Samantha Moon: First Eight Novels, Plus One Novella (23 page)

“
I don’t know,” I said. My gut told me no, but I didn’t say anything.

“
You going to drink that?” asked Mary Lou, motioning for my glass. I gave it to her. She poured the contents of mine into what was left of hers. “And, since I know you like the back of my hand, you won’t rest easy until you find the shooter.”

“
No,” I said, “I won’t.”

“
Perhaps you won’t have to wait long, especially if he has an accomplice.”

“
What do you mean?”

“
You were third on the hit list. Perhaps the accomplice will find you.”

“
Perhaps,” I said. “And for the record, I
never
rest easy.”

60.

An hour after Mary Lou left the hotel phone rang.

I had been staring down at the lights of Brea, lost in my own thoughts, when the phone rang, startling me. I nearly jumped out of my pale, cold skin at the sound of the ringing phone. I answered it.

“
Hello?”

“
Mrs. Moon?”

“
Yes.”

“
It’s the front desk. We have a fax waiting for you in the lobby.”

“
Thank you. I’ll be down in a minute.”

With the fax in hand and back in my hotel room, I hunkered down in one of the straight-back chairs and started reading. The cover letter was printed in tight, unwavering letters. Very cop-like. No surprise since the fax was from Sherbet. In his cover letter, he reminded me that the information contained within was confidential. He also reminded me that the case was closed, that he was looking to retire soon, and the last thing he needed was for me to make his life more difficult. He signed his name with an awkward happy face: the eyes were off-set and the mouth was just a long ghoulish gash, a sort of perversion of the Wal-Mart happy face. I wondered if this was Sherbet’s first happy face. Ever.

The rest of the fax consisted of Rick Horton’s phone records spanning the last four months. Riveting reading to be sure, so I settled in with a packet of chilled hemoglobin. I flipped through the records methodically, because I am nothing if not methodical. Anyone with eternity on their side damn well better be methodical. I read each number. I looked at dates and times and locations. Most of it was meaningless, of course, but some information began to emerge. First, Rick Horton was obsessed with his sister. A half dozen calls were made to his sister in Washington state each day. Second, Horton had made a handful of calls to Kingsley’s office. In fact, eighteen calls in all. Prank calls? Or had Kingsley been in personal contact with Horton?

Next, I searched for key dates and key times and was not really surprised to discover that an hour or so before both Kingsley’s shooting and the Hewlett Jackson murder a telephone call had been placed to the same unknown number. It was a local number.

I dialed the number from my hotel phone, which should be untraceable. I waited, discovered that my heartbeat had increased. I was calling the true killer, I was sure of it. In fact, I felt more than sure. I just
knew
.

The line picked up.

A generic voice mail message. I hung up. Maybe I should have left a nasty little message. Then again, I didn’t want to scare the killer away, as ironic as that sounds.

Instead, I flipped open my address book and called my ex-partner, Chad Helling. He didn’t answer. Typical. I left Chad a voice mail message asking for a trace on the cell number. Once done, I stepped back to the window, pulled aside the curtain and continued staring down at the city.

61.

An hour later, still at the window, my cell rang.

The name that popped up on the LCD screen said it was Sara Benson, Kingsley’s receptionist. “Mr. Kingsley Fulcrum requests a meeting tonight at the Downtown Grill in Fullerton at ten thirty.”

“Oh, really?” I said, rolling my eyes. “And why doesn’t Mr. Kingsley Fulcrum call me himself?” I emphasized
Kingsley Fulcrum
. I mean, who has their secretary set up dates for them? Not only was I falling for a werewolf, I was falling for a werewolf with a massive ego.

“
He’s in a meeting at the moment.”

I checked my watch. Geez, defense attorneys kept weird hours.
Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.

“
Fine,” I said. “Tell Kingsley I’ll be there.”

“
I’m sure he will be pleased.”

More than likely this was a business meeting, but since this was Friday night, who knows, maybe Kingsley had something more on his mind.

As I was getting dressed for what might or might not be a date, my cell rang again.

“
Funny how you only call when you need something,” said the deep voice immediately. It was Chad.

“
Would you prefer I called if I didn’t need something?”

“
Would be a pleasant change.”

“
I’ll think about it.”

“
How’s that skin disease working out for you?” he asked.

“
Very well, thanks for asking.”

“
Anytime,” he said. “You want the name and address for that cell number?”

“
Would be nice,” I said, very aware that the name he was about to give me could very well be the shooter.

He gave me the name and address. I used the hotel stationery and pen. By the time I finished writing, my hand was shaking.

I clicked off and stared at the name.

62.

I parked in the half full parking lot. Ever the optimist.

I was wearing flats, which slapped loudly on the swath of cobblestones that led up to the rear entrance of the restaurant. The night was clear and inviting, and I had a sudden surge of hope, and love of life. I felt that all was right in the world, or would be, and for the first time I actually believed it. Hell, I almost felt sorry for people who were not vampires, who did not get to experience this side of the night. I was lonely, sure, but that could always change. Loneliness is not permanent.

The cobblestone path ended in a short alley. The alley was kept immaculately clean, for it provided convenient access to the many shops and restaurants. At the moment, the alley was empty and dark. The lights were out. Or broken. I was willing to bet broken. I had long ago lost my fear of dark alleys. My footfalls reverberated off the high walls of the surrounding businesses. I passed behind the back entrance to a used bookstore, a comic book shop, a stationary store and a pet store. The Downtown Grill was the only establishment open at this hour. Music pumped from the restaurant’s open door. Fire escapes crowded the air space above the alley like oversized cobwebs.

Sitting on the fire escape was a woman. Pointing a gun at me.

There was a flash, followed immediately by a muffled shot. Something exploded in my chest and I staggered backward. I kept my balance and looked down. Dark blood trickled from a hole in my dress. Next came two more muffled shots—and the impact of two more bullets turned me almost completely around. The bullets had been neatly placed in my stomach. Some good shooting. My red dress was ruined.

The woman walked casually down the fire escape. I saw that there was a silencer on the gun. No one would have heard the muffled shots, especially above the din of music pumping from the restaurant. The fire escape creaked under her weight.

From out of the shadows emerged Sara Benson, Kingsley’s receptionist. She paused in the alley and held the gun in both hands like a pro. Her hair was pulled back tightly, revealing every inch of her beautiful face. Her eyes were wide and lustful, and tonight she appeared particularly radiant. Her shapely legs were spaced evenly at shoulder width. A good shooting stance. Any attorney should be so lucky to have such a beautiful receptionist.

Except this receptionist had gone over the edge.

“
How could you help that animal, Mrs. Moon?” she said. Her voice was even, and calculating, as if her words had been planned well in advance. I could hear again the undercurrent of rage and hatred, and now I understood fully who that anger was directed toward.

I assumed she was talking about Kingsley. “He’s not an animal,” I said. Actually, technically, she might have had a point there.

She paused, no doubt surprised that I was still speaking. Her surprise quickly turned into indignant, self-righteous rant. “Not an animal? Murderers have been set free, rapists have been let loose. The man has no conscience. He’s manipulative and horrible.”

“
He’s just doing his job.”

“
He does it too well.”

“
Perhaps. But that’s neither for you nor I to decide. There are safeguards put into place in the law to protect the innocent. He upholds these safeguards. Not everyone in prison belongs in prison.”

She shook her head, and continued moving closer. I could see tears streaming down her face. Why the hell was
she
getting so emotional? Wasn’t
I
the one getting shot here?

“
I love him,” she said. “There is something so different about him, and I wanted to be part of that. I would have done anything for him. I gave him everything in my heart, but still he left me. And now he has you.”

“
Let me guess. If you can’t have him, then no one can?”

She cocked her head and fired her weapon again. My head snapped back. Blood poured down the bridge of my nose. I’ll give her this much: she was a hell of a shot. Which didn’t surprise me much, since she was also a hell of an athlete.

And able to leap small park benches in a single bound.

For a brief second, my vision doubled and then even trebled, then everything righted itself once again. Three seconds later the bullet in my head emerged and dropped into my open palm.

Let’s see Copperfield do
that
.

Sara stared at me in dumbfounded shock.

From the opposite end of the alley, coming up from the Commonwealth Avenue entrance, another figure appeared. A very large and burly figure. He was standing in a small pool of light from the alley opening.

“
Stop!” shouted Detective Sherbet. “Drop your weapon. Now!”

But Sara didn’t drop her weapon. Instead, she swung her arm around with the gun.

I jumped forward. “Sara, don’t!”

Too late. She didn’t get all the way around. Three gunshots exploded from Sherbet’s end of the alley. His shots weren’t muffled by a silencer. The echoes cracked and thundered down the narrow corridor, assaulting the eardrums.

Sara pirouetted like a ballerina, spinning on one heel. Her gun flung off in one direction and her shoe in the other. And as the sound of Sherbet’s pistol still reverberated in the alley, Sara’s last dance was over and she collapsed.

Sherbet dashed over to us. He was out of breath and looking quite pale. As he reached down for Sara he called for backup and an ambulance.

Then he looked up at me for the first time.

“
You okay, Sam—” And then he stopped short. “Sweet Jesus. You’ve been shot.”

“
Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“
The ambulance is on its way.”

“
Won’t be necessary.”

He was silent for a long time. In the distance, I heard the coming sirens.

“We will definitely be talking, Samantha.”

“
I expect so, Detective.”

63.

Rain drizzled outside Kingsley’s open French windows.

Water gurgled forth from the fountain with the breasts. Kingsley and I were sitting together on his leather couch. Our shoulders touched. There seemed to be a sort of kinetic energy between us. A sexual energy. At least, there was a sexual energy in
me
.

“
Tell me how you figured out Sara was the shooter,” he said.

“
Three things. First, Horton was in constant contact with her, especially in the hours prior to each shooting. Second, she contacted me from her cell number, claiming she was calling from work, which I found odd. Third, I recalled the picture on her desk, the one taken at the office Halloween party. She went as a pirate.”

Kingsley smacked his forehead with his palm. “The mustache. Good Lord, I’ve seen that picture a hundred times.”

“It’s the spitting image of your shooter.”

“
But why didn’t you suspect her earlier? I thought you had some sort of ESP thing going on?”