“Hey. Is your daddy home?”
The door slams shut. I hear the thud of little feet and the yell of “Daddy” as the kid runs to find his father.
When the door opens next, I’m greeted by a disheveled, pajama-clad man who rubs the sleep from his eyes as he asks, “Yes?”
This guy is about forty, overweight, balding.
Not the man I met last night.
“Sorry. I must have the wrong address. I’m looking for Alex Hampton.”
“You found him, lady. What do you want?”
I have two choices now. Retreat or barge ahead. I pull the gun from my jacket. If he acts frightened and slams the door in my face, I know I have the wrong guy and I’d better get the hell out of here.
He doesn’t.
He steps outside, closing the door behind him. “Where did you find it?”
He’s reaching to take it, but I pull it back. “Where did you lose it?”
He tilts his head, studying me. “Are you from the police?”
“No.”
He looks back at the door, as if to assure himself it’s still closed, but lowers his voice anyway. “I lent it to somebody. He called early this morning and said he lost it.”
“Who did you lend it to?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Did he tell you how he lost it?”
A shake of the head.
“Look, I’m not a cop,” I say. “But I am an officer of the court.” Sort of, anyway. “If you don’t tell me who had the gun last, any crime committed with it will be laid on your doorstep.”
I have no idea whether or not a crime has been committed, but a pint of bluff is worth a pound of fact.
His face reveals the inner battle. Should he rat out the friend or risk his own well-being? A no-brainer, in my experience. The only question is how long will he take to decide to give up his “friend.”
Not very long.
His expression clears. He breathes out a shaky breath. “Stephen Powers.” Then he waits, as if I should recognize the name.
It does sound familiar. But no face pops to mind. “Did he say why he needed a gun?”
“No. And I didn’t ask.”
“Okay. I’m going to keep the gun for a while. You’ll get it back when we’ve had a chance to check out your story.”
“‘We’?” The cloud descends once more. “I thought you said you weren’t a cop.”
I smile and hold out my hand. He takes it. We shake. “I’ll be in touch, Mr. Hampton. Best to keep all this to yourself for now.”
I leave him before he can think about it too long or hard. I figure I have at least a day before he contacts the real cops. Time enough to locate Stephen Powers and find out why he needed a gun.
THREE
I DRIVE BACK TO THE OFFICE ACTUALLY EXCITED at the prospect of doing a little sleuthing. Too much of my life this last year has been taken up with fighting supernatural battles. I like the idea of tackling a human puzzle. Though there may be no puzzle at all. For all I know, this Stephen Powers may have a perfectly logical reason for sitting alone in a car in a deserted parking lot at 2 A.M. with a gun.
Maybe I can help this guy. Maybe he’s been threatened in some way. Maybe someone in his family is in trouble.
Right.
My inner cynic raises her ugly head—more likely Stephen Powers is an addict and he was there waiting for his dealer.
I’ve been dealing with scumbags too long.
No. I prefer to think positively. When I pull into the parking lot, I’ve convinced myself once more that I’m going to find this Stephen Powers and solve his earthly problem for him. Even if it means using unearthly methods.
I’m already ticking off ways to track him down as I unlock the door and step inside. The telephone is ringing. In the spirit of my new, optimistic brain set, I answer, “Angel Investigations. We help the helpless.”
There’s a moment of silence. Followed by a click.
Doesn’t even faze me. As I suspected it would, the phone rings again. This time, I use my professional voice. “Anna Strong.”
A pause, but much shorter this time. “Anna?”
I don’t recognize the voice. “Yes?”
“This is Susan. I need to talk to you. Can we come to your office?”
Recognition floods back. Susan is one of the witches from the Watcher Organization. The “we” can only be her sister witches, Min Liu and Ariela Acosta. “What’s this about?”
“I’d prefer to talk to you in person. Do you mind if we come over now?”
It takes only a second to decide. “No. Do you need directions?”
A short burst of nervous laughter. “Witches, remember? We’ll use a locator spell. See you in twenty minutes.” She disconnects.
My brain buzzes with possible reasons—mostly negative—the three witches would want to see me. I’m so busy guessing, it takes ten minutes for something else to percolate through the bog.
Susan’s last name is Powers.
Coincidence?
Spidey senses start to tingle.
No need to start a search when my gut tells me Stephen Powers will soon be a puzzle no longer.
I’m at the door to wave them in the minute I hear footsteps approaching from the sidewalk.
Susan says, “Anna, we need your help.”
They file in silently: a petite Chinese woman of indeterminate age with black eyes and waist-length raven hair; a middle-aged soccer mom with a neat highlighted bob that curls at her chin and frames her face; a twenty- something Latina with long, straight hair drawn back in a ponytail from a pretty, even-featured face. I motion them to take seats across the desk from me.
They are uneasy. I didn’t need vampire senses to pick that up. The glances they exchange as they perch themselves on the edges of the chairs, the restless way their eyes dart around the office lighting on everything but me, the foot tapping and finger drumming—all dead giveaways.
Since they came to me, I decide to wait them out, even though my curiosity is quickly nearing the boiling point.
I’ve reached the impatient finger tapping on the desktop when Ariela clears her throat. She glances at her sister witches and begins to speak.
“Anna, we come to you for help.”
“You already said that.”
Breaking the silence loosens the tongues of the others.
“We wouldn’t if it weren’t so important.” This from Min Liu.
“It’s a matter of life and death.” From Susan Powers.
No longer avoiding me, their attention becomes focused with the intense fierceness of cats watching a moth on a windowsill. An internal alarm buzzes and flutters. “What can I do for you?”
Ariela seems to be the spokesperson. She draws a shallow, shaky breath and folds her hands in her lap, her fingers clenched so tightly that her knuckles turn white.
