So far, so good.
There is a buffet being served in the Mediterranean Room, the restaurant in my direct line of sight. It’s crowded. I don’t see the redhead.
I wonder if I’m going to have to go inside when a figure moves into my line of sight. A big, broad back holds out a chair and the redhead slips into it. Burly guy takes up a position near the table, his back to the sliding glass door, scanning the crowd.
I wait to see if anyone joins the redhead. She’s already begun to eat. Rude, if she’s with another party. Finally, after five minutes, I come to the exasperating conclusion that she’s alone.
Shit.
Was I wrong? Did Burke leave with the limo? So much for letting a superstitious relic determine my course of action. I finger the thing, tempted to take it off and throw it into the bushes.
Instead, I squat down behind a big potted plant. Superstitious or not, I made the witches a promise. Stupidly maybe, but I did it nonetheless. Nothing to do now except follow the redhead. Or go back to the warehouse and start over. Patience is not my strong suit. The urge to grab the redhead and shake information out of her curls my hands into fists.
Serves me right for putting my faith in a damned charm. Burke is nowhere in sight.
I don’t have time to waste.
I’m climbing to my feet when the redhead slips her jacket off and hands it to the bodyguard. She’s wearing a sleeveless silk tee. It’s cut to reveal her shoulders and lean muscled arms.
My stomach lurches at the same time the amulet emits another blast of white-hot heat.
The redhead has a tattoo on her right shoulder. A skull with a crimson rose where the mouth should be.
I’ve seen that tattoo before.
On Belinda Burke.
Reason is telling me not to jump to conclusions—that there could certainly be more than one woman in the world sporting a tattoo like that.
But the amulet is blazing away, trumping reason. If this isn’t Belinda Burke, it’s someone close to her. It has to be.
I’m not going to waste another single minute with Culebra’s health hanging in the balance.
The redhead has headed back for the buffet. I use the opportunity to sneak into the restaurant through the unlatched sliding glass door.
The people at the table nearest the door, an elderly couple, look puzzled. I’m in jeans and a leather jacket. Not exactly lunch attire in La Jolla.
I put a finger to my lips and whisper, “It’s my mom’s birthday. I just got in from London to surprise her.”
They give me the once-over but don’t call for security. After all, I might be a rock star with my shaggy hair and faded jeans. You never can tell anymore.
I make my way toward the redhead. Her bodyguard is with her. She’s looking over the dessert table. He’s looking over the crowd. He watches me approach, but doesn’t react with anything but bored indifference.
The amulet is so hot now, I think it’s going to catch my clothes on fire. I reach for the .38.
The redhead’s back is to me. She has a plate in her hand. I’m no more than ten steps away when she puts the plate down and turns around.
The world stops.
Literally.
Everyone around us freezes in place.
Everyone except the redhead and me.
The unfamiliar face looking at me smiles and the glamour falls away. I’m staring into Belinda Burke’s amused eyes.
“Very good, Anna,” Belinda Burke says. She points to the amulet. “Now wherever did you get that little beauty?”
I lunge for her, drawing the gun.
She flutters manicured fingertips and I’m trapped, too, in suspended animation.
I can’t move. Not my limbs. Not my head or hands. My thoughts slow, become sluggish.
I can only watch helplessly while she steps close. She reaches for the amulet, but smoke and a tongue of flame shoot out. She snatches her fingers away.
“Cute trick,” she says, shaking her hand. “From a witch, am I right? I’ll have to pay her a visit. Too bad it won’t save Culebra. Or that pathetic shape-shifter with his derisory spells. I should have killed that one when I had the chance.”
She’s enjoying herself, enjoying the sound of her own voice. If I could break free, I’d wipe that smug smile off her face.
She cocks her head and watches me, as if privy to my thoughts. She’s not afraid, though. Why should she be? I can’t move a fucking muscle.
Her smile widens and she goes on. “Culebra’s finding me was an inconvenience. I would like to have had a little more time to —” She lets her voice drop and sighs. “Well, we can’t have everything, can we? It was good while it lasted. Life has a way of throwing you curves when you least expect them. The trick is to know how to adapt.”
She leans her head closer and whispers in my ear. “I could kill you, too. Right now. But what fun would that be? I think we should play a little game. See how clever you really are. Then you can watch your friends die.”
The hand flutters again and the bodyguard is released from the spell. He acts neither surprised nor shocked, but simply goes to the table, retrieves her jacket.
Burke slips into it. “Have a nice day, Anna,” she says.
I struggle against invisible bonds, powerless to stop them as they leave the restaurant. For another ten seconds, nothing happens. Then, the world returns to normal. People revive and resume whatever they were doing without the slightest notion of what happened. I hide the gun down by my side, look around. I appear to be the only one who feels slightly off-kilter, faintly nauseated at being suspended like a bug in amber.
By the time I gather my wits and race for the exit, Belinda Burke is gone.
CHAPTER 14
GRUDGINGLY, I GIVE THE DEVIL HER DUE. THE witch pulled off a good one.
Shit.
I’m looking up and down Prospect with no real hope of spying the limo and the sinking realization that it would make no difference if I did. By the time I retrieve my car, Belinda Burke will have vanished.
I run back to the garage to get the Jag.
Thoughts cascade through my head like white water over a dam. She knows about Frey. She knows about the amulet. Can she trace it back to the witches in Balboa Park?
I’ve got to warn them.
The first call I make is to Frey. He doesn’t answer. I try Culebra’s cell, hoping Sandra will pick up.
Once again, there’s no answer.
I disconnect and, fighting off the fear that they are both dead, call Williams. He does answer. Before I can ask, he tells me that he talked with Sandra a few minutes ago. Culebra is hanging on. I fill him in on what happened with Burke, including her threat against the witches.
He assures me they are protected as long as they stay at the headquarters. He asks the obvious questions and I give him as full a description as I can of Burke’s new persona. He wants me to come in and give the description to a psychic artist who can render a sketch.
There isn’t time.
Now that I know Burke’s assumed the guise of someone else, my next task has to be to determine who that someone else is. And get to her fast.
We ring off.
I’m back on Prospect. Burke must know it was no coincidence, my appearing in the restaurant. She’s smart enough to know I probably followed her from the warehouse, which makes it safe to assume she won’t be going back there anytime soon.
Which also makes the warehouse the logical place to start.
I’m retracing my footsteps to National City. Worry about Culebra and Frey and sudden doubt about my choice to go back to the warehouse are unwelcome passengers in the car with me. What if I ’m wrong and Burke is waiting for me at the warehouse? What protection do I have against her power? I was helpless in that restaurant.
I’m suddenly aware that I’ve got the charm clutched in my fingers.
This is my protection. The moment I feel its warning heat, I’ll know she’s near. This time, the moment I see her, I’ll shoot
the bitch no matter where we are.
The warehouse parking lot is still crowded. Trucks from a loading bay around the side come and go. I pull right up to the door and park in a visitor’s space.
May as well.
I check the .38 and slip it into the pocket of my jacket.
Quicker access.
I touch the amulet.
It’s cold.
A gun and a charm.
I’m not leaving anything to chance.
A glass door opens into a reception area. Simple, utilitarian, no fancy furniture. Only an oversized metal desk behind which sits a woman with a computer monitor in front of her and a telephone headset attached to her ear. She’s in her twenties, stylishly dressed in a light wool pantsuit and silk blouse. She has dark hair and eyes. When she looks up at me and smiles a welcome I detect no threat. She’s human. That doesn’t mean she can’t be a witch. Or that Burke hasn’t assumed another disguise.
I touch the amulet to be sure.
Nothing.
She’s not Burke and Burke must not be close.
The woman has not yet greeted me and I realize she’s talking on the phone. She rings off and says, “Sorry about that. The phones have been crazy since that newspaper article appeared yesterday. Are you here to place an order?”
She pulls a clipboard from a stack on her desk and holds it out to me. “We’ve had trouble with the website. So many hits, customers have not been able to access order forms. I’ve been telling them to come in and do it in person if they’re in the San Diego area. They’ll get the product much faster that way.”
“Product?”
“Eternal Youth.” The smile dims a little when she sees I’m not reaching for the clipboard. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”
Eternal Youth? Why does that ring a bell? I let the name filter through the cogs. It comes to me in a lightning bolt of recognition.
Yesterday’s paper.
Gloria and her new gig.
And something else.
The woman with Gloria. The president of the company.
The redhead, Simone Tremaine.
One and the same. Belinda Burke.
The woman behind the desk has returned the clipboard to its stack as she takes another phone call. I’m processing possibilities. I could go to Gloria and see what she knows about Simone Tremaine. Good old Gloria, once again she ’s gotten involved with a less than scrupulous business partner.
Last resort. I’d rather not see Gloria again—ever. She’d likely use any opening to weasel her way back to David.
The second possibility is to find out what I can from the receptionist. I doubt she ’s going to give me Simone’s address or home telephone number no matter how sweetly I ask.
That leaves two options. Go back to the cottage and do an Internet search. Most likely a waste of time since Simone Tremaine is probably unlisted.
Or come back tonight and go through Belinda’s files. Behind the reception area is a door with a glass window. I mosey over and look in.
There’s a long hall with doors opening on both sides—offices, no doubt—and a door in the back. Through the one on the end is something that looks like the landing to a flight of stairs.
“Can I help you with something?”
The enthusiasm has gone out of the receptionist’s voice.
I turn to her. “I’m not here to place an order,” I say, stepping back to the desk. “But I am interested in the company. What can you tell me about Simone Tremaine?”
The silky smooth smile of the saleswoman returns. “She’s wonderful. She discovered the formula for Eternal Youth herself. Are you from the press? I have a press kit I can give you.”
This time I take the offering. It’s slick and glossy and the first page is a headshot of Simone. “Where is she from, do you know?”
“New York. She was in advertising there. Which is why she’s so good with the media. They love her.”
Yeah. That and the fact that she can hex people to believe anything she wants.
I flip the twenty or so pages contained in the kit. Every one has a photo of Simone along with before and after shots of middle -aged women transformed from drab to gorgeous. No cream could possibly—
The receptionist interrupts my train of thought with a laugh. “I can tell from your expression you’re skeptical of those results. Most women are.” She reaches for something at her feet and comes up with a handbag. She fishes out a wallet and flips to a driver’s license.
“How old do you think I am?” she asks.
“I’m not good at that game,” I say. Being a vampire puts you at a disadvantage.
She holds out the picture so I can read her date of birth.
I look from the license to the woman and back again. “Is this a joke?”
She laughs. “Nope. I’m an Eternal Youth customer myself. And I’m fifty-two years old.”
I react the way she expects—with shocked appreciation at the transformation. I don’t bother to tell her that she’s probably under some kind of spell, that the woman she has so much admiration for is a cold -blooded killer who has to be working an angle that I’d bet is more complicated than rejuvenating aging skin. Belinda Burke is not a humanitarian.
Instead, I take the literature and, thanking her for her time, leave. I’ll come back tonight, when I can be alone with Burke’s files and see for myself what’s going on.
In the car, I call Williams. I tell him who Burke is pretending to be, and he promises to pass the information to Ortiz. Legally, we can ’t prove she’s done anything illegal. Yet. So there can be no official police involvement. But at least Ortiz may be able to use his connections to track her down.
Then I call Frey. This time he answers. He sounds spent. Culebra’s condition worsened once, about an hour ago, but he adjusted his counterspell and Culebra is resting again.
I fill him in on what I learned. Culebra’s relapse would coincide with my confrontation with Burke in the restaurant. She knows now that we’re working against her.
What I don’t tell Frey is that she knows it’s Frey who is keeping Culebra alive. May as well not add to his concern.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” I ask Frey.
“Yeah,” he says. “Find Burke. Kill the bitch.”
CHAPTER 15
I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH MYSELF. I GO back to my vantage point above the warehouse. It’s midafternoon. There are still cars and trucks coming and going from the parking lot. Inactivity chafes. Williams hasn ’t called, which means he has nothing for me from Ortiz. My first plan—to break into the warehouse—seems the most logical.
I settle down to watch and wait, something I should be used to in my line of work. Stakeouts are part of the bounty -hunting business.
Except I usually have David to help pass the time.
I’m alone here and this is very personal.
I spend some time leafing through the Eternal Youth brochure. Two things jump out: the dramatic results the cream seems to have wrought and the price for those results. Burke is getting two hundred fifty dollars for a twelve-ounce jar . . . a month’s supply.
Yikes.
I throw the brochure aside and start to pick apart what Burke said to me in the restaurant. She mentioned wishing she’d had more time.
More time to what?
And what “curves” did life throw her? Culebra’s appearance? He must have recognized her. How? I certainly didn’t. Was the entire story he told me about going out of town a lie? Was he here all the time?
Nothing makes sense.
The only thing that does is the threat against Culebra and Frey. No riddles there.
It’s a fucking long wait.
It isn’t until midnight that the place is finally quiet. By now, my skin is twitching with impatience. I watch as the last car pulls out of the lot.
If there’s a night watchman, he didn’t drive a car to work. I sprint down the steep bank and head for the back of the warehouse.
I had plenty of time to decide how I’d break in. The building is about three stories high. The only windows are right below the roofline.
They are the old-fashioned, pull-down windows, so there are no ledges. I circle the building twice before I find one that looks like it isn ’t completely shut tight. I’d rather not damage anything, which is why I’m not smashing the door and going in through the front.
I use my shimmying skills for the second time today. It’s really rather fun. Like having invisible suckers on the palms of your hands. It’s all upper body, my feet seek purchase like a rock climber’s, but it’s more pull than push. Idly, I wonder what I look like. Hope it’s not a giant spider.
I hang down from the roof and work at the window. It groans and gives way and I slide inside. These vamp powers are becoming second nature and once I accepted what I am, they seemed to grow stronger. Not entirely unpleasant.
There’s a catwalk that runs along under the windows. I crouch here, waiting for any indication that I’ve tripped a security circuit. I don’t hear the whir of cameras or see the glowing beam of a motion detector. There are no lights on, but I can see to the factory floor thirty feet below. No guards come looking. After a moment, I step off the ledge and land on my feet next to the assembly line.
No jolt, no shock. I pat at my hair. Not a strand out of place.
Cool.
The factory floor looks like any other mechanized assembly line. Ingredients are measured and combined in big stainless -steel pots at one end and the finished jars of cream emerge from the other. The conveyor belt is still but all the components are lined up and in varying stages of completion as if a switch was hit at the end of the day and the line stopped. I walk the length of it, picking up jars, sniffing, looking for—I’m not sure what I’m looking for—but nothing jumps out at me. I take one of the finished jars and open it. The contents are a pale pink in color and heavily perfumed. Under it all, though, I detect something that smells slightly of raw meat. It makes me draw back in disgust. I close the jar and slip it into the pocket of my jacket.
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