by J. R. Rain
I lay there for as long as I dared, alternately running my fingers through his hair and lightly touching his cheeks. He had my dark hair and Danny’s broad-cheekboned looks. He had my long eyelashes, of which his sister was eternally jealous.
Finally I slipped out of bed and checked my email. Nothing of importance, although it did appear that I had been hand-picked to help a wealthy and desperate gentleman from Nigeria transfer his funds to the United States. His plan was genius: He would send me a whopper of a check, and I would send him a much smaller check in return. And get this: I get to keep the difference. Boy, what could go wrong with that idea?
I then spotted something blinking in the lower right-hand corner of my screen. An instant message from Fang. I squee’d and eagerly clicked on it. I might have gasped, too, and my heart definitely slammed hard against my third or fourth rib bone. Funny, I never reacted like this to Fang before.
His message was simple and to the point and it brought a big smile to my face:
I dreamed about you, Moon Dance. I always dream about you.
Smiling like a goofball, I quickly threw on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. These days, I had quite the array of long-sleeved shirts. My day shirts, as I thought of them. My night attire was cuter. But my daytime wardrobe was all about survival...and staying out of the sun as much as possible.
Anyway, I slathered my hands and cheeks and neck with my heavy-duty sunblock, grabbed one of my many sunhats, carefully scooped my son up off my bed, and headed out the front door.
I dashed across the front yard, which never felt hotter. I threw open the garage door with a quick flick of my hand and plunged into the merciful shadows. Once there, I gasped and caught my breath.
My son barely stirred. He murmured “Mommy” and continued sleeping. I next buckled him into the back seat and wadded up the van’s emergency blanket for a pillow.
And with the window shades pulled down, I backed up into the sunlight, and a few minutes later I was picking up my daughter. A few minutes after that I was at the Urgent Care, with my son in my arms.
Chapter Fourteen
It was four hours later and I was sitting in Detective Sherbet’s office. Mary Lou, my sister, was watching the kids; in particular, keeping an eye on Anthony.
“Is everything okay?” asked Sherbet. He was sitting behind his desk and watching me curiously. He always watched me curiously.
I wanted to make a joke about how odd it was seeing Sherbet without a donut in his hand, but I just wasn’t up to it. Instead, I said, “My son’s sick.”
Sherbet sat forward. He was a father who loved his own son. A son who was as effeminate as Sherbet was masculine. And Sherbet was as masculine as they come. Thick hair covered his forearms and the back of his hands. The hair was mostly gray. His belly pushed hard against his white dress shirt, putting a lot of pressure on the center buttons. In fact, the third button from the bottom was slightly frayed.
It’s gonna blow, I thought.
The arm hair and rotund belly looked oddly appealing on Sherbet. Really, he was a man who had no business being thin. His body frame was built to hold the extra weight, and he did so in a sexy way. I always figured that if I was twenty years older I would have a serious crush on the man. I must not be the only one, since his own wife had to be pretty young to have a child still in elementary school. A child who, according to Sherbet, was on the fast track to homosexuality. A child who was forcing my detective friend to open his heart and mind in ways he never had before.
“So what do the doctors say?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Apparently the flu’s going around. They told me not to worry.”
“You’re not doing a very good job of it, kiddo.”
I shrugged. “Mostly, I’m worried your button is gonna blow and take out my eye.”
He looked down at his belly. And now that I looked again, I was certain I could see the faint outline of a jelly stain. A jelly donut stain.
He nodded. “Okay, I get it. You don’t want to talk about it.”
“Not really,” I said.
“And to deflect talk about your son, you choose instead to talk about my belly.”
“It’s quite a belly.”
“I like my belly.”
“I never said it was a bad belly.”
He drummed his thick fingers on the wide desk. His fingernails were perfectly squared and seemed almost as thick as my own supernaturally thick nails.
“Can we stop talking about my belly?” he asked. “Besides, I don’t think cops are supposed to say belly.”
“And yet you’ve now said it four times.”
He shook his head. “Don’t worry about your boy, Sam. He’ll be fine.”
I nodded and wished I could believe him. Sherbet asked why I was here, and warned me from saying anything about his belly. I told him about Maddie and what my ex-partner had turned up. Sherbet listened quietly, and when I was finished he reached over and typed something on his keyboard. By typing, I mean he hunted and pecked slowly with his big sausage-like fingers.
“Hanner’s working the case,” he said.
“May I speak with him?”
“Her. Rachel Hanner. Hang on.”
He got up from behind his desk, and as he did so, one of his knees popped so loudly that I nearly took cover. Sherbet looked slightly embarrassed. “Don’t say a word,” he cautioned.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I smirked.
He returned a moment later with a young woman with perfect milky skin. She was also damn pretty, and I fought an overwhelming desire to hate her. She nodded at me pleasantly but didn’t shake my hand.
Bitch, although I was secretly relieved. Shaking hands always followed a small bit of stress for me.
Sherbet asked her to sit and she did so next to me. Sherbet next asked me to retell my story and I did so, reciting it nearly word for word. These days, my memory seemed sharper and sharper. I had no idea what to attribute that to, but I wasn’t complaining.
When I was finished, Hanner nodded once and turned and looked at me. Her movements were economical and precise. She seemed like a well-oiled—and quite beautiful—machine. Her blond hair was pulled back tightly, revealing a smooth sweep of forehead. Her eyes were impossibly big, and most guys probably would have had the hots for her if she didn’t project such a fiercely calm and professional presence.
“I can’t imagine that a child knows how to block caller ID,” she said when I was finished. Her voice had a hint of an accent. Or maybe, for once, I was simply hearing perfectly enunciated English.
“Which is why I figured the phone had the block already programmed in.”
She nodded. “A reasonable assumption. Is your business number a toll free number, Samantha?”
“At the time of the call, no.”
“But you have it now?”
“Better. Just before coming here I added another feature to my phone, called Trap Call.”
“I’m not following,” said Sherbet.
No surprise there. Sherbet was an old-school homicide detective and probably not up to date on some of the modern tracing technology. Conversely, private investigators were almost always up on such new gadgets. New gadgets gave us an edge over our competitors. Including the police. Of course, having a freaky sixth sense was a hell of an advantage, too. He said, “And what does that do?”
“It’s a call forwarding service,” I said, “When a blocked call comes through, I forward it to Trap Call and their toll-free line. The caller’s ID shows up on their end, and Trap Call relays the information to me. Within seconds.”
Sherbet looked at Murphy. “This make sense to you?”
“Perfectly.”
“Good enough. So we wait for the next call, then?” he said.
I nodded. “If it comes. Until then, I would like to assist you on this case.”
“Do you have a paying client?” asked Sherbet.
“No.”
Sherbet looked at Hanner. “Could
you use the help?”
“More than you know,” she answered.
He looked back at me. “You can help. Unofficially, of course.”
“Of course.”
Sherbet asked Hanner to leave the case file with him and she obliged. She smiled at me, nodded at Sherbet, and left.
The detective touched the file on his desk, and said, “I’m going to get some coffee. Maybe a donut. Okay, definitely a donut. I’ll be gone for about ten minutes. You are not to look at this official police file, and you are most definitely not to copy them on the convenient copy machine in the corner of my office.”
“Yes, sir.”
He set the file down in front of me, and when he left to get his coffee and donut, I quickly made a copy of the file. I slipped my copy in my purse and returned the original to its folder.
When Sherbet returned with his coffee and a fresh jelly stain, he calmly picked up the file and dropped it in the “Out” box at the corner of his desk.
“I trust you didn’t look at the file,” he said.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”
“So what’s your first step?” he asked.
“First, I’m going to read a file I most certainly didn’t copy. And second, then I’m going to do what I do best.”
“Drive to soccer games in your minivan?”
“Hey, I only do that twice a week.”
“Go on.”
I said, “I’m going to relentlessly look for this little girl until I find her, using whatever means I have at my disposal.”
“All of them legal, of course.”
“Of course,” I said.
Sherbet sipped his coffee, and promptly splashed some down his shirt. He briefly glanced at it but he really didn’t seem to care, truth be known. Okay, now that is manly.
He said, “and don’t think I haven’t forgotten about our little talk, Samantha.”
Sherbet was referring to the recent supernatural activity happening in his town. Minor stuff, really. Just a werewolf sighting or two. Maybe a grave robbery. Maybe.
“I haven’t, Detective. It’s just that now isn’t a good time.”
He was nodding. “When your son’s better and you have a little time, we’re going to talk.”
“Of course,” I said, and got up. “I can find my way out.”
I left him staring after me, with his coffee and jelly donut stains.
Chapter Fifteen
I called my sister Mary Lou, and she told me that Anthony was sleeping peacefully. I breathed a sigh of relief.
“I think I just heard you breathe an actual sigh of relief,” said Mary Lou.
“Wouldn’t you?”
“He’s going to be fine, Sam. You worry too much.”
“It’s my job to worry too much,” I said.
“And it’s my job to call you on it.”
I asked her to watch him a little longer and she said she was planning on staying the night. Her own children were at home with their dad, which made me briefly envious. Hey, I’m only human.
I think.
Having Danny around had made my job infinitely easier. That is, until he started coming home later and later—and reeking of perfume. Then my life wasn’t easier. Then it had been a living hell.
I thanked her and clicked off and checked the time on my dash. It was going to be a tight squeeze but I should make it to my meeting on time.
I took Chapman Avenue to the 57 Freeway. From there, I joined a sea of other cars and headed south. Luckily, this sea was moving at a decent clip, and soon I was going east on the 22, where I exited at Main Street. From there, I headed south, passing one of Orange County’s greatest edifices: The Main Place Mall, whose postmodern glass-and-metal facade sparkled in the last light of the day like a giant beacon to desperate housewives with too much money and a penchant for giant-sized cinnamon rolls.
Somehow, I managed to resist the urge to spend thirty minutes looking for parking and pay twice the going rate for anything. Of course, I was dead broke and I doubted Cinnabons served chilled hemoglobin.
The broke part was why I was taking this meeting.
A few blocks later, I turned into the Wharton Museum parking lot. As I did so, the sun finally set behind a horizon cluttered with apartment buildings and old homes. I stepped out of my minivan and inhaled the warm dusk air and felt more alive than I ever did when I was human.
God, I felt so strong. So powerful.
I swept through a long, arched tunnel full of hanging vines, past the sitting area of an outdoor cafe, nodded at a large tour group leaving the museum, and stepped inside Orange County’s only significant cultural museum.
At the front desk, a young docent smiled brightly at me. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we’re closed.” She seemed profoundly relieved that they were closed. Perhaps today had been a particularly difficult day at the museum. I suspected I knew why. In fact, I knew the reason why.
I told her who I was and why I was here. Somehow, she managed to contain her excitement. She made a call, nodded, and a moment later led me down a hallway lined with offices and cubicles. Or perhaps these weren’t offices and cubicles. Maybe this was some weird, hip, modernistic “Cubicles as Art” exhibit.
Or not.
I was led to the last office on the left, where a tall woman with a vigorous handshake greeted me and showed me to a guest chair in front of her desk.
I sat and she sat, and after a short exchange of pleasantries, she got right to the point. “As you know, Ms. Moon, we had a robbery here last night.”
“Yes, you mentioned that over the phone. I’m sorry to hear it.”
Her name was Ms. Dickens. Yes, that’s how she introduced herself to me on the phone and even now in person. So, on that note, I introduced myself as Ms. Moon, and she seemed perfectly at ease with that. I wasn’t at ease with it. I mean, c’mon.
Anyway, Ms. Dickens wore a very old-fashioned business suit and seemed about twenty years older than I suspected she really was. She was a seventy-year-old woman trapped in a fifty-year-old’s body.
She said, “I assure you, so am I. The police have been called, of course. And as far as they can tell it was an inside job. The police, however, don’t seem to grasp the nature of the crime or the importance of the stolen artifact. I fear that our case will be forgotten by the overworked Santa Ana Police Department.”
I made sympathetic noises. Truth was, overworked police departments are what kept many private eyes in business. Had police departments been adequately staffed, I would have been relegated to doing background searches and cheating spouse cases. Background cases were fine, and were easy money, but I avoided cheating spouse cases at all costs. I hated hearing the rotten cheating stories, and I hated being involved in the painful drama.
Not to mention, I tended to want to strangle all the cheating men. I wonder why?
Not to mention, I was a trained federal agent. I was above cheating spouse cases...unless, of course, I needed money.
Anyway, I asked what had been stolen, since Ms. Dickens had been vague on the phone. “A single item,” she answered. “A crystal egg sculpture from the Harold Van Pelt collection.”
Harold Van Pelt, apparently, was a world-class gem photographer. But what wasn’t so well-known was that he had become, over the course of 35 years, a master gemstone carver. Apparently, he had perfected the art of taking a solid block of quartz and turning it into hollowed vases or, in this case, a hollowed egg. The Wharton was the first museum to showcase his work.
“The quartz is cut so paper thin and polished so perfectly that it is as clear as glass. How he does it, I have no clue.”
“Well, like they always say, just carve away anything that doesn’t look like a crystal egg, right?”
She stared at me. “I’m sure there’s more to it than that, Ms. Moon.” I was fairly certain that if she had a ruler, she would have rapped my knuckles with it.
“Why do the police think this was an inside job?” I asked.
&nbs
p; “They haven’t said.”
“Which makes sense,” I said. “If it was an inside job.”
Ms. Dickens tilted her head to one side. “Are you implying that I’m a suspect, Ms. Moon?”
“Oh, it’s much too soon for me to imply that,” I said, smiling brightly.
Not to mention I wasn’t getting a negative feel from Ms. Dickens; meaning, she checked out clean to my sixth sense. That is, if it was to be relied upon.
Brightly or not, Ms. Dickens didn’t like the direction this conversation was going. I didn’t, either, for that matter. I needed the job and I needed her retainer check. Badly. The last thing I needed to do was offend the lady. There was always time to offend her later.
The curator unpursed her lips. She was, after all, a reasonable woman. Or so I hoped. She said, “If this was an inside job, then I suppose everyone here is indeed a potential suspect. Me included.”
“Some people are less suspect than others,” I added.
“You have a job to do,” she said, which was encouraging. “And part of that job is getting answers. I get it.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Well, you certainly seem capable, Ms. Moon. I called your references. In particular, your boss at HUD. Earl, I believe his name was. Anyway, he assures me you are very professional and reliable. I think he used the word spunky.”
I had worked at HUD for a number of years before my attack rendered me into something...very different. After the attack, I had been forced to quit my job and work the night shift as a private eye. The transition from a federal investigator to a private investigator had been an easy one, although I missed the camaraderie of a partner and the massive resources of the federal government. Luckily, or perhaps, smartly, I retained my friendships with most people in the agency, and often they gave me access to their super-cool computers.
“Earl always thought highly of me,” I said.
“He also said you were forced to quit suddenly because of a rare skin disease.” She tilted her head down, studying me over her bifocals. “Could you expand on that?”