Cursed

by S. J. Harper

  I look up at her through eyes glazed with tears. “There was more than one night.”

  “What?”

  “In Charleston. We slept together. After the case was over.”

  Liz’s face pales. “Was that what you meant when you said you more than liked him? Emma, are you crazy? Did you know he was coming to San Diego? That he was going to be working with you?”

  I shake my head, grab Liz’s hand for emphasis. “No. I had no idea. Do you think I’d go along with it if I had? This scares me, Liz. Zack scares me. But—” I lower my eyes, unable, unwilling to let Liz see what I know is reflected there. “I’m not sure I want him to forget.”

  “You do, Emma. Of course you do. The two of you crossed a line. The kind you can’t easily take back. Hearts are involved. It’s the only way.”

  “What if he doesn’t give up?”

  “Listen, change the dynamic. Fool around all you want with Zack. Fuck him senseless every night. You’ve had hundreds of lovers. You just need to make sure he understands it’s nothing serious. That it can’t be anything serious. Keep your feelings hidden. The greatest sex he’s ever had completely without strings? No man on earth would turn down a relationship like that. And with the potion, he’ll accept it. He won’t remember anything different. Just don’t let him see the real you. Never let him see the real you. Do you understand?”

  Like a puppet, my head bobs as if pulled by string. Liz is squeezing my hand. The glamour, the dampening spell, those were just to warm up for this particular moment. This is the one I’ve been paying Liz for all these years. She’s doing her job. But taking care of me has become more than a job. That’s why I see the compassion in her eyes.

  But all I feel is numb.

  I have to cut Zack loose and I don’t feel anything.

  • • •

  Before heading to the office, I do what I should have done before going to Liz’s. I stop at home to change. The detour takes me all of fifteen minutes. Then I’m on my way up the 163, the envelope she gave me weighing on my mind, a psychological brick in my handbag. Will I have the courage to use it?

  I know Liz is right. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Give Zack the powder this morning, before he can do anything to make me change my mind.

  Like say hello.

  I’m heading for the elevator when I see her. Sarah. Standing off to one side in the lobby. Today she’s dressed more casually, in blue jeans, a white Georgette silk blouse, black boots, and a red brocade jacket. I resist the urge to ask her what she did with Captain Jack and the rest of the crew of the Black Pearl.

  Partly because she’s bigger than me, partly because she looks pissed, really pissed, and the lobby is empty—I shift my bag to free the hand closer to my gun. Perhaps I’m being paranoid, but I feel better knowing it’s readily accessible.

  Sarah sees the move, understands the implication. She holds up her hands. “I’m not here to hurt you,” she says.

  We meet a few feet from the elevators. “Why are you here?”

  “Not because I want to be, that’s for damn sure.” The woman drops her hands to her side. She looks younger than her thirty years, except for her eyes. They harbor the shadow of sadness, of disappointment, of fear. “I’m here because I need your help.”

  “With Zack?”

  She nods. “He likes you. I can tell.”

  “We’re partners.”

  She tilts her head to the side. “It’s more.”

  “He told you that?”

  “He didn’t have to. I know Zack, maybe better than anyone.”

  “You’re pack mates?”

  She looks surprised. “You know our other nature?”

  “Yes.”

  Sarah releases a breath. “Then you know he doesn’t belong here. He belongs with us, his own kind, where he can be free.”

  “Free?”

  “Free to run under the moon. To live without restrictions. To be penned up in a cage three nights every month, alone. It’s . . . unacceptable.”

  “Unacceptable to whom? Zack has chosen a safe way to ride out the changeling times.”

  Sarah pauses now. She takes a step closer. “Who are you to presume to know what’s safe for us?”

  “I’m Zack’s partner”

  “I’m his lover.”

  Someone didn’t get the “ex” memo. “I heard it was over.”

  Sarah’s posture becomes rigid. I get the distinct impression that if we weren’t in the lobby of an FBI field office, her hands would be around my throat. There had been softness in her eyes from sadness, fear. Now brittle determination makes them spark with anger. She doesn’t hold on to it long. In a flash it’s gone, replaced by smug indignation and a shiny new strategy.

  “It didn’t feel over when we slept together the other night.”

  They spent the night together? I don’t believe it. Or, if they did, I’d bet they didn’t have sex.

  “Whatever.” I turn to push the call button for the elevator.

  She grabs my arm in a viselike grip. “Feign disinterest all you want. I see the way you look at him.”

  I slowly look down at her hand on my arm, then back up at Sarah. “You need to be talking to Zack. Not me.”

  Her grip on my arm tightens. “You’re playing a dangerous game. You should know here and now, it’s one you won’t win. I cannot, will not, leave without Zack.”

  Regret morphs to anger. I don’t take kindly to threats. Happily-ever-after may not be in the cards for Zack and me. But I’m dead certain he isn’t going to find it with Sarah, either. If he could have, he wouldn’t have pushed her away, wouldn’t have left her behind. I shake my arm free. “Whether Zack stays or goes is up to him.”

  A flash of the wolf turns Sarah’s eyes blue. “Perhaps the decision will be made for him,” she growls. “Perhaps the reason for his staying will suddenly be taken from him.”

  I may not have a werewolf’s strength, but my gun at this range would blow her clear across the hall. Superfast healing isn’t in my repertoire, but I’m secure in the fact that no matter what happens, I will eventually heal. Demeter would never finish me off when there was pain to be dealt. I’ve been around a long time. And I’ve experienced my fair share—been up against stronger, faster, and smarter than Sarah. I’d match my cunning and determination against this werewolf’s any day.

  “You’re threatening the wrong girl. I know what you are and I know how to stop you. You think you can take me out? Give it your best shot,” I growl right back at her.

  The rumble of the elevator behind us signals its approach. Half a dozen people spill out, including Kirk, the boss’ admin assistant. He steps between Sarah and me, momentarily blocking her from my sight.

  “Hey, Monroe, the lottery’s up to thirty million. You want in? I’m going to buy tickets. You can’t win if you don’t play,” he points out for the hundredth time.

  I reach into the pocket of my slacks, pull out a buck, and hand it to him, waving him away. The rest of the crowd has already dispersed. When he steps to the side, I no longer see Sarah.

  “There was a woman here,” I say. “Did you see where she went?”

  “Sorry,” he says. “No.”

  I release an angry sigh. Sarah is gone.

  CHAPTER 18

  The confrontation with Sarah should have left me anxious. Instead, she’s made me curious . . . and sore. I’m sure I’ll have a glorious bruise on my arm where she grabbed me. Rubbing the spot, I decide it’s time I ask Zack if she poses a real threat or if it was all posturing—the attempts of a scorned lover to scare off the competition.

  If only she knew she had no need to take me out of the game. I’ve got an envelope of powder in my handbag to do that for her.

  I’m stepping off the elevator onto our floor when my cell phone rings. A glance at the caller ID shows it’
s Zack. In a flash, Sarah is pushed from my mind. Instead I wonder if he’s wondering why I left this morning without waking him up or saying good-bye. Maybe he’s calling to end it. Or to set some ground rules for office etiquette. Could be he’s running late because our activities last night made him oversleep.

  “This is Emma,” I croak through a throat suddenly gone dry.

  “Where are you?” he asks without preamble. Then, “Wait. I see you. Stay there.”

  I look up in time to see him crossing the floor. There’s nothing intimate in his expression—no sly sideways glances, no seductive smile. And he’s not peering at me as if I’ve suddenly sprouted a second head. Maybe the Emma he made love to last night was the Emma he’s seeing now. Maybe I’m not in as much trouble as I thought.

  But I remember the feeling of soaring, of giving myself to him completely, of holding nothing back.

  More important, I remember the way I looked in the mirror.

  That was not my imagination. Did Zack see it, too?

  All this runs through my head in the time it takes Zack to close the distance between us. For him, it seems to be all business. He’s got a piece of paper in his hands.

  I feel my shoulders relax a bit. If he can separate what happened last night from our professional life, I certainly should be able to.

  “Just got this,” he says, waving the paper. “Alan Pierce moved recently.” He reads off the address.

  It’s one I recognize. “That’s the same address as Michael Dexter’s.”

  “Bingo!”

  “He’s Michael Dexter’s partner?” I follow Zack as we head back to our cubicle.

  “Did you peg them as being together last night?”

  I shake my head. “But then, Alan was constantly working the party.”

  “There’s more.” Zack hands me a cup of coffee. “When the first Mrs. Barakov disappeared, Alan Pierce was interviewed. He had been working for an architectural firm in Los Angeles. The one the Barakovs hired to renovate their home. He had a key and free rein of the house, so the police thought he might have seen something. He hadn’t and they dropped him from the suspect list.”

  Zack pauses to take a drink from his mug. I’m reminded of the envelope in my bag. All it would take is one little sip. Thankfully, Zack doesn’t give me much time to think. He has something else to tell me. I see it in the gleam of his eyes. He plunges ahead.

  “So, Alan’s mother, the present Mrs. Barbara Barakov, met the good doctor at Alan’s office. He was there for a consultation and she dropped in to take her son for lunch. While Alan works on the renovation project, his mother works on Barakov. The affair only lasted a couple months. It’s not clear what ended it. But Barakov went back to his wife. You still with me?”

  I nod, recalling my research. “A month or so later, the wife mysteriously disappears.”

  Zack continues. “Barakov plays the concerned husband for a while. Then he starts seeing Pierce again. Not long after that, Alan gets a new stepdaddy.”

  “What kind of doctor is Barbara?” I ask, remembering how she was introduced last night.

  “She’s a surgeon. Specializes in organ transplants.”

  I watch Zack as he goes over the notes in his hand. Excitement is there in his expression, hopefulness that we may have uncovered the one detail that can help us break the case, determination that we’ll stick at it until we do.

  The one thing that’s missing is any indication that we spent last night having sex—great sex.

  Am I relieved or angry?

  Do I even need the fucking powder Liz gave me?

  Suddenly I realize Zack is peering at me. “What’s the matter? You look disappointed.”

  I turn away, briefly, to recompose my expression. “Nothing’s the matter.”

  “Is it about last night?” He steps close, glances around, then whispers, “I assumed you left early this morning so you’d have time to change clothes before work. Are we okay?”

  Suddenly I’m back there with him—fire crackling, candles glowing, wringing torturous pleasure from Zack’s body in ways that were utterly exquisite and entirely addictive.

  But that was then. This is now. “We’re fine.”

  He lowers his head so it’s close to mine. “Last night was—I don’t have the words.”

  I can feel the pulse of his breath against my ear. “Try.”

  “Best. Sex. Ever.” He straightens and steps back. “Now, where were we?” He makes a show of shuffling the papers in his hand, but he’s grinning.

  For an instant, this morning’s feeling of bliss is back. With all its implications. I am at the core a sexual creature, after all. And as Liz reminded me, sex is okay. As long as we leave it at that. I see him and can’t help wondering, hoping. Could it be possible? Just sex. Am I capable of hiding my true feelings for the chance to have even the most superficial of relationships with him? Could Liz work a spell that would make Zack accept a relationship like that?

  Just sex.

  Just sex.

  Sarah pops into my consciousness. Maybe that’s the kind of relationship he has with her now. Is this the time to bring it up?

  No. Now it’s time to get back to business.

  I clear my throat when what I want to do is clear my head. “I think I should interview Alan,” I say.

  Zack nods. “I agree.” He glances at his watch. “He should be at the Green Leaf offices right about now.”

  “On a Saturday morning?”

  “Someone called him earlier posing as a new fat-cat customer and requesting a morning meeting.”

  “I wonder who that might have been.”

  Zack shrugs. “Don’t know. I do know Mr. Pierce was very accommodating. He should be waiting for us.” He flutters his fingers. “I’ll wait outside or something while you work your mojo.”

  I pick up my bag. “Let’s go.”

  But the telephone on his desk rings. I pause while Zack answers it. He listens for a moment, then says, “Yes, sir. I’ll be right there.”

  He replaces the receiver. “Deputy Director wants an update. I can handle it. You go on. I’ll meet you at Green Leaf as soon as I can.”

  CHAPTER 19

  The Green Leaf central office is located on Front Street. It’s a converted mansion, sitting on a lot surrounded by a high hedge. The brass sign on the wrought-iron gate is in the shape of a maple leaf on which the name Green Leaf is embossed. I ring the bell outside the entrance, and a buzzer sounds immediately. No questions. The gate clicks open.

  I follow the walk up to the front door, where there’s another bell. This time when I ring, a voice from inside asks, “Yes?”

  I look up at a surveillance camera set high and to the right. I dig my badge out of my purse and hold it up. “Agent Emma Monroe. FBI.”

  The door opens immediately. Alan Pierce smiles out at me. “I remember you from last night, Agent Monroe.”

  “I have a couple questions I’d like to ask you.”

  He pulls out his cell and checks the time. “I have a client meeting scheduled, but they seem to be running late. I can give you a few minutes. Come in.” He stands aside and the door closes behind me.

  “I hope the party was a success,” I say as we walk.

  He nods enthusiastically. “We exceeded our fund-raising goal. Thank you for attending. And thank you for what you’re doing to find Michael’s friend. He’s been beside himself since she went missing.”

  There’s a bit of a nervous edge about him, one I hadn’t noticed last night. Is it surprise at finding an FBI agent at his office so early on a Saturday morning? Or concern that a client might be surprised to find an FBI agent at his office so early on a Saturday morning?

  There’s no one in the reception area. He leads me through it and into what I presume is his personal office. I attempt to set him at ease by turning th
e conversation to familiar territory, comfortable ground.

  I make a point of looking around. “I love these old buildings. It’s so good to see them being renovated, to see the history preserved.”

  Alan nods. “It was a shambles when we bought it.” He gestures to a visitor’s chair and takes his own seat across a wide expanse of burled oak desk. “Restoring it to its former glory took a lot of work.”

  “And, I imagine, a lot of money.”

  “We have generous benefactors.”

  Generous indeed. They’ve managed to get all of the details right. The period wallpaper, wainscoting, molding, even the style of doorknobs are all what you would expect in a building of this age.

  I think of Dexter’s comment about his partner being a neat freak. It’s certainly evident here. Except for a desktop phone and a computer, the only other things on his desk are a stack of spreadsheets and a pen.

  “This is a beautiful office. Are those the original moldings?”

  “Good eye.” He beams. “Yes. This used to be the parlor.” He sweeps a hand over the smooth top of the desk. “We found this piece in the attic when we purchased the place. It’s amazing what people think of as junk, isn’t it?”

  “Does the staff always come in on Saturdays?” I ask with a smile. Better to find out if there is anyone else around who might get caught in the undertow before I open the floodgates.

  He shakes his head. “We sometimes have a small contingent on Saturdays. But I gave everyone strict orders to take today off. Last night was a late one for us all.”

  “But no day off for the boss, I see.”

  “Like I said, client meeting.” He gestures to the spreadsheet. “Plus, I wanted to tally up the proceeds from last night. We did very well. Especially Michael’s piece. He’s such a wonderful artist.” There’s a wistfulness to his voice as he adds, “I’m glad he’s seeing his talent appreciated.”

  He pauses. “Are you here about Isabella?”

  That slight hint of nervousness is back. I’ve interrogated enough suspects, both with and without use of my special brand of lie detection, to recognize when they are hiding something. Alan is.