mind show Isabella the ropes. It took time, but she came to terms with what happened. She made up her mind that she was going to finish school and she’s been working toward that goal ever since.”
“But she must feed to survive.”
“She never feeds directly from people. She gets her supply from one of the Blood Emporiums. Or she did.” He peers at me. “You know about those, too?”
I nod. Emporiums opened up a couple of decades ago, around the same time that Protectus was discovered—a drug that allows vampires to tolerate sunlight. It’s these two things that really sparked the mainstream movement. It started here in California and spread east, then into Europe and other parts of the world.
Most Emporiums are located in the back of businesses catering to those who pursue alternative lifestyles, tattoo shops, and heavy metal clubs. For vampires they offer fresh blood from paid donors who, for the most part, have no idea where the blood ends up or who is paying for it. Would-be vampires and goths simply believe they are indulging in a fantasy. They never see the real vampires who come to buy their blood bags and the drugs that allow them to function during the day.
Dexter continues. “She used a drug called Protectus to be able to walk in daylight. She went back to school, held down a part-time job, lived like everyone else. Even our friends didn’t know.”
“So she mainstreamed.”
“Totally. And as far as I know, she never had contact again with the vamp who sired her. Or any other vamp, for that matter.”
“Can you tell me the address of the Blood Emporium she frequented?”
“It’s somewhere downtown in the Gaslamp District.” He leans toward me. “Do you think the vampire connection is important?”
“Truthfully, I’m not sure. But I’m glad you told me. It’s one more lead to pursue.” I read his next question in the shadow of anxiety in his expression. “Nothing we spoke of today will ever be part of the official record. It can’t be.”
Dexter closes his eyes for an instant, settling back in his chair. When he opens them again, the darkness is gone. “You have no idea how tied up in knots I’ve been about this. I love Isabella. But I just knew if I told the police what I told you, they’d ship me to Sharp Mesa Vista Hospital for a psychiatric evaluation.” As quickly as the optimism has appeared, it’s swallowed up by a grim frown. “Then again, if I had told them, maybe Isabella would be home instead of God knows where.”
“Don’t do that to yourself. You were right when you said how the police would have reacted.” That, of course, is true. But what I say next sounds like cold comfort, even to my own ears. “Don’t give up hope. We’re not.”
Dexter reaches into his pocket, pulls out a piece of paper, opens it, and slides it across the table toward me.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“A receipt from the Blood Emporium. Isabella always paid cash. I found this in her room. She went there on the day she disappeared, then came home afterward. Someone there might have been the last person to see Isabella before she disappeared. Maybe she said something. Maybe someone at the Emporium saw something.”
I glance at the date on the slip, refold it, and slip it into my handbag. “Thanks for this.”
“You’ll look into it?” he asks.
“I’ll look into it,” I assure him.
Yet Dexter still looks uncertain. “I feel horrible. Before now, I didn’t know who to go to. Do you think this is too little too late?”
“No. Every detail is important.” I push my chair away from the table and stand up. “Thank you for trusting me. I promise to be in touch.”
He takes my outstretched hand but doesn’t get up with me. I glance back once on the way to the exit. He’s staring down at the table, as still and inanimate as one of his statues.
CHAPTER 11
It’s not easy to put that last image of Dexter out of my mind as I drive to the office. It would be a miracle if we found Isabella after two months. Was it possible she didn’t want to be found? Dexter seemed convinced she was taken. But maybe she’d merely decided living a double life was too hard and left to find sanctuary with her own kind. If that’s the case, we’ll never find her.
What I do find when I approach my cubicle is a note on my desk from Zack.
Zack has taken over the conference room we usually use for staff meetings and potlucks. The long table is now scattered with the folders stacked in neat little piles. The whiteboard is covered with notes, some handwritten directly on it in blue or red pen, others on Post-its of various colors. Zack is sitting at the far end, hand suspended in midair as if he’s forgotten the cup held halfway to his mouth. He’s staring at the notes. I take a moment to observe him.
“Waiting for an invitation? Come and join the party.”
Note to self: it’s hard to spy on a werewolf.
He puts his cup down. “The coffee’s fresh.”
I shake my head. “I think I met my caffeine quota before lunch today.” I look over at the board. “Anything?”
“No.” The one word is spit out in disappointment and irritation. “And my research into Barakov’s first wife went nowhere, either.”
“Well, the board looks lovely. Very . . . colorful.”
He gives me the fish-eye. “Where have you been all afternoon? Fending off attacks from the Nordstrom perfume girl?”
I ignore the gibe and close the door to the conference room.
Zack immediately perks up. “You’ve got something worth closing the door for? What?”
I sit down beside him. “I had a meeting with Michael Dexter.”
“How did that happen?”
“He called me right after you and I hung up this morning. He asked if I could meet him.” Now comes the tricky part, how to address the matter of Isabella’s nature. I need to convey to Zack my knowledge of the supernatural world, without intimating that I’m part of it. I’d like to be able to do it without him feeling threatened, exposed. But after thinking it through, I don’t think I can. This could be an important new lead, and whatever his reaction, I’ll come up with a way to deal with it.
I draw a sharp breath. “There’s something about Isabella that he wanted to tell me. Something that wasn’t in the official police report.”
I have his complete attention. “Oh?”
“She’s a vampire, Zack.” Before he can sputter that vampires don’t exist and I must have had too much wine with lunch, I cut him off. “Don’t waste time pretending to be shocked or telling me that I’m crazy. This isn’t going to end up in any report. It won’t leave the room. But we both know vampires are as real as . . . well, werewolves.”
Both eyebrows shoot up, but he recovers quickly. He reaches out and places a hand on my forehead. “Are you running a fever?”
I push it away, then lower my voice and lean in close. “I won’t expose you, promise. But I know what you are. I’ve known it from the beginning. From the instant we met.”
Zack’s shoulders stiffen.
“This isn’t about you. It’s about Amy and Isabella.” I stand up and walk over to where photos of them are taped to the board. “They’re depending on me, on us. I feel time may be running out. We have a new angle to
