Cursed (16 page)

The
confrontation with Sarah should have left me anxious. Instead, she’s made me curious . . . and sore. I’m sure I’ll have a glorious bruise on my arm where she grabbed me. Rubbing the spot, I decide it’s time I ask Zack if she poses a real threat or if it was all posturing—the attempts of a scorned lover to scare off the competition.

If only she knew she had no need to take me out of the game. I’ve got an envelope of powder in my handbag to do that for her.

I’m stepping off the elevator onto our floor when my cell phone rings. A glance at the caller ID shows it’s Zack. In a flash, Sarah is pushed from my mind. Instead I wonder if
he’s
wondering why I left this morning without waking him up or saying good-bye. Maybe he’s calling to end it. Or to set some ground rules for office etiquette. Could be he’s running late because our activities last night made him oversleep.

“This is Emma,” I croak through a throat suddenly gone dry.

“Where are you?” he asks without preamble. Then, “Wait. I see you. Stay there.”

I look up in time to see him crossing the floor. There’s nothing intimate in his expression—no sly sideways glances, no seductive smile. And he’s not peering at me as if I’ve suddenly sprouted a second head. Maybe the Emma he made love to last night was the Emma he’s seeing now. Maybe I’m not in as much trouble as I thought.

But I remember the feeling of soaring, of giving myself to him completely, of holding nothing back.

More important, I remember the way I looked in the mirror.

That was not my imagination. Did Zack see it, too?

All this runs through my head in the time it takes Zack to close the distance between us. For him, it seems to be all business. He’s got a piece of paper in his hands.

I feel my shoulders relax a bit. If he can separate what happened last night from our professional life, I certainly should be able to.

“Just got this,” he says, waving the paper. “Alan Pierce moved recently.” He reads off the address.

It’s one I recognize. “That’s the same address as Michael Dexter’s.”

“Bingo!”

“He’s Michael Dexter’s partner?” I follow Zack as we head back to our cubicle.

“Did you peg them as being together last night?”

I shake my head. “But then, Alan was constantly working the party.”

“There’s more.” Zack hands me a cup of coffee. “When the first Mrs. Barakov disappeared, Alan Pierce was interviewed. He had been working for an architectural firm in Los Angeles. The one the Barakovs hired to renovate their home. He had a key and free rein of the house, so the police thought he might have seen something. He hadn’t and they dropped him from the suspect list.”

Zack pauses to take a drink from his mug. I’m reminded of the envelope in my bag. All it would take is one little sip. Thankfully, Zack doesn’t give me much time to think. He has something else to tell me. I see it in the gleam of his eyes. He plunges ahead.

“So, Alan’s mother, the present Mrs. Barbara Barakov, met the good doctor at Alan’s office. He was there for a consultation and she dropped in to take her son for lunch. While Alan works on the renovation project, his mother works on Barakov. The affair only lasted a couple months. It’s not clear what ended it. But Barakov went back to his wife. You still with me?”

I nod, recalling my research. “A month or so later, the wife mysteriously disappears.”

Zack continues. “Barakov plays the concerned husband for a while. Then he starts seeing Pierce again. Not long after that, Alan gets a new stepdaddy.”

“What kind of doctor is Barbara?” I ask, remembering how she was introduced last night.

“She’s a surgeon. Specializes in organ transplants.”

I watch Zack as he goes over the notes in his hand. Excitement is there in his expression, hopefulness that we may have uncovered the one detail that can help us break the case, determination that we’ll stick at it until we do.

The one thing that’s missing is any indication that we spent last night having sex—great sex.

Am I relieved or angry?

Do I even need the fucking powder Liz gave me?

Suddenly I realize Zack is peering at me. “What’s the matter? You look disappointed.”

I turn away, briefly, to recompose my expression. “Nothing’s the matter.”

“Is it about last night?” He steps close, glances around, then whispers, “I assumed you left early this morning so you’d have time to change clothes before work. Are we okay?”

Suddenly I’m back there with him—fire crackling, candles glowing, wringing torturous pleasure from Zack’s body in ways that were utterly exquisite and entirely addictive.

But that was then. This is now. “We’re fine.”

He lowers his head so it’s close to mine. “Last night was—I don’t have the words.”

I can feel the pulse of his breath against my ear. “Try.”

“Best. Sex. Ever.” He straightens and steps back. “Now, where were we?” He makes a show of shuffling the papers in his hand, but he’s grinning.

For an instant, this morning’s feeling of bliss is back. With all its implications. I am at the core a sexual creature, after all. And as Liz reminded me, sex is okay. As long as we leave it at that. I see him and can’t help wondering,
hoping
. Could it be possible? Just sex. Am I capable of hiding my true feelings for the chance to have even the most superficial of relationships with him? Could Liz work a spell that would make Zack accept a relationship like that?

Just sex.

Just
sex.

Sarah pops into my consciousness. Maybe that’s the kind of relationship he has with her now. Is this the time to bring it up?

No. Now it’s time to get back to business.

I clear my throat when what I want to do is clear my head. “I think I should
interview
Alan,” I say.

Zack nods. “I agree.” He glances at his watch. “He should be at the Green Leaf offices right about now.”

“On a Saturday morning?”

“Someone called him earlier posing as a new fat-cat customer and requesting a morning meeting.”

“I wonder who that might have been.”

Zack shrugs. “Don’t know. I do know Mr. Pierce was very accommodating. He should be waiting for us.” He flutters his fingers. “I’ll wait outside or something while you work your mojo.”

I pick up my bag. “Let’s go.”

But the telephone on his desk rings. I pause while Zack answers it. He listens for a moment, then says, “Yes, sir. I’ll be right there.”

He replaces the receiver. “Deputy Director wants an update. I can handle it. You go on. I’ll meet you at Green Leaf as soon as I can.”

The Green Leaf central office is located on Front Street. It’s a converted mansion, sitting on a lot surrounded by a high hedge. The brass sign on the wrought-iron gate is in the shape of a maple leaf on which the name Green Leaf is embossed. I ring the bell outside the entrance, and a buzzer sounds immediately. No questions. The gate clicks open.

I follow the walk up to the front door, where there’s another bell. This time when I ring, a voice from inside asks, “Yes?”

I look up at a surveillance camera set high and to the right. I dig my badge out of my purse and hold it up. “Agent Emma Monroe. FBI.”

The door opens immediately. Alan Pierce smiles out at me. “I remember you from last night, Agent Monroe.”

“I have a couple questions I’d like to ask you.”

He pulls out his cell and checks the time. “I have a client meeting scheduled, but they seem to be running late. I can give you a few minutes. Come in.” He stands aside and the door closes behind me.

“I hope the party was a success,” I say as we walk.

He nods enthusiastically. “We exceeded our fund-raising goal. Thank you for attending. And thank you for what you’re doing to find Michael’s friend. He’s been beside himself since she went missing.”

There’s a bit of a nervous edge about him, one I hadn’t noticed last night. Is it surprise at finding an FBI agent at his office so early on a Saturday morning? Or concern that a
client
might be surprised to find an FBI agent at his office so early on a Saturday morning?

There’s no one in the reception area. He leads me through it and into what I presume is his personal office. I attempt to set him at ease by turning the conversation to familiar territory, comfortable ground.

I make a point of looking around. “I love these old buildings. It’s so good to see them being renovated, to see the history preserved.”

Alan nods. “It was a shambles when we bought it.” He gestures to a visitor’s chair and takes his own seat across a wide expanse of burled oak desk. “Restoring it to its former glory took a lot of work.”

“And, I imagine, a lot of money.”

“We have generous benefactors.”

Generous indeed. They’ve managed to get all of the details right. The period wallpaper, wainscoting, molding, even the style of doorknobs are all what you would expect in a building of this age.

I think of Dexter’s comment about his partner being a neat freak. It’s certainly evident here. Except for a desktop phone and a computer, the only other things on his desk are a stack of spreadsheets and a pen.

“This is a beautiful office. Are those the original moldings?”

“Good eye.” He beams. “Yes. This used to be the parlor.” He sweeps a hand over the smooth top of the desk. “We found this piece in the attic when we purchased the place. It’s amazing what people think of as junk, isn’t it?”

“Does the staff always come in on Saturdays?” I ask with a smile. Better to find out if there is anyone else around who might get caught in the undertow before I open the floodgates.

He shakes his head. “We sometimes have a small contingent on Saturdays. But I gave everyone strict orders to take today off. Last night was a late one for us all.”

“But no day off for the boss, I see.”

“Like I said, client meeting.” He gestures to the spreadsheet. “Plus, I wanted to tally up the proceeds from last night. We did very well. Especially Michael’s piece. He’s such a wonderful artist.” There’s a wistfulness to his voice as he adds, “I’m glad he’s seeing his talent appreciated.”

He pauses. “Are you here about Isabella?”

That slight hint of nervousness is back. I’ve interrogated enough suspects, both with and without use of my special brand of lie detection, to recognize when they are hiding something. Alan is.

“Yes. Did you know her?” I ask.

He shrugs. “We met, of course. But she disappeared before I moved in.”

“And how long ago did you move in?”

“About a month ago.” He stands up and makes his way over to a coffeepot on the other side of the room. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee? We also have some sodas, bottled water.”

“No, thank you. Do you know a woman named Amy Patterson?”

His back is to me. The coffeepot is in his hand. There’s not even a moment’s hesitation. “Sure, we did work for Amy. I saw on the news she’s missing, too. Michael said you stopped by and—” He turns around to face me, alarm registering on his face. “You don’t think Michael has anything to do with Amy’s disappearance, do you? Or Isabella’s, for that matter. Michael wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

I shake my head. “No. Michael isn’t a suspect.”

His shoulders relax. He returns to his desk with the coffee. Takes a sip. Sits down. “That’s a relief.”

“What about Evan Porter?” I ask.

“What about him?”

“You know Evan?”

He nods. “Sure. He’s my attorney. He’s . . . Are you telling me Evan’s missing, too?”

Our eyes meet across the desk.

The truth dawns on him. “You think
I
might have had something to do with Evan’s disappearance? Or Amy’s?”

I can’t help noticing he didn’t mention Isabella. I add her back on and wait for the reaction. “What about Isabella? You didn’t forget her, did you?”

“What? No!”

But his breathing is rapid and shallow and he’s focused his gaze on the cup in his hand. I think I’ve gotten all I’m going to get from him with normal investigative techniques. Time for the big guns.

“Alan?”

He looks up at me. I take a breath, look him directly in the eye, and lower the dampening spell. Now he can’t bring himself to look away. He lowers his hand to the table, pushes the cup away. He leans forward in the chair, as if to get closer. Even a gay man is not immune to my power and beauty.

“Alan? I’m going to ask you some questions.”

The air stirs around us, blowing a slip of paper from his desk. The pen rolls to the floor. Alan doesn’t notice. A faint perfume fills the air.

He nods and breathes it in.

“You want to help,” I continue. “So you’re going to answer truthfully. Once you do, you’ll feel better.”

Of course he will. He has no choice.

I stand up, pushing back the chair in which I’d been sitting. The wind rises around me. The stacks of spreadsheets on his desk begin to rustle. Since his anxiety seems to rise every time I mention Isabella’s name, I start there. “Did you have anything to do with Isabella Mancini’s disappearance?”

A buzzer rings before he can answer.

“Is that the doorbell?” I ask Alan.

He nods toward an open window. “It’s the front gate.”

I look to see Zack outside. I place Alan’s phone on top of the papers and then use it to dial Zack’s cell. “I’m with Alan in his office. I’ve already started. I don’t want you to be affected by what I’m doing.”

“Want me to stay outside?”

“There’s a waiting room. You’ll be safe behind closed doors. Alan will buzz you in. Keep this line open. I’ll put us on speaker. You can listen in.”

Zack agrees.

I turn to Alan. “Let my friend in.”

Alan reaches under his desk. The front door buzzes open. Seconds later I hear Zack’s footsteps.

“Are you ready?” I ask.

“Door’s closed.” Zack’s voice comes through the speaker. I can hear him pacing on the other side of it. “What have you got so far?”

“Not much. We’re just getting started.” I turn my attention back to Alan. “Did you have anything to do with Isabella Mancini’s disappearance?”

“No.”

“What about the disappearances of Amy Patterson or Evan Porter?”

“No. I told you.”

“And yet they all have one thing in common. Green Leaf. And you.”

Alan shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”

He doesn’t. His expression is both troubled and sincere.

Zack’s voice comes through the telephone’s speaker. “What’s going on, Emma? I thought you said he wouldn’t be able to lie.”

“He can’t.” I peer closely at Alan. “You know Michael loves Isabella. If you’re holding anything back—”

“Of course I’m not holding anything back. I’d do anything for Michael. Anything.”

There it is. The truth in his statement strikes me like a slap in the face. We’ve made a mistake. I turn off the speaker and pick up the telephone receiver. “It’s not Alan.”

“So what do we do now?” Zack’s expression reflects the same frustration I’m feeling.

“I wish I knew.” Selfishly, I think about Liz first, then Dexter. “I hate to say it. Hate to even
think
it. Could Evan, Amy, and Isabella already be dead?”

Alan stirs in his chair. “Of course Isabella’s dead. She’s a vampire.”

I snap my attention back to him. “You know Isabella is a vampire?”

“Yes.”

I immediately replace the phone, reactivate the speaker. “Michael told you?”

Alan shakes his head. “Not Michael, my mother.”

“Your mother?” The revelation comes out of left field. Then I realize she probably learned of this from someone else.

Zack’s thinking the same thing.

“Barakov,” he spits out. “He’s the one. Ask him.”

“Was it your stepfather?”

I watch Alan’s face. “Barakov—Alexander—didn’t take them.”

Alan’s shoulders slump. His hands rise to cover his face.

A strange sensation washes over me. The gut instinct that the pieces are about to fall into place.

“He’s not involved?” I ask.

He answers with one word. “No.”

“But you know who is?”

I hold my breath.

“Yes.”

“Who?”

He glances around. A sign of resistance. We’re wading through territory he’s kept deeply suppressed.

I realize I may already have the answer. “Your mother?”

Alan nods, his face crumpling in shame and pain. Eyes fill with tears, not just of sadness, of anger.

“What’s happening?” Zack asks.

I fall back into the chair across from Alan. “He’s nodding. Barbara Pierce is the one behind all of this.”

“She’s saving lives. The vampires—they’re making a noble sacrifice.” He utters the words as if they’re his lifeline, a self-soothing mantra he’s been relying on to justify something horrible, something heinous. He’s holding on to the arms of the chair, knuckles white. “She said I had a choice. I could let Michael go, or I could save him. How could I just let him go?”

I know what it’s like to stand by, watch the worst happen to someone you love, and know there’s not a thing you can do about. I’ve been there more than once. If someone offered me an out, would I have taken it? Possibly.

“Make him explain,” Zack says.

I don’t need to make him. He’s started to tell the truth and he’s on his way to feeling better. Just as I told him he would. He’ll want to get it all out now, even if that means betraying his mother and implicating himself. I feel a rush of empathy. With power comes sacrifice. Alan chose to save Michael, and in doing so, he lost a piece of himself.

Alan stares across the desk at me through haunted eyes. “I want to help. I’ll tell you everything.”

Of course he will. I draw my powers back in and seal the doors shut. We won’t need them anymore. Not with him. I walk over to the office door and open it, surprising Zack on the other side.

“You can come in now.”

Alan doesn’t even wait for introductions. He begins in a barely comprehensible rush. “It’s not her fault. She’s been given no choice. She made a mistake, yes. But now she’s having to pay and pay and pay. That horrible man. Killing all of those people. Making her . . . all for what? Money. She was going crazy. She had to find a better way. And now . . .”

Zack holds up his hand. “Slow down. Let’s start with who’s been killed.”

“Charlotte Barakov, for one. That’s where it started. When Mother hired Davis Mager to get rid of her. It was crazy and stupid, not to mention wrong.” He shakes his head. “But what that man has forced her to do since . . .”

Zack takes a seat on the edge of the desk. “So your mother hired Mager to kill the first Mrs. Barakov, then what? He blackmailed her?”

Alan nods. “Yes. About a year after Mager got rid of Charlotte, he contacted Mother. His daughter was in need of a heart transplant. Only he didn’t want to wait for a voluntary donor. He blackmailed Mother into helping him identify the right person, then into doing the surgery. Naively, she thought that would be the end of it. But it got her in deeper. Gave Mager the idea that they could harvest organs and sell them on the black market. He had connections. At first they targeted the homeless.” He stops abruptly, his eyes darting between Zack and me.

“And?” Zack encourages him to continue with a wave of his hand.

But Alan’s eyes have settled on me. “You didn’t flinch when I mentioned Isabella was a vampire.”

I cross my arms in front of my chest. “No, I didn’t. You said at first they targeted the homeless. Are you telling us at some point Mager and your mother shifted their focus to vampires?”

He nods. “She said she couldn’t live with what she was doing. But she couldn’t get out of it, either. She was getting in deeper and deeper. Then the idea came to her. She knew about Alexander’s experimentation, about his technique. She convinced Mager to invest, to allow her to explore the possibility of using vampires instead of humans. They’re already dead. And their organs regenerate.”

“Your mother and Mager are kidnapping vampires, then harvesting and selling vampire organs?” asks Zack.

“Apparently vampires are universal donors. Mother discovered a vampire organ can be transplanted into a human with no danger of rejection. Mager’s doing the kidnapping.” Alan’s face turns red. “Although it seems Mother has looked through Alexander’s patients’ records from time to time to find ‘prospects.’ Her word, not mine.”

I sit again, trying to absorb what he’s telling me. “And then your mother operates on these prospects against their will?”

Even stares down at the desktop in front of him. “Healthy new organs save lives.” It’s repeated like a lesson he’s been forced to memorize.

“Lives like Michael Dexter’s?” I shake my head. “Alan, your mother has Isabella, Amy, and Evan, doesn’t she?”

He meets my gaze head-on. “I don’t know about Amy and Evan, I swear. Only Isabella.”