Samantha Moon: First Eight Novels, Plus One Novella (55 page)

“Yes, you mentioned that over the phone. I’m sorry to hear it.”

Her name was Ms. Dickens. Yes, that’s how she introduced herself to me on the phone and even now in person. So, on that note, I introduced myself as Ms. Moon, and she seemed perfectly at ease with that. I wasn’t at ease with it. I mean, c’mon.

Anyway,
Ms.
Dickens wore a very old-fashioned business suit and seemed about twenty years older than I suspected she really was. She was a seventy-year-old woman trapped in a fifty-year-old’s body.

She said, “I assure you, so am I. The police have been called, of course. And as far as they can tell it was an inside job. The police, however, don’t seem to grasp the nature of the crime or the importance of the stolen artifact. I fear that our case will be forgotten by the overworked Santa Ana Police Department.”

I made sympathetic noises. Truth was, overworked police departments are what kept many private eyes in business. Had police departments been adequately staffed, I would have been relegated to doing background searches and cheating spouse cases. Background cases were fine, and were easy money, but I avoided cheating spouse cases at all costs. I hated hearing the rotten cheating stories, and I hated being involved in the painful drama.

Not to mention, I tended to want to strangle all the cheating men. I wonder why?

Not to mention, I was a trained federal agent. I was above cheating spouse cases...unless, of course, I needed money.

Anyway, I asked what had been stolen, since Ms. Dickens had been vague on the phone. “A single item,” she answered. “A crystal egg sculpture from the Harold Van Pelt collection.”

Harold Van Pelt, apparently, was a world-class gem photographer. But what wasn’t so well-known was that he had become, over the course of 35 years, a master gemstone carver. Apparently, he had perfected the art of taking a solid block of quartz and turning it into hollowed vases or, in this case, a hollowed egg. The Wharton was the first museum to showcase his work.

“
The quartz is cut so paper thin and polished so perfectly that it is as clear as glass. How he does it, I have no clue.”

“
Well, like they always say, just carve away anything that doesn’t look like a crystal egg, right?”

She stared at me. “I’m sure there’s more to it than that, Ms. Moon.” I was fairly certain that if she had a ruler, she would have rapped my knuckles with it.

“Why do the police think this was an inside job?” I asked.

“
They haven’t said.”

“
Which makes sense,” I said. “If it was an inside job.”

Ms. Dickens tilted her head to one side. “Are you implying that I’m a suspect, Ms. Moon?”

“Oh, it’s much too soon for me to imply that,” I said, smiling brightly.

Not to mention I wasn’t getting a negative feel from Ms. Dickens; meaning, she checked out clean to my sixth sense. That is, if it was to be relied upon.

Brightly or not, Ms. Dickens didn’t like the direction this conversation was going. I didn’t, either, for that matter. I needed the job and I needed her retainer check. Badly. The last thing I needed to do was offend the lady. There was always time to offend her later.

The curator unpursed her lips. She was, after all, a reasonable woman. Or so I hoped. She said, “If this was an inside job, then I suppose everyone here is indeed a potential suspect. Me included.”

“Some people are less suspect than others,” I added.

“
You have a job to do,” she said, which was encouraging. “And part of that job is getting answers. I get it.”

“
Thank you,” I said.

“
Well, you certainly seem capable, Ms. Moon. I called your references. In particular, your boss at HUD. Earl, I believe his name was. Anyway, he assures me you are very professional and reliable. I think he used the word
spunky
.”

I had worked at HUD for a number of years before my attack rendered me into something...very different. After the attack, I had been forced to quit my job and work the night shift as a private eye. The transition from a federal investigator to a private investigator had been an easy one, although I missed the camaraderie of a partner and the massive resources of the federal government. Luckily, or perhaps, smartly, I retained my friendships with most people in the agency, and often they gave me access to their super-cool computers.

“Earl always thought highly of me,” I said.

“
He also said you were forced to quit suddenly because of a rare skin disease.” She tilted her head down, studying me over her bifocals. “Could you expand on that?”

“
It’s a rare disease that I have under control. Mostly, I have to stay out of the sun and away from McDonald’s heating lamps.”

“
I see some of that spunkiness coming through.”

“
You caught me.”

“
Will your condition affect your performance?”

“
No, ma’am, although I tend to work nights, as we’ve already discussed over the phone.”

“
Working nights is fine with us. We don’t need any more distractions during the day. And besides, the theft occurred at night, too. Maybe there’s something to that.”

“
Maybe,” I said.
Sheesh, everyone’s a detective.
“Is there a special crew that works the night shift?”

“
Security crew, yes. I will introduce you to some of them shortly.” Ms. Dickens paused and held my gaze. “I need to underline the importance of this investigation, Ms. Moon. We are a respectable, although small, cultural museum. We’ve had everything from rare Egyptian treasures to paintings by Van Gogh. A theft like this could shatter our international image and keep the popular exhibits away. Ms. Moon, the Wharton Museum is slowly making a name for itself as a world class cultural museum. We need all the help we can get, and we will pay big if you can recover the crystal egg.”

We discussed exactly how big, and it was all I could do to keep my mouth from dropping open. We next discussed a retainer fee, and she paid it without blinking, writing me a company check. The retainer fee would pay my mortgage for the next three months, and maybe a car payment or two.

Things were looking up.

She gave me a quick tour and then we shook hands and I left the way I had come, passing more live exhibits of mankind in his natural working habitat.

Or perhaps they were just offices and cubicles.

Chapter Sixteen

I called Mary Lou and got the rundown.

Anthony was awake and seemed to be holding steady. No real progress, but no relapse either. Still, my gut churned. When I thought about my son, I saw something dark around him. The brightness and vitality that surrounded him was gone.

I desperately feared what that darkness could mean.

To get my thoughts off my son, I headed over to Zov’s bistro in Costa Mesa, where I ordered a rare steak and a glass of white wine. The upscale Mediterranean restaurant was the epitome of hip, and I even noticed Orange County’s bestselling writer sitting just a few tables down. He looked serious. Maybe he was plotting his next thriller. I wondered if he could sense that a real live vampire was sitting just a few tables away.

While I waited, I plunged into Maddie’s police file, reading every note and witness statement.

I knew I should be with my son, and I would be soon, but for now there was a little girl missing, and she had made it very personal by calling me.

By calling me, even accidentally, she had assured herself of one thing: a private investigating psychic vampire mommy who was going to find her.

No matter what.

My food arrived quickly. The nice thing about ordering steaks rare is that they don’t take long to cook. And as I read from the folder, I discreetly used a spoon to slurp the blood that had pooled around the meat. I also cut the meat up without actually eating it. I scattered the chunks around my plate, hiding some under my salad. I felt like a kid hiding her food.

The blood was wonderful and satisfied some of my craving, although I would need more later. And when I had drained the meat dry, I moved on to the glass of white wine. When the wine was done, I was done reading the police report, too.

Granted, there wasn’t much to go on, but I had a few leads. I paid my bill, glanced a final time at the writer—who was now openly staring at me—and left Zov’s Bistro.

I had a girl to find.

Chapter Seventeen

I was driving down the 57 Freeway when my cell rang. I glanced down at it. Kingsley Fulcrum, a one-time client of mine who had turned into something more than a client.

A few weeks ago we had been intimate, an experience that had rocked my world, and shortly after that I was reminded of what a scumbag he could be. Kingsley was a defense attorney. A very high profile and rich defense attorney. He got paid the big bucks to get people out of jail. As far as I could tell, the man had no moral compass. Killer or not, if the price was right, he would do his damnedest to get you to walk.

Did I still care for the big lug? Yeah, I did. Did the thought of him in bed turn me on more than I cared to admit? Sweet Jesus, it did. Did the fact that he had shown up in my hotel room a week or so ago as a fully morphed werewolf, dripping blood and reeking of death, scare the shit out of me? Hell, yeah.

I clicked on, resisting the urge to sing “Werewolves of London” yet again. When your boy is sick and you’re looking for a kidnapped girl, well, your humor is the first to go.

“
What, no ‘Werewolves of London’? No ‘Arooo’? You’re losing your touch, Sam.”

“
It’s not a good time, Kingsley.”

“
So serious. Okay, have it your way. Where will you be in about an hour?”

“
My best guess? In the face of some crackhead punk.”

“
A shakedown. Sounds exciting. Tell me about it.”

I did. I also told him about my son.

“Yeah, you’ve had a rough few days. How’s your son now?”

“
Sleeping last I heard.”

“
But you’re still worried.”

“
More than you know.” I paused, gathered my wits, and plunged on. “I see death around him, Kingsley.”

“
Death?”

“
A blackness. A coldness. A sort of dark halo that surrounds his body. I’m totally freaked out.”

Kingsley was silent for a heartbeat or two. “He’ll be fine, Sam.”

But I heard it in his voice. I heard the doubt.

“
You don’t believe that,” I said. Tears suddenly blurred my eyes. I was having a hard time keeping the van in the center of the lane. “And don’t deny it.”

“
Sam, I don’t know anything, okay? I’m not psychic. My kind are not traditionally psychic.”

“
But my kind is?”

“
Often. And you seem to be growing more psychic by the day.”

“
What do you know of the black halo? Tell me. Please.”

“
I know very little, Sam.”

A nearly overwhelming sense of panic gripped me. “But you know it’s not good.”

“I know nothing, Sam. Look, now is not a good time to talk about this. You’re driving. You’re helping this little girl. Let’s meet for drinks later this week, okay?”

“
Okay,” I said.

“
Good. And Sam?”

“
Yes?”

“
I care about you deeply. Your family, too. Everything will be okay. I promise.”

I broke down, crying hard, and clicked off.

Chapter Eighteen

I pulled up to a squalid house in Buena Park, about a mile north of Knott’s Berry Farm. I sat in my minivan for a few minutes and took in the scene. Apartments across the street. A gang of Hispanic males a block away to the west. They were smoking and drinking and listening to music. The music pumped from a four-door sedan whose front end was hydraulically propped up off the ground two or three feet. The car looked ridiculous and cool at the same time. I wasn’t sure which. The gang ignored my van, which was probably a good idea. The last time I had a run-in with a Latino gang someone had died.

And gotten himself drained of blood, too.

The moon was obscured by a gauzy veil of clouds. The street had a mean feel to it. The area itself seemed malevolent, and I suspected this awareness was a result of my increased psychic abilities. I sensed death on this street. I sensed stabbings and robberies and harassment and fear. I sensed drug deals and drugs deals gone bad. I sensed a ramshackle attempt at organized crime. I sensed killers and victims. It was all here, infusing the air and the earth, the trees and the buildings. A calling card of hate for anyone sensitive enough to feel it. And I was sensitive enough. Perhaps too sensitive. The feeling was overwhelming. Energy crackled crazily through the air, too—and now that I knew what to look for, I saw many vague spirits walking among the living. Murder victims mostly. But some were lost souls, whose lives were taken by drug abuse or physical abuse.