Blood Hunt (2 page)

The girl, because really she wasn't much more than that—nineteen, twenty maybe—looked up from the tissue she held over her nose. Her eyes were watery and red where they weren't cornflower blue.

“I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting,” I said. “Can I offer you something. Coffee? A pastry?”

She stared blankly at first, as though the words were in some foreign language she had to translate for herself.

“I'm lactose intolerant,” she said finally.

“One of these is soy.”

The girl gave a wobbly smile. “Thanks then, I could use it.”

I wondered if my foreseeing had played any part in the order, but if it had, I wouldn't have paid for the fourth cup… I set the coffee carrier down on my desk and handed her the one marked soy. Then I set the sugars—I'd gotten a fistful of each—out where she could reach them and in lieu of a plate, tore the paper pastry bag down the center to reveal the yummy goodness inside.

She went for sugar in the raw and eyed the croissants as if she hadn't eaten in an age.

I grabbed a chocolate croissant to show her the way and bit into it immediately. The taste—butter and chocolate and flaky sweet goodness burst onto my tongue. I
did not
moan, but it was a close thing.

She sniffled, used the edge of the tissue in her hand to swipe at the moisture on her face and to give a good hard blow of her nose, then dropped it into the wastebasket and reached for one of the plain pastries. It was a good thing, I thought, that I wasn't the germaphobe Jesus was. I could just picture his reaction.

But once grabbed, all she did was hold the croissant in her hand. I half feared she'd forget it wasn't the tissue and we'd have a big ole mess on our hands.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” I asked.

The girl's eyes filled with tears again.

“Why don't we start with your name?”

“Jessica,” she said. “Jessica Roland.”

That
zing
from back at the coffee shop struck again and I knew instantly where I'd heard the name Roland
before…the teletype about the Hollywood Hill murders.

“And you're here today because…” I prompted.

“Because of my parents,” she said, finishing my sentence on a sob. As I'd feared, she started to raise the croissant to her face. I quickly dropped my own like a hot potato in order to head her off with the offer of another tissue.

The Hollywood Hill murders… Allowing Jessica a moment to compose herself gave me all the time I needed to imagine just how overjoyed Nick would be about my interfering with his new case. He'd be positively giddy.

But Jessica had made her appointment yesterday.
Before
the killings. Or at least before the bodies had been found. Maybe this was about something else? Inheritance or…

“What about them?” I asked gently.

“They're dead. Murdered,” she said, holding my gaze, the tissue unused in her hand. “And…and the worst is…I think my brothers did it.”

And I thought
I
had problems.

“Explain?”

She took a huge sip of her soy latte first for sustenance. “I mean, not them exactly,” she said, looking away, “but… Let me start at the beginning.”

“That's usually best,” I said. I could imagine Jesus rolling his eyes at me for that, but I wasn't trying to be a smart aleck…not this time anyway.

Jessica stood with her coffee and paced as she talked. “I called yesterday because… Look, this is going to sound crazy, but someone told me you sometimes handle things…a little outside the box.”

I nodded to encourage her to continue. There was no point in denying what was, especially when it was so severely understated. Gods, plague demons, dragons, apocalypsi…or whatever the plural might be of apocalypse… Yes, we certainly handled things outside the box…Pandora's Box, specifically.

She took a deep breath. “Here's the thing. Ian and Richie got back just this past weekend from the graduation trip my parents sent them on to Egypt. My brothers had always been fascinated with it. Ian was even planning on going to college for archaeology, Richie probably for the drinking. Anyway, the thing is, they came back…different. I don't know how to describe it. They've always been trouble. Not bad, just…they don't really have any impulse control. If something occurs to them, it has to be done…right that instant. Especially if it's new or exciting or dangerous. Mom and Dad have always had the influence or the money to get them out of any trouble they've gotten into. Still, they've always been fun-loving and have always looked out for me as their little sister. Well, not
little
, but younger.”

“But now?”

“When they came back, they were…scary. Different. Ian said… I don't even want to tell you what he said to me. I'm his
sister
. He's never been like that. He would have punched out any of his friends who talked to me that way, and… I was freaked. I mean, seriously. For the first time ever, I locked my door against them, and the night before last, I was sure I heard the door knob rattle, like someone was trying to get in.”

“You mentioned Ian. What about Richie?”

“Richie's been…quiet since he got back. Not pensive-quiet, but more like a predator of some kind, waiting and watching, looking at me like prey. And the way he looked at Mom and Dad… Yesterday my parents got into a knock-down, drag out fight with the boys. There'd been a call from the tour company about them. Mom and Dad were trying to protect me, I think. They wouldn't tell me what was going on, but sent me away to a friend's house. That was when I called you and now…”

Her hand was shaking so hard I could hear the remains of her coffee sloshing about in her cup. I rose to guide her back to her seat so she could sit down before she fell down. She followed my guidance, and when she was back in her chair, she looked up, tears glittering in her eyes as she speared my gaze. “Do you believe in possession or… I don't know, is there some kind of drug or disease that can totally change someone's personality? I mean, there's no doubt these are my brothers. The way they walk and talk, their mannerisms, but…but at the same time, they're not. I've heard about the curse of the pharaohs. Do you think that somehow they disturbed an ancient tomb or…I don't know. Can you even investigate something like that? Especially if it happened an entire continent away? Please tell me you can help. I don't know where else to go.”

I'd get to “the curse of the pharaohs” in a second.

“Have you talked to the police yet?”

She looked away now, and I knew she hadn't. “N-no,” she admitted. “I mean,
they're my brothers
. They're not themselves, but the police aren't going to believe that. They're only going to look at the boys' records, assuming my parents left any behind, and the evidence, and… I don't know what to do.”

“Jessica,” I said gently. “You have to talk to the police. I know the detective in charge. He'll listen. He has to pursue the investigation, of course, and go where the evidence takes him, but… Well, he'll listen. That much I can promise you.”

She lunged forward and grabbed my hand across my desk. “You can help me then? You'll take the case?”

I couldn't do anything else. If she was right about her brothers, I might be the only P.I. who could help her.

“I will. First, you need to tell me everything you can about your brothers. Their friends, their resources, places they frequent, what they drive, anything you can think of. Most especially, I need to know what tour they were on. I'm going to need to contact the tour company. I presume the police didn't find them at the house? They haven't yet been arrested?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Then step one, I call my friend the detective. Step two, we find your brothers. If they're dangerous, we need to get them safely under wraps while we figure out what's going on.”

Her hand still clutched mine, and now she squeezed. “Thank you,” she said in a voice gone hoarse with emotion. “Thank you.”

I squeezed back and smiled reassuringly as I took my hand back so that I could call Jesus on the intercom. “Jesus, will you bring in a standard contract for Ms. Roland?”

He agreed, and I turned back to Jessica. “Now, about this
curse of the pharaohs
…”

It was superstition nonsense, of course… A few early archaeologists had met with misfortune, but no more than normal, and Howard Carter, the infamous discoverer of Tut's tomb, had lived to the ripe old age of sixty-four. Science didn't allow for “curses”. It did allow for deadly mold or bacteria which could have accumulated in the tombs or burial boxes over the years and made people sick when the spores were unleashed, but none of those, that I knew of, made people into crazed killers.

Not that I thought science held all the answers. I knew better than most that Shakespeare had been right—there were far more things in heaven and earth than were dreamt of in my philosophy.

“What about mad cow disease?” she asked when I finished. “Or, like, syphilis? Not that I'm saying they have syphillis. I know that can take years to make a brain into Swiss cheese, but…something like that. It can happen, right? Maybe if I can convince them to get tested…”

“No!” I said, a little too quickly. “I mean yes, it's possible, but I don't want you alone with them. I don't want you to confront them. If it's true that they're responsible for what happened to your parents, it's too dangerous for you. You need to let me handle things.”

Jesus knocked on the door and didn't wait for me to give him the all-clear before coming in with the contract in duplicate.

Jessica didn't delay signing. “Do you take credit cards?” she asked.

First world problems. Nobody carried cash or checks anymore.

“Sure,” I said, letting Jesus know with a look that this time we'd make an exception. Generally, cash and checks were a lot harder to dispute if you didn't like the way an investigation turned out.

As soon as the paperwork was done, I had her list out all the things I'd asked her—people, places, hangouts for her brothers, cell phone numbers. Everything she could think of. While she was writing, I made the call.

As predicted, Detective Nick Armani was beside himself to hear from me. No, really.

Chapter Two

I followed Jessica to the police precinct. She had her own car, but I wasn't entirely sure she was fit to drive, and anyway, I wanted to talk to Nick myself. I needed to prime him on what she was going to say and pick his brain about the case.

He hadn't loved my “interference” in his cases before we'd dated. Now that we had history I suspected he'd love it even less. Especially now that I kept company with his former rival. “Kept company with” sounded so much more and less than “dating”, which was far too normal for whatever was between Apollo and me. Now that we were trapped in each others' orbit? Now that inescapable forces pulled us together…

Gah
, this thing with Apollo was dangerous. Certainly for my concentration. He wasn't even here and he was messing with me.

So,
Nick.
Detective Armani. Whatever we were calling each other these days. Neither one of us was going to be leaving L.A. We'd have to find a way to work together sooner or later.

It was a good thing I'd taken that fourth coffee with me when I left the office. I finally understood what I'd bought it for in the first place. It wasn't for me, though I'd toyed with the idea, even knowing that me on caffeine overload was something like a Chihuahua on speed. It was for Nick. A peace-offering of sorts. It would be cold, but still better than the swill they served at the precinct.

I met Jessica at her car in the parking lot and we walked in together.

The desk officer who ruled all traffic in and out of the precinct with an iron fist raised a brow at the sight of me. I wondered if he'd seen the stories about the wings or whether he knew about me and Nick and the breakup. I hadn't seen him since I'd returned from my trip back to Greece to meet with the Gray Sisters. I didn't know what tales Nick might have told about us or the miraculous healing from his third-degree burns. Very possibly we should have gotten our stories straight on the phone, but I'd had an audience and, really, it hadn't even occurred to me.

“We're here to see Detective Armani,” I said quickly, before the sergeant could ask anything unprofessional in front of my client. “Tori Karacis, P.I., and my client Jessica Roland. He's expecting us.”

At the name
Roland
, his brows rose even higher, actually disappearing into his hairline. “One minute.”

He picked up his desk phone to make the call, but had to leave a message. As soon as he hung up, he picked the phone up again, probably to call Armani's partner.
Armani
… best to start thinking of Nick that way again, to distance myself. The officer covered the mouthpiece of his phone when he spoke into it this time, but my precog didn't set off any warning bells, and so I just stared all the while.

When he hung up, he waved us to one of the few chairs in the entryway. “Someone will be out in a minute.”

It took five minutes before Nick appeared, and when he did I caught my breath. Not because my heart still skipped a beat when I saw him…really it was more of a delay than an actual skip…but because of how tired he looked. Exhausted, really, like he hadn't slept in a week.

“Come on back,” he said, barely meeting my gaze.

We followed him in. He bypassed his desk entirely and headed straight for one of the interview rooms.

“Can I talk with you first?” I asked before he could shut us in.

He turned to me, and it hurt more than it should have to see the cop look on his face, as though I was just another perp he was prepared not to believe whatever I had to say. The look was pretty effective. If I really was in the hot seat, I might be revising my strategy right about now, considering whether it was even worth the effort to lie to him.

“Please,” I added.

He sighed heavily. “Do you mind waiting for just a second?” he asked Jessica.

She looked at me, and I nodded. “Just for a second,” I said. “I want to make sure the detective understands the situation.”

She blinked, new tears catching in her lashes. Not that I didn't understand, given the situation, but if she kept up like this, she was going to dehydrate in no time. “Maybe someone can get her a bottle of water,” I suggested.

Nick…Armani…looked into my eyes, searching for hidden meaning. Finding none. He glanced toward his desk and gestured to someone nearby. I turned to look and found an attractive Latina woman headed toward us, her hair pulled back into a tight queue at the back of her head.

“Detective Reyes, can you get Ms. Roland something to drink? I'll be back in just a second.”

Her gaze raked me dispassionately, and when she turned to Jessica, her lips quirked up in a smile that transformed her face. The warmth of it made her more than just attractive. It made her compelling. I felt a pull at my heart at the thought of her working so closely with Nick and knew that it was totally unfair.

Detective Reyes motioned Jessica away from the door, off to another room, and Nick held the interrogation room open for me to precede him. I did and he shut the door and leaned against it.

“For you,” I said, holding out the coffee.

He stared it down, his eyes crinkling at the corners momentarily. “That your idea of a bribe?” he asked. Still, he took the cup. “It's not even hot.”

“Fine, I'll take it if you don't want it.”

“I didn't say that.” He took a long sip and then fixed me with a
look
. “Okay, so talk.”

I took a deep breath and let it out again. “It's going to be one of those cases,” I began.

“One of
your
kind of cases, you mean?” He suddenly looked even wearier than he had before, despite the coffee.

“I think so. At least, Jessica thinks so. I know it sounds crazy—well, probably not after all you've seen—but she says the Roland boys came back from their trip to Egypt…different. Not her brothers. At least, not entirely.”

“You're right,” he said. “To anyone else that might sound crazy.” He took another supersized sip.

“I know. I mean, there are cases of brain injuries or whatever changing a person. If it had just been one…but both strains credibility.”

He laughed, but without much mirth. “And you're about to propose something much more credible? What—possession? Body snatchers? Cyborgs? Changelings? Stop me when I get close.”

I rolled my eyes at him. “I don't know. I just started on the case. Literally. Jessica made the appointment yesterday. We met this morning and then we came straight from my office to yours.”

“Wait, she called you
yesterday
? The murders only happened last night.”

“Yeah, she called before the murders. Her brothers scared her. She wanted me to find out what happened to them over in Egypt. I think she was hoping for a solution. She didn't expect…this.”

“Did she tell you her whereabouts last night?”

“She did. She stayed with a girlfriend.”

“But left her parents alone with her brothers?”

“Again, she wasn't expecting murder. Would you?”

“I don't know. I won't know until I talk to her.”

“You'll do that soon enough. First, I need to know whatever you can tell me,” I said, glancing into those deep blue eyes.

He gazed back and I couldn't read him. I hated that.

“Like what?”

“First, whether you've found the Roland boys. I'm assuming not or it would be all over the news that you had them in custody.”

“You assume right. There's been no sign of them. And they're not exactly answering their phones.”

“And I'll need to see the crime scene.”

He stared like I'd grown a second head. Given my sudden sprouting of wings not so long ago, it wasn't entirely out of the question. I had to resist checking just to be sure. “You don't ask for much, do you?” he asked. “The crime scene techs probably aren't even done processing yet.”

“Call me when they're done? Same deal as always—you show me yours and I'll show you mine.”

I didn't quite realize what I'd said until the words were out of my mouth, and then I wished to gods I could recall them.

His eyes darkened, and he didn't say anything for a full minute. “Professionally?” he asked finally.

I looked away. It hurt too much otherwise. “Professionally,” I confirmed.

“Damn shame,” he said, and left it at that.

“No promises on the crime scene,” he said after a moment, “but I'll see what I can do. I'll call you later.”

It was his turn to look away at that. Such a simple thing, and so loaded.

“Um, good. Great. Thank you. I'll let you talk to Jessica right now. I'm going to explore some of her brothers' haunts, see if I can find them.”

“Be careful,” he said, meeting my gaze again.

“You too,” I said.

“Always,” he answered, though we both knew that wasn't true.

“It's good to see you back. How did you explain the miraculous healing?”

Nick pulled at a gold chain I'd barely noted around his neck and brought a pendant out from where it rested next to his heart.

“A St. Christopher medal?” I asked.

“Jude. Saint of impossible cases. You mentioned miraculous healing. That's exactly what I went with.”

“Your mother must be so proud,” I said with complete sincerity.

If there was one thing Nick had told me about his mother, it was that she was a diehard Roman Catholic…the kind who went to church not just every week, but
every day
. Oh, and that she was, literally, a little old lady from Pasadena, just like the song.

His lips quirked. “In hindsight, the miracle might have been a mistake. Now she expects me to drive up and take her to church every Sunday to show proper thanks. And she likes to show me off to her friends.”

I tried not to smile at the thought of Nick among the church ladies. He'd be quite a catch. No doubt eligible daughters were being flung at him left and right.

“Matchmaking?” I asked.

“Don't even get me started.”

It was my cue to go. I knew it. Even so, I hesitated just a second.

“Call me about that crime scene,” I said as a parting line.

He just nodded, letting me have the last word.

* * * * *

In the car I looked at the list Jessica had given me and tried to prioritize. Mentally, I came up with a most-likely/closest-by-scale that helped me pinpoint my first few stops…after the crime scene. I knew I couldn't get in right away. That would have to wait until Nick…Armani…called.
If
he called. But I had a burning need to see what I could myself. To begin at the beginning, move on until the end, then stop, as Lewis Carroll would have said.

My reasoning was twofold. One, there'd be looky-loos—reporters, neighbors, passersby, any local scanner-jockey who'd rather chase police cars than ambulances. If I was lucky, one or both of the Roland boys might even return to the scene of the crime. Or…well, I wouldn't know until I got there. My hope was that I'd find someone who knew something they hadn't told the police, or that the police would never tell me, maybe something crucial they were withholding. I needed to gather all the intel I could. Knowledge was power.

Which brought me to reason number two.

Just seeing how and where the Roland boys had lived would help me build a profile that could lead me to them. Maybe even allow me to bring them in without bloodshed. I could dream. Maybe my own Saint Jude medal was in order.

I GPSed the address Jessica had given me, but the roads up in the Hollywood Hills were narrow and the closer I got, the harder it was to get through. Cars were parked illegally all along the way—up to a mile from the house. I drove carefully past them all…for about a half mile until I met a car coming the other way on a road that had been artificially choked down to a single lane. One of us was going to have to back off, and it was clear it would not be the lady in the other car.

Her heavily kohl-lined eyes burned like lasers, boring their way through both our windshields until I could feel the heat of them. Her face was broad and symmetrical, which seemed a weird thing to notice, but it was almost too perfect. Most people had something—a scar, a brow slightly higher than another, one lid droopier or…something. But even the intricate braids of her hair perfectly matched from one side to the other.

I memorized her for later, just in case. Maybe it was my precog. Maybe it was the sense of purpose rolling off her in waves, but I had an idea she'd be important later on.

Her eyes seemed to flare as we continued to face off, as though she could move me off the road through sheer force of will. The odd thing was, it worked. One of us had to give, and in this case it was clear it would have to be me.

Scowling, I backed up until I found a driveway I could pull into to get out of her way, and then she drove past without raising a hand in thanks or even looking my way in any sort of acknowledgment. I flung a few choice words after her and stopped when I realized I'd come back around to the beginning.

Vocab exhausted, I shrugged off the encounter and found a place to park down the hill, probably illegally. I had to hope the cops were too busy to ticket me. I set my parking brake and trudged up the hill to the murder scene. And trudged. As much as I'd bemoaned their existence when I'd had them, I now mourned the temporary loss of my wings. My back kept twitching, as though my wings wanted out. I could have flown to the scene in no time…if I wanted to expose myself to the reporters and half the police force. But I didn't. I climbed up the old-fashioned way.

The news vans alerted me when I got close…those and the kick to the gut delivered by my precog. There was something important here. As if I needed my precog to tell me that.

The danger might have moved on, but it hadn't passed.

The scene was controlled chaos. The Roland mansion stood behind seven-foot tall wrought-iron fencing with even higher gates done up in scrollwork that culminated with a medallion containing the house number in a fancy font. The medallion was, in fact, about all I could see of the front gates beyond the spectators, most with cameras or phones held over their heads to capture what they couldn't see themselves. The mansion wasn't far beyond the gates, space being such a premium on the hills. Unlike most of its neighbors, it was a boxy brick colonial, complete with two-story white pillars and wrap-around front porch, rather than something more hacienda in style.