Cyn blew out a breath, frustrated. “You know, I'm getting kind of tired of everyone pretending this is my fault. Raphael's the one who walked away, not me."
"Men are fools, Cynthia. You surely know that by now."
"Tell me about it,” she muttered. A fresh round of enthusiastic piano music erupted from the music room. Both women looked up.
"Perhaps Mirabelle would enjoy some piano lessons,” Alexandra said grimly.
Cyn winced. “Good idea. Can I reach you through the estate operator?” When Alexandra nodded, Cyn said, “I'll keep in touch then. And Mirabelle has my cell number if she needs anything. Thank you for this, Alexandra."
"Yes, well. Perhaps we'll be friends then, after all."
Cyn doubted it, but hoped for Mirabelle's sake they could remain friendly. At least until they worked out something long term for the girl. She smiled at Alexandra. The vampire wasn't the only one who could fake a smile. “I'd like that,” she lied.
Alexandra's eyes gleamed with a greedy sort of joy, like a child eyeing a favorite candy. Abruptly uncomfortable, Cyn stepped away from the railing. “I'll just say good-bye to Mirabelle and be on my way."
"What's the hurry?” Alexandra said, mirroring Cyn's movement and more, coming close enough that Cyn could see the tiny creases in her carefully applied makeup.
"Cynthia!” Mirabelle's frightened voice broke the sudden tension and had both women hurrying back into the manor house.
Chapter Twenty-seven
It was a false alarm—Mirabelle reacting to the sudden appearance of one of Alexandra's many security vamps. Used to the Neanderthals who populated Jabril's lair, Mirabelle had been huddled in a corner when Cyn reentered the music room. The vampire guard had been almost as stressed by the situation as Mirabelle. It had taken only a few moments to reassure all sides, but Cyn had begrudged even that. She couldn't get out of Alexandra's presence fast enough. The old Alexandra had been a pretty anachronism. This new Alexandra made the sharks of Beverly Hills look like childish poseurs.
A short time later, Cyn left Malibu and the west side of town behind, driving aimlessly up and down Hollywood Boulevard and its side streets, stopping occasionally to flash Liz's picture. She'd always thought it must be an unpleasant shock when visitors saw that the world-famous city of Hollywood was actually a seamy, rundown part of L.A., home to more hookers and homeless than movie stars. With the exception of a trendy hotel or two, Cyn couldn't think of anyone she knew, or knew of, that actually lived in Hollywood. Hollywood Hills, maybe, high up where the dirt and crime were nothing more than twinkling lights in the distance, but not down among the seedy denizens of Hollywood itself. She cruised the known hangouts of teenage runaways, the shooting dens, the busy streets where cars slowed and sometimes a young girl or boy would take a ride to earn a few bucks.
Depressed by the whole scene, Cyn turned west once more, sticking to the side streets and alleys where a young girl might hunker down and wait out the night. She punched up Luci's number as she drove, hoping against hope that Liz had checked in. Luci sounded uncharacteristically harassed and out of patience when she came to the phone, and Cyn could hear shouts in the background.
"You need backup there, Luce?"
"What I need is a cage and some sturdy handcuffs,” Luci snapped, then drew a deep breath. “Never mind. It's been a rough night. Tomorrow will be better. Any sign of your missing girl?"
"Not a whisper, but I've barely started looking. I finally met with Eckhoff late last night and got a look at the uh ... files. I'm pretty sure the cops are on the wrong track, but no one's going to listen to me. At least not until I find something to prove it. I'm working on that too.” Cyn came to a stop sign and looked around; she was almost on top of one of the murder scenes. All the reasons for driving right on by zipped through her brain. It was late; she was tired; it wasn't her job. What the heck. “I'll get back to you, Luce."
She hung up and took a left turn, parking as close to the scene as she could get while remaining reasonably confident her truck would still be in one piece when she got back. She walked the rest of the way, very aware of the night around her, sliding a hand beneath her jacket and releasing the safety strap on her shoulder holster. She didn't expect any problems, but in this neighborhood, it was better to be sure.
She found the crime scene easily enough. It was a couple of blocks off the boulevard, a short alleyway used by low-end shops for deliveries and trash pickup. The alley was dark and smelled pretty much like alleys everywhere, eau de garbage with an undercurrent of desperation and urine. She pulled out a mini Maglite and crouched, studying the area.
"You don't look like a cop."
Cyn spun around as the disembodied voice came out of the shadows, right hand going reflexively to the butt of her weapon. A boy stepped into the meager light, maybe sixteen years old, thin and underfed like all the others. His eyes were bruised, his knuckles scraped. He'd obviously been in a fight recently. Probably not the first or the last.
"That's because I'm not,” Cyn said calmly, her hand relaxing, her eyes going back to the weeks-old crime scene.
"Joni died here,” the boy said.
Cyn looked up. “You knew her?"
"Sure. Everybody knew Joni. She hooked up a lot, always had money and was willing to share."
"Share what?” Cyn asked, thinking it was probably drugs, remembering which of the bodies had shown visible signs of drug use.
"Food, mostly,” the boy said, surprising her. “Joni got drunk sometimes, but she didn't do drugs. She had a few regular customers, old guys who liked fucking a little girl and didn't mind paying a little extra for the repeat experience."
"Yeah.” Cyn sighed, too familiar with the story. “You think maybe one of her clients killed her?"
"Maybe, but it was pretty late. Almost morning."
Cyn quickly reviewed what she remembered from the file. The vic from this scene had been reported on an anonymous 911. “How do you know what time it was?"
"I found her. Sat with her until the cops came."
Cyn's heart skipped a beat. There hadn't been any witness reports that she'd seen. “Did you see who did it?"
"Didn't see it. Heard it though. I think I scared the guy away."
"What'd you hear?"
The kid looked at her, suddenly suspicious. “Why you asking all these questions, if you're not a cop?"
"I'm a private investigator.” She pulled out a card and handed it over. “A family member hired me to find out what's going on.” It wasn't precisely a lie.
The boy squinted at the card and back at Cyn. “Kind of like that wizard guy Harry Dresden from the books?"
"Kind of, but without the magic. So, was she alive when you got here?"
"I don't think so.” A tired sort of grief washed over his features and he looked away. “Not long, anyway."
"What'd you hear before you found her?"
"A car and a lot of noise, like something big being thrown into the trash. I went to see what it was because sometimes people throw away good stuff, you know? It was a nice car, so I figured maybe it was something good."
"You saw the car?"
"Nah, but I could tell. The engine sounded all smooth and low, and when the doors closed, you could hear that nice thunky noise, not all kinds of rattles and shit."
Observant, Cyn thought, smart. She felt a moment of despair and wondered for the thousandth time why society threw these kids away.
"So what happened then?"
"Like I said, I think the guy must've heard me coming. He drove off pretty fast, burned rubber all the way.” He gestured at the ground and Cyn walked over, crouching to look closely at the thick lines of indistinguishable black.
"If you didn't see him, how do you know it was a guy?"
He thought about her question for a bit. “Just figured, I guess,” he said finally. “I mean ... aren't they always?"
"They?"
"You know, serial killers, the guys who bump off hookers."
>
Cyn considered. “Did you make the 911 call?"
"How?” he scoffed.
"So how'd the cops know to come?"
The boy shrugged. “Someone else called them, I guess."
"Did you talk to the police? Tell them what you saw?"
"Fuck no. I split when I heard the sirens. Didn't go far, in case they weren't coming here, but then they did, so...” He shrugged again.
Cyn stared at the ground, thinking hard. The killer had probably called it in. And why would he do that? Because he wanted it reported before the sun came up, because he wanted the cops to think vampire. She stood slowly, reaching into her backpack. “When's the last time you ate?” she asked casually.
Another shrug.
She pulled out several gift certificates for McDonalds, along with Liz's picture. She handed him the coupons. “Get yourself some food, share it if you want, but be sure you eat some of it yourself.” She flipped the photo. “Have you seen this girl?"
The boy glanced at the photo, but didn't say anything.
"You won't believe this, but I'm trying to help her."
"How do I know that?"
"You don't. Listen, I understand if you don't want to talk to me, but...” She found one of Luci's cards and held it out. “If you see the girl in the picture, give her this number. Tell her to call. Tell her Mirabelle says it's time for the cows to come home. That's important. She'll know what it means."
He gave Cyn a look that said he doubted her sanity. “Cows?"
"Yeah, I know, but tell her anyway. If you see her, that is."
He studied Luci's card with its information on the runaway shelter. “I've heard of this place,” he said, gesturing with the card.
"Yeah?"
"It's supposed to be all right."
"It is."
"Maybe I could call too?"
"Absolutely.” Cyn handed over a few more cards. “There's always room."
"I'm not saying I will."
"Nope. But just in case."
"That's right. Just in case."
Cyn walked away, thinking he might go to the shelter, knowing he probably wouldn't. But hoping he'd at least use the food coupons and not trade them away for booze or drugs. Can't save them all, Cyn.
She walked back to her truck slowly, tired and discouraged. She hated the runaway cases. These kids never wanted to talk to anyone, and with good reason, but it made her job much more difficult when she really did want to help out. She reached the Land Rover and beeped the locks open, throwing her backpack across the seat. On the other hand, this kid had seemed to recognize Liz's picture. Maybe he'd pass on the message. Maybe Liz would know her sister was looking for her and get in touch. Maybe.
The rising sun glared in her rearview mirror all the way back to Malibu. She pulled into the cool darkness of her garage with relief and closed the door behind her, shutting out the daylight. Ten minutes later, she was in her own bed, with the quiet sounds of the ocean lulling her to sleep. She told herself she didn't care if she dreamed or not. But it was a lie.
Chapter Twenty-eight
She woke up less than an hour later with the vague memory of a helicopter zooming down the beach. Irritated, she turned away from the open door and pulled the blanket up, determined to sink back into unconsciousness. After her third restless roll, she surrendered, throwing back the covers in disgust. She could never go back to sleep once she woke up and her mind started churning.
Sitting on the side of the bed, elbows on her knees, she rubbed her fingers back through her hair and stood with a curse. Might as well get something done. Maybe she could catch a nap later. Right now, she needed coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. Alone in the condo, she eschewed any clothing beyond the t-shirt she'd slept in and made her way down to the kitchen where it took two cups of coffee and the start of a third before her brain cleared enough to focus on any meaningful activity. A bleary glance around the kitchen brought a blinking light into focus, and she realized her phone was trying to tell her something. She hit speed dial for her voice mail.
The smooth bourbon of a Southern accent poured out. “Hey, Cyn, it's Nick. I'm getting a little worried here, darlin'. It's been a while. Call me."
Nick was an old friend. Actually, more, and less, than a friend. A friend with privileges. The two of them had a long-standing arrangement that was mutually very satisfying, both physically and emotionally. Nick lived on the other coast and called whenever he was in town. Over the years, they had both enjoyed great sex with no commitment, each free to move on if they met someone they wanted to spend time with. When the other relationships petered out, as they invariably did, the old convenience was always waiting. The affair with Raphael had come and gone so fast, Cyn had never even had a chance to tell Nick about it, and the wound was still too raw to even think about someone else. Nick, unknowing, had left a couple of his usual messages in the meantime, but she'd never called back. But now ... Now what, Cyn?
She dialed. It rang twice before he picked up. “Well, it's about time, Leighton. Where the hell have you been?"
"Nice to talk to you too, Nicky."
"Yeah, yeah. Come on, Cyn. I was worried."
"You're right. I'm sorry."
"Because we're friends, right?"
"Yeah. I said I was sorry."
"So what is it? Big case taking all your time? Met a new guy, madly in love? But then you'd be happy and call me. So I figure someone's broken your heart. You want me to kill him for you?"
Cyn laughed. “He might be hard to kill."
"Yeah? And I might surprise you. So what's going on? I'll be in town next week, if you want to get together."
Cyn was silent, thinking.
"Cyn, darlin', if you have to think that hard about it, you're not ready. The bastard. How about I just break a few of his bones?"
"I appreciate the offer, Nicky. Both of them. And you're right, I'm not ready. Not yet anyway. But I wanted to let you know everything was okay."
"Well, I do appreciate the call. So you keeping busy at least? You're not like hanging around the house and eating ice cream right from the carton, are you? ‘Cuz it'd be a shame to ruin that fine ass of yours."
"Gee, Nicky. Here I thought you were worried about me and it turns out it's only my ass."
"Well, it is a very fine ass, darlin'."
"Maybe I'll take my ass for a run on the beach later. Might clear some cobwebs and help me figure out a way to get some answers."
"So you are working a new case."
"Missing girl, my favorite kind. Not. And to make it more interesting, we've got a serial killer loose in town, and he seems to favor runaway girls. No pressure."
"You've still got pretty good ties in the department, though, right? That should help some."
"The department's not too happy with me these days. Even my regular guy's being cagey. He let me in a little, but he's closed the door for now. It's frustrating."
"So talk to his secretary or clerk or whatever those guys have. That's what I do. Secretaries know everything that's going on, and if they like you, they'll talk."
"Since most secretaries are female, I'm sure that's not a problem for you."
"Hey, the ladies like me, what can I say?"
Cyn didn't respond right away. “You know, Nicky,” she said thoughtfully. “You're not just a pretty face, after all. That's a great idea."
"Okaaay ... I'm not sure if that was an insult or a compliment."
"A compliment all the way. I'm glad I called."
"Yeah, me too. I have no idea what you're talking about, but okay."
Cyn laughed. “Thanks, Nick. I'll stay in touch."
"You do that. And take care of that sweet ass."
Cyn disconnected, then raced upstairs to rummage through her closet. She found the paper Hartzler had shoved into her pocket and unfolded it. He'd written his name and a cell phone number in neat block letters. She checked her watch. It was too early to call a guy who worked nights. Maybe she'd take that run
on the beach after all, get some daylight and fresh air for a change. By the time she got back, showered and dressed, Mr. Ian Hartzler should be getting ready for his shift at the County's very special para facility. Which was precisely where Cyn wanted him.
Chapter Twenty-nine
The sun was a smear of light in the fog shrouded sunset when Cyn parked again in front of the two-story brick building. The day had been cold and damp, the sun completely obscured by low hanging clouds. She'd taken a steaming shower after her run, staying extra long beneath the hot water, trying to warm up.
The security cameras swiveled as she made her way up the walk to the para facility. The cameras were much more obvious in daylight, their movements almost distracting as they tracked her progress. The door opened before she could push the buzzer.
"Ms. Leighton.” Hartzler's voice held an excited tremble. He'd been more than eager when Cyn had called earlier, telling her in a hushed voice of his honor at this opportunity to help Lord Raphael. He was trying for cool now, with limited success. Cyn was still a little creeped out, but gave him a friendly smile. After all, he had volunteered to help her, knowing fully well it could cost him his job if anyone found out.
"Mr. Hartzler. Thank you for agreeing to meet me."
"Oh, of course.” He closed the door carefully behind her. “As I said on the phone, I'm honored to be asked."
"Well. Thank you anyway. As I mentioned, what I'd really like is another chance to review the files you have on the victims. Of course, the case files would be ideal, but I understand you probably don't have access—"
"But I have those too,” he said eagerly. “Well, not the latest ones, of course, and not the detective's murder book, but I've got all the initial reports, the crime scene photos, witness statements. I have a friend...” He paused, as if aware he was about to admit something that was definitely against procedure and possibly criminal. “Well, let's say I'm not the only one who wishes to serve."
Cyn blinked. Wishes to serve? “Great, that's great,” she said, trying to conceal her discomfort. “Downstairs, then?"
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