Hannah Jayne (24 page)

“This is a disaster,” I hissed to Nina as Roland handed the tuxedoed maître d’ a folded-up bill.

“So, Sophie,” Roland started, his tongue darting over his bottom lip in a way that made me think of salting slugs. “What makes Sophie Lawson tick?”

I grabbed Nina’s hand under the table and dug my nails into her palm; then I cursed myself when I remembered that vampires can’t feel pain. She took a second away from batting her eyelashes at Harley to bat her eyelashes at me.

“Oh, Sophie likes lots of things,” Nina piped in. “Sometimes she just gets shy.” Nina dug a finger into my ribs and commanded me to “be polite.”

I scanned the menu for any item that might come on a wooden stake.

“I hope you’re hungry, honey bear,” Harley said with a lovesick drawl that brought bile to my throat.

“I haven’t eaten a thing all day,” Nina said truthfully. “I called to see if you wanted to have lunch, but you didn’t answer.”

Harley and Roland exchanged a fleeting look, which anyone not counting the minutes would have missed.

“We were doing a round of interviews,” Roland said. He snaked his clammy hand around my arm, thumping his chair hard on the floor as he bounced it closer. “It would have been nice to meet you a little earlier.”

“We’re ready to order,” I said to a passing waiter.

Roland waggled his bushy brows while I untangled my arm from his. “This one seems to want to get out of here as soon as possible,” he said with an obnoxious grin.

Oh, if you only knew.

We had just ordered our dinner—another raw-meat extravaganza for Nina, a petite filet for me (watching my weight, remember?)—when I dragged Nina to the bathroom.

“Are you having fun?” Nina asked, obviously oblivious to the three shades of purple I turned after a half hour of gritting my teeth.

“So much. Like Pap smear fun.”

Nina rolled her eyes and glanced in the mirror—her eyes steady on her lack of reflection while she glossed up her pout. “Give him a chance.”

“I have given him a chance.”

“Harley says that Roland just gets nervous, but once he’s over that, he’s really a great guy.”

“I’ve given him a chance and now I’m climbing out the bathroom window.”

I spun on my heel and Nina grabbed my wrist, her cold fingers nearly cuting off my circulation. Her eyes were wide and pleading, and her newly glossed frown was real.

“Please, Sophie. I really, really like Harley, and I think things could go somewhere for us.

I’ve never met a man who I’ve got so much in common with.”

I cocked an eyebrow.

“I mean, we’re both Tauruses. We both like to dance. We’re both writers.”

“And one of you is alive, and the other one is—”

I clamped my mouth shut as the bathroom door swung open and a centerfold blonde walked in, teetering on enormous heels and balancing an enormous chest. She glanced down at Nina’s hand on my wrist, then quickly up at the mirror. I saw the confusion register in her eyes, and Nina and I both stiffened until the blonde teetered past us and locked herself in a stall.

“Just be nice until dinner is over, and then I’ll never ask you to do anything for me again. I swear.”

Nina looked earnest, but the last “something” I did for her was still lurking on our living-room couch.

“Come on. For me? For true love? I’ll even eat anyone you want.”

“Fine.”

Dinner passed uneventfully; and although I prayed for everyone to pass up dessert, Roland ordered a conglomeration of everything on the menu, plus a cup of tea for the “little lady.”

It’s times like these that I wished I had taken up with Steve, the blue cheese–smelling troll.

“That was torturous,” I said to Nina as I trudged through the apartment vestibule after our date finally ended.

Nina didn’t answer; she just continued her love-swept twirl and her tonally challenged rendition of “Up Where We Belong.”

Under Suspicion

Chapter Eighteen

My blaring cell phone woke me from a deep sleep, but I managed to catch it on the second ring, mashing it to my ear and upsetting ChaCha.

“Sophie Lawson,” I answered.

“Lawson, I need you.” Alex’s voice was tense on the other end of the line.

Sophie Lawson: Hot Commodity Once Again.

A delicious chill zapped down my spine and I sat up straight, glancing at the red glowing numbers on my alarm clock. It was three o’clock and Alex needed me. My whole body went on high alert; everything jumping to attention. Maybe this night was looking up, after all.

“Are you here? Where are you?”

“Do you have a pen?”

I fumbled in my desk drawer—my pen poised over the back of a plea to save the whales, or to avoid circuses or something.

“Take down this address.”

The little chill in my spine dropped below my belly button and worked itself into a full-on heat.

An address? Alex didn’t have a home address, so was this ...

“It’s a crime scene.”

Everything dropped inside me. “Of course it is.”

“Romero called me. He said you and he had a little meeting on the dock a few days ago.”

“How come you haven’t answered any of my calls? Things are exploding—”

“Look, Lawson, I don’t have much time, and I can’t be on the phone. Romero called this in and I need you to look into it.”

I felt a lump forming in my throat, felt my eyes start to mist. “I need you.”

“I know you can handle it. I won’t be away forever. I need you to get down to the Paradise Hotel, 101 Folsom Street.”

I bit my lip. “I don’t have a car.”

I could almost see Alex’s eyebrow cocking. “What happened to your car now?”

I thought of my beat-up car, and the scrawling across the front windshield. “Nothing. I’ll just grab a cab.”

There was a quick knock on my door. When I opened it, Will was standing there, a big goofy grin on his face. His car keys were pinched between forefinger and thumb.

“Ready?”

“I can’t talk now, Will. I’ve got to get to—”

“One-oh-one Folsom.”

I blinked. “Were you listening in on my phone call?”

Will snorted. “Like I don’t have better things to do. Your angel boy told me I’d better help you out with this one.”

I gaped at Will. “I can handle a lot of things, Will, but you and Alex working together?”

Will just shrugged and ushered me toward the stairs.

The Paradise Hotel was a little slice of 1970s Key West, smack-dab in the left ventricle of the Fillmore District. Its thumbprint-sized pool was lagoon blue and surrounded by brightly colored homages to tropical birds and potted banana trees, whose enormous leaves were fraying in the cold ocean air. In its heyday the whole building was painted a cheery yellow and each door to Paradise a pale, tranquil turquoise. Now the yellow paint had hardened into something sallow and showed its age as it warped and peeled around what remained of the turquoise door frames. Some of the numbers were missing on the doors; the once-shiny doorknobs were grubby with black fingerprints and scratches from years of abuse, neglect, and drunken lock picking.

I saw a trio of uniformed officers staring blankly at a broken pot—its banana tree was severed on the concrete, soil scattered all around. Officer Romero turned finally and beckoned me over.

“Officer Romero,” I said.

“Hey, thanks for coming, Sophie. I called Alex, but—”

I nodded. “He’s on a stakeout.”

“Right.” Romero looked past me. “And you must be the private investigator?”

Will absolutely beamed. “That I am.”

“So what’s this all about?” I wanted to know.

“That’s what I’m hoping you can tell me.”

Officer Romero led Will and me to room 34, where a naked bulb flickered and buzzed outside.

“We got a call about forty minutes ago.” He jutted his chin toward the lady with the dog.

She was listening to the officer in front of her; her wrinkled lips set in a hard, thin line. “She called in. Said there was a ruckus with her new tenant. Said it sounded like someone was being murdered out here.”

I shivered, though the early-morning air was unusually warm. “And?”

“And that’s it. She looked out her window and saw two people struggling. Said she couldn’t be sure it was her new tenant, but from the size of her”—Officer Romero’s eyes flashed—“it looked about right. The lady called the cops, and the first car was on the scene in less than three minutes.”

I nodded, impressed.

“And there was nothing here.”

“Nothing?”

Romero nodded his head. “Not a thing.”

“So what made you call Alex?”

Romero dug into his pocket and produced a business card wrapped in a plastic Baggie. I examined it under the flickering light.

“It’s yours.”

I nodded and Officer Romero went on. “It didn’t have a phone number, so I called Alex. He said that your firm was covering this case. I didn’t know that the FBI had an underworld division out here.”

I opened my mouth and then closed it again, dumbly, as Officer Romero prattled on. “So mobsters, huh? I thought that was, you know, purely a Jersey, Sopranos thing.”

“Oh. Underworld. Like the mob. Yes”—I straightened—“yes, we’d appreciate it if you kept it quiet.”

Romero nodded, impressed. “Absolutely. We’ll clear out. You do what you need to do.”

Once Officer Romero stepped away, Will crossed his arms and grinned at me. “We’re detectives now. Underworld detectives.”

I rolled my eyes and speed dialed Alex, willing him to answer the phone.

“Good, Lawson, I’ve been waiting for you to call.”

“What is this all about, Alex? And why can you miraculously talk all of a sudden?”

I heard him suck in a deep, slow breath. “I’m on a dinner break. Do you want my help with this or not?”

I looked at Will, then looked at the broken plant and the flickering light. “Sure. Why did you think this was about us?”

“Because the woman staying in that room was Bettina Jacova.”

I paused. “Oh. But she didn’t check out?”

“No. The only thing the guys could find was that overturned pot.”

I balanced the phone on my shoulder. “So everything is gone, there’s no evidence. Why did you need me here?”

“The officers said they couldn’t see anything.”

I nodded, finally understanding. “And you want me to make sure you’re not missing something.”

“Bingo.”

I looked over Will’s shoulder, surveying the “blue lagoon,” the aged patio furniture, and banana trees. “I don’t see anything right off.”

“Will’s there with you?”

“Yeah.”

“Take a walk around the property. Just take a look around. If there’s nothing there, there’s nothing there. If there is, maybe it’ll help you get down to the bottom of all this.”

I felt a warmth at the base of my spine. “Thanks, Alex.”

“I’ve got to get back to work. ’Night, Lawson.”

I hung up the phone, and Will and I strolled the property for a minute. We paused at the blue lagoon–colored pool.

Will put his hands on his hips. “What do you think?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I don’t see ...”

I stopped, my eyes catching a trail of scattered soil leading to matted grass. There were footprints pressed into the dirt, and I felt my throat tighten as I bent down to examine the two distinct sets of prints there. “Footprints.”

Will crouched down with me and shrugged. “Doesn’t look like anything more than a scuffle, though.”

I wish I didn’t see anything else.

“There’s blood,” I said, feeling a lump form in my throat. “Lots of blood.”

Will cocked his head; his eyebrows mashed together. “I don’t—”

“It’s not human. It’s demon.”

Will seemed unfazed, until I straightened up, crossed my arms in front of my chest and held my elbows tightly, trying to ward off the shudder which I knew was coming.

“It’s Bettina’s. There are some drops here,” I said, not willing to point.

I knew the official word was blood “spatter,” and that was easy to say when the blood was anonymous, left at the crime scene from a victim I felt sorry for but never knew. This was the blood of someone I knew, talked to, cared for. The realization made me queasy.

“Can we just get out of here?”

Will touched me gently at the small of my back. “We still have no idea what happened, love. If it’s just a bit of spatter—”

I sucked a gulp of air and blinked away tears. “See where the grass is all matted there?”

Will nodded.

“There’s more blood.”

Will looked toward where I was pointing and then shook his head. “Well, if the blood is covered by some magical shield, then that must mean our guy is a demon or something, right?” His voice was almost hopeful.

I took his hand and we both sank down to a squat. “Look.” I pointed again, and the world went deathly still. The light from the naked bulb stopped flickering; the banana trees stopped their gentle flap in the breeze; the city seemed to hold its breath.

“Can you see that?”

Will cocked his head the way I showed him; and as his eyes started to register, to see what I was seeing, his mouth went slack.

“Is that—is that it?”

Demon’s blood isn’t wildly colored or Hollywood glittery. It’s as angrily red as our blood, and thick and viscous, but there is an almost blue-black sheen to it, which seems not to register to human eyes.

Unless, of course, you’re looking for it.

Will paled and I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard.

Bettina’s blood was spattered in the plant soil, then smeared where there had been a definite struggle along the walk. It looked as though she had struggled for about four feet before the grass was matted when she was pressed into it. Her blood seeped through the broken blades of grass, pooling at the edge of the walk.

“Tell me demons have an inordinate amount of blood and we’re looking at a skinned knee here.”

I shook my head, unable to form the words. Will twisted toward me, his hazel eyes miles deep. “You know with this much blood loss, there isn’t a lot of hope that this bird—”

“Bettina. Her name is Bettina.”

“That Bettina could have survived.”

My fingertips went cold. My lips went numb. I should have been crying, but my eyes were tired. I felt like I had already done that. I looked somberly at the crushed grass, the pooled blood.