The Love-Haight Case Files (23 page)

“Please,” she thought she’d heard him say.

She put all her strength into an attempt to twist out of his grip, then she felt herself dragged roughly back to the sidewalk. The cars were slowing now, the gawk factor taking hold. But not one of them stopped.

“Help!” she hollered. “Call the police!” She knew a smattering of self-defense, was strong, but her efforts were nothing against the unnatural steely grip of the vampire.

She tripped on a raised patch of cement and he caught her, forcing her to walk close to the darkened buildings where the night and the gloom might hide them from passersby.

His breath felt cold against the back of her neck. Despite the deluge she could smell him—oddly sweet, like he’d been dipped in basil, something to cover up the stench of death. Would he kill her here, or in some alley? Would her body be found? People went missing from San Francisco. Why the hell had she let Constantine’s smile bring her to this risky neighborhood?

A siren! She heard a siren. Someone had called the cops.

She shouted again, no words, just a sustained howl meant to attract attention. She paused to take a breath. He was pushing her across an intersection. She saw the sign for the Golden Pumpkin, saw someone coming out.

She sucked in a breath and shouted: “Police! Call the—”

Evelyn briefly felt pressure on her neck, than the blackness smothered her.

Chapter 3.3

She woke in a restaurant kitchen, a big towel around her shoulders, her purse—which someone had retrieved—hanging on a peg near the back door. Her neck ached, and she reached her fingers up, expecting to find puncture wounds, but there were none. She should bolt for the back door, grab her purse and flee, call someone on her cell phone … or let common sense kick in and take a good look around.

“Evelyn Love, correct?” It was the vampire who’d kidnapped her on the street.

His charcoal gray hair was shoulder-length and plastered against the sides of his face. His clothes dripped on the floor, evidence that she hadn’t been unconscious long. The red stain on his white shirt had faded considerably. The stain was a mere pink suggestion now, not blood, maybe a red sauce from something being prepared by one of the cooks.

The kitchen was busy around them. A quartet of men in long aprons readied meals—vegetarian, an assortment of vegetables, a variety of fruit, blocks of tofu, and bowls of pasta were arranged around the work area. There were dishwashers, waitresses going in and out. She took a closer look. The waitresses had color to them and were breathing, certainly appearing human. But the four cooks were anemic-looking, all boasting a scholar’s complexion that bordered on albino. And when they opened their mouths to talk to each other, she saw fangs.

All of the cooks were vampires.

“Evelyn Love—” The rain-drenched vampire drew her attention. He was pale, his eyes watery, and the pupils black pinpoints. His eyes had glowed red outside. Despite his undead pallor, he was rather striking and looked to be in his mid- to late-fifties. “I am very sorry if I hurt you. My strength, sometimes I—”

“Damned right you hurt me.” She’d have bruises the size of grapefruits by morning.

“But you were screaming, wouldn’t listen, and—”

She stood, a dozen emotions flitting through her mind: curiosity, anger, still a pinch of fear wisely remained. Anger was the strongest, though. Almost reflexively, she put her hands on her hips. “Kidnapping, assault, you—”

“Ms. Love, I truly am sorry. But I am a desperate man. I took desperate, foolish measures. I couldn’t let you get away without first talking. And I couldn’t let you summon the police.” He paused. “Men such as myself, we do not like the police.”

Men? He wasn’t a man. He was a vampire, a blood-sucking … she stopped herself. Evelyn wasn’t about to yield to the prejudices that many of her fellow humans held. She defended OTs. Their little firm specialized in OT law. She’d worked with ghouls, gargoyles, and her partner was a ghost. But this was her first face-to-face vampire.

“You left my restaurant before you’d finished your dinner, Ms. Love, before we had a chance to—”

“So you brought me back because of a half-finished hunk of chicken-flavored tofu? Is this how you treat all your customers who don’t clean their plates?” Anger was still winning out. She dropped her hands to her sides and unclenched her fists.

“No. No. No. You left before we could have a discussion. The invitations to your law school class … that was my attempt to get you here so we could talk. I want to hire you, Evelyn Love. I’m looking for a good attorney, and you specialize in—” He paused and it looked like he’d just bit into a lemon. “You specialize in OT cases.”

There are easier ways to hire a lawyer, she thought. “Look, Mr.—”

“Javor. Javor Vujetic.”

She wondered at the ethnicity behind his name. “Look, Mr. Vujetic. I keep regular office hours, and you could have—”

“Your office closes at five, Ms. Love. I usually don’t get out of my coffin that early. The sun and all of that, you know.”

“We have voicemail.”

“It is not my nature to leave messages. And I did not want to explain myself in an e-mail. I am very old fashioned. I prefer personal contact. Besides, I wanted you here, in my restaurant. I wanted you to see that I am a respectful businessman with only good intentions.”

Good intentions, my ass.
Her left arm throbbed. “What if I hadn’t accepted your dinner offer?”

“I would have tried a different tact.” His expression changed and in that instant he had the eyes of a predator. Shivers shot through her. No doubt he had been the one watching her in the dining room.

“I don’t shirk from OT cases, Mr. Vujetic.”

“Precisely why I want to hire you.”

She sagged back onto the chair and used the towel to help dry her hair. At least the kitchen was warm. It had chased away the chill, and the scents that swirled around her were superb. No wonder the vampire had smelled of basil. “All right, I’m listening,” she said.

“This is about my brother, Dimitar. He is in jail, charged with grand theft, and so he is looking at a dozen years in prison.”

“Is he a vampire?”

“Yes.”

She suspected that length of time was nothing to a vampire, supposedly immortal.

“My kind do not fare well in prison, Ms. Love. Wooden shanks in the hands of prejudicial people, often fatal, you understand. I worry that any guilty judgment would be a death sentence for Dimitar.”

“Has he been arraigned?”

“A week ago. I asked around and learned of your reputation for helping our kind. I reached out right after that with my dinner invitation to your graduating class—”

“—so you could get me here,” she finished. “You should have left a message on voicemail. It would have been simpler.” And less painful, she thought. “If he’s been arraigned, he already has an attorney.”

The vampire nodded. “However, I do not believe that attorney will adequately represent him. I believe you will.”

She let a breath hiss out between her teeth. “This attorney—”

“Ms. Wyndam-Smyth from Brock, Davis & Davis. She was assigned by the court, since my brother initially refused my offer to hire someone for him. He is very proud and stubborn, Dimitar, independent, and he hasn’t the resources to pay for a good criminal attorney. This Ms. Wyndam-Smyth took the case … oh, what is the damn term …
pro bono
. As I said, my brother does not share my financial resources.”

Evelyn felt the tofu “chicken” arguing with the spring rolls in her stomach. Brock, Davis & Davis was indeed the enemy as far as she was concerned. She and Thomas had gone against Janet Wyndam-Smyth in a child custody case in November. Wyndam-Smyth was smart, but had not seemed especially formidable, had not done enough research or put her best effort into that case. Maybe that was why Brock, Davis & Davis offered her up for this one. This time around maybe they purposefully wanted her to lose.

“Ms. Wyndam-Smyth …” the vampire made another lemon face. “… her firm has no track record of representing OTs … only going against them. She made no attempt to get my brother released on bail, did not object to the district attorney claiming he was a flight risk. In short, I think Ms. Wyndam-Smyth sucks.”

Evelyn crossed her arms and hid her amusement at his terminology. “What is your brother accused of stealing?”

“Blood.”

Evelyn raised an eyebrow.

“From the blood bank. He works there.
Worked
there,” Javor corrected. “He is accused of stealing enough to qualify as grand theft. They say he took a few thousand dollars’ worth.”

“Blood.”

“He’s innocent, of course,” Javor said.

“Of course.” She hadn’t seen him blink once during their entire exchange.

“I want you to prove he is innocent.”

“I see.”

“So you will take the case, Ms. Love?”

“I’d have to meet with your brother. It would have to be agreeable to both him and me. But you said he doesn’t want your financial help.”

“His opinion has changed since spending time in jail. An attempt was made on him three days past, and he is now in ‘protective custody.’ He fears for his future. Finally, he is listening to reason.”

“We’ll see.” Evelyn handed him the damp towel. “If he agrees to my representation, and if I agree to take the case, I won’t be doing it
pro bono
.”

“I understand.” He tossed the towel into a hamper on the far side of the kitchen, his aim perfect. Then he reached into his pocket and withdrew a pen and checkbook, filled in an amount, and passed a check to her. “Will this do for a retainer? In the event you agree to defend my brother?”

The check was for twenty thousand.

“You can tear it up if you later decline.” He replaced the checkbook. “But I need to know very soon.”

“If I take the case, this will do for a retainer,” Evelyn said. “I’ll meet with your brother tomorrow.”

He smiled broadly, revealing his startling white fangs.

Chapter 3.4

“I do not trust Ms. Wyndam-Smyth, and so I will take my brother’s charity and let him hire you on my behalf. I do not like being in jail. I want to go home. I want to go home now, please. You’ll take my case, yes? You’ll get me home?”

Dimitar Vujetic looked anxious and Evelyn was certain he’d be sweating if he were capable. He only vaguely resembled his brother. His pale face held similarities, but Dimitar was the “Hardy” to Javor’s reed-thin “Laurel.” Dimitar’s orange jumpsuit practically screamed at the seams and the snaps didn’t close at the waist. Evelyn guessed him in the neighborhood of three hundred and sixty pounds—linebacker size.

He appeared roughly in his mid- to late-forties, though court records listed his age at five hundred and twenty-two, born in Serbia and naturalized as a United States citizen in 1792—shortly after the country started the naturalization practice. His hair was black with a few streaks of gray, short and with the bangs so straight across his broad forehead it looked like a bowl-cut. His mustache was thick and brushy.

“This crime I am charged with, I did not do it,” Dimitar said. He took up half the bench on one side of a Formica-covered table, his hands cuffed and hooked by a short chain to a peg in the center. The fingers were plump like sausages, the nails pointed and sharp looking. He fidgeted constantly.

Evelyn sat across from him, noting his sad and nervous expression. Thomas Brock hovered behind her. Though it was Brock’s law firm, it was only because of her that they’d been able to keep it going—the undead didn’t have many rights, ghosts especially, and her presence was necessary in court to try cases. They needed to get the courts to recognize Thomas as a legal entity so he could try cases on his own … something else on their long list of “things to do.”

They were in a windowless room in the basement of County Jail #2 on Seventh Street, where those already convicted and sentenced were typically held. The place smelled strongly of pine-scented cleaner. Although Dimitar hadn’t been convicted, the city put many of its undead offenders here because there were two entire levels of windowless cellblocks, particularly important for vampires. It wasn’t like in the
Twilight
movies—vampires sparkling with glitter during the day—vampires shriveled and died a final time when struck by prolonged direct sunlight.

“I did not do this thing,” Dimitar repeated.

Evelyn consulted the folder. “I want to go over the charges and the basics,” she began. “This is a first offense. Your record before this point is clean. You are accused of stealing in excess of one thousand nine hundred and fifty dollars’ worth of blood from—”

“I do not steal,” he said. “Thou shalt not steal. And I do not lie.” He made the sign of the cross, awkward with his hands cuffed. “Raised Catholic. By the way, that is all fiction, vampires fearing crosses. Sure. Sure. We cannot turn into bats, either. Otherwise I would fly out of here.”

“That is good to know,” Evelyn returned. “The part that you didn’t do it.” But in truth she did not need to know whether her client was guilty to defend him. She continued: “Our first task is to scrutinize the prosecutor’s claims to see if he really has enough evidence. It is his burden to prove beyond any reasonable doubt that you stole the blood. Thomas and I intend to challenge this evidence in court, either looking to get the matter dropped entirely or to win a ‘not guilty’ verdict at trial.”

“Not guilty,” Dimitar said. “I tell Ms. Wyndam-Smyth and the judge at my arraignment that I am not guilty. But here I sit. I want to go home, please. Get me home. I miss my Bella.”

“Bella?” Evelyn wondered at his accent. It wasn’t Serbian, but then he’d been gone from Serbia for a few hundred years. The scant records showed he’d lived on the east coast until the mid-1800s, coming to California during the gold rush days. Perhaps his accent was an amalgamation of dialects from the various places he’d lived. Other than a copy of his employment record at the blood bank, where he’d worked for the past nine years, there was little else in the file. His prior employment listed him as a San Francisco subway maintenance worker from 1972 to 2004. There were no work records prior to that.