“Big talk,” he says. But I notice his hand is not quite so steady. “No, you and I are going to—”
He doesn’t get a chance to finish. I have the gun out of his hand so fast his brain can’t process what happened. He’s still staring at where the gun used to be. His eyes flick back and forth from his empty hand to mine—and the gun now pointing at
“How’d you do that?”
“Just get in your car and get out of here.”
He doesn’t wait for me to say it twice. He slips behind the wheel and cranks over the engine. I step away and slam the door.
But like most pain-in-the-ass bystanders, he has to get the last word. “I’m still going to call the police,” he yells back, gunning the car out of the parking lot with a squeal of rubber.
I see David and Tracey at the far end of the lot walking back toward me. Just the two of them.
“You do that,” I say quietly to the departing car.
Fucking-A.
The skip got away.
I stick the gun I took from the now-fleeing driver into the pocket of my jacket.
Over my shoulder, a sound.
A laugh? Or a growl?
I whirl around.
Vampire senses spring to alert. Nothing. Nothing moving, nothing breathing. No supernatural blips on my internal radar screen. Was it my imagination?
But the echo hangs in the air before the sound fades away like fog in the sun.
TRACEY AND DAVID beat me into the office the next day. The mood is glum. I walk straight over to our gun safe in the corner of the office and work the combination. Stick the .22 inside and twirl the lock.
“Where’d that come from?” David asks.
“Took it off our good Samaritan last night. So, what’s up?”
David slaps the flat of his hand on a folded newspaper. “The cops picked Smith up. Fucking civilian cost us a bounty.”
“And I’m fine, by the way,” I say with mild amusement. “Thanks for asking.”
David blows out a breath. “You’re tough. The minute I saw you on your feet, I knew you were okay.”
He’s a big guy, a former pro–football player who has some experience with on-the-job accidents. His philosophy is if you can get up on your own after being hit, you’re still in the game.
Tracey isn’t so sure.
“Did you get yourself checked out?” she asks. “That door clocked you pretty good.”
She’s a tough one, too. An ex-cop who’s tall and willowy as a whippet but with the staying power of a pit bull. She signed on as a partner a little over three months ago. Her concern makes me smile. Neither of them knows that I’m a vampire. Nothing short of a stake in the heart or a well-aimed ax to the head can put me down permanently.
“I’m fine. Really.” I pick up a pile of flyers hot off the fax and fan them. “Anything promising here?”
“Maybe one.” David takes the flyers from me and pulls out a single sheet. “Not as big a payday as the one we lost last night but better than nothing.”
He hands it over. An arson suspect skipped bond and was last seen in Phoenix. He’s got a ten-thousand- dollar bounty on his head. I look up. “Phoenix? In August?”
“Yeah.” David frowns. “I know. That’s why I think we should flip to see which one of us accompanies Tracey—”
“
“Because you’re the rookie.” David fishes a coin out of his pocket, flips it with one hand, slaps it down on the back of his other. He looks at me. “Call it.”
“Heads.”
He peeks. “Shit. Okay, Tracey. Go pack an overnight case. We leave in thirty minutes.”
TWO
AN HOUR LATER, DAVID AND TRACEY ARE ON the road, and I’m alone enjoying my little victory. I pick up the newspaper and take it out to the deck that spans the back length of our office. It’s Saturday so most of the other offices on our block are closed. We’re situated on Pacific Highway a stone’s throw from Seaport Village. Traffic noise and the chatter of tourists mingle with the shrill, sharp squawk of scavenging seagulls. The deck hangs over San Diego Bay. It’s noon and the sun is high in the sky, bouncing off bobbing sailboats and turning speedboat wakes into bright silver froth. The kind of day San Diego is famous for. Mild. Sunny. Beautiful to behold.
A thousand times better than the desert hell David and Tracey are headed for.
I plop into a chair, congratulating myself on my good luck. All I have to do is mind the office for an hour or two and then I’ll take the afternoon off. I shake open the newspaper. Read the article about the one that got away. Smith was picked up two hours after we lost him, in a bar, recognized by someone who saw his picture on the news. No mention of our run-in with him or of any indignant citizen complaining that three “muggers” had assaulted him in a parking lot.
The chase replays in my head. I rub at my ribs—reflex really, now there’s not even a mark left to show that I got whacked by that car door. Wonder what the guy in the car was doing there at 2 A.M.? The mall stores had been closed for hours, no bars or restaurants in the area. He took a chance insinuating himself in a situation he knew nothing about. There’s no way he could have missed the fact that there were three of us.
And he had a gun.
Curiouser and curiouser.
And what about that creepy sound I heard? Or thought I heard. It could have been the wind. Or . . . what?
I’ve been a vampire for a little over a year and I’ve come across so many strange things I’ve lost count. I’m no longer surprised or startled by anything that I see or hear. I can’t explain most things, I don’t try anymore. But the guy in the parking lot was no supernatural being. I could get some answers from him. At least I can find out why he was hanging around in a deserted parking lot and why he had a gun.
I go back inside, open the safe, examine the .22. The serial number is easily distinguishable. A call to a friend at SDPD and he agrees to check the gun registry and get back to me.
Nothing to do now but wait.
THE CALL COMES in a long hour and a half later. I jot the information down on a notepad, thank my buddy, and ring off with the promise that I owe him one. Then I sit back in my chair and look at the name.
Alex Hampton.
I power up my laptop and do a directory search—of both legal and illegal sites. In the bounty-hunting business you cultivate certain talents. Knowing how to get information is one of them. In less than ten minutes, I have an address and phone number. Should I call first? No. Alex surprised me last night. It’s my turn to return the favor. I eject each bullet out of the cylinder on his .22 and drop them into a desk drawer. The gun itself I stick in my jacket.
Hampton’s address is on Hilltop Drive in Chula Vista, a manicured street of upper-middle-class houses. Hampton has one of the nicer ones. He lives on the west side of the street with a view in back that stretches along the coastline. There are children’s toys in front, a trike, a two-wheeler with training wheels. He has at least two young kids.
I ring the bell. The door opens a crack, the length allowed by the chain at the top. One round, blue eye peeks out. A cacophony of sound from a Saturday morning cartoon show spills out, too. I kneel down so I’m eye level.
