“Hey, you got time to talk?”
“For you, I’d keep Madonna waiting. How are you? Where are you? I tried you at home last night. Hot date I hope.”
“I wish. I’m stuck in Dallas working for the next few days.”
“Dallas? Never been,” she says.
“Lucky you. It’s crowded and a thousand degrees outside.”
“You know you should just quit and move back. I miss you.”
“Aw. I miss you too!”
“Well, are the hot twosome there sweating with you at least?” April asks with a snigger.
“Only Oliver. Will’s still on vacation.”
“So you’re all alone with tall, dark, and flirtatious? Is he laying on the charm?”
“I’m almost drowning in it,” I say.
“Tempted?”
“Only to attack him with my curling iron.”
April chuckles. So does the laptop man. How rude. Sure, everyone listens to others conversations, but we pretend not to. It’s called manners.
“I am so not flying to Dallas to bail your butt out of jail,” April says.
“I can handle him without violence.”
“I have no doubt.”
“And guess what else? A cute boy asked me out today,” I say in a sing-song voice.
“Another one?”
“I know, right?”
“Did you change your perfume or something? Well, what’s bachelor number three like?”
“Do you remember Troy O’Donnell, the football player I tutored in English? He’s a lot like him, only cuter and with a cute little Southern accent,” I say.
“Did you say yes?”
“I said maybe. I’m only in town for a few days, and there are … other people to consider.”
“Look, until either of the cuties throws you to the ground, sticks his tongue down your throat, and makes you scream in ecstasy, you’re fair game.”
“How very graphic, April.”
“What? You know it’s true. If the guy calls, say yes. Promise me you’ll say yes. Promise!”
I cross my fingers but say, “I promise.”
A woman walks into the shop who I have no doubt is Rochelle, Antoine Baker’s girl on the side. Barely out of her teens, low rider jeans, tight black tank with red bra showing, black hair in cornrows. She even walks with attitude, hips moving more than a normal woman’s should. Just by looking at her I can tell she’d have no qualms about taking up with a married man. This will not be a fun interview.
“April, my appointment just arrived. I’ll call you later. Bye.” I flip my phone closed and stand up as the girl looks around. “Rochelle?”
Rochelle looks me up and down, not impressed judging from the sneer. “You the FBI?” she asks with a thick Texas accent.
“I’m Special Agent Beatrice Alexander,” I say flashing my badge.
“Uh huh,” she says, taking off her bag and sitting across from me.
Laptop man has finished gathering the things he started collecting the second he saw my badge and walks away, glancing nervously at me. The badge has that effect on some people.
“I’m sorry I was late. Traffic was a nightmare,” I say as I sit down.
“Whatever,” the girl says, glaring at me.
“Can I make it up to you? Buy you a drink?”
“Mocha frap with extra whip.”
“Exactly what I’m having,” I say standing up, this time taking my purse with me. I get in line, occasionally glancing back at Rochelle, who is busy texting. She seems unfazed meeting with the FBI. Most people are either scared or excited; she’s texting.
Lord, I wish Will was here. Okay, I have to stop thinking that. It just makes things worse. But I do wish he was here. I’ve never done an interview alone before. He was always there to get me back on track. Usually the bad cop to my good one. In theory this should be relatively easy once the potion takes effect, but still. This student is nowhere near as good as her master.
I order the drinks and wait with the other impatient people, feeling like an addict in line at the methadone clinic. Almost ten bucks for two drinks. I bet heroin is cheaper. When I get our cups, making sure nobody is watching, I dump the vial into Rochelle’s drink, swishing it around. Hopefully the coffee will mask the taste. She’s still texting when I sit down.
“I—” I say, but she holds up a finger to stop me and continues texting. How charming.
She keeps typing away on the phone for about five seconds, then sets it down. Without a word, she grabs the coffee, taking a sip. My body tenses for a millisecond, ready for lots of double talk about the taste, but she takes another.
“Is it good?” I ask, sipping mine.
“Not enough chocolate,” she says with a sneer.
“Sorry.”
“Whatever. So you wanted to see me? I don’t know why. I told the cops everything I know about twenty times.”
“Occasionally, with time,”—and a magic potion—“people remember more. Little details. Just walk me through the night. What time did Antoine pick you up?”
“He didn’t,” she says after another sip. “My roommate Tamika drove me. ’Toine met us about an hour later after his shift.”
“What time was that?”
“I don’t know. Around ten?”
“And the woman Antoine was flirting with, was she there before you got there?”
Rochelle takes another sip. “I told the cops I didn’t know nothing about her.”
“Just close your eyes and picture the bar that night. Please.”
She closes her eyes, but not before rolling them. “Okay.” She’s silent for a second. “The woman was there before us. She was in the back booth with a group. I’d never seen them before.”
I fish around my bag for the composite sketches. Rochelle opens her eyes as I lay the pictures out. “Do you recognize any of these people?”
She studies the pictures. “Yeah, I recognize them. Especially that bitch.” She flicks the paper. “She zeroed in on ’Toine the second he walked in the door.”
“What can you tell me about the others in the group? How many were there?”
“Um, seven I guess.”
“Did you have any contact with them?”
“No, just the ho,” she says, sipping her drink.
I do the same. “What can you tell me about them?”
“Not much,” she says with attitude. “There wasn’t a brother in the bunch, I know that. There was this Asian chick and dude. They were making out pretty hard the whole time.”
“How many men?”
“Four. Asian dude, the two pasty white dudes, and the hulk. That guy was like six-four, Terminator muscles, looked Hispanic. Long black hair, eagle tattoo on his left shoulder. He looked pissed off all night.”
I jot all this down in my notepad. “And the other woman?”
“I don’t know. Young, like still in her teens even. Short, thin, long blonde hair, short skirt. She spent the whole time dancing by the jukebox.”
“Did you catch any of their names?” I ask, still writing.
“The ho said her name was Serena, like Serena Williams. I didn’t hear the other names.” She sips the drink again. “You’re good at this.”
“What do you mean?” I ask as I put the pen down.
“I’ve been asked these questions like fifteen times. I never remembered all this stuff before.”
“I’m very good at my job,” I say with a smile. “Okay, so you and Antoine were at the bar drinking when this Serena came up to you. What happened after that?”
Rochelle sucks on her drink. “She asked if she could buy him a drink, totally ignoring me. ’Toine smiles, bitch smiles, I politely tell her to step off. She ignores me! Then she just starts talking about how she and her friends are just in from Santa Fe, how they rented a house in Venus and are throwing a party that night—”
“Wait, did you say Venus?” I ask, still writing.
“Yeah, you know, the town, like, twenty miles
from here? Anyway, I tapped her on the shoulder and the bitch twirls around and looks me in the eye. She … I don’t know. It was weird. She told me to go home, forget all about her and her friends. But I don’t think her lips moved. Tamika came out of the bathroom, and we left. That bitch must have slipped me something, I don’t know.”
“Sounds like she did. Now, can you remember anything else about them?”
She shakes her head. “No. Sorry.”
“And you’re sure she said Venus?”
“I am now. Do you really think she killed ’Toine?”
“It’s looking more and more like it,” I say as sensitively as is possible.
“That sucks. I mean, we weren’t in love or anything, but he was decent to me. Great in bed too.” She takes a deep breath and sighs. “Are we done here?”
I pull out my business card and pass it to her. “If you remember anything else, no matter how unimportant you think it is, call me.”
She slips the card into her bag. “Sure.” With that, she puts on her sunglasses and walks out of the shop. I’m sure deep down, buried under ten feet of bricks and dirt and cheap-girl armor, she’s crying inside.
_____
The heat practically knocks me down when I step outside. I’m at the car in fifteen seconds, but the sweat still drips down my breasts. The air starts when I turn on the engine. A little better. I punch in the address in my GPS to the YMCA in Grapevine, where the file said Amanda and Petra, the second victim’s friends, volunteer over the summer. Seatbelt on and I’m off.
When I safely reach the freeway, I pull out my cell phone and call Kansas. George picks up on the fifth ring. “Dr. George Black,” he says gruffly.
“Um, it’s Beatrice.”
“Oh. Hello,” he says, tone not changing.
“Are you okay? You sound stressed.”
He sighs on the other end. I’ve never heard him do that before. Did the mansion burn down or something? “I’ve just been dealing with a particularly stubborn problem. It has used up all my good will and patience today.”
“Anything I can do?”
“I’m afraid not. And it’s nothing for you to worry about. I’ve taken care of it as best I can. So, I assume you have an update?”
I walk him through the whole day, starting with Anna then detailing my interview with Rochelle. He “uh huh” and “okays” through the whole thing. “Whatever you paid her, you should double it,” I say. “Stuff worked like a charm—which I guess it kind of was.”
“Anna always was a master potion maker.”
“I really liked her.”
“And I am more than sure the feeling was mutual.”
Before I can stop myself I say, “And her son really wants to join the team. He’s a summoner.”
“Yes. Joe. I am well aware of his desire. But I promised his parents I’d never recruit him.”
“Too bad. He seemed nice.” And so very cute. I switch lanes so I’m now behind three semis instead of four. “Okay, so I’m thinking we check for all the homes rented in Venus within the last year. Preferably ones with basements. I’ll try to narrow it down when I talk to the girls.”
“Very good. Call me when you’re done.”
“Roger, roger.”
“And keep yourself safe. For both our sakes,” he mutters.
I raise an eyebrow. “Um, oookay. Call you later.” I flip the phone closed. That was weird. Something or someone must have done a real number on him. Bureaucrats are worse than vamps, I swear. At least vamps only take your blood, not your spirit.
The roads are halfway decent all the way to Grapevine. It’s a nice little community with the standard strip malls and fast food places common everywhere now. The YMCA sits next to a lush green park where not even the heat keeps mothers and children from getting out of the house so they don’t drive each other nuts. I pull into the small parking lot and shut off the car.
The building is a beige one-story with YMCA in black and red letters on the side. When I walk in, my heels clap on the beige and black linoleum, almost drowning out the sound of children’s laughter and basketballs in the back of the building. A harried mother dressed in a business suit practically drags a crying four-year-old past me. Someone was naughty. I turn into the main office where a teenager waits behind the counter.
“Hi. I’m here to meet Petra Bowers and Amanda Chenoweth,” I say with a smile.
“You’re the FBI lady?” the girl asks.
“That’s me.”
The girl reaches for the microphone. “Petra, Amanda, please report to the front office,” she says over the intercom. “Have a seat.”
The girls arrive a minute later. I recognize them from the police photos. Both are a little on the tall side, almost six feet with lanky limbs they already seem to be growing into. Petra’s blue eyes look me up and down, defiance already in them. She’s the prettier of the two with Angelina Jolie lips and dark brown hair off-setting her pale skin. Amanda is more girl-next-door pretty, with dirty blonde hair hanging loose around her round face. She’s very tan with a few freckles, but they look good on her. They’re both in matching shorts and golf shirts.
They look a lot better now than in the police photos. There must have been about two dozen photos of each girl in the file; every bruise—and there were quite a few—had to be documented. The heaviest bruising was around the neck and thigh area. Petra had some nasty ones on her arm too, with the imprint of fingers clearly visible. They wanted to do a rape kit, but both girls, along with their parents, refused. Not that they would have found any evidence. Male vamps can’t produce sperm. That organ system shut down like their digestive system. How they get an erection, or how a female vamp lubricates, is through sheer willpower and concentration. I so wish I didn’t know any of this.
“Hello, I’m Special Agent Beatrice Alexander,” I say. Neither smile. I am seriously not looking forward to this. “Is there someplace private we can talk?”
“The staff break room’s open,” Petra says.
“Okay, lead the way.”
I follow the girls just across the hall to a small, cramped room. Counters with microwaves and coffee machines line the back wall. Two huge vending machines sit next to the counter filled with healthy items like bottled water, Gatorade, and granola bars. Probably so the kids can’t sneak in and OD on sugar. As a former elementary school teacher, I can appreciate that. A small round table fills the rest of the room with four plastic chairs around it. The girls sit next to each other with their backs to the vending machines. I shut the door behind myself and walk to the machines. Neither watches me.
“I’m going to get something to drink. Do either of you want something? My treat,” I say, plucking out my wallet.
“No, thanks,” both say.
Crud. I feed the machine three dollars and get three waters anyway. If my limited experience at bars tells me anything, it’s that if there is something free in front of you, say pretzels, given enough time, you’ll sample them. That’s usually how I spent my time in bars anyway.
“Do you girls like working here?” I ask as I pull out the last two vials of potion, making sure to put my body between their line of sight and my hands.
“It’s okay,” Amanda says.
I twist off two caps and dump the brown liquid into the small hole. The moment it hits the water, the brown turns clear, as promised. Anna’s a genius, a full bloody genius. I dump the other vial into a second water. “Did Kate work here too?”
“No. She worked at Forever 21,” Petra answers.
Holding the three bottles, I walk to the table, setting the two open bottles in front of the girls. They look at me curiously. “We’re going to be doing a lot of talking,” I say with a smile. “I don’t want the flow interrupted.”
Petra eyes the open bottle. “Can I see your ID?”
Once again I pull out my credentials. Petra takes it from my hand, studying the badge then the lanyard inside. She looks from the picture to my face. Satisfied I’m for rea
l, she hands it back.
“Sorry,” she says as if she’s really not.
“It’s actually a very smart thing to do,” I say as I sit across from them. I open my water and take a sip. “Thank you for meeting with me today. I know it’s the last thing either of you wants.”
“It’s okay,” Amanda says in a small voice.
“Before we get started, Amanda you’re seventeen and still a minor. You might want to have a parent or lawyer here. Do you want that?”
“No, it’s okay.”
“If you change your mind at any point, just tell me. It’s not a problem.” I take another sip of water. “So, tell me, how did you two meet Kate?” I take another sip.
“Middle school,” Petra answers. “We all had math together.”
I sip again. Come on, girls. Join the fun. Amanda lightly touches her bottle. “And you’ve been friends ever since?” I ask, taking yet another sip.
Amanda picks up the water and swigs. Psychology, got to love it.
“Yeah,” Petra answers. “We were in track together too.”
“What’s her event?” I ask with another sip.
“High hurdles,” Amanda answers. “She took second at the district meet last year.”
Petra picks up her water and gulps. “Can we just get on with this? And you don’t have to pretend she’s still alive either, it’s just patronizing.”
I do a double take.“I don’t mean to be. I know how difficult this must be for you.”
“Really? Your best friend was probably raped and murdered while you were right there, and you can’t remember a thing about it?”
Dear lord, the sadness coming from this girl is palpable. It makes my stomach lurch. Her face masks it with a deep hatred, but I can tell. This time I do need water to settle my stomach.
“Petra,” Amanda says in a small voice, “she’s just trying to help.”
“We’ve seen a dozen police officers, psychiatrists, hypnotherapists, all for nothing. I am sick of this! We don’t remember, okay? We can’t help you! Why can’t you just leave us alone?”
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