Raphael

by D. B. Reynolds

  “But he said that name. Pushkin. Which I thought was odd.”

  “Hmm. The name doesn’t mean anything to me, but it might to someone else. That might be helpful, Mrs. Judkins. Thank you.” Cynthia cleared her throat nervously and reached for her purse and the fresh envelope she’d prepared.

  “Ah, I know this is difficult, Mrs. Judkins. But, well, I have some paperwork here that you need to see.”

  Emily took the envelope hesitantly. She glanced up at Cyn, as if asking for permission, before gently lifting the flap. Her eyes filled with fresh tears when she saw the life insurance benefit statement, as if that single piece of paper brought home that her husband was really dead. By the time she got to the first check, and then the second, the tears were rolling unheeded down her face and her mouth was hanging open, stunned. “This is—”

  “A lot of money. Yes. Raphael Enterprises takes its responsibilities very seriously. Your husband died doing his job, and the management doesn’t want you or your daughter to suffer because of it. That’s not enough to live forever.” She gestured at the two checks. “But if you manage it carefully, it’ll last awhile and maybe even put something away for your daughter’s college education. It doesn’t replace Scott, but—” She shrugged. “It’s something we can do.”

  “Thank you,” Emily breathed. “I wouldn’t have known—”

  “Mrs. Judkins, forgive me for intruding, but do you have family? Is there somewhere you could take your daughter, somewhere not in California?”

  Emily looked at her in surprise, then alarm. “You think whoever killed Scott might try to harm us? To harm my daughter?”

  “I don’t mean to frighten you, but these are very bad people. You’ve got the money there to build yourself a new life pretty much anywhere you want. It might be good for you, for your daughter, to get a fresh start.”

  Emily clutched the envelope to her chest and stared at the house around her, as if cataloging the memories. “I have family in Wisconsin,” she whispered. “Maybe . . .”

  “You don’t need to decide right now,” Cynthia hurried to say. “You don’t even need to let me know what you decide.” Please don’t tell me what you decide! she pleaded privately. “It’s just something to think about.” She stood and tugged her jacket straight. “I’m sure you want to call your family,” she said, thinking about the urn sitting in her truck. “I’ve uh, I’ve got—”

  “Oh God, I have to call Scott’s parents.” Emily buried her face in her hands, drew a breath and looked up. “Thank you, Ms. Leighton, for coming to telling me. You’ve been very kind.”

  I have? “It’s the least I could do. Your husband talked about you and your daughter, he thought about you all the time.”

  “You knew Scott? You worked with him?”

  “At the end. Yes. At the very end.” Cynthia made her way to the door, suddenly eager to get away from this comfortable home and its memories. “If you need anything further, if you have any questions, there’s a card in the envelope with a number you can call.”

  She was already pulling open the door, steeling herself for her final, necessary act of delivery, when Emily called out from behind her. “What about Scott’s . . . remains.” The last word was a disbelieving whisper. “I know we agreed to cremation, but how is that . . .”

  Cynthia blew out a breath, struggling to put some sort of dignified face on it. “I, uh . . . I have your husband’s urn in my car. I’m sorry, but I didn’t want—”

  “Oh. Oh my God.”

  “I’ll, um, I’ll get it for you. If that’s okay?”

  “Of course. I . . .” Emily was crying again, hard, wracking sobs that collapsed her to the couch.

  “Please let me call someone for you,” Cynthia said miserably.

  “Helloooo!” Cynthia jumped as a voice called from outside the half-opened door. “Emily, you home?”

  Cyn pulled open the door all the way to admit an older woman, stylishly but affordably dressed, old enough to be Judkins’ mother or aunt. Please let it be her mother or aunt!

  “Emily, dearest, whatever . . .” The new arrival gave Cyn a suspicious look, then hurried over to comfort the grieving widow. Cynthia used the interruption to rush out to her truck and retrieve the brown box from the back seat. She’d thought about putting it all the way in the back, in the cargo compartment like she would have any other box, but it seemed too impersonal for someone’s ashes. On other hand, the front seat was way too creepy, so Scott had settled for the back seat. Still a people place, but not quite participatory.

  Emily and her consoler had disappeared into the depths of the house by the time Cynthia returned, so she deposited the carton on the dining room table—again debating, floor or table, finally settling on the table since it probably didn’t get used that much anyway. She thought about calling out to say good-bye, but then figured Mrs. Judkins had probably heard pretty much everything she wanted to about, from or to Cynthia Leighton, so she closed the door quietly behind her, climbed into the Land Rover, and headed for the one man she thought could provide some answers. Who was Kolinsky and what did he have to do with a long-dead Russian poet?

  Chapter Twenty-five

  IT WAS SHIFT change at the station; blue uniforms crowded the hallways, coming and going amidst the usual flotsam of a big city police station. She saw a few people she knew and waved; saw some others she knew and looked the other way. There was more than one reason Cyn had decided to become a private investigator. Low whistles of appreciation for her snug skirt followed her passage through the warren of desks in the squad room. So much for sensitivity training, she thought. Dean Eckhoff was waiting for her when she rounded the corner to his office, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling like he’d been waiting a long time.

  “Cut the dramatics, Eckhoff, you’ve got nowhere else to be and you know it.”

  He let his chair drop to the ground with a scowl in her direction. “I’ll have you know, Ms. Leighton, that I’ve got a lady friend who’s very anxious for my company this evening.”

  “Yeah, but she only wants you to scratch her belly while you watch Wheel of Fortune, and that doesn’t come on for a couple of hours yet.”

  Eckhoff shook his head in disgust. “You wound my ego, Cyn. How’s a man supposed to make it in the world when a beautiful woman says things like that to him?”

  “As if,” she said, chuckling. She gave a deep sigh and flopped down on the chair in front of his desk, painfully aware of her short skirt and bare legs.

  “Rough day?” he mocked.

  “You have no idea.” She eyed her old friend. “You look good, Dean. Maybe you really do have a lady waiting for you.” Eckhoff was a tall, skinny guy who dressed like an Oxford don and could talk like one too, when he got the urge. Which urge usually involved an inordinate amount of alcohol. His eyes were a washed out blue and what was left of his hair still showed some red through the gray. He’d worn a comb-over for years after he started going bald, until Cynthia had given him her unvarnished opinion on comb-overs. Turns out he had a perfectly nice skull.

  “So what brings you way over here today, grasshopper?”

  She smiled. “I’m working a job for a client. It looks like a kidnapping, probably extortion to get something out of my guy. Some information surfaced that makes us think there might be a connection to the Russians.”

  Eckhoff frowned. “Isn’t that a little out of your league, Cyn? Did you tell him to call his friendly police force?”

  “You know me better than that, Dean. Of course I did. But this guy’s not gonna make that call. He’s got reasons. Pretty good ones, actually.”

  Eckhoff regarded her somberly. “This one of your special clients?”

  “Maybe,” she acknowledged, which was the same as admitting it.

  “Yeah. Well, that does make a difference, I guess. Can�
�t blame the guy for wanting to keep a low profile. So who’s working it with you?”

  “Just me, all by my lonesome. You know I work alone.”

  “Which is why you’re no longer wearing a blue uniform,” he replied sourly.

  Cyn shrugged. “Partly. So, what do you know about the local Russians? I’ve got a couple—”

  “Not my territory, sweetie.”

  “Not directly, no. But you must have caught a few cases, heard a few things?”

  “Not lately. Listen, Cyn, I really do have to get out of here. You want to walk out with me?”

  “Sure,” she said, puzzled. “I’m parked out back.”

  “Perfect.”

  ECKHOFF PUT A companionable arm around her and pulled her close as the station house door closed behind them. “You wanna be careful talking about the Russians around here, Cyn,” he murmured softly. “They’ve got someone feeding them from the inside, and we can’t figure out who it is. They’ve pulled everyone from this division.”

  Cynthia laughed up at him, as if they were having a lighthearted conversation. “How long?” she asked.

  “Couple of months, maybe more. How much do you know?”

  “Not much. I’ve got two names. One’s pretty solid, guy’s name is Kolinsky. The other’s a long shot. Pushkin. And a possible hit on a phony export company over in East L.A. Pretty weak, but it’s all I’ve got so far.”

  “I don’t know anybody named Pushkin, but Kolinsky runs out of Odessa Exports over on Vermont.” Bingo, Cyn thought. “I probably have a mug shot handy; I’ll fax it to you. He’s not the top guy,” Eckhoff continued. “But he’s pretty damn close. Your friend Carballo would know more. I hear they’ve got her working that side of town these days.”

  “Benita?”

  “The only one I know.”

  “That’s not her usual beat.”

  “Hey, I don’t ask questions. But I’m pretty sure it’s reliable. Listen, Cyn. That’s a bad crew. These Russian guys are some bloodthirsty motherfuckers. You don’t go in there alone, you hear me? Even if it’s only to ask questions, you take some of those vamps along. I hear they put even the Colombians to shame.”

  “Thanks, Dean. I owe you one. You give your girlfriend an extra belly rub for me.” She grinned, then stood on her toes and kissed his freckled cheek.

  “No respect. Take care, grasshopper. I mean it.”

  Cyn did a mock little bow, her hands palm to palm in front of her. She strode across the parking lot to her own car, the setting sun nearly blinding her. She climbed inside and flipped down the visor, then turned the ignition and headed toward Malibu. The vampires would be waking soon and it was time to play with some bad guys.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  CYN TURNED OFF the highway and dropped down the short drive to her condo, fumbling for the opener in her SUV’s center console. Her headlights swept over the closed garage door, and she looked up automatically as she clicked the device. She swore softly. A familiar long, black limo was parked against the ice plant-covered hill, and she didn’t need her headlights to identify the small mountain standing next to it. Juro. Which meant . . . the limo door opened as she drove past and she caught a glimpse of broad shoulders and dark hair. Of course.

  She parked the Land Rover and was swinging her long legs out of the truck when Raphael strolled into the garage. Well, damn. The vampire lord was dressed all in black, from his long-sleeved t-shirt to his oh-so-tight denims and smooth leather boots. And over it all, he wore an ankle-length coat of black leather that just begged to be touched, smelled, rubbed all over one’s body. Down, girl.

  She met Raphael’s eyes, letting her appreciation show. Why pretend? The vampire lord returned the compliment, sweeping his gaze the length of her body, lingering on her bare legs beneath the short, slim skirt, before traveling up to meet her eyes in turn. “Good evening, Cyn,” he said in a voice that promised so much more than merely good. “What do you have for me?”

  Cynthia stared at the beautiful male specimen in front of her. Vampire or not, Raphael was fully, gloriously male. There was no doubt of that. Nor of the instant, almost irresistible, attraction she felt toward him. She gave a nearly desperate, sobbing laugh at her own helpless reaction to him. Behind him, Duncan gave her a scandalized look, but Raphael merely laughed with her. He was an arrogant son of a bitch; he understood perfectly.

  Cyn took a deep breath and kneaded her forehead, trying to rub some sanity into her brain. “Listen,” she said, with a glance at Duncan. “I’m sorry about last night, the whole thing with Judkins—” She looked up to find Raphael only inches away. He smiled.

  “Sweet Cyn.” He touched one cool finger to her cheek, the softest touch. “A misunderstanding.”

  She looked into his eyes and felt herself falling. She looked away, conscious of the other vampires watching. “I’ve got a location for Kolinsky,” she said, breathlessly. “I came home to change clothes . . .”

  “What a shame,” Raphael murmured.

  Her heart thumped and she scowled at him. “. . . and then I’m going to go check it out.”

  Raphael frowned. “Not alone, surely.”

  Cynthia gave him a genuine smile. He cared. “No, actually, I was going to call and see if you could send a couple of your vamps along. It strikes me they might be handy in a fight.”

  “Indeed. How many do you need?”

  Cynthia thought about it. Mob guys tended to hang around in clumps, all that testosterone in one place made everyone feel like they had more. All the bad guys, anyway. On the other hand, Raphael’s men were pretty lethal, and she certainly didn’t want a bloodbath, if she could avoid it. Not that the city wouldn’t benefit from fewer gangsters hanging around, but it might look suspicious right after she’d been asking questions.

  “I think four would be enough. Probably more than enough, but two can hang back in case I need them. Better safe than sorry.”

  “Excellent. Will we fit in your car or shall I send Juro back to fetch the big SUV? The limo is a bit too noticeable, don’t you think?”

  “Whoa!” Cynthia said, even as Duncan straightened in alarm and said, “Sire!”

  Raphael glanced from one to the other of them, his eyebrows raised in question. Cynthia looked at Duncan and yielded the field to him.

  “Sire, you cannot mean to do this yourself?” he asked diplomatically.

  “But I do. It’s been too long, Duncan, since I’ve left the safety of my estate and my guards. My enemies have noticed; they see it as a weakness. Do you think they would be moving against me otherwise? I must show them differently.”

  Duncan closed his eyes in resignation, then opened them to glare at Cynthia.

  “Hey, don’t look at me, Blondie. This isn’t exactly my idea of a good time, either.”

  Raphael gave her a wolfish grin. Oh gods, he was looking forward to this. She figured the possibility of bloodshed had just increased dramatically. “Okay,” she said with a sigh. “I have to change clothes.” She spun around and was sliding the key card through the reader before she was aware that Raphael stood right behind her. She gave him a questioning look over her shoulder. “I don’t really need help for this part, my lord.”

  “You can fill me in on the details while you change. No need to waste time, is there?”

  “You know that whole vampires and invitation thing? Can that be undone?”

  “I’m afraid it doesn’t really work that way, Cyn,” he said cheerfully.

  “Too bad,” she muttered as she pushed open the door.

  CYNTHIA CLIMBED the stairs, very aware of the vampire behind her, his gaze no doubt firmly fixed on her ass. Could be worse, she thought to herself. At least the ass was equally firm; God knows she worked hard enough to keep it that way. She felt a hysterical bubble of laughter trying to force its way up and
swallowed it down with a cough.

  Reaching the second level, she proceeded directly through the kitchen to the next set of stairs. “Make yourself comfortable,” she said with a wave of her arm. “I’ll be five—”

  Raphael threw his elegant coat over the kitchen island and followed her. She frowned at him. “I thought we already established that I’m more comfortable upstairs with you,” he said with an innocent expression.

  “Don’t even bother with that look,” she scoffed.

  Once in her bedroom, Raphael glanced around quickly, then slouched gracefully onto her bed, his long legs stretched out, his back propped against the pillows and headboard. Cynthia kicked off her shoes without thinking, then glanced up and caught the heat in his gaze. She swallowed dryly. “I’ll . . .” She coughed nervously. “I’ll just change in the closet.”

  “Don’t leave on my account,” Raphael purred. “I’m quite comfortable now.”

  Cynthia hurried into the closet and began unbuttoning her shirt. She threw the suit into the hamper for dry cleaning. It wasn’t really dirty, but that was faster than hanging it up and she felt the need to get clothes on quickly. She pulled her jeans on without zipping them and yanked a turtleneck sweater over her head, fluffing her hair back up with one hand. She was bending over to pull on her shitkicker boots, when she heard Raphael call out.

  “How was your trip to Mrs. Judkins, Cyn?”

  Cynthia suddenly remembered why she was supposed to be pissed at the vampire. Her boots in one hand, she stormed out of the closet. “That was a dirty trick, Raphael. You could have warned me—”

  He shot off the bed faster than her eyes could follow, suddenly right in front of her, his eyes sleepy with lust, his voice so deep she could feel the vibration in her chest. “Was there a problem at the Judkins, Cyn?” His fingers slipped easily into the open waistband of her jeans, sliding beneath the fabric to caress her bare hip, his thumb insinuating itself beneath the band of her thong. It was such an intimate gesture, her breath caught in her throat as she looked up and met his black eyes. No, not black. Not now. They gleamed silver in the dim light.