Cursed (13 page)

He’s sipping on his drink, answering my questions with the friendly candor of two college chums discussing one of those video games on his wall. “Simon, I have to ask. Just what do you do here?”

“My official title is Operational Director, Western Region. I was recruited from Cal Tech three years ago. Hey, you showed it to Rose, can I see your badge?”

So our mystery man isn’t the only one who’d been watching. I pull my badge out and hand it to him.

“Cool.” He hands it back to me. “Anything else I can tell you?”

“Amy Patterson and Evan Porter.”

“What about them?”

“They’re both missing. Do they get blood from you?”

His fingers fly across the keyboard. “Evan is on home delivery, and so is Amy. We deliver in Styrofoam chests containing dry ice twice a week, signature required.” He frowns. “Amy missed a delivery a couple weeks ago. She hasn’t contacted us since. We left several discreet messages about rescheduling. No response. Evan is scheduled for delivery today.”

I lean forward. It occurs to me this might be a way to identify additional missing vampires. “Would it be possible to get a list of others who have missed deliveries or appointments?”

“Missed them in the past week?”

“How about the past six months?”

“It would take some time. We have accounts in pending status for a variety of reasons, lack of payment, people who are on vacation, et cetera.”

“We only need those that don’t have an explanation and haven’t resumed. I’d appreciate it,” I tell him. “There could be more missing. So far the common denominator in these three cases is that they are all vampires and—”

“We sourced their blood, I understand. We’ll work on it. Shall I email you the file when it’s ready?”

I don’t bother mentioning the other common denominators, Barakov and possibly even Green Leaf, as I hand him my card. “Thank you for cooperating.”

He smiles. “The order came down to give you whatever you needed.”

“Order? From whom?”

Simon’s desk phone rings before he can answer. He picks up the receiver, listens for a moment, then hands me the phone.

A deep baritone voice on the other end says, “We’ll have the list to you within twenty-four hours. Find our missing, Agent Monroe.”

The man doesn’t give me a chance to respond or ask questions. I’m left listening to the dial tone. The voice wasn’t one I’d heard before. It wouldn’t be easily forgotten. “Who was that?” I ask, handing the phone back to Simon.

“The boss.” Simon presses an intercom button and Rose appears like a genie out of a bottle. “Nice to meet you, Agent Monroe.” Simon grins as if he’s got a delicious secret. “We’ll be in touch.”

•   •   •

Zack is at his desk when I get back, working on his computer.

“Did you find anything?” I ask, slipping out of my jacket and hanging it on the desk chair. I lean over his shoulder to view the monitor.

Zack gestures to the screen. “Well, I couldn’t find any checks from Isabella to Green Leaf. No automatic deductions from any of her accounts, either. But Amy supported them. I discovered five checks made out to Green Leaf in the last five months that were marked as charitable donations. She also contributed to the Red Cross, a San Diego food bank, and the Humane Society. And there’s another connection. . . . Green Leaf has a special grant program that subsidizes training for contractors and laborers who promote and install the latest and greatest in green products. It looks like one of those Green Leaf crews installed the shades on Amy Patterson’s windows.”

“Giving them access to her apartment.”

“Yup. You have any luck at Wicked Ink?”

I look around. Other agents are milling about within hearing distance. “It was . . . interesting. . . . I’ll fill you in later.” I take my own seat at the desk across from him. “Although they did promise to get me a list of other customers who have missed deliveries or pickups lately.”

Zack lowers his voice to a whisper. “You think there might be other missing . . .” He glances around, too, regroups. “Others like Amy and Isabella that we don’t know about?”

“I think it’s a strong possibility,” I say.

He looks over the top of his computer screen at me. “You still going to that benefit tonight?”

To myself I think,
You betcha
. Nothing’s really changed. I’m beginning to think getting Barakov alone might be the only way we’ll get a break in this case. Besides, I promised Liz. To Zack, I say, “Yes.”

“You have an extra ticket?”

“It’s black tie. You have a tux?”

He nods. “Don’t look so surprised.” He pauses. “Is that all you’re going to ask me?”

I smile. “Last night was the third night of the full moon. You’ll be safe.”

The corners of his mouth turn down. He leans forward. “Safe? Don’t kid yourself. Deep down I’m dangerous, a predator. Don’t ever forget it.”

I can’t tell if he’s kidding or not. There’s heat and intensity in his voice, sincerity in his eyes. But it doesn’t matter. He’s right. Forget that he’s dangerous? Not likely. Although this afternoon proved we could work together without letting personal feelings get in the way, I don’t think for a minute we’re out of the woods yet.

The Hotel Del Coronado looks as spectacular today as it did when it opened over a century ago. Since that time, the red-roofed Victorian hotel has become a favorite of presidents, royalty, and Hollywood’s darlings. The beachfront resort is luxury at its finest and most elegant. There is a long line of cars sitting at the entrance. Zack veers to the left to Self Park.

“Why didn’t you valet? We’re never going to find a spot in here,” I grumble. To say nothing of dreading the idea of hiking across the asphalt parking lot in four-inch heels.

Zack raises an eyebrow. “O ye of little faith.” He pulls up to the console and pushes the big green button. The machine spits out a ticket, the gate goes up, and Zack drives into the lot. The taillights on a white Mercedes come to light as we round the corner.
Just
as we round the corner. The Mercedes pulls out, we pull in. We’re within a hundred feet of the hotel entrance.

“How did you do that?” I ask, properly impressed.

Zack grins. “Another of my many talents.” He springs from the car. “Let me get your door.”

But I already have it open. “I know how to open a door and get out of a car. I’ve done it a bazillion times.”

Just not in these damned heels.

The words are no sooner out of my mouth than I stumble.

Zack is there, reaching out a hand to steady me.

“Thanks.”

He offers his arm. “You clean up nicely, Monroe.”

I don’t take it. “This isn’t a date. We’re working, Zack.”

That’s what I say. What I’m thinking is, he cleans up nicely, too. The tux is obviously tailored. The white shirt is crisply starched and the shoes, if I’m not mistaken, are Italian.

“Okay, okay. Strictly business.” He touches his hand to his heart. “Just try to blend without falling.”

I ignore the hint of humor in his tone. A wisp of hair escapes from my French twist. I tuck it behind my ear, then smooth down my dress. The gown is off-the-shoulder, black lace with a nude lining. It fits like a surgical glove. The shoes like a medieval torture device. I lift up the edge of my dress and start to walk. “Easier said than done. I don’t know how Liz does it. These shoes are already killing me.”

Zack places his hand at the small of my back as we cross the drive and go up the steps to the entrance. “Want me to carry you?”

“What I want to do is find Barakov.”

Every time I walk into the Del, I’m hit by a wave of nostalgia. I feel as if I’ve stepped back in time—dark wooden paneling, rich fabrics, antique furnishings, and an abundance of fresh flowers all set the stage. Guests are milling about, dressed in formal attire—the men in tuxedos, the women in gowns. Except for the modern cut of the dresses and the scandalous height of our heels, we could be waiting for the Duke and Duchess of Windsor to sweep in the door.

A low whistle comes from Zack, telling me he’s impressed and that he’s never been here before.

“It is beautiful, isn’t it?”

“You don’t see woodwork like this anymore.” Zack pauses a minute to take it all in before asking, “Do you know where we’re going?”

I tilt my head in the direction of the Crown Room. “Michael Dexter said there would be tickets waiting for us.”

There is a man at the door welcoming guests. Zack mentions my name and he checks the list in his hand. Seconds later, we’re motioned through with a smile.

Once inside, Zack swipes two glasses of champagne from a passing tray and hands one to me. “We’re trying to blend, remember?”

And blend he does. Zack looks as relaxed and at home in a tux as he does in T-shirt and jeans. He takes a sip from his champagne and starts to check out the room. To the casual observer, he could merely be looking for a face in the crowd, but I know he’s taking in every detail, because I’m doing the same.

There are a couple of dozen ten-tops, covered in crisp white tablecloths. An extravagant buffet is set up on the far side of the room. There’s a bar in the corner. Waitstaff in black slacks and white short-waist jackets with gold brocade epaulets are circulating with trays. Some, like the one that passed by earlier, hold champagne, others hors d’oeuvres. In the middle of the room is a sizable dance floor, at the back, a stage. A very retro-looking orchestra is now playing “Moonglow.”

A plaque on the wall behind me catches Zack’s eye and he steps closer to better read it.

“Did you know this?”

I’m too busy scanning the crowd for Barakov to pay attention to the plaque.

“Not a single nail was used in this room.” Zack lifts his glass toward the ceiling. My eyes don’t bother to follow. I’ve heard this little fact before. “Just pegs and glue. Isn’t that amazing?”

“Fascinating. You take this half. I’ll start my sweep from the other side,” I tell him before stepping away.

I weave my way through the sea of unfamiliar faces, pausing to sample some of the appetizers and trade the champagne in my glass for ginger ale. Safer. I love champagne, and this is a good one, but tonight I want to keep a clear head.

There’s no sign of Barakov. Yet.

“More champagne?” It’s the third time this particular young waiter has asked me. Before I can refuse again, he leans in and smiles sheepishly. “I’m under strict orders to be generous with the booze. We were reminded that happy guests are more generous with the donations. You’re making me look bad.”

His Italian accent is charming, his smile disarming. I glance at his name tag—Fabrizio. What harm could come from one more glass? “Can’t make you look bad.” I’m placing my empty glass on his tray with the intent of taking a new one when I see Barakov at the exit, a cigar in one hand, a glass half-filled with an amber-colored liquid in the other. “Sorry. I’ve got to go. Excuse me.”

I resist the urge to kick off my shoes and run to catch up with him. Instead I move as quickly as I can, cutting straight across the dance floor. Once outside the doors, I spy Barakov heading into the deserted courtyard. There’s no one with him. He’s alone. Perfect.

I watch from inside for a moment as he lights his cigar and enjoys a few leisurely puffs.

Then I take a deep breath, step outside, and let the dampening spell fall away. I say a silent prayer that Demeter isn’t watching. The air stirs around me as I approach Barakov. The power begins to build, unleashing a warm, perfumed mist, unseen but felt by anyone in its sphere of influence. My hair loosens, a strand curling over my right eye. I move closer.

The courtyard is not deserted as I first thought. There’s a young couple standing off to the side. They look at me, startled by my sudden appearance, caught up in the wake of my power. “Enjoy your drinks in your room,” I say to them as I pass.

A casual remark, delivered softly, a whisper into the air.

The suggestion, however, is anything but casual.

The couple turns, moves toward the door, and disappears inside. Instantly.

“Dr. Barakov?”

About to take a drag on the cigar, he pauses. Stares. “Agent Monroe?”

It takes no effort at all. Once our eyes lock, I have him. “Follow me.”

For a moment, his eyes go blank. Without knowing why, without even questioning, he follows. To him, it merely seems like a good idea.

I lead him to a corner where there’s a cluster of trees and shrubs.

Once he adjusts to my presence, his eyes clear. “You’re beautiful tonight, my dear.” His whisper is reverent as he reaches out and tilts my face up into the light. “What have you done? That bump, it’s—”

I push his hand away. “A little makeup can do wonders. No touching. And I’m asking the questions.”

“Whatever you want.”

The adoration in his eyes is nauseating. I could have Barakov on his knees in seconds, begging, with the way he worships beauty. Such games no longer bring me satisfaction. I barely remember when they did.

I get right to the point. “Where is Amy Patterson?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have the faintest idea.” He takes another puff on his cigar.

It’s not the answer I expected. I lower the barriers further, allowing my mind to penetrate Barakov’s. The temperature around us rises. The wind subtly picks up, rustling the leaves on the trees. “A man like you, so connected, so smart. You must have some idea what happened to Amy Patterson and Isabella Mancini.” My voice is soft, slow, steady.

Barakov sets his drink down on a nearby table, then removes his coat. Sweat is beginning to bead on his forehead.

Is it from the warmth of my powers or from anxiety?

I hold my breath.

“No.” He pulls a silk handkerchief from his pocket and mops his brow. “I already answered your questions about Amy and Isabella.” The cigar falls unnoticed from his hand. His eyes glaze and his focus turns inward, as if he’s trying to understand how I can exert such influence.

He would never be able to fathom it. I push on.

“What about your wife Charlotte?”

At that question, he becomes instantly tearful. He reaches for the drink and takes a fortifying sip. “You think I had something to do with Charlotte’s disappearance?”

“Did you?”

“Of course not.”

His answer is not only truthful; it’s full of reproach. He’s shocked that I could even think such a thing.

I stir restlessly. I haven’t much more time. Using power like this always comes with risk. I could easily draw unwanted attention . . . from both innocent passersby and Demeter. She has spies everywhere.

There’s only one other angle to explore. “Do you know of Amy’s and Isabella’s nature?”

His eyes narrow. “Nature?”

“You know what I mean.”

Does he?

He looks about surreptitiously. “You know about”— Barakov swallows, then lowers his voice before finishing— “vampires?”

I avoid outright validation by ignoring his question and asking another of my own. “Why were you seeing them?”

For the first time, a smile. “So that I could give them eternal beauty.”

“How?”

His demeanor shifts immediately. Barakov now bursts with pride as he launches into an explanation. “Although I don’t know what Isabella Mancini had hoped to accomplish, Amy had inherited her father’s rather unfortunate nose. The surgery wasn’t going to be extensive. But it was going to be expensive.” He finishes off the remains in his glass. “And under the table, of course. I accept only cash from special customers who are of a special
nature
, shall we say? The income never has to be reported that way. It’s my little nest egg, tucked safely away in an offshore account.”

I don’t bother to ask where. Just make a mental note to see if Zack thinks we should alert the IRS when we’re done with Barakov. “So you’re telling me that vampires get nose jobs? Why?”

“An eternity is a very long time, Agent Monroe—nose jobs, breast and cheek implants, chin implants . . .”

“Chin implants?”

“Very popular with the men. Imagine having all that strength and speed, a physique you can hone to perfection. Then the overall effect is completely undermined by a weak chin or pitiful cheekbones. I surround the implant with a little microlayer of silver, providing a casing that can’t be assimilated, and voilà.”

It occurs to me grudgingly that this is a medical miracle of sorts. In some ways it explains his arrogance. Even to the immortals, he must appear a god.

“Was Evan Porter one of your patients, too?”

Puzzlement clouds his face. “The Greenleaf lawyer? Why would you ask—?” His expression clears. “You mean Evan is a vampire, too?”

Shit.

“Am I interrupting?”

Zack is suddenly standing a few feet behind Barakov. I never heard him approach. His shoulders are drawn up, his hands fisted, every muscle taut. His eyes lock on mine. The undisguised need in them momentarily takes my breath away. He is feeling the effects of my unguarded power, getting another glimpse of my true self. I wonder how long he’s been standing there.

“Go back to the party, Doctor. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” Even as I say the words, I start reining the power in, bringing up the walls, locking down what I look upon as both a gift and a curse.

Barakov prepares to take his leave with a questioning glance to me. He’s aware that we had a conversation and that he revealed more than he intended. As did I. Hopefully the revelation about Evan will get lost in an alcoholic haze. Before the last bit of my ability to exert influence is contained, I take pity on him. “Don’t worry about what we’ve talked about. Chalk it up to the scotch. You’ll have more than you should tonight. In fact, it looks like you could use a refill.”

After a quick glance at his empty glass, he heads for the bar.

“You should go back to the party, too,” I tell Zack.

I expect him to follow my suggestion. He was exposed, after all.

Instead Zack loosens his bow tie and unfastens the top button of his shirt as he watches Barakov go. “I take it Barakov didn’t confess?”

Zack’s question seems straightforward enough and yet . . . I try to remember the last time someone was able to exhibit such control around me. Zack alluded to having had special training earlier. Am I seeing the results of that? He doesn’t appear to be struggling with the effects of exposure and yet he got a good dose of my power—more than in his kitchen, where I let loose a fragment of the magic. But then I look close. The way he’s looking at me, the tenseness in his posture, belies his offhand return to a business-as-usual manner.

I tuck an errant strand of hair back behind my ear, affect a sense of calm I’m not really feeling. “He doesn’t know anything about the disappearances. We need to look elsewhere. Within Green Leaf maybe.”

“Are you sure?”

I was sure I’d read Barakov right. It’s what’s going on with Zack that I’m unsure of. There’s a knot the size of a fist in my stomach. “Yes. I’m sure Barakov told me the truth.”
It’s you I’m concerned about.
I square my shoulders. “Go back to the party, Zack. With a little time and distance between us, what you’re feeling will dissipate.”

He shoves his hands inside his pockets, then leans against the wall. The mask of indifference falls away. “Just out of curiosity, how long a separation are we talking about? Weeks? Months? Years?” The pose he’s striking is casual. The turn our conversation is taking isn’t.