Vampire for Hire (12 page)

 
      
 
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. Murders victims mostly. But some were lost souls, whose lives were taken by drug abuse or physical abuse.

 
      
 
It was into this environment of loss and despair and suffering that I stepped out of my minivan.

 
      
 
A low iron fence surrounded the property. The gate was topped with rusted iron spikes. The spikes were mostly rounded and probably wouldn’t do much damage unless some fell from a great height. The front gate was not locked and swung open on rusted hinges. As I moved across the front yard, I felt eyes on me from across the street. I had attracted the attention of the neighbors in the apartment building. No doubt watching from one of the windows.

 
      
 
I stepped up onto the cement porch, which was cracked and flaked with peeling paint. I paused a moment, getting a feel for the house. Someone was inside, I knew that much. I could hear a TV on somewhere. The house itself was drenched in so much tragedy that it was a beehive of bad vibes, depression and anything else negative.

 
      
 
More than anything, the house was the last known residence of Lauren Monk and her daughter
Maddie
. I shook my head. What a place to raise a little girl.

 
      
 
Granted, I doubted there was much “raising” going on here.
Existing
was more like it.

 
      
 
I knocked on the door loudly. The door was made of metal and seemed better suited in a parking garage stairwell. There were dents in the door, about waist high. Someone had tried to kick it in at some point. Maybe many points. I looked around the metal frame. As far as I could tell, they weren’t successful. The door and frame had held firm.

 
      
 
The TV continued to blare. A distant siren wailed behind me. Down the street someone laughed and others followed suit. I knocked again, and again.

 
      
 
No response.

 
      
 
I stepped back, lifted my foot, and kicked the door in.

 
      
 
Chapter Nineteen

 
      
 
The door swung violently back, slamming hard into the wall behind it, so hard that the doorknob punctured the drywall. It stayed open like that as I stepped in. Unless someone was brandishing a stake or silver-tipped arrows, I wasn’t too concerned about what was waiting for me on the other side. Sure, a bullet to the chest probably would hurt like hell, and no doubt ruin my blouse, but gone are the days where I worried much about my own physical safety.