Under Wraps
CRIME SCENE
I walked into the room, my eyes immediately going to the bed, to the dead woman. The sheet was still thrown back and I balled my hands into fists, digging my fingernails into my palms as I willed myself to walk forward, to take in the scene. The woman’s peaceful head still rested calmly on the silky pillow, but now I could see that her neck was barely attached. There were horrible-looking bite marks on her collarbone and across her chest; the skin was puckered, torn, and purpled. There were double puncture wounds on each upturned wrist, and more blood than I had ever seen in any of Nina’s blood-bank lunch deliveries.
“Who could have done this?” I whispered, unable to tear my eyes away.
Hayes looked sideways at me, his jaw set, that muscle twitching again. “I was hoping you could tell me.”
I found myself stepping closer, examining the corpse. I pushed aside a crumple of torn, blood-soaked nightie and gasped.
There was a yawning, bloody hole just under the woman’s left breastbone—and her heart had been completely removed …
U
NDER
W
RAPS
:
The Underworld Detection Agency Chronicles
HANNAH JAYNE
All copyrighted material within is
Attributor Protected.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2011 by Hannah Schwartz
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
All Kensington titles, imprints and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational or institutional use.
Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Special Sales Manager: Attn.: Special Sales Department. Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
eISBN-13: 978-0-7582-6785-6
eISBN-10: 0-7582-6785-1
First Printing: March 2011
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed in the United States of America
To my second-grade teacher
Vi Sullivan:
I don’t know where you are,
but I’m here because of you.
Thanks for letting me keep writing.
A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS
Wasn’t it Hillary Clinton who said, “It takes a village to raise a writer”? Special thanks to my agent extraordinaire Amberly Finarelli and my über-patient editor John Scognamiglio; to the San Francisco Police Department and officers Gardner and Green from the Santa Clara Police Department—thanks for listening to my endless questions and keeping an (almost) straight face as I learned how to shoot. Thanks to the phenomenal staff at M Is for Mystery in San Mateo and Crema café in San Jose for allowing a poor writer to nurse a single cup of tea for hours on end. A special thanks to Heather Woods for always encouraging me to write on (even when I inundate her with six versions of the same scene) and to Prolific Oven Palo Alto for gently shooing us out at night. Thanks to CTS for not evicting me. To John and Oscar for your endless support—I’ll be forever indebted, and to Joan who made all this happen (and brought the toilet paper to boot)—I couldn’t have done it without you.
Finally, a very special thanks to my parents who may not have always understood but always encouraged, and to Jack and Lily who constantly remind me that it’s impossible to feel self-important while cleaning out the cat box.
Contents
Chapter One
This was why I didn’t do magic. Well, this and the fact that incidents like this wreaked havoc on my organic cotton-blend wardrobe.
I stood by while Nina perched on her desktop, hands on hips, teeth bared, dodging the singed-hair-smelling puffs of smoke that shot from Mrs. Henderson’s scaled, flared nostrils.
Lorraine, the Gestalt witch and resident UDA Accounts Payable shark, was hopping from foot to foot, muttering a calming spell that made flowers bloom on the desk and then wilt under Mrs. Henderson’s dragon-fire heat.
“Mrs. Henderson,” I said, reaching out to soothe the eight-foot dragon. “I’m sure Nina didn’t mean anything by her comment. If you would just let me help—”
Mrs. Henderson angled a surprisingly well-manicured claw at Nina and jabbed at the air in front of her. “That woman should not be allowed to deal with the public!” she spat, blowing a fireball from between pursed, candy-pink lips.
“Oy!” Lorraine yelped and scampered out the door, patting her smoking scalp while I watched Nina’s small hands ball into fists, her dark eyes agape, glaring at the bowling-ball-sized hole burned into her hand-smocked blouse.
“This was an original!” Nina shrieked.
“Mrs. Henderson,” I tried again.
Mrs. Henderson clapped a claw over her mouth, but I could still see the snaking smile on her thin dragon lips. “Sorry,” she said. “That one really got away from me.”
“If you think that I am going to change my mind, or wear”—Nina wrinkled her nose in disgust—“fire-retardant fabrics to deal with this, this—”
“Client,” I offered.
“Lizard,
” Nina spat, “who can’t hold her fire breath …”
I cringed as Mrs. Henderson’s eyes bulged. “Who are you calling a lizard, Nosferatu?”
I ducked just in time to miss a spout of fire that engulfed Nina and fizzled on her cold, marble skin. She sniffed, the charred remains of her singed dress falling off and crackling to the desk, leaving her stark naked, stiletto heeled, and completely bald.
“Why you—”
I watched Nina rise up on her toes, her sharp fangs pressed against her Resolutely Red MAC lip stain.
“Nina!” I stepped in front of her just in time to catch a blast of Mrs. Henderson’s fire. It balled around me, the orange-yellow flames held an inch from my skin. They crackled, white hot, then fizzled out.
Mrs. Henderson frowned, her tail flopping on the floor and upturning my potted spider plant. “I’m sorry about that, Ms. Lawson.” She shrugged, her slick gray-green shoulders hugging her ears. “I guess it’s a good thing you’re immune.”
So, not only do I not do magic, magic can’t really be done
to
me. So, exit zombie love-slave spells, demonic possession, and Disney princess movies; enter standing in between a stark-naked vampire and an eight-foot dragon on a Tuesday afternoon.
“Mrs. Henderson,” I said, using my most calming tone. “How about if I personally handle all your paperwork from now on?”
Mrs. Henderson eyed Nina and then pinned me with a yellow-eyed glare.
“All
of it?”
I nodded, holding out my hand. “Every last form. I’m sure we can get this all worked out for you”—I smiled beguilingly at Nina—“with no further problems.”
Mrs. Henderson slapped her paperwork into my open palm. “Okay,” she said, the heat still in her breath. “But expect me to file a formal complaint with Mr. Sampson about her!”
She turned around, sashaying her large, scaled behind out the door, her tail slithering on the floor behind her.
Nina jumped off her desk and shimmied into a lemon yellow sheath dress she yanked out of her handbag. “I swear, that woman!” she muttered.
“Nina—”
Nina raised what remained of her left eyebrow and then rubbed it vigorously until the hair started to grow back. “This is not my fault,” she said. “That woman was smoking. Smoking in my office!”
I sighed. “Mrs. Henderson is a dragon. She can’t really help it.”
“Oh. So I’m just supposed to sit here, breathing all that smoke for minimum wage? Oh, no.” Nina crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Not in this lifetime.”
She wagged her head, enviable locks of glossy black hair sprouting from her scalp, growing until she had a full head of waist-length hair.
I nonchalantly patted my Brillo Pad curls and lowered my voice, trying my best to offer a calming vibe. “Nina, you haven’t breathed in one hundred and sixteen years. You’re a vampire. And we don’t make minimum wage.”
