Cursed

The silence gives way to what sounds like an embarrassed cough. “I’m sorry, too, for interrupting your bath. Michael Dexter here.”

I sit up straighter in the tub. “What can I do for you?”

Another pause. Then a heavy sigh. “I wasn’t entirely honest with you yesterday.”

“Oh?” I get the tingly feeling that comes with the possibility of finally catching a break on a tough case. I keep my voice curious yet detached when I ask, “What about?”

All I hear on the other end is breathing. He’s not going to confess to playing a part in Isabella’s disappearance, is he? Like Zack, I’ve been becoming more and more convinced that Barakov is involved in this somehow. I find myself holding my own breath.

Finally he says, “I held back something that might be important to the case. If I tell you, will you keep it in confidence?”

“I’m not a priest, Michael. I’m a law enforcement officer, a federal agent. You know if you tell me something incriminating—”

“Oh, Jesus, no,” he interrupts. “I didn’t do anything to Isabella—” He breaks off. “This is something I can’t talk about over the telephone. Can I see you this afternoon?”

“I’m free anytime after two. Do you want me to come to your place?”

“I’m having lunch with the Director of the Museum of Modern Art. I’ll be finished by two. Can you meet me at the Japanese Tea Garden in Balboa Park?”

“Yes. Michael, are you sure this can wait?” I don’t want him losing his courage between now and then.

“It can. And I have to see your face when I tell you this.”

Now I’m really curious. “All right. See you at two.”

I second-guess myself while I finish my bath, dress, and jump into the car to head for Evan’s place. Should I go to Balboa Park and catch Dexter before his lunch date?

What good would that do? Scare him? Embarrass him?

No. Better to trust he’ll show at two. And if he doesn’t, I know where he lives. Liz is always there for me and she needs me now.

Evan Porter lives in the Marina District downtown. The fact that he is doing very well at his law practice is evidenced by his home. His loft is located in the old Soap Factory, one of the largest all-brick buildings on the West Coast . . . and an exclusive address. Units run close to a mil and they come with guest parking. Unfortunately, an ominous-looking black sedan with tinted windows occupies the spot Liz told me to park in. I dial her cell.

“There’s a car in number twelve. You said twelve, right?”

“We just finished our meeting. He’s on his way down.”

Right on cue, the sedan comes to life. The engine fires and the driver steps out. With stiff precision he opens the rear passenger door, then waits at attention. He looks like a military man, close-cropped hair, compact body, dark well-tailored suit.

Who the hell has Liz been meeting with?

Before I can swivel around to look, a man walks past the driver’s side of my car. Undoubtedly, it’s the man. I never saw him coming. He’s a study in black: black boots, black slacks, and black leather coat. His stride falters when he reaches the hood of my car. There’s an almost imperceptible hesitation. His head turns, but only slightly. His shoulder-length dark hair, decidedly not military, masks his profile. He continues to the car and the waiting driver. The pause was so fleeting I now find myself wondering if I’d imagined it.

I still have the cell in my hand. “Who’s the mystery man?”

“He’s a long-standing client,” Liz answers.

The man climbs into the back of the sedan. The driver slams the door. A moment later he’s back behind the wheel. I put my SUV in reverse and roll back a couple of feet, giving them plenty of room to pull out.

“I assumed he was a client,” I say after the sedan has pulled away. “Who is he?”

“Why do you ask?”

“He hesitated as he walked by the car. Like he might have sensed something.”

Liz dismisses the idea. “Through one of my spells? Impossible. Come on up.”

She clicks off and I steer into the now-vacated space.

By the time I get to Evan’s door, Liz is waiting for me. I’d normally describe her as one of the most grounded, self-confident women I’ve ever known. And one of the most beautiful. Tall and willowy with gleaming light brown skin and a long mane of hair that’s never had a bad day, she turns heads wherever she goes. Today, though, she’s all wringing hands and breathless anxiety. She’s wearing a pair of old flannel pajama bottoms and a T-shirt at least three sizes too big. Evan’s, I imagine. And not her usual business attire.

“You saw a client looking like this?”

“It was an emergency.” She pulls me inside. “There’s some political unrest in the vampire community, trouble brewing. Vampire-on-vampire hate crimes are on the rise and . . . Never mind about that.” She thumps her chest. “What am I going to do?”

“Well, if Evan saw you looking like this before he left for work this morning, you might not have anything to worry about now.”

She runs her fingers through her hair. “I didn’t sleep a wink.”

I find myself looking around the loft. “So, this is Evan’s place. How about a tour?”

She waves a hand. “Living room, dining room, kitchen, two bedrooms upstairs. Should we talk in the living room or maybe in the kitchen? I have lunch.”

I’ve never seen her so upset. I reach out and attempt to smooth down her hair. “How about we start with lunch? If I know you, you probably skipped breakfast.”

She leads me through a designer’s showcase of a place. Comfortable but sterile. Living room painted all white with overstuffed sofa and large media unit, dining room with whitewashed fireplace and a modern glass table, kitchen the Top Chef would feel at home in. Only here and there do I see touches that can only be Liz’s—a funky black-and-white rug under the coffee table in the living room, a crystal vase on the fireplace mantel that catches the sunlight streaming in from terrace doors and reflects a rainbow of color on the wall behind it, a pot of herbs on the granite kitchen counters.

I barely have time to take it all in before Liz is pushing a plate into my hand. “Help yourself. We’ll sit on the terrace. I could use some fresh air.”

She’s set up a salad bar on the counter separating the kitchen from the living room. I pile my plate with greens, spinach, artichoke hearts, olives, red pepper, sliced tomato. She has a tiny plate of shredded chicken breast. I know it’s for me. Liz is vegan. I dump it on top of the other stuff. The only dressing I see is some kind of raspberry vinaigrette.

Vinaigrette? Liz knows me better.

“Where’s the good stuff?” I ask, holding up the offending bottle.

She lets out an exaggerated sigh that telegraphs the level of her impatience, tromps to the fridge, and pulls out a bottle of ranch dressing. “Sorry. I meant to put it out.”

Much better. It’s my favorite. I get it at a local farmers’ market. I try to be subtle as I check the expiration date.

I’m not subtle enough.

“It’s still good,” Liz huffs. “I bought it for you the last time you ate at my place.”

I shake the bottle. “How’d it end up here?”

“I brought the perishables from my fridge so they wouldn’t spoil. They had to unplug and move it to paint. Jeez. Has it only been a couple of days?”

My salad is ready. I pick up a napkin and fork. “Aren’t you eating?”

“I can’t. I’m too upset.”

She’s across the floor and out the terrace doors before I draw another breath.

I settle into a wrought-iron chair at the glass table facing Liz. I resist the urge to scold her for not eating. What she needs me to do now is listen. I’ll have to remember to scold her before I leave. “I don’t understand why this has you so spooked,” I say between bites. “It’s not as though you and Evan just met. And you like him, don’t you?”

“Of course I like him,” Liz snaps. “That’s the trouble. We have fun. We understand each other. He lets me