All Your Wishes (17 page)

“Pure, dumb luck and powerful friends.”

She gave a derisive snort. Her next words were delivered in a honeyed, overly pleasant tone that no one could possibly believe was sincere, “Ms. Graves, should you ever return to Florida, I would recommend you vacation elsewhere. Miami, Orlando, perhaps—you could take in Disney. Don't come back to Tampa.”

I decided not to comment. Really, what could I say that wouldn't be hideously offensive? Instead, I turned away and spread my blazer out on the bench, then reached into the leather case and began arming up. I slid stakes into a pair of loops, then did the same for the empty One-Shot water guns. Next I dropped spell disks and balls into the jacket's left pocket. The recorder went into the right. I put on my holsters. I didn't have any guns, but I'd be getting some as soon as possible. And frankly, wearing the holsters was easier than carrying them. Next I strapped on the sheaths for my knives—over the sleeves of my blouse—and slid the blades into place. Then I put the jacket back on. It fit without a bulge or bump, perfectly balanced, the weapons invisible to the casual eye.

Schulz stared at me the whole time, brow furrowed. I pretended not to notice.

Morris looked thoughtful.

I shuddered, haunted by the sense of presence in that conference room, knowing that the stench of brimstone was clinging to my hair and clothing, and more, knowing that what I'd told Schulz was the absolute truth. Major demons knew my name, knew me, and wanted me dead—and preferably damned.

Compared to that, Schulz's dislike was nothing.

Still, it wouldn't pay to be impolite. “We got interrupted and you didn't get to ask me your questions. Do we need to reschedule?” I asked. I looked from Schulz, to Roberto, to Morris, keeping my expression pleasantly cooperative.

“My client is scheduled to leave the city this afternoon,” Roberto said.

I was? That was news to me. Although, come to think of it, the Patels probably wanted to get back to business. Not to mention that if they couldn't lock me up, the authorities would probably want me out of their jurisdiction—easily accessible, mind you, but out of their hair.

“We could do a video conference.” I suggested. “Maybe next week?” I looked at Roberto, who nodded.

“I can have my assistant get in touch,” he told Schulz.

She looked as if she'd bitten something sour, but answered politely. “Please do.”

Morris moved to stand directly in front of me. I was surprised when he extended his hand to shake. I looked at him with raised eyebrows, but took it.

“That was good work upstairs,” he said. “Thanks.”

I managed not to blink stupidly. Generally, professional law enforcement consider amateurs like me to be dangerous nuisances. For Morris to thank me was the ultimate compliment. It also signaled a real change in his attitude toward me. I appreciated that more than I could say.

“You're welcome,” I managed to respond.

“Good luck with the ifrit and the demons.”

“Thanks. I'm going to need it.”

 

15

I
spent a
few minutes at the curb with my attorneys, waiting for the limo to arrive. Roberto thanked Barber for his help.

“Happy to oblige.” He turned to me and added, “Be sure to give the Patels my regards.”

“I will.”

The long, black Caddy pulled smoothly to the curb beside us. The driver came to open the door. I had a brief flash of memory—another time, another limo had driven me into an ambush. Still, I couldn't just stand at the curb like an idiot. Roberto was already climbing inside.

“Is there a problem?” Barber asked, looking at me closely.

“No, just a hint of a flashback.”

“You seem to live a very … tumultuous life.”

“Yeah, I do.” It sucked. Big time. And it made me think that maybe, just maybe, I needed to do some serious thinking. I like protecting people and I'm good at it. But in the past five years I'd had more direct clashes with the demonic than most warrior priests have in a lifetime. Thus far I'd survived—thanks to luck, skill, and some badass help. But I know the statistics. There are reasons the Catholic Church offers a stellar retirement and disability package to its warriors. Few live to see the former. Most use the latter.

I climbed into the limo to save myself having to say anything more to Barber.

He bent at the waist to look me straight in the eye. “Take care, Ms. Graves, and good luck.”

“Thanks … for everything.”

“You're welcome.” Straightening, he stepped back, allowing the driver to close the door.

Moments later, we pulled away from the curb and into traffic so smoothly that it was hard to tell we were even moving. Nice.

Roberto told the driver to drop him at the airport's main terminal before taking me to the area for private planes. Then he pulled out his cell and passed it to me. “Rahim Patel asked that you call as soon as the meeting ended. He's waiting for you at his jet. He's anxious to get moving as soon as possible.”

“Of course he is.” It made sense; I'd even thought of the possibility myself. But I would have liked at least a couple of minutes to relax and recover. Yes, technically I'd gotten plenty of down time in the hospital. But anyone who's been in one can tell you that hospitals aren't restful, and they sure as hell aren't relaxing.

“Celia.” Roberto's voice brought me back into the moment. He met my gaze, his expression grave. “I'm your attorney. It's my job to give you advice.” He paused, picking his words carefully. “This case is an even worse mess than what you usually bring me. If the ifrit hadn't intervened, I'm fairly certain I couldn't have kept you from being imprisoned, probably for life. As your counsel, I have to advise you that continuing this assignment is not in your best interests.” He sighed, and looked away. “But as a man, I have to say that I'm more afraid of what will happen to the rest of us if you don't.”

I opened my mouth to say something, but he waved me to silence. “I know a lot of the stories about you are just stories, exaggerations. But I've seen the reports and the pictures. I know what really happened. When it comes to fighting the monsters, demons, and what have you, you and your team
are
the A Team.”

The scariest part was that I wasn't sure how it had happened. I'd started out as a regular bodyguard—and that was a dangerous enough profession all by itself. I had no idea how my job had morphed into this, or how to change it back.

Since I didn't have any clue how to respond, I changed the subject. “Before I call Patel, I want to check in with my office.”

“Feel free.”

I settled back into the plush leather seat, dialing the office number from memory, watching the scenery go past. We were near enough to the airport that I saw billboards advertising long-term parking lots and giving directions to the rental car return area. I also spotted our escort. Two unmarked cars, no-nonsense Ford sedans with unassuming exteriors that masked kick-ass engines—probably local police—and a single federal vehicle with Morris behind the wheel. Apparently the authorities were going to make sure I really did leave.

“Graves Personal Protection.” Dawna's voice was on the other end of the line.

“Hey, Dawna. What're you doing answering the phones?”

“Dottie's making a deposit at the bank. How did the meeting go?”

“Not great,” I admitted. “But they're letting me go, so it's over for now. We're going to have to teleconference next week, but I'm on my way to the airport. Thanks for sending the clothes, by the way. They're great!”

“Well, I wasn't sure whether the Patels had been allowed to get your suitcase out of the car in impound or if the police were going to return your clothes from the beach. You needed to look good for that meeting.”

She was right. First impressions make a huge difference, whether people like to admit it or not. Looking good also gives a person a psychological edge and confidence that can really help in tense social situations.

She was also right about my suitcase. I had no idea whether the Patels had retrieved my bags, which meant I didn't have my passport or my phone charger. The fact that I hadn't even noticed that until Dawna mentioned it was beyond careless. Although, in my defense, the whole demon attack had been a bit distracting. “Hang on, Dawna.”

I turned to Roberto, saying, “Do you know whether anyone has been able to get my luggage from the car in impound? In addition to my clothes, my passport's in that bag. And what happened to my phone?”

“Rahim Patel has the luggage that was in the Cadillac,” Roberto assured me. “As for your phone, I suspect it's in the hands of the authorities. They have the clothing you were wearing that day and are processing it as evidence. That's going to take some time, and in all honesty, I'm not sure you'll ever get them back. I can push them on it if you want me to, but considering the circumstances, I'm not sure that would be wise.”

“You're probably right. Thanks.” Given that my phone had been with me on the beach, it was now considered evidence and I wouldn't be seeing it for a while, if ever. Sheesh. Sighing inwardly, I went back to my call.

“Dawna, I'm down a phone again. Was this one insured?”

“Yes. I'll process the claim. In the meantime, I don't want you out of touch. Take Bubba's or Kevin's when you get to the airport.”

“Okay.” I hoped the guys wouldn't mind. Nobody likes being out of touch, even temporarily. On the other hand, everybody on staff knows about me and phones. It's becoming legendary, to the point where they sometimes run an office pool when I'm on a case, to see who can come closest to guessing when I'll lose or destroy one. I find it embarrassing, but my shrink assures me that it's probably a great morale-and team-building exercise. So I try to maintain my sense of humor. Sometimes I even succeed.

“I'm going to need Dottie to check things out for me again. A demon tried to interrupt the meeting—”

“How? They can't manifest without a human creating an opening for them.” Dawna didn't bother to hide her alarm. Couldn't say I blamed her. The situation was pretty damned alarming. I shivered from a chill that had nothing to do with the ambient temperature. “I don't know, and I'd love to find out.”

“I'll call Warren. By the way, I do have some news, although I'm not sure what to make of it.”

“Shoot.”

“Some guy from the Company called a little bit ago. I'm supposed to tell you and Kevin that Jack Finn died this morning, at eight a.m. California time.”

Eight o'clock back home would be eleven here in Florida—which was almost exactly when Abby had disappeared. Since I knew her reason for staying on the earthly plane had been to see every Finn dead, it seemed likely the two events were connected. But did those things also connect to the demon's appearance?

Hell if I knew, but it seemed likely.

“Thanks. And please pass my thanks to the Company.”

“Will do, next time I talk to Chris.” She paused for a moment, probably running a pencil down a list of notes, making sure she'd told me everything she thought I needed to know. Dawna always double-checked before ending a conversation with me when I was on a case, since it was never clear when we'd have the chance to speak again. “I haven't heard any more from Dom Rizzoli. Do you want me to nag him?”

“Nah. If he can't get the information, he can't get it, and pushing him on it won't do any good. If he has anything for us, he'll pass it on.”

“I hate not knowing more.”

“Me, too.”

“Oh, Dottie just walked in. Let me put her on.”

The limo slowed as we pulled onto the airport exit ramp. Traffic had thickened and we were stuck. Roberto had busied himself going through papers from his briefcase and making notes on one of those yellow legal pads. He glanced at me and smiled, in no obvious hurry to get his phone back. I was glad. I really wanted to get Dottie's take on things.

“Hello, Celia.” Dottie sounded unusually frail, with that little quaver in her voice you sometimes hear when talking to the elderly. That bothered me. She's usually so vibrant and energetic that it's easy to forget how old she is … and when her age shows, it's usually because she's not feeling well or has been working too hard. Or both. “I've been using my bowl to check on your situation. You still need to work with Rahim, but you need to be very,
very
careful.”

“Dottie, are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” she assured me. “Just a little tired.”

“Maybe you should go home and rest.”

“Don't worry about me, Celia,” she said firmly, with a hint of aggravation in her voice. It made me wonder if others had been fretting over her: probably Fred, her husband; maybe Dawna.

“Yeah, well, we worry because we care. You mean a lot to us, Dottie.”

I could actually hear the smile in her voice when she said, “I care about you, too. And I'd tell you to drop this case like a bad habit if I could, but it really is necessary that you finish. Just remember that you can't trust Rahim.

“It's too late to back out—the stakes are too high.” Her voice got the familiar singsong quality it has when she's getting a vision. “You're in terrible danger. Hasan believes he can use you. The only way out of the maze is through it.”

There was about a thirty-second pause, then Dawna picked up. “Sorry about that. Dottie went into a trance. I'll let you know if she has anything else when she's herself again.”

We said our good-byes and I hung up, then handed Roberto his phone. Yes, I'd been supposed to call the client, but we were almost to the airport. I didn't see where a minute or two would make that much difference. And I wanted to think about what Dottie'd told me before I spoke with either of the Patels.