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.
At the end of the factory, there are two doors. Both locked. I’m prepared. I fish my lock picks out of another jacket pocket and go to work.
I remember from this afternoon that there was a door at the end of the corridor leading from the reception area. I’m assuming that door opened into the factory or to stairs leading from it. The first door I open, though, is a locker room and employee lounge area.
The other is the one I’m looking for. It opens to reveal a flight of stairs. At the top, the door leading into the corridor I spied this afternoon. On each side of that corridor are office spaces, six of them, all with doors now closed. My task is simplified, though, by the little brass plaques on each. I head right for the one that says “Simone Tremaine, Presid
ent.”
It takes me about twenty seconds to pick the lock. I slip inside. The office space is big, about twenty by twenty, but not as luxuriously furnished as I would have expected. There’s a wooden desk and chair, a row of wooden file cabinets, a leather couch and glass-topped coffee table and two leather visitor’s chairs.
The desktop is clear. Nothing on it, not a blotter or a telephone. The desk drawers are locked but yield to a little persuasion. That’s all they yield. The only things I find are telephone logs. A quick perusal tells me business is brisk. Calls from area codes across the country. Paper-clipped together on the inside cover are the most recent. I flip through the stack. One customer has called three times in the last two days. Must be desperate for her miracle makeover. I replace the stack as I found it.
In another drawer, web-generated order forms. Lots of them. Eternal Youth has struck a chord with middle-aged women in a big way. No wonder I saw so many trucks going in and out. Must be preparing for the big launch the newspaper spoke of.
Now what?
The file cabinets.
Again, everything is locked. There are six cabinets, none labeled on the front so I have no choice but to start at one end and jimmy each open. As is usually the case, the last cabinet is the one I want. Personnel files.
One file is marked Personal. When I open it, I find info about Simone Tremaine. There isn’t much—insurance forms, utility bills for an address in Coronado, an out-of-state telephone number printed on a piece of company letterhead. I memorize the address and number and return the file to the cabinet.
Then another file catches my eye.
Test Subjects.
It’s thick. I take it to the couch and get comfortable.
There must be one hundred cases. I go through each one. All include remarkable before-and-after pictures as well as testimonials. They’re from local women in all walks of life—including some with PhDs and medical licenses. Women in their fifties and sixties look thirty again. With no adverse side effects reported. In fact, just the opposite, women report renewed vigor and increased libido. A few add that their figures are fuller, their hair more lustrous and their minds sharper. They call the cream miraculous.
I pull the jar out of my pocket and look at it. Miraculous, indeed, if it’s true. In fact, if I were still human, I’d be tempted to try the stuff.
No wonder Gloria wants to hook her wagon to this star. Besides the obvious, Burke would be richer than God in a very short time if the product lives up to its press. Too bad she won’t live long enough to enjoy it.
I return the folder and walk my fingers through the other tabs. I’d like to find a formula to take to Williams. He could duplicate it and see if there’s magic involved. I don’t find one so I’ll have to do the next best thing. I’ll give him the jar I took and let him analyze the product itself.
I relock the cabinets and offices and head back into the factory. I leap up to the catwalk, slip out of the window and secure it behind me while I cling to the wall outside. Then I let go and drop to earth.
Next stop: that address across the bay in Coronado.
I’m halfway up the bank to my car when my cell phone rings.
“Anna Strong.”
“Anna, it’s Williams. Where are you?”
“In National City. Why?”
“Meet me downtown, the end of the Navy Pier. Another body turned up, and if you get here quick enough, we can check it out before the police.”
He disconnects before I can object. I glance at my watch. The navy pier isn’t too far out of my way. I’ll give him five minutes. That’s it.
CHAPTER 16
THE WOMAN IS LYING ON A COIL OF ROPE, AWKWARDLY, her back bent, legs twisted. Dumped here, probably, after dark. This is a busy pier during the day. Her form and face are obscured in shadow. The only light reflects from the pool of blood ringing her head like a halo.
And that looks black.
The scent of her blood is heavy on the air. “She’s human,” I say.
Williams is kneeling beside the body. “She’s human. I thought when the report came in it might be another vamp.” He stands and slips off the latex gloves he’d donned when we arrived. Cop habit.
“Looks like her skull was crushed,” he says.
Being around this much blood awakens the hunger always lurking beneath the surface, but I force it back and stoop to take a closer look. The woman is dressed in good linen slacks and a long-sleeved blouse.
“She’s wearing Jimmy Choos,” I say, pointing to her pumps. “There’s a good-sized rock on her finger, and I’d bet those earrings are a carat apiece. She wasn’t mugged for her jewelry.”
I lean in. The woman’s hair has fallen over her face. Gingerly I brush it away.
She looks vaguely familiar. She’s in her thirties, attractive.
The wail of far-off sirens distracts me.
Williams puts a hand on my shoulder. “We need to go.”
Still, I hesitate. I know I’ve seen this woman before.
“Anna, come on. We can’t be found here.”
Reluctantly, I get to my feet. Williams motions for me to follow him, and we make our way quickly back along the pier to the parking lot. Flashing lights and sirens bear down on the pier. We turn to the right and head across the trolley tracks toward the Gaslamp district. There’s a hotel with an outdoor patio still serving and we take a seat. We can see the pier from here.
The show starts as soon as the cops arrive. I recognize Ortiz in one of the lead cars. No surprise then, how Williams found out about the woman. A crowd forms, the media arrives, a coroner’s wagon pulls up.
I know I should be out of here—check that address in Coronado. But something tugs at the back of my mind. I’m sure I’ve seen that woman before. I sift her face through the sands of memory, hoping to shake something loose.
When it hits, it’s not who she is but what she is that does it.
Today. The literature I picked up from the receptionist.
I jump to my feet and leave Williams with an abrupt, “I’ll be right back.”
The Jag is parked down the block. The brochure is still on the front seat. I grab it and quickly thumb the pages.
She’s there. On page five.
She was one of Eternal Youth’s test subjects.
When I rejoin Williams, I thrust the brochure at him. “Look familiar?”
He studies the picture for a minute, then looks up at me. “A coincidence? One of Burke’s test subjects turning up dead?”
I shake my head.
Quickly I tell Williams about the other women in Burke’s files.
I hand him the bottle of cream.
“You’d better have this analyzed. She’s using magic, I’m sure. Can’t do anything about that. But if it turns out the product she’s selling at two hundred fifty dollars a jar contains nothing but animal fat and food coloring, maybe you can get her for fraud.”
He slips the bottle into a jacket pocket. Then he calls Ortiz on his cell and passes the information along.
He listens for a minute, hangs up.
I already suspect what he’s going to say. He doesn’t disappoint.
“Ortiz will join us as soon as he can, but the fact that this woman was one of Burke’s test subjects is not sufficient cause to get a search warrant for Burke’s warehouse.”
Ortiz is standing by his patrol car and he turns and looks for us in the crowd now gathered at the restaurant.
I stare back at him, a troublesome wariness beginning to build. Burke said she wanted to play a game.
“I don’t need a search warrant. I’ll get the file of her test subjects.”
For once, Williams doesn’t argue. “Bring the file back here. Ortiz and I will wait.”
FOR THE THIRD TIME IN TWELVE HOURS, I AM BACK at the warehouse. I perform my bat-woman routine and shimmy my way inside. It’s two a.m. I’m trying to decide whether to copy the file or take it when the decision is made for me. I hear a car pull to a stop outs
ide.
No time to waste. I grab the file and lock the office door. I peek out front, but the lot is empty. The car must be at the loading dock.
Shit.
I run back through the factory and leap to the ledge. From the windows, I can just see the front of a white van backed up to the loading dock. I don’t hear any noise and the doors to the factory don’t open.
What are they doing? Trying to break in? A competitor trying to steal the formula?
It’s so quiet, I’m beginning to think whoever drove the van here left in another vehicle. Maybe it’s a vendor waiting to be the first in line for his supply of Burke’s miracle cream. I hunker down. I’ll give it twenty minutes and then I’ll take my chances and find another way out.
I don’t have to wait that long. Ten minutes later, the van starts up and pulls away. It’s a white Econoline with no markings and no tags.
I leap to the ground and look around. The loading bays are closed tight, no indication at all that anyone tried to get in.
I look in the direction of the retreating van.
Maybe I’m not the only one up to no good.
CHAPTER 17
BY THE TIME I REJOIN WILLIAMS, THE RESTAURANT and bar have closed. He and Ortiz are sitting in the hotel lobby in big overstuffed chairs arranged around a table. We have the lobby to ourselves. There’s no one behind the desk to eavesdrop. I see a clerk through an open door in the back sipping from a mug and reading a magazine. He looks up as I come in but, besides a curious glance my way, makes no move to intercept me. His eyes slide back to the glossy pages.
Williams follows my gaze.
It’s all right. He’s a friend of ours.
His imperiousness provokes the usual reaction in me. I snort. Of course he is. What are you, the Godfather?
It’s always the same with you two, isn’t it? Ortiz says before Williams can reply. His tone is reproachful and impatient like a parent addressing squabbling children.
Jeanne C. Stein - Retribution Page 7