Reckoning: A Fallen Siren Novel (13 page)

I slide the key into the lock, turn the door handle, and slip inside the penthouse.

The only sound I hear is the low hum of the air conditioner.

I’m alone.

The two-story penthouse is enormous, but I feel claustrophobic. I drop my purse and the bag containing my laptop on the sofa, then walk over to the floor-to-ceiling panels of glass that separate the indoors from the balcony and push them aside. Despite the warmth of the day, I can feel a breeze coming off the ocean. The streets below are filled with cars. San Diego has a population of 1.3 million people. One of them had to have seen something, heard something, has to
know
something.

I head back inside and wander over to the kitchen. I grab a pitcher of iced tea from the refrigerator and pour myself a glass. Johnson will be able to discredit Bertram fairly easily. With a little finesse we can craft a statement that will allow the press to read between the lines and encourage a few follow-up questions.

I send a text to Kallistos.

Can you reach Simon?

I pull my laptop out and set it up on the dining room table. Before I have a chance to sit down, my cell chimes.

He’s with me. What’s up?

I hesitate. Consider calling. Decide against it.

Need to show him something.

I wait for a response. A full minute passes. Halfway through the second, a response comes through.

On our way back from OC. Meet you at the Palomar in ten minutes?

It’s not really a question, of course. He knows I’m here.

I resist the urge to take the key card out onto the balcony and use it for target practice. Instead I spread the photos out on the table and stare into the faces of the missing girls. I start to organize my thoughts in preparation for writing Johnson’s press statement. At first I just let them flow, reordering as I go. Within a few minutes, the blank page on my laptop is full of notes. And I’ve managed to boil it down to five concise talking points.

1. We’ve found no evidence that any of the victims were involved in the occult.

2. Yes, as was reported by several local news stations, the girls used a Ouija board while on a college trip. They’ve all seen an episode of
Charmed
and read the
Harry Potter
series. Those things don’t make them witches or Satanists.

3. They are victims.

4. What
we
need to focus on are solid leads from credible, reliable sources.

5. The Bureau has dedicated significant resources to
this investigation and we are following up on several key leads at this time.

Then I dial Garner at the office.

“How quickly can you get a hotline in place for tips?”

“How soon do you need it?”

I smile. “In time for the press conference.”

“Done.”

I email a draft of the talking points to Zack and tell him to get here ASAP. I’m about to begin writing the statement in earnest.

My progress is interrupted by the whir of the door’s electronic lock. I look over my shoulder in time to see Kallistos cross the threshold, Simon right behind him. The two men couldn’t be more different. The vampire King is tall and imposing. Today’s suit is a black-on-black pinstripe, his shirt a deep aubergine. His normally piercing blue eyes have an almost violet cast.

Simon is a good foot shorter than Kallistos. Dressed in a pair of baggy khaki cargo pants and a rumpled T-shirt displaying a map of Middle Earth, he looks more like a scruffy college student than someone worthy of the title of operational director.

Kallistos is ahead of him by several steps. His tie is off before he reaches me, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. For a moment I forget I’m angry. But then he bends down to kiss me and I remember. His hair brushes the side of my cheek. His mouth covers mine. I try not to stiffen, not to pull away.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. Then he glances at the photos on the table and draws his own conclusion. “Still no progress on the case?”

I close the lid of my laptop.

“Actually, that’s why I want to speak with Simon.”

“You want me to solve a case the FBI can’t? Bring it on!” The high-strung genius pulls a Red Bull out of the worn, leather messenger bag that’s slung over his shoulder, pops the top, and takes a sip.

I tilt my head toward the photos on the table. “These girls are missing. We believe we’ve found a connection between them and Wicked Ink.”

No comments. No questions. No arguments. His messenger bag slides to the floor. He pulls out his laptop, some other hardware, and a handful of cords. “May I?” he asks, holding his phone above the photos. “We use facial recognition. I can upload their images and do a comparison against our database.”

I give my consent.

Kallistos sits down alongside me. “Tell me about this connection.”

“It could be nothing,” I tell him. “But it’s the only real lead we have—”

We watch, silent, as Simon scans, clicks, works the keyboard. In a few minutes, the computer sounds.

“We’ve got a hit. Julie Simmons.” Simon turns his laptop so we can see the display. Her name is flashing underneath the image Simon scanned and uploaded. The images of Hannah Clemons and Sylvia Roberts appear, too. Alongside them a blur of faces pass by as the facial recognition software searches the database for their images, as well.

Kallistos leans forward and for the first time takes a long, hard look at the faces of the victims. “How long could this take?”

“I entered some parameters to narrow it down. Female, blond, eighteen to twenty-five.”

I shake my head. “The other two victims are under eighteen. Of course, they might have lied or had fake IDs. We know Julie has a tattoo and that she got it at Wicked Ink.” I turn to Kallistos. “I interviewed someone who went with her. She’d been put into thrall. I believe a significant portion of her memory was wiped.”

“You couldn’t recover it?” Kallistos asks.

“Unfortunately, no.”

Simon pauses the search. “Let me try something. These girls fit the profile for the YBV program. Some of those participants are as young as fifteen.” His fingers fly across the keyboard.

The search restarts.

Simon takes another hit of his Red Bull.

Kallistos leaves the table and heads for the bar.

“YBV.” I search my memory. Then I remember. The first time I interviewed Simon, it was in his office in the basement of Wicked Ink. Rose took me down. We passed the big refrigerated units used to store blood. One of them was marked
YBV
. When I asked Rose about it she replied—

“Young. Blond. Virgin.” This time it’s Simon answering. “It’s a signature blend. Very popular.”

I turn around and glare at Kallistos’ back. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. You’re tapping kids to boost your blood supply?”

The computer sounds.

Hannah’s name now appears under her photograph.

Kallistos returns with a generous pour of scotch. “You make it sound so nefarious. Since the Blood Emporiums
have been put into place, vampire-on-human assaults have decreased considerably. But you know that. These girls are willing. We place careful limits on how much and how frequently we allow them to donate. And they are compensated. They are giving up something they don’t require, something that without effort they can make more of. How much are we paying?”

Simon and I answer in unison. “Two hundred per week.”

“You can hardly accuse us of exploitation,” Kallistos reasons.

“It’s more than double the going rate,” Simon chimes in. “We explain everything to them up front, the risks, the benefits, the compensation package, grounds for termination, the necessary security measures—”

I feel another headache forming behind my eyes. “By ‘necessary security measures,’ do you mean wiping their memory?”

Simon nods. “Yes. Yes, but only after they sign and agree.”

“Sign and agree? Some of these girls are minors. They couldn’t legally agree to anything.”

“Well, yes,” Simon concurs. “But it’s the formality that lends credibility.”

The pressure behind my eyes increases. “So, you tell them they are contributing to some boutique blood blend for vampires and get them to sign a consent?” I ask.

“Not exactly.”

“Why do they think they are donating blood, exactly?”

“We hint that it might be used for top-secret medical research.”

“You
hint
?”

“We require them to fill out a questionnaire for government clearance and to sign some major confidentiality statement.”

“Then you mess with their free will. Take away their memory. Eliminate any chance that they’ll change their mind.”

“No. Their memory is only wiped regarding our procedures. They can quit anytime they want. They believe they are contributing to an experimental medical program that may benefit all mankind.” He pauses. “And in effect, they are.”

I shoot him a black look. “And by
benefiting mankind
, you mean keeping mankind safe from rogue vampires.”

“It’s working, isn’t it? And by the way, have you any idea how hard it is to find young blond virgins in Southern California? I’m telling you, this is a win, win, win,” he insists.

Kallistos has been listening quietly. I reach for his scotch, take a sip, savor the bite, then place the glass down on the table. “You approved this business plan?”

“How do you think we keep attacks down and blood in stock? We can’t simply let donors go without taking precautions. We’re vampires, Emma. We need blood to survive. We need
human
blood to survive. This may not be ideal. It may offend your sensibilities. But it’s a system that’s working.”

“For who? Not for these three girls!”

Kallistos rises from his seat and circles around the table to where Simon is sitting. “Check for other missing girls. Others who have missed appointments.”

I open my laptop and fire up my computer. “Give me
the names of anyone who’s missed an appointment. I’ll have to cross-reference.”

Simon frowns. “Please. Child’s play.” He makes a grand show of cracking his knuckles. Then he pulls out a set of headphones from his messenger bag, plugs them into his laptop, and goes to work. Seconds tick by. The silence in the room is broken only by the clacking of keys and Simon’s superspecial rendition of Prince’s “Kiss.”

The house phone rings. Kallistos answers, listens, then mutters, “Oh. My day is complete. Send him up.” To me, “Armstrong is here.”

“Things blew up this afternoon,” I tell Kallistos, wondering why I should explain. But I continue. “A former teacher of the Academy went on record with the press, saying there were connections to the occult. Johnson has scheduled a press conference. Zack and I have to put together a briefing in the next twenty minutes.”

“The Emporiums can’t be implicated,” Kallistos says. “There’s too much at stake.”

“Too much money to be made, you mean?”

Kallistos seems to finally register that the bite to my tone can’t be attributed solely to concern over a case. He tilts his head to study me. But before he can ask the question, a knock sounds at the door.

“That would be Zack.” I make a beeline for the door. “Let me fill him in.”

“This is vampire business.”

I stop dead in my tracks and turn to face him. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, I’ve been charged with finding these girls. This is
my
business. And it’s Zack’s business.” I don’t wait for his permission. I resume my course. Although I’m only a few feet from the door, he
beats me to it, placing one hand on the handle, the other on my elbow.

“I want to find these girls, too,” he says, his blue eyes searching out mine. “I may be a monster, but I do have some morals, you know.” His teasing tone then becomes quite serious. “I value human life.”

“You need blood to survive. You need
human
blood to survive. And you profit from it.”

His eyes become cold, his face rigid. “Something you’ve known from the beginning, Emma.”

Then he backs away so I can open the door.

Zack’s leaning, shoulder to the doorjamb, arms crossed, expression stern. “I think the two of you had damn well better catch me up.”

“Thought your talking points were solid, Emma.” Zack bows his head slightly as he passes Kallistos. “Your Highness.”

No sarcasm there.

Kallistos bristles. “Armstrong.”

It’s like watching two porcupines dance.

Simon has moved on to “Little Red Corvette.” I wave toward him. “That would be Kallistos’ operational director.”

Zack stares. “Seriously?”

I nod. “He’s quite brilliant.”

“I hope so. He sure as shit can’t sing.”

“We’ve uncovered another connection,” I tell him. “And the source of the money.”

Zack’s shoulders tense. “We?”

“Simon confirmed the three missing girls were all enrolled in a program run by the Blood Emporium.”

Zack heads for the dining table where Simon, oblivious to Zack’s presence, is working. “What kind of a program?”

The data on Simon’s screen looks like gibberish. He watches intently as it scrolls past.

I look over my shoulder toward Kallistos. He’s leaning against the back of the sofa, arms folded in front of his chest. Whether it’s a defensive or contemplative pose, I can’t tell. His eyes are on Zack.

I take a deep breath, then dive in. “The Emporium has been marketing some unique boutique blends in addition to the run-of-the-mill A, B, AB, O.”

“Blends of the four blood types?” he asks Kallistos.

“Our master blender also develops samples that are pure with respect to certain characteristics. The missing girls were all voluntary contributors to our YBV blend.” Kallistos walks over to the bar, opens the mini-fridge concealed in the cabinet underneath, and pulls out a blood bag. “Very exclusive. Basically, we add a small amount of their whole blood into a bag of AB negative.” He tosses the pack to Zack.

“Young Blond Virgin?” he asks, after glancing at the label.

“Highly valued and hard to find.”

“I can imagine, what with the shortage of nunneries.” Zack turns to me. “Tell me these girls haven’t been bled dry and disposed of.”

I shake my head. “If they have, these two didn’t have anything to do with it. To them, these teens are like prize cows.”

Kallistos frowns. “We don’t think of them as cows.”

“Actually, that’s not a bad analogy,” interjects Simon, headphones now off. “You know, cows produce milk. Our YBVs produce highly coveted blood of the innocent.” He extends his hand toward Zack. “I’m Simon.”

I sit back down in front of my laptop. “My partner, Zack.”

The two men shake hands.

Simon’s attention is caught by something on the computer screen. “I’m afraid you might have more missing girls.” He turns the laptop so that I can see. Kallistos and Zack crowd behind him. “Four girls in the Los Angeles area didn’t show for their appointments today.” With the click of a mouse, one by one their images appear on the screen. “Three different girls in the Orange County program were no-shows, too. Searches have been initiated for two of these seven girls, one in Los Angeles, the other in Newport Beach. It’s possible the other five haven’t been missed yet. School just got out a couple hours ago. Two of the five were absent from school today—unexcused absences—the other three attended all classes.”

Zack bends closer to the screen. “Where the hell are you getting this information?”

Simon cracks his knuckles over the keyboard. “Do you really want to know?”

Zack grimaces. “Christ. On second thought, no. Just . . . stop. I’d hate to have to arrest you for hacking.” He looks at me. “All seven girls fit the profile—young, blond, and presumably virgin. Six of the seven are under eighteen.”

I release a breath. “Shit, Kallistos. They’re just kids.”

“We’ll need those names,” says Zack grimly.

Simon looks to his boss for direction.

Zack presses forward. This time he addresses Kallistos, his tone far more tolerant and understanding than I anticipated. “You know this can’t be a coincidence. Philippe Lamont is in town. Asa Wade accompanied him. Word is neither were invited.”

“I’ve heard the rumor. Lamont’s presence hasn’t yet
been confirmed,” Kallistos says. “But we do have confirmation from Seamus’ camp that Bill Ford was sighted. He’s checked into the US Grant Hotel. We’re having him watched.”

Bill Ford? The two men are exchanging knowing glances. It’s a name they’re obviously familiar with.

“Someone want to clue me in?” I ask, not bothering to mask my irritation. “Who the hell is Bill Ford?”

Zack reaches for my computer, places it beside Simon’s, and does a quick search. A fan site comes up. A series of images is displayed. “He’s a former football player for the Saints. Retired a few years ago. Dropped out of the public eye when he became Blood of the King. If he’s in town, so is Lamont.”

Blood of the King. It’s an obsolete title I didn’t realize was bestowed any longer. It means that Ford and Lamont are bonded. It’s not uncommon for the vampire sovereigns to take on human blood slaves and paramours. Some have harems full of them. But to bond with one, to name one Blood of the King, is unheard of these days. Ford is more than Lamont’s mate. As long as he’s alive, he’s his main source of sustenance.

“You think Lamont is behind this?” I ask Zack.

“Either of you have a better idea?” He looks from Kallistos to me. “These girls are being deliberately selected. Quite possibly eliminated. Whatever else they may have in common,
we
in this room know every one of these girls can be linked to the Emporiums and, by virtue of that, to you.” He fixes his gaze on Kallistos. “You represent everything Lamont hates. Everything he’s been fighting to eliminate. Vampires mainstreaming
into society. Making them less dependent on a sovereign. Usurping Lamont’s power to control them.”

“It’s just a matter of time before those other girls are reported missing,” I add. “The local police will start to search for patterns. It might take them a while, but just like we did, they
will
find the connection. Your Emporiums will be discovered.”

Kallistos’ tone is somber. “How long is a while?”

Zack answers, “Federal law requires law enforcement to enter information about a missing child into NCIC, the National Crime Information Center Missing Persons database, no more than two hours after the receipt of the report. The reality is, it almost always takes longer. The California DOJ maintains records, as well. Parents can even go to their Web site and search parameters like age, eye color, hair color. How long could it take to connect these cases? Days, weeks, months. Maybe hours.”

“How many of these searchable databases do you know of?” Kallistos asks.

“In addition to NCIC and the state clearinghouses?” Zack asks.

“NCMEC is a private nonprofit. They’re likely to get involved with some of these. Then there’s NamUs,” I add, “The National Missing and Unidentified Persons System.”

“My point is,” interjects Zack, “once an investigator finds a pattern among the missing, they will start to look for other connections and similarities. It’s just a matter of time before the network of businesses that front the Emporiums, businesses you own, are implicated. In fact,
I have a sneaking suspicion Lamont, stand-up guy that he is, has a plan up his sleeve to help connect those dots. Nothing would make him happier than complete disintegration of the status quo.”

“We need to stay ahead of this,” says Kallistos. He skewers Simon with a frown. “How did they access our secure server? How was security breached without you knowing?”

Simon holds up his hands. “They didn’t. I don’t know yet how they identified the donors but I will find out.”

I shake my head, drawing Kallistos’ attention back to me. “The best way to stop this is for us to find these girls, and fast,” I tell him. “Unfortunately, I haven’t a clue where to start.”

Kallistos nods. “I do. I’ll make some calls.”

Zack closes my laptop and scoops it up. “And you and I have got to get that press release to Johnson. You drive. I’ll type.”

I feel Kallistos’ eyes on me as I pack up my computer and files. I don’t turn as Zack places his hand at the small of my back and steers me toward the door. The echo of Kallistos’ words rattles around in my head. I have known from the beginning that he needs human blood to survive. I’ve known about the Blood Emporiums. Known about human donors. Known, while it isn’t the only source of his income, he’s gotten richer off those human donors. Off the missing girls.

I’ve known all about it. Enjoyed the lavish lifestyle right along with him. A lifestyle paid for with blood money.

Real blood money.

*   *   *

Johnson is waiting for us, pacing in front of the elevator, when we get to the office. Zack goes directly to a printer, inserts a flash drive, and in less than thirty seconds hands Johnson a hard copy of the press release.

Johnson’s eyes scan the page, his brow furrowing. “Better than what I am tempted to say—that Bertram is a fucking wack job.” He looks up. “We found out she spent the last several days under psychiatric observation. She’s been released but let’s hope our erstwhile reporter friends have done their due diligence, too.”

He motions to Zack and me to follow him. “I want you two behind me at the podium. I don’t expect you to field questions but it won’t hurt to show the public we have our best team working the case.”

Zack follows Johnson to the elevator. I reluctantly trail behind. No matter how many times I’m involved in these things, I still get a nervous stomach when in front of a camera and microphone.

Ridiculous, I know, but behind the queasiness is the fear that someone will see me and think,
She looks just like the girl who lived next door to us fifty years ago in Malibu. Groovy chick. No. It can’t be.

But it can.

I fidget in apprehension. My handbag slips off my shoulders and crashes to the floor. Shit. You’d think after centuries of close calls, I’d be used to this.

“Relax.” Zack’s voice is at my ear as he crouches to help me gather it up.

Johnson half turns toward us. “Yeah, Monroe. Relax. It’s not like this is your first news conference.”

I straighten and tug at the hem of my jacket. “I hate them.”

“Just stand beside me and look professional. And concerned,” Johnson says, holding the elevator door open.

I step around him, wanting to snap back,
I am professional and concerned
. Zack’s hand on my arm, however, encourages me to swallow hard and stay quiet. The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can get back to Kallistos’ and see whether Simon has anything new to report. The thought that we may be looking at girls missing all over Southern California, and that in a matter of hours, all those cases may be connected to ours, makes it imperative to find out what the hell is going on.

We step through the front door of the FBI building. A crowd of about twenty reporters has gathered around a podium set up on the top step of the entryway, some with cameramen, all with microphones. Behind them, at the bottom of the stairs, held away by uniformed policemen, are thirty or so protestors bearing signs that herald the slogan:
PROTECT
OUR
CHILDRE
N
FROM
SATAN
’
S
INFLU
ENCE
.
BAN
WITCHCRAFT
.

“Jesus,” Johnson whispers to us. “Now we’re in for it.”

When they spy us, the protestors start chanting, something unintelligible that sounds like a combination of song and prayer. I search the faces for Bertram, but she either had the good grace or was cautioned by her attorney not to appear. I have no doubt it was at her encouragement, though, that these people assembled.

Johnson raises his hand for silence and they drop the decibel level but don’t stop altogether. He shakes his head and turns on the microphone.

Johnson clears his throat. “Good afternoon. We are here to address the disappearance of three young girls,
each taken on a different day, but all within the past four days and all from the same school. Our office lines have been flooded in the past couple hours with phone calls related to this case, demanding response to an ill-informed and quite possibly harmful allegation that these disappearances were connected with the occult. I’m confident you can all appreciate how vital it is that at this juncture the investigators stay focused and on track. So, we’re here to address that question. Then we plan to move on.”

The chanting increases in volume for a moment, but a policeman moves through the crowd, and whether he is threatening to arrest them or move them farther from the steps, the ploy works. The voices drop.

Johnson reads my statement practically verbatim. No evidence of any connection to the occult has been found.

A young reporter in the back shouts out, “According to Constance Bertram—”

Johnson raises his hand and speaks once again into the microphone. “We need solid information from credible and
reliable
sources.” He stares at the crowd. “Let me repeat. No witches. No Satanists. The Bureau is dedicating significant resources to investigate a real crime. Not an imaginary one.”

The crowd in the back begins to stir. Someone is trying to rile them up, but Johnson cuts it short by continuing. “We have agency personnel combing through the girls’ computers, cell phones, social media contacts, and school records. Agents Monroe and Armstrong are heading up our team.” He half turns to acknowledge us, then faces the microphone once again. “They are following up on several promising leads at this time. We are passing
out photos of the girls and information sheets with a tip number we hope you will run. Now I will take a few questions. But remember, as in all such cases, we are limited as to what we can release to the public.”

A general shout-out of questions erupts from the reporters. The first reporter Johnson chooses asks one of the questions I expected would be thrown out first.

“Why was no Amber Alert issued when the girls were first reported missing?”

Johnson bobs his head in acknowledgment. “The circumstances didn’t meet the criteria. The third girl to have gone missing, Julie Simmons, is eighteen. The first two girls, Hannah Clemons and Sylvia Roberts, went missing one after the other. Since they were friends, an explanation other than abduction had to be considered. Especially since no one witnessed any of these girls being taken. It was when the third girl was reported missing that the local police called us in. We are here to ask for the public’s help.” He glances down at his notes before continuing. “In a city of 1.3 million people, someone must have seen something. Please, encourage anyone with information related to these cases to come forward. Our hotline is up and running. We have agents standing by.” He recites a number. Pauses, then repeats it.