Chapter 10
I glanced at my watch, late for brunch with Sarakas. My partner was a very forgiving, easy-going man, provided I arrived on time. I scurried into the greasy spoon where we habitually indulged our appetite and saw Andreas sitting with impeccable posture in our usual booth. His great body wore an anti-drug tee and trim jeans. An unbuttoned long sleeve shirt covered his guns, leaving him innocuous while he glanced at his watch.
I slid into the booth, weary and more than a tad sore from climbing a vampire’s ivory tower. Waitstaff brought a cup of coffee and a carafe.
“Moving stiffly,” he said.
“Didn’t have time for yoga this morning,” I snipped. Instantly, I checked myself. No reason to bitch at him; none of this was his fault. My old trainer, Clifford, was a mutt. The disease surrounded me. Hell, one more L-pos person in my life and Sarakas would be able to smell it on me.
Hot coffee flowed through me like happy lava.
“You’re late,” he said. “By half an hour.”
“Sorry.”
“Well, I invited Vanessa to come down. Thought you’d skipped out on me.”
“Oh.” The girlfriend was on her way. “That’s fine. Cool.”
He squinted. “Are you sure?”
“Don't worry, Andreas. I'll won’t shoot her without a good reason.” I patted his hand without thinking. My hand dropped away like it was made of stone. He pretended it never happened.
“What was your relationship like with your mother?” he said.
Kinda wanted to stab him with a fork all of a sudden.
“Since you know my mother died a long time ago in an attack, I have to wonder why you’re asking.”
“I met Vanessa’s mother.”
“Oh? I mean, of course you have. Y’all are getting serious and stuff. And?”
“I don’t like her.”
I laughed. “I am not sure you’re supposed to. Reports of man vs. mother-in-law conflicts are global and eternal.”
“It’s not like that.” He spun the coffee mug between his hands, focusing hard. “You’ve met people who are pretty and perfect on the outside, and charming. Kind. Funny. At least, that’s how they look at first, until the shiny newness wears off and you realize you’re being artfully poked with a stick?”
“Her mother pokes you with sticks?”
“No, not me. Vanessa. Her mother…I don’t know. Did your mother criticize you with every compliment and comment? Like, subtly?”
“My mother—” My throat hardened. “Look, Sarakas, I don’t remember much about her. When we argued, it was because I did something stupid. I mean, you know me. I’m always doing something stupid. She didn’t like me spending my college money on a motorcycle or ditching class, etc. Motherly stuff. She didn’t pick on me for the fun of it.”
He leaned back. “I don’t like the woman. She’s a slow poison.”
“Have you talked to Vanessa? If you’re so sure about this, you should talk.”
“How can I? I mean, what’s the proper script for ‘I-hate-your-momma’ conversations?”
“Jeez, I don’t know. But people like you’re describing, they need boundaries. If you don’t set some, she’ll be poking both Vanessa and you with progressively sharper sticks for the rest of your life.”
“Damn.” He rubbed his neck. “You’re surprisingly good at love advice. When’s the last time you were in a relationship? Have you ever had to meet someone’s mother?”
Never. “I don’t like this conversation anymore.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “Fine.”
“What’s been happening at the office?”
“Increased security measures are in place.”
“After the bombing. Convenient.”
“No one expected something like that to happen, Kaid. We have never had the conflict explode on our stoop before. Usually we need to hunt the problem and chase it through the streets. It doesn’t knock on our front door and try to obliterate us all. Everyone is shaken, understandably. Newsfeed won’t let up about the terrorist threat. This isn’t going away.”
“I know, I know.” Tiredly, I sipped my coffee and prayed for an instant caffeine jolt. The waitress stopped by and took our order. “Waffles with extra syrup, hash browns crispy, bacon, sausage, and four eggs hard, no runny yolks.” Her brow quirked the way a woman’s does when she sees a slender person order too much food while they themselves are struggling with ten extra kilos. Since she had already judged me, I added an extra order of bacon.
Sarakas ordered the same with extra waffles. Our habit of gorging ourselves on Sundays made me smile. Something like hope warmed inside me. Maybe things would be okay.
“Should we have waited for Vanessa?” I said.
“She’s fine. She’ll order fruit with cottage cheese and pick at half a bagel.”
He knew her eating habits. Of course: that’s what couples did.
“Doc said you skipped your physical therapy appointment yesterday.”
“I climbed, like, fifteen flights of stairs. What else could therapy offer?”
“What the hell are you doing climbing that many stairs? Ever hear of a goddamn elevator?”
“Didn’t your mother teach you not to curse in front of ladies?”
“You’re no lady.”
“Fair enough. I’m fine, Sarakas, a bit sore. Like a good burn.”
“Overexerting yourself will inhibit recovery as quickly as doing nothing.”
“I got it. I’ll be good. I’ll be back at work sooner than you think.”
“Human resources is recruiting like it’s going out of style,” he said, resuming work chatter. “The rookie docket is full for the next couple of weeks, and we’ll be testing them in the field. Everyone is short on manpower, so everyone will be involved in training.”
“Yay.”
“Yoshino is pestering the tech department for extra funding. He’s trying to develop a code to calculate the probability of a contaminant taking root in a person.”
“How does he expect to do that?”
“He’s making assumptions based on genetics, social conditions, age, hormone levels while coming in contact with the disease, whatnot. All figurative. He’s even taking the moon phase into consideration.”
“Wow.”
“Might be nothing, might just as easily pan out.” He sipped his coffee. His expression fell from thoughtful to somber. “Team C lost Jerome and Taylor. They responded to a call about a suspicious prowler and ended up walking into a mutt fight between two animals. Both agents died. They bagged one mutt but the other got away.”
“Crap,” I said. “Any luck finding the stray?”
“Not so far. Both were untagged, and the dead mutt wasn’t in our database. DNA didn’t cross-reference with anything. The growing pile of unknown factors is making twitchy hunters more nervous. We’re beginning to suspect an untagged population whose numbers are growing exponentially.”
“Speculation based on fear?” I said, staring at my coffee cup.
“Maybe.”
An instant of crippling paranoia struck me. If he asked me outright about the number of mutts I knew, would I lie? Convincingly? What else could I do?
Food arrived, and I was starving. We ate in silence for a moment before Vanessa found us. Her chic white shirt draped professionally around her slender form, her khakis were impeccably pressed. Her contagious smile made me grin.
“Kaidlyn, so glad to see you’re better. You look great!” Her green eyes shone with genuine kindness. She patted my arm and sat beside Sarakas. He scooted plates aside to make room for her beautiful hands to rest on the table.
The waitress came by and Vanessa ordered: “Seasonal fruit with cottage cheese, and half a bagel, butter on the side. Green tea, please. Thank you.”
Sarakas smiled at me like we were sharing a joke. Vanessa noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He kissed her quickly and gently on the cheek. She grinned and started talking about
how he shouldn’t use so much syrup or he’d get diabetes, at which point he made a show of dumping extra syrup on his waffles.
Sarakas and Vanessa shared a smile that bespoke of many breakfast kisses, of warm hands clasping in the evening, and a hundred phone conversations full of sweet nothings.
Watching two people get along, I remembered how much I sucked. I made everything awkward and uncomfortable. I laughed at the wrong things. Hell, I occasionally took a swing at offensive people.
But mostly because I was selfish.
I craved a moment of solidarity with someone who wasn’t constantly hunted and afraid or defensive and violent (like myself). Sometimes I felt like the only thing on the planet.
Mostly, I wanted that moment back, when ten minutes prior it was simply me and my best friend in the world talking about the potential end of said world. A moment when he might understand, make things better, or say something copacetic.
Christ, I was jealous.
I shoved a sausage in my mouth and tried to think of something to add to their conversation. Came up with nothing. Shoveled another sausage past my lips, on the brink of choking.
Vanessa’s perfect chignon reflected crisp sunshine while my bird’s nest hadn’t been brushed.
She smelled like daffodils and sunshine and something entirely feminine wrapped in prim flower petals, preserved for a museum audience. Plus, she had a heart of gold. Sarakas had a glow about him. Worse, despite my ugly envy, I was happy for him.
I swallowed heavily, cramming a quarter pound of low-grade meat down my throat at once. Felt like I might have a heart attack, if only the bastard organ would catch up with my mood and keel over.
I sipped my coffee and tried to pay attention, but conversation rolled around me, bubbling and bustling and I couldn’t keep up with the whitewater rapids of an intimately familiar couple.
Svetlana promised to call, but she hadn’t.
I waved for the check. Sarakas didn’t notice, not even when I discretely pulled out my wallet and paid for everything. He probably didn’t consider that he was parading a perfect, heartwarming relationship in front of a woman who couldn’t manage much more than a one-night-stand. The dude was in love.
I never felt more selfish and lonely.
So I made small talk about the upcoming holiday and the weather and awaited the moment when I could escape without insult.
I went home and found Davey lounging on the couch, talking on the phone with the love of his life, chittering and giggling. I scurried to the shower, stood under hot jets until my eyelids couldn’t stay open, and crawled into bed like a worm burrowing into mud.
Chapter 11
Work was a coming home party that no one attended. A cake sat on my desk wearing orange frosting with green letters that said, “Welcome back, Kaidlyn.” The office was empty. I sat down in my rolling chair and stared at the frosting, which had started to melt. What a thoughtful, depressing bit of slop.
The walk into the building had been quiet, sans the usual protesters with warring signs, political jargon, and religious bull swarming my vehicle. Today, the place looked deserted despite the extra security everywhere. The threat of bombs clearly reduced the civilian presence and rallied gun-toting feds to the frontlines. They had nodded respectfully as I cruised by in my silver truck. The whole assembly carried a funereal quality.
I picked up the phone and dialed Yoshino, the team tech guy.
“Hi,” I said, and couldn’t get another word out.
“God, Kaidlyn! I mean, Ms. Durant. I am so happy you are back! How are you feeling? Do you need anything? Can I make a coffee run? The cafeteria makes a new dark roast and I know you like—”
“Thank you, Yoshino. Actually, it isn’t coffee that I need. Can you start pulling some data for me?”
“Sure, absolutely.”
“You know how I’m constantly having trouble with political deviants? Well, on the night of the bombing, someone broke into my home.”
“Oh, that’s awful. Jeez, of all the luck.”
“Right? I need any video feed can find on the night of the bombing that might show how someone got into my neighborhood and home. If we can track the intruder back to where they started—”
“I’ll do what I can. What’s wrong with people these days? I’ll get right on it, Ms. Durant. I have to warn you, though, vandals are out of control in this city. They’re tearing down cameras. I don’t know what’s gotten into everyone, but we’re losing eyes all over the city.”
My hopes sank. “Do what you can. And thanks.”
After hanging up the phone, I pulled my baseball cap and ran my hands through my hair. Might have forgotten to brush it. Yoshino did great tech, but he wasn’t a Rainer. If cameras were falling, I wouldn’t be getting any info from the FBHS feed.
Keats strolled into the office, a happy grin on his grown cherub face. His hair had been expertly tousled by two toddlers’ fingers. He started to spread his arms, clearly expected a hug. Swallowing a sigh, I obliged. He smelled like baby powder and musk. I quickly disengaged.
“You look thinner, Keats. Don’t tell me your wife’s diet is actually working.”
“Tragically, yes.”
“Want some cake?” I hooked my thumb at the confection. His eyes lit up, but he shook his head. I snorted. “Very convincing. Why don’t you help yourself and I will pretend it never happened?”
He beelined to the cake. I laughed. Chad Keats was a genuinely good man. He believed in family, country, and God. He respected, honored, and protected everyone around him. I couldn’t fathom where all that goodwill came from. It was rather tiring to watch, and it filled me with weary dread because, eventually, he’d die.
I tired of being around good people. Tired of worrying about when I’d have to watch them die because I failed to save them.
Oracio Gracie entered the office, burdened with two boxes of donuts and a cloud of aftershave.
“Hey, shorty,” the pretty asshole said. “Glad you’re back.”
“Yep.” I helped him with the donuts.
“Looks like Doc sand-blasted away some of your ugly. How do you feel?”
“Sunburnt. Nauseated by the sight of your shirt. What color is that? Puce?”
“Stylish, that’s what color it is. Too bad they couldn’t surgically remove your attitude. Might make you more tolerable. Femme, even. You need a spa day.”
“I’d be better served shooting someone.”
“Ha! You’ll be condemned to desk duty for sure.”
“Haven’t I suffered enough?”
“Not nearly.” Sarakas arrived rolling a dolly full of file boxes. A bit of a twinkle in his eye. “The boys will be running blood kits while you scout priorities and catch up on paperwork.”
“Just so you know,” Keats said, “We're dumping at least half of these reports on your desk on our way out.”
“Not fair,” I said.
Sarakas said, “Durant, you need to compile a list of 3-tier potentials, establishing priority of investigation based on case urgency and trend speculation.”
“Copy.” I grabbed a few muffins. The boys trooped out of the office and I settled into my chair, relearning the feel of government subjugation.
A mere forty minutes into the reports, my mind was sufficiently scrambled, and I wanted nothing more than to smash my skull against the wall. I took a coffee break and a pee break, and desperately tried to brainstorm a reason to avoid reports.
Joy of joys, my phone rang.
The caller, Contrell, was local PD, in charge of investigating some of the more unusual homicides, so the call would prove a mixed blessing.
“Hi,” I said.
“Durant, so glad you’re back, et cetera, what-have-you, and I need you at a scene.” After a pause full of weight and intrigue, he said, “Immediately.”
“Nice to hear from you, et cetera. What’s up?”
“I’d rather show you.” He provided an address and I promised to drive with my usual intensit
y. The crime happened outside of the old federal business park and lingering financial buildings, on the grounds of a hollowed-out bank which was now better suited to housing hordes of vagrants.
Contrell stood by one of the vandalized doors, puffing on an e-cig. The vapor pluming from his e-cig smelled like fruit candy, a definitive change from the usual cinnamon juice. I approached and he handed me a set of gloves.
“Got your name all over it,” he said, deadpan, humorless. “Literally.”
Apprehensive, I walked side by side with him into the building, past a pair of officers with grim faces and nervous stances. I nodded, noticing how their eyes lingered longer than was polite.
Contrell, likewise, stared at me. I had fed my hair into a ponytail under the ball cap, and the unusual move left my jaw, throat, and neckline bare. Worse, I wore a short sleeve shirt with a swoop neck. How could I have forgotten to cover up? I usually hid the hodgepodge of scarring, but Doc’s work left me more confident. Or maybe hanging out with wolves left me less concerned about people’s reactions.
Contrell eyed the remnant scarring as if he’d only now realized the extent of the damage. After he scar-gazed for a while, I cleared my throat. He dislodged his stare.
The building stank like a rancid barnyard. Windows were boarded over, but broken glass spread all over the dingy, grimy floor. Residue from homeless cluttered inside the shanty house. Miniature tents, large cardboard boxes, clusters of shoddy trash-villages, as it were. Shopping carts full of collections, bagged supplies, stuff barely identifiable as trash. Bits of luggage, worn and dirty. The sprawl was tipped, rummaged, and in general disarray. Empty cans, beer bottles, sooty fire pits. Birds soared across the high ceiling.
A smear of blood, about a gallon’s worth, sprawled on the filthy tile. A kill spot without a corpse to show for it.
Contrell led me through the clutter toward the open, dusty, unlocked safe. Huge. I hesitated at the doorway, unwilling to be trapped in a giant steel box behind a foot-thick unbreakable door with no combination. A spry fear charged through me, a twinge of claustrophobia. Contrell waited without saying anything, bless his heart, and I followed him through the mouth of the cave and found a small trail of blood.
Bait and Bleed Page 8