters smiles. “Norman’s idea. He paid for the whole thing. Wanted our little block secure.”
Wanted his house secure, more like. While we don’t see a safe inside, I bet he has one. I’m tempted to ask Mr. Peters what his neighbor does for a living, but I decide against it.
The camera continues its sweeps but slows and zooms in on a car stopping in front of Duke’s house.
Frey, David, and I lean in.
The guy who climbs out of the car is dressed in all black—jeans, tee-shirt, and that long leath
er coat. He has a wide-brimmed hat that successfully hides his face from the camera. His outfit couldn’t be more conspicuous, but the way he strides purposefully toward Duke’s front door, he obviously doesn’t care. We can’t see him on the porch, but he’s back on the sidewalk a few minutes later. He looks up and down the block, allowing a peek at his face for the first time.
“Can you zoom in on his face?” I ask.
Mr. Peters pauses the video and touches a few more keys. The camera refocuses and, though it’s grainy, we have our first look at duster man.
I don’t recognize him. He’s got an angular face, blue or green eyes, a straight nose, and pointed chin.
“Could you print that?” David asks.
A printer whirs into life. Mr. Peters looks particularly smug as he hands David the photo.
“Great system,” I say. “What about the car?”
Again, Mr. Peters is busy at the keyboard. He fast-forwards through the guy pacing in front of Duke’s home. He gives up and gets back into a light sedan. When he pulls away, Mr. Peters pauses the video again, zooms in, and takes a screenshot. The picture he hands us this time is of the sedan with California plates, which we can clearly read.
David and I exchange satisfied looks.
“This is going to help a lot,” I say, standing up.
For the first time, Mr. Peters looks concerned. “Can you tell me what’s happening? Is Norman in trouble? What can I do to help?”
David pulls a business card from his pocket. “Keep doing what you’re doing. If he shows up again, call me on my cell. Don’t approach him. We don’t think he’s hurt Norman, but we suspect he’s hurt others. He’s dangerous. Norman wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”
Mr. Peters ushers us out more somberly than he showed us in. We assure him he’s been an immense help and a good friend, and we will keep him informed. We ask him to keep this to himself. He agrees.
When he shuts the door behind us, I turn to David. “Let’s get to the office and run the plates.”
Frey’s cell phone chimes. He answers and listens, frowning, then holds the phone out to me. “It’s for you.”
His expression is guarded. He will not tell me who’s calling for a reason. I take the phone but before I can say hello, Chael bellows at me.
“Jesus Christ, Anna. Don’t you ever pick up your fucking messages? I left twenty since last night.”
For someone who just started speaking English regularly, he picks up swearing quickly. I bite back a sarcastic retort because he’s right. My phone’s been dead since I forgot to charge it the day before yesterday. I move away from David and Frey.
“What is it?” I whisper.
“You need to get down here now.”
“Down where?”
“Where do you think? Where you dumped that bitch, Janet.”
“What did she do now?”
“You’re not going to believe it. Just get down here.”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer; the call is dropped.
I hand Frey’s phone back to him, and David looks at me with puzzlement. Frey knows where Janet is. David doesn’t, for obvious reasons. I debate what I say to get away.
“I’ll ride with you back to the office,” I say finally. “Frey, help David track down that license plate. I’m going to leave you two for a while.”
David looks as if I suddenly sprouted an extra head. “What’s more important than finding Duke?”
Frey picks up without missing a beat. “Do the police want to talk about what happened at the house?” he asks.
Bless him, offering me a reasonable excuse to get away. “They want to see me right away.”
David’s frown deepens as he glances at his watch. “It’s almost nine o’clock. Kind of late, isn’t it?”
I shrug. “Maybe they got a lead.”
Frey steps up again. “You go. David and I will see what we can dig up.”
It’s a quick ride back to our office, where I left my car—when? Was it really only two days ago?
When I’m in my car, Frey leans in and pecks me on the cheek. “Come back as soon as you can,” he says. “Be careful down there. I assume this is more about Janet.”
I nod. “I made a huge mistake trying to reason with that woman. I don’t know what she’s up to now.”
He turns to David, then turns back around. “Charge your damned phone.”
I mock salute…and dig my phone out of my pocket and the charger out of the glove compartment.
I’ve never seen so many cars parked in front of Culebra’s bar. I have to park two blocks down and make my way up a rickety sidewalk. Upbeat Mariachi music charges the still night air with cheerful buoyancy I’d never expect from a bar for vampires and their hosts. Certainly, it was never a choice of Culebra’s, who always prefers the shrill, storytelling Corrido ballad.
Pushing through a crowd of primarily hosts, I spy Culebra behind the bar. His back is to me, and he is talking to someone animatedly. Before I get closer, a hand reaches out and tugs me from behind.
“It’s about time you get here.” Chael is dancing with frustration. He waves a hand around. “Look at this place.”
The bar has a different atmosphere than I expect. There are couples, even vampires, dancing to the music, who don’t usually show much emotion among their own kind. They look—well—cheerful. The place was painted, the bar redone, and, I sniff, bar-b-cue? The doc comes from the back with a plate of ribs. The human contingent gathers around him enthusiastically.
I smile. “It’s different,” I say. “What’s the big emergency? What did Janet do now?”
“What did she do?” Chael echoes shrilly. “This. She’s done this.”
“You can’t be serious. You called me here because Culebra is having a party?”
Chael’s face drops. “A party? It’s like this every night.”
He’s coming here every night?
I take another look around. “Looks like everyone is having a good time. What’s the problem?”
Before he can reply, a familiar voice calls to me.
“Aunt Anna! When did you get here?”
I turn to see my “niece” Adelita hurrying toward me. She flings her arms around me, and I bask in the warmth of her hug before stepping back to look at her. It was too long since I’ve seen the radiant teen standing before me. The pinched features of a child kidnapped by drug narcos and forced into sexual slavery are gone. Her smile is sunshine, her brown eyes spark with life. She’s beautiful, and I’m overcome with emotion.
I pull her into another hug.
Adelita laughs. “I’m happy to see you.”
My guilt bubbles to the surface. “I should have come sooner.”
She waves a hand. “You’re busy, and you have a son now! When do I get to meet him?”
She takes my arm and steers me toward the bar. Behind us, I hear Chael’s irritation, We aren’t done.
I don’t answer.
Culebra doesn’t see me until Adelita calls him.
I see who he is talking to.
Janet.
Both faces grin as I approach.
I can’t believe my eyes.
Culebra has a tee on with a colorful skull and Dia De Los Muertos printed under it. I’ve never seen him in anything other than faded long-sleeve shirts and occasionally a poncho, á la Clint Eastwood.
Janet is wearing an elaborately embroidered Mexican off-the-shoulders blouse and skirt. She has a rose in her hair. That surprises me more than anything else.
Adelita steps behind the bar to join them and Janet puts an arm around her shoulders. I expect Adelita to pull away. Instead, she leans forward and kisses Janet’s cheek.
I teeter between astonishment and jealousy.
They look like a family.
A family.
Culebra reads my reaction, and my thoughts.
Surprises me, too.
I don’t know how to react. Janet’s been here four days and the three have suddenly bonded?
My head spins as I follow him into the back. I expected to find the place in ruins after the way Chael demanded I come to the bar…torched, maybe, by Janet. Instead, there’s music, dancing, and a room of vampires and hosts having fun.
I know what you’re thinking. Culebra’s voice is in my head.
Of course you do, I reply sarcastically. You’re reading my thoughts.
He laughs. “That helps,” he says aloud. He motions me to a chair and I sink into it. “I don’t know how to explain. Janet isn’t a witch, is she?”
His tone is playful, but his question gives me pause. Maybe she is a witch.
Once again, Culebra laughs. “No. I’m pretty sure she’s not.”
“How do you explain—” I gesture to the other room, “That.”
He shrugs. “Damned if I know. One day I want to kill her, the next, Adelita comes home from her school trip and she and Janet form an instant bond. They put their heads together and livened the place up. They go on a shopping trip to San Diego and come back with paint, varnish, and a bar-b-cue. A bar-b-cue! They decided the vamps and hosts should have fun…and it’s working. Business has never been better. Hosts come here to spend and make money. Vampires no longer feed and run. They stick around to drink and dance. Next week, Janet plans to buy a pool table—”
“Hold it. A pool table?”
My head explodes.
“I know. Crazy.”
Beyond crazy. “What about Janet’s desire to become vampire? Has that changed?”
“She doesn’t talk about it anymore. She no longer offers herself as host. I’m telling you, Anna. She’s a different person.”
I think I know why. “Because of Adelita?” I ask, but it’s not really a question. It makes sense in a sweet, maddening way. “She has no family. No one. In Adelita, she sees a chance to become a big sister,” I narrow my eyes at Culebra. “Or a mother.”
Culebra doesn’t argue, confirming it crossed his mind, too.
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