course.” This time when she smiles, I see the fangs. “Come. Simon is waiting.”
Rose leads the way. At the end of the first aisle, we turn right and cross several more before taking another left. I follow her up a short set of industrial stairs to what appears to be an office above. I’m not exactly sure where we are, but I’m certain we’re no longer under the tattoo shop.
Rose knocks on the door before entering. “Simon?”
He’s seated on a sofa, a game console in his hand and a pile of dead bodies looming on the television screen in front of him. Simon is most decidedly
“Come in! Agent Monroe, is it? Have a seat.”
There is an endearing and awkward nervous energy about him. I take the seat opposite the only other piece of furniture in the room, a glass and stainless steel desk. On top of the desk is a sleek, state-of-the-art desktop computer.
“I understand you’re looking for a missing vampire.” Simon reaches to open a small refrigerator beside the sofa and pulls out a Red Bull. “Can I offer you something?”
“I’m good.” His reference to the missing vampire is stated with casual indifference, as if an FBI agent walked in every day to ask for help. As if someone is running interference.
While he pops open the drink, I look around.
His office looks like a dorm room. There’s a large-screen television on one wall. In front of it is an old overstuffed sofa and a video game console. There are shelves on the opposite wall that contain an impressive collection of manga and a variety of comic book action figures that I don’t recognize. On the back of the door I entered, which is now closed, is a basketball hoop.
Simon frowns at something behind me. I turn around. Rose is standing on the other side of the door. I can see her through the glass window that gives Simon a bird’s-eye view of the refrigeration system below. There are several rows like the one I just walked through. I can see now it’s likely the operation stretches the entire subterranean length of the block.
Simon motions with his hand, shooing her away.
I don’t particularly care if Rose overhears our conversation, so I get down to business. “I’m looking into the disappearance of someone who I believe receives her blood supply from you, Isabella Mancini.”
He leans against the back of the sofa. “Does the FBI know that you’re here?”
I smile. “They don’t track my every move.”
“They do. You just don’t
“I’m here unofficially,” I volunteer, hoping to get the conversation back on track.
“That’s what they all say.” He crosses his arms over his chest and leans back on the sofa. “What department are you with?”
“Missing Persons. San Diego Field Office.”
“And
Whatever I say, I’ll be feeding into Simon’s paranoia. May as well tell him the truth. “No. This is off the books.” Sort of.
I’m tempted to use my powers to ensure truthful answers, but I’m not sure it’s necessary. I suspect the same person that called Rose on her cell phone already ordered Simon to cooperate with me. I wouldn’t be here with him otherwise. My eyes do a quick sweep of the ceiling. There’s a camera here, too. I pointedly look up at it when I add, “Time really is of the essence.”
Simon follows my glance, smiles, and slides into the chair behind his desk. “Isabella Mancini.” He types the name into the computer. “What do you want to know?”
“Did anything unusual happen the last day she was here?”
“She’s a drive-through customer. She never actually came in.”
“Drive-through?”
“We offer home delivery, drive-through, and pickup. Home delivery is more expensive and by credit card or direct withdrawal only. Pickup is the most economical, but not very convenient. Parking in this neighborhood can be a bitch.”
“Tell me about it. Where is the drive-through window?”
“On the Fourth Avenue side of the building. She picked up on time, as usual, paid cash. That’s all I can tell you. She hasn’t been back since.”
“Are there any security tapes I could review to see if perhaps she was being followed?”
“I’m sorry, no. We don’t have a camera on the pickup window. For obvious reasons. Our customers demand privacy.”
“Maybe I could speak to the person who worked the window that day? See if he or she remembers anything?”
“We have two people covering each shift. They rotate working the window and getting the orders prepared for pickup. Cash is picked up every hour when the supply for the next one is delivered. Jose was on that day. I remember him saying something about going to Baja for the weekend. I can try his cell, but you know how reception is down there.”
“Please. Try.”
Simon dials the number using a program on his computer. I hear it ringing, then going to voice mail. He leaves a message. “Dude, it’s Simon. Listen, an Agent Monroe is going to call you and ask you a few questions about a customer. It’s cool. Tell her whatever you remember.”
He scribbles Jose’s number on a Post-it and hands it to me. “The signal in Mexico totally sucks. You might not be able to reach him until Monday. Anything else I can help you with?”
I pocket the number. “I’ve heard there’s been some trouble in other states, some political conflicts resulting in vandalism and violence against mainstreamers. Have you encountered anything like that?”
Simon shakes his head. “No, the California operation runs like clockwork. There have been a few problems in New Mexico and Arizona, but we’re adding extra security at those locations.”
He’s sipping on his drink, answering my questions with the friendly candor of two college chums discussing one of those video games on his wall. “Simon, I have to ask. Just what do you do here?”
“My official title is Operational Director, Western Region. I was recruited from Cal Tech three years ago. Hey, you showed it to Rose, can I see your badge?”
So our mystery man isn’t the only one who’d been watching. I pull my badge out and hand it to him.
“Cool.” He hands it back to me. “Anything else I can tell you?”
“Amy Patterson and Evan Porter.”
“What about them?”
“They’re both missing. Do they get blood from you?”
His fingers fly across the keyboard. “Evan is on home delivery, and so is Amy. We deliver in Styrofoam chests containing dry ice twice a week, signature required.” He frowns. “Amy missed a delivery a couple weeks ago. She hasn’t contacted us since. We left several discreet messages about rescheduling. No response. Evan is scheduled for delivery today.”
I lean forward. It occurs to me this might be a way to identify additional missing vampires. “Would it be possible to get a list of others who have missed deliveries or appointments?”
“Missed them in the past week?”
“How about the past six months?”
“It would take some time. We have accounts in pending status for a variety of reasons, lack of payment, people who are on vacation, et cetera.”
“We only need those that don’t have an explanation and haven’t resumed. I’d appreciate it,” I tell him. “There could be more missing. So far the common denominator in these three cases is that they are all vampires and—”
“We sourced their blood, I understand. We’ll work on it. Shall I email you the file when it’s ready?”
I don’t bother mentioning the other common denominators, Barakov and possibly even Green Leaf, as I hand him my card. “Thank you for cooperating.”
