When It Comes (Vampire Assassin League Book 31)

by Jackie Ivie

  They were all wrong, however. The woman in Mitch’s vehicle wasn’t just cute. She was majorly gorgeous. And that equaled trouble. There was something really weird about her, too. It wasn’t just the entire package. She had a knock-out figure, displayed in a corset top that had caught Mitch’s glance more than once. Her hair had been a warm brown shade, touched with sun-kissed locks. But it was her eyes that had snagged his attention. They’d looked like shiny obsidian. Dark. Unfathomable. Reflective. The couple of times he’d glanced at them he’d experienced the strangest reaction. Like somebody ran their fingers along his belly, tickling ribs. Mitch couldn’t quite figure that out.

  “So. What’s the move, hotshot?”

  Randy asked it, making no attempt to hide his aggressive tone. Mitch held out his hand toward Sam for the phone. Put it back in his pocket. He really detested Randy. “Get forensics out here on these cans. Take my pick-pocket into the station. Fill out some paperwork. Get her booked. Go get some sleep. Forget I met you guys. Pretty much in that order.”

  “What about the coke deal?”

  “What about it?”

  “This is your screw-up, asshole.”

  Randy’s hands went to his hips. Mitch’s followed.

  “Really? How do you figure?”

  “You were made. Admit it.”

  “Are you for real?” Mitch asked.

  “We’ve worked this case for five months. Five. Long. Months.” The guy separated the words as if that made a difference. “And you blow it over a stinkin’ pick-pocket.”

  Mitch rolled his head on his shoulders as if working out a cramp. He looked back to Randy. “The deal went off, man. Just, not to us.”

  “Someone else is running around out here with two million cash on them?”

  “Well. Yeah. Kind-a obvious, ain’t it?” Mitch answered.

  “I already don’t like you. You shouldn’t make it so personal.”

  Randy said it and then took a step toward Mitch. Sneered. This was interesting. And stupid. The last thing they needed was to start a scuffle at a large rock concert. Randy had him by about an inch in height and reach. Maybe ten pounds. The guy was extremely fit. Agile. But Mitch had a black belt in three different martial arts. This could get very fun. Very quickly.

  Mitch considered the guy for long moments without saying anything. Randy needed to drop the antagonistic act. It was way past curtain call. Or, maybe, he really was as pissed as it sounded.

  “Well?” Randy shoved the word at him.

  “If I’d been made, I wouldn’t have that kind of message on my phone. They’d have just disappeared. Vamoosed. Poof! Gone.”

  Randy didn’t like his comment. The guy brought his hands up. They were in fists. Mitch jangled his arms at his sides, loosening up. As if this was a prize fight and he was a contestant about to enter the ring.

  “Before you do something stupid, buck-o, maybe you should know something,” Mitch informed him.

  “You’re an asshole?”

  “You didn’t scan my personnel file?” Mitch continued.

  “It probably says ‘Does not work well with others’, and we already know that.”

  “Darn. You’re onto me,” Mitch replied.

  “Funny.”

  “Come on, man. The deal soured. This is just a job. We’re all bad-asses. No need to prove it.”

  “Maybe you should have thought of that earlier.”

  “I’m not worth it, man,” Mitch warned him.

  “Now. That. Is true.”

  Randy swung. Mitch deflected it, and the jabs that followed. Each time, he made the result just a little more punishing. He’d been conditioned since boyhood for this. Could smack through concrete blocks. He’d demonstrated that skill often enough. Connecting with his hands was the equivalent of hitting bricks. And if Randy didn’t give up, he was going to break a knuckle or two. The guy was a boxer. Well toned. Obviously well-trained. And used to a certain result. It took six tries before the agent stepped back, winced, and shook his arms.

  “What the hell?” Randy muttered.

  Sam whistled. Tom didn’t say anything. Mitch slid one of his palms across the other as if dusting them, visually scanning the area for any reaction from the crowd. Everyone appeared to be rocking out to music. Didn’t look like anyone had noticed the trash area. That was lucky. He looked back at Randy. Waited.

  “Well. Looks like maybe I should have read your file,” Randy finally remarked.

  The others chuckled. Grinned. Mitch didn’t join in. He waited for the amusement to die down. An awkward moment ensued, drowned out by music and crowd noise.

  “So. We’re good, then?” Mitch asked.

  “Uh, yeah.”

  One of them answered. Mitch didn’t know which one. He didn’t care, either. It was always the same when he had to work in a group, especially if the FBI was involved. One of them was bound to be a cocksure dumbass. He ran into a lot of them. The department had him analyzed last year as if he was the root cause. The psychologist said it was because he projected a certain aura. Like he wanted trouble. That’s why he usually found it.

  “You guys got this, then?” Mitch asked.

  “Got what?”

  Randy asked it. He didn’t have the same level of belligerence in his tone. That was a pleasant nuance.

  “The site. We need it secured. This is a crime scene. We do have one, still.”

  “Yeah. We know. Petty theft.” That was Tom.

  “More like grand larceny. I’m going to go now. Got to escort the little lady to her new quarters.” An odd tingle went through his belly again at the mention of her. Mitch swallowed. Ignored it.

  “You need any help with that?” Sam asked.

  “Nope.”

  Mitch turned and started the long trek through the crowd of gyrating bodies, back to the parking area. Something was really strange. Whenever he thought of her, he had a reaction. It actually felt like he was getting pulled in her direction. The feeling increased as he neared his car. He was almost jogging. And that’s when he got handed his next problem.

  The pick-pocket was gone.

  And she’d ransacked his car.

  The driver door wasn’t even all the way shut.

  Mitch bent and peered into the back seat. He pulled his burn phone out. Turned on the light function. Scanned the area. His cuffs weren’t attached to the holding bar anymore. They were on the floor. She hadn’t slipped them, either. One of them was broken.

  Broken.

  It wasn’t possible, but that didn’t change what he was looking at. The cuff joint had been ripped apart, the metal twisted. The broken ends were jagged, warped spikes. Looked pretty dangerous. There wasn’t a speck of blood that he could see, but it could have been sucked up by carpeting or upholstery. Mitch ducked in, put a knee on the seat, and shone the flashlight into the front area.

  The floor was strewn with paperwork. He didn’t know where it had originated, but the glove box was a prime contender. It was hanging open. Empty. The trash had been dumped upside down, but there hadn’t been much in it. The visors were both lowered. Anything secured in their pockets was missing. None of that would have yielded anything, however. The documentation was clean. In his line of work, there was always a possibility of theft. The car was as anonymous as the Denver Police Department could make it.

  Mitch had his badge hooked to the back of his belt, but that was it. He’d left his wallet, a selection of ID cards - mostly fake, a couple of bogus passports, and his real phone in a safe located beneath the passenger seat. Sometimes it held his gun. Not tonight. He had his .38 secured in a shoulder holster. Although it was stupid, Mitch reached a hand under his arm and patted the gun for reassurance. Good thing he hadn’t left it in the safe tonight.

  That safe was supposedly inviolate. Ultra-secure. Guaranteed. There were only two keys. One was sealed in an envelope at the station house. Signed and dated and locked in the property room. The other one was attached to his retractable key holder with his other
keys.

  But none of that mattered in the least because the front of the safe had been pried open. Mitch’s flashlight illuminated bits of wrenched steel that had once been bolts that held the safe closed. He didn’t spot any blood here, either, but it might have soaked into fabric, too. What could be scratch marks were visually apparent along the edge of the safe door. Possibly from a tire iron. Mitch looked over his shoulder, out the back window. The trunk was closed. Looked secured. It might not have been accessed. He turned back to the wreckage. He didn’t know what she might have used to rip a safe open. Or how it was even possible. Unless she had cohorts.

  And it was really stupid of him not to have considered that before now.

  Mitch eased out of the car. Stood there a moment. Damn. This was going to suck. He hadn’t lost any drug deal, but this was almost worse. He’d lost his money. Cards. All his identification. His personal smart phone. To a pick-pocket. Mitch pulled the burn cell phone from his back pocket. Punched in the station’s numbers. Got the duty officer on the first ring.

  “Broomfield Station.”

  “I need forensics out at Red Rocks,” Mitch informed him.

  “Hartnett? That you?”

  “Wake somebody. I need the team out here...like tonight.”

  “Yeah. We heard.”

  The guy started laughing. Mitch grimaced.

  “What did you hear?”

  “You’re an asshole – which we already knew – you lost the drug deal, but hey. You have a really cute, light-fingered thief on the way.”

  “Scratch that. It’s changed.”

  “You’re not an asshole anymore?”

  “Don’t make me call someone else,” Mitch answered.

  “You got three FBI agents on site now. Forensics team on the way. Should be out there in less than twenty. Trash area. Right?”

  “I need another team. In the parking lot. My vehicle. West end.”

  The guy’s voice immediately changed. Sobered. “Oh. Hell. What happened? We got a DB now?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then what?”

  “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe it.”

  Mitch pulled out the key fob to the vehicle, clicked the button to unlatch the trunk lid. A moment later, he had it open, scanned for intrusion. He’d been right. Nobody had accessed the trunk. Maybe they’d run out of time. He didn’t know and he didn’t care, aside from the fact that he needn’t worry about prints here. Mitch selected another key from his holder. Opened the compartment hidden in the wheel well. Grabbed a roll of crime scene tape. All using one hand. He stood back up. Sighed heavily.

  “Come on Hartnett. Can’t you give me something to write down?”

  “Just get some cars out here.”

  Mitch clicked the END CALL button. Slipped the phone into his back pocket again. Selected a parking post at the front of his right bumper, and started pulling tape.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘Richard Allen Wright.’

  Addie typed in the name with her forefingers. Double-checked it for spelling. She wasn’t a typist. Being a clerk or secretary, or someone who needed typing skills hadn’t appealed to her back when she’d lived. Aside from which, men held most of the jobs then. They still seemed to be employed in the most lucrative ones. The world didn’t change much. Men always seemed to want the upper hand.

  She shrugged at the randomness of her thoughts. Clicked the search button. Watched the screen fill with all manner of sites. And started checking. She found several social sites for Richard Wright. One carried his picture. It wasn’t a flattering photo. Not, that she cared.

  That was a lie. Addie closed her eyes. A ripple of sensation went through her breasts as she brought her mate’s visage to mind. The man was beyond handsome. Really hot. Sexy.

  Oh.

  She cared.

  Addie was smiling as she looked back at the screen. There wasn’t much information about Richard on his social site after the first page. Very few photos and none of them snapshots of him. Nothing personal. Nothing of interest, actually.

  This was almost exactly like the last three names. But...not quite. This site said Richard was an architect. Single. Thirty years old. The last one had listed his occupation as paralegal. His age as twenty-seven. The one before that he’d been a Special Ed teacher. Aged thirty-one. Married. Two kids. Whoever had set these identities up was a real master at it.

  Which meant her mate wasn’t just a detective. He was an undercover one.

  She could be wrong, but Addie didn’t think so. She’d watched a lot of television since its invention. Sometimes she’d be hooked for weeks, especially if it was a crime series. It was practically an addiction...that nobody else knew about.

  She made a face at her monitor.

  Ugh.

  Why did her mate have to be a cop?

  She should look on the bright side here. He was probably clean. No problematic legal history. No sexually transmitted diseases. No drug addictions, although...he might be alcoholic. Quite a few of the police dramas she’d watched featured that plot-line.

  Either way, it wouldn’t matter. Not to her. She was immune to just about everything. Well. Except sunlight, crucifixes, Holy Water, consecrated wood in the shape of a stake...

  She was over-thinking this. All she cared about was finding out his name. And then his address. Occupation didn’t matter. Neither did an addiction. Or health issue. They’d be solved upon accepting vampirism. Physical condition would be set for eternity. He’d stay exactly as he was at the moment of change. And that was a very nice thought.

  Addie shut her eyes again. Recollected.

  Ah. Yes.

  Her mate was very nicely built. Masculine...

  She opened her eyes and regarded the monitor again. She was wasting time, but she had a lot of it. Evening was hours off yet. Daylight was her enemy. Here, in the cool caverns of her mine shafts, she was safe from UV rays. And she was making progress. Richard Wright was not his name. Addie put that license on the growing discard pile and picked up another one. Her mate was good. Well-hidden. She looked at the new license. They were all from Colorado. Not much of a clue there. This license had been issued to Ryan Samuel Larson. Carried the same picture as the others. She typed the name into the search bar with her two-finger staccato typing style. Hit enter. Got pretty much the same results as before. Started clicking on a few social networking sites. Ended the search.

  Okay.

  She now knew her mate wasn’t Ryan Larson from Aurora. She had three licenses left before she reached the passports. She’d saved them for last, since they had impossible-to-make-out photos, and odd names. Addie picked the three driver licenses up and fanned them out like a small hand of smaller cards. She scanned them, waiting to see if any tingling occurred. It was an intuitive nudge from her psyche. She rarely felt it, but she knew better than to ignore it.

  Nothing.

  She didn’t get any kind of reaction.

  Well. What did that give her? Apparently her choices were between Martin Cagney from Dove Creek, Huck Finn from Longmont, and Mitchell Hartnett from Boulder. Addie looked over the one supposedly belonging to Martin. Her mate hadn’t looked or acted like somebody from a small town. Not that she knew for certain, but nothing about Martin Cagney felt right. She discarded that license onto the stack already on the table. Moved onto the second one and couldn’t prevent the smirk. Would a parent truly name their child Huck Finn? She didn’t feel any tingling sensation. But that didn’t mean anything. He could have been named Huck Finn. Having that moniker could explain his attitude. He might have grown up with a chip on his shoulder.

  Then again...if her mate was named Huck Finn, there would probably be thousands of sites she’d have to wade through to find him. She flipped that license onto the others, and focused on the last one - Mister Hartnett’s driver’s license. There was something unique about this one. It even felt different. As if it weighed the lightest fraction of an ounce more than the others. Addie ran a thumb ov
er the same non-smiling picture all the licenses had sported. If her mate was this Mitchell fellow, she was going to have to dig for his address. The license listed it as a PO Box. She might even have to call the Vampire Assassin League. Get ribbed by the second-in-command, Nigel. Then again, she’d heard he’d found his mate. Maybe Nigel wasn’t such a jerk anymore.

  The license listed Mitchell Hartnett as being six foot three. That sounded right. He weighed two hundred and thirty-five pounds. And they were very nice pounds.

  Focus, Adelaide.

  Mitchell was born twenty-nine years ago on the first of May. He was a May Day baby. Taurus. Born under the sign of the bull. That was interesting. Not that any of that mattered.

  Addie went back to looking the ID over. Mitchell Hartnett had black hair. Green eyes. That was a beautiful combination. It was probably really striking if he wasn’t hooded and seen in the lights from a parking lot. He didn’t have any physical issues that the Department of Motor Vehicles needed to know about. There weren’t any restrictions listed. He had a couple of endorsements, however.

  Addie turned the piece over. There were some numbers that matched up to things. Mitchell was licensed to drive commercial vehicles as well as motorcycles. And he was an organ donor. Her fangs started tingling. Addie turned the license back over. Smiled widely at his image.

  “Hello, Mitchell,” she told him.

  She hit pay dirt on the fourth social media site she checked. He’d spelled his name with two T’s instead of three. As if that disguised him. Hartnet. Addie was jubilant as the screen populated with all kinds of images of him. And then the elation started dying off. There was a brunette woman featured in a lot of the photos. Frolicking in the ocean in swimming suits. On an elegant date of some kind. Mitchell looked amazing in a suit, except for how his arm was about the trim brunette’s waist, pulling that woman close. Holding her, as if...