Cursed (8 page)

Day Three: Thursday, April 12

I’d had a restless night, drifting in and out of sleep. Now as I lie in bed watching the sun filter through the windows lining the front of the carriage house, I know any possibility for real sleep is over. Stifling a yawn, I brace myself and throw back the covers. A run is the last thing I want, but my body knows it’s just what I need. Within minutes I’ve changed into my workout clothes and am out the door heading down Sunset.

The fog is thick and the streets are wet with dew. It feels more like fall than spring. The wide, palm-lined street is silent save for the sound of my running shoes slapping against the pavement. This is one of the oldest neighborhoods in San Diego, and unlike Michael Dexter’s, most of the Craftsman-style homes with their low-pitched rooflines, overhanging eaves, tapered support columns, and generous front porches have been carefully maintained. They were built in the early nineteen hundreds when I was in another town, living under another name. But I can appreciate their beauty now.

I take my normal route, merging onto Fort Stockton, then going left onto Hawk before taking another left onto West Lewis. I run past the Historic Business Center. A small coffee shop is in the process of opening. All of the other shops are still shut up tight. Back onto Fort Stockton, I continue on to Presidio Park. I wind my way through a series of paths while keeping an eye out for the homeless that sometimes occupy the area. Although I know how to defend myself, my powers don’t extend to superstrength or superspeed. I’ve often wished they did. Hell, I don’t even have superhealing, not like a vampire or a Were. Demeter didn’t want to make it that easy on me. I’ll heal from anything, but I do it the old-fashioned way, like a human, with time and pain.

By the time I get back to the house, the fog has lifted. I start the coffee I’d put up the night before. While I wait for it to brew, I whip up a glass of orange-mango juice with a little protein powder. Smoothie in hand, I trek out to the front of the estate’s drive in search of the newspaper. I find it once again in the rosebushes instead of on the concrete. How the kid can miss twenty feet of driveway, yet manage to precisely place the paper in the center of a rosebush day after day, I’ll never know. I manage to retrieve it without suffering any damage from the thorns, then tuck it under my arm and set out to check the property.

I fish the keys from the pocket of my warm-up jacket, let myself in the front door, and disable the alarm. I swallow the last of my smoothie, leaving the glass on the entryway table along with the paper and yesterday’s mail before heading upstairs. It’s a path I’ve walked hundreds of times. I check the doors and windows. I make sure there haven’t been any plumbing mishaps. Twice a week I water the plants. But not today. My sweep of the downstairs goes quickly. In less than ten minutes I’ve done my duty, secured the house, and am on my way back to the cottage.

I scan the morning headlines on the way. The first thing I see, on page one of the
San Diego Union-Tribune
,
is a picture of Amy Patterson. According to the article, Amy’s disappearance is now being treated as a kidnapping. The reporter casts Haskell in an unfortunate light. She’s described as being the person who was closest to Amy and in charge of all of her finances. He intimates Haskell is perhaps the person with the most to gain should a ransom be demanded and not be paid and Amy end up dead. What does Haskell have to say for herself? Apparently she failed to return the reporter’s phone calls and granted him nothing more than a big fat “no comment” when he showed up at the gallery unannounced.

At that, I have to smile. I imagine he got more than a “no comment” when he showed up at the gallery. When I remember Haskell’s brisk, no-nonsense style, what she really said to the reporter was most probably unprintable.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee hits me as I walk through the door. I put the paper aside and head straight into the dining area, where my laptop awaits. My job for the next few hours is to research Dr. Alexander Barakov. While my laptop powers up, I procrastinate for a few more minutes, washing out the blender and pouring myself a generous cup of coffee. I bring the pot back to the table with me. I know I’m going to need it. Where Zack seems to revel in wading through piles of paper in search of a common denominator, making color-coded notes and arranging them in neat little columns, I find research of this kind tedious, almost painful. Nevertheless, it’s time to get started. I stare at the login prompt. Where to begin is the question.

Once I do, the hours pass unexpectedly fast. Dr. Alexander Barakov is a renowned and well-connected physician. There are pages of testimonials from satisfied clients. Alongside them are dozens of red-carpet photos of high-profile celebrities—their full breasts, perfect noses, and uplifted asses a testament to his skill. I find more raves and reviews on blogs, a few references to magazine articles. His patients love him. At least the ones who haven’t disappeared.

Pausing to refill my coffee mug, I take a moment to review my notes.

Barakov grew up in New York. His father was a physician, his mother a member of the Junior League and the Daughters of the American Revolution. He received his undergraduate degree from Harvard in biology, then went on to Johns Hopkins Medical School, where he excelled academically. He completed his internship at Johns Hopkins Medical Center. That’s where he met the first future Mrs. Alexander Barakov, nursing student Charlotte Murphy. The two married and then Barakov moved on to a coveted fellowship in plastic surgery at UCLA.

A search of birth records shows two stillbirths and one live birth for the couple. The surviving child died of SIDS at the age of four months. After the death, Charlotte attempted suicide and spent six months in a private psychiatric hospital. There would be other suicide attempts over the next twenty or so years as she struggled with bipolar disorder. Barakov always managed to keep the drama playing out on the home front separate from work.

While his reputation as a stellar physician steadily grew, Charlotte threw herself into a variety of charity projects. The
Los Angeles Times
archives hold dozens of photographs of her. There are several articles mentioning her as well. The largest spread occurred seven years ago. That’s when Charlotte Barakov suddenly disappeared without a trace.

Bingo.

I bookmark the page.

About one million people go missing each year in the United States. Ninety percent turn up eventually. With over three hundred million people in the U.S., what are the chances that one man would be connected to not one, not two, but
three
missing women?

Although math has never been my strong suit, I think I can say with complete confidence that the odds fall somewhere between astronomical and fucking impossible. I smell a rat.

An alarm pops up on my computer, interrupting my chain of thought.

Crap.
I’m supposed to meet Liz in an hour. There are a dozen more links in the
Times
that I need to screen. I move through them quickly, bookmarking those I want to review more thoroughly later. The last one is a wedding announcement from five years ago. Barakov remarried. Wife number two, Dr. Barbara Pierce, is ten years his junior and a surgeon. It was a small ceremony. Barakov’s then long-standing secretary and Pierce’s son from a prior marriage stood up for the couple, who honeymooned in Paris.

I glance at the clock. Now I’m down to forty-five minutes. I grab my cell and rush into the bathroom. I sweep aside the curtain around the old-fashioned cast-iron claw-foot tub, turn on the taps, and then pour in a generous amount of vanilla and lavender bath salts that I blend myself and keep on a narrow side table in an antique apothecary jar. I may be running late, but there are some luxuries I don’t deny myself. I quickly pull my top off over my head and tie up my hair before calling Zack. He doesn’t pick up until the third ring. By that time I’ve managed to divest myself of the rest of my clothes.

“The check on Isabella’s plates turned up nada,” he grouses upon answering.

“Yeah? Well, what I’ve got will make up for that ten times over. Guess what.”

“Is that running water I hear? You’re not calling me from the ladies’ room, are you? Just because you can take a cell phone everywhere doesn’t mean you should.”

“I’m running late.” I turn off the water, step into the tub, and settle back against the bath pillow. “That was the bath running.”

The water is so hot that steam is rising. I close my eyes and for a second everything melts away. I can’t help myself—a contented sigh escapes my lips.

“Emma?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you telling me you’re in the bath?”

“Focus on the question, Zack.”

“I’m trying,” he says. Then after a beat, “I could have focused just fine if you’d told me you were in the kitchen, doing dishes.”

“Okay, I’m in the kitchen doing dishes.”

“Too late. What was the question?”

“Guess what happened to Barakov’s first wife.”

“The charm of being married to one of the Keebler elves wore off and she went in search of a real boy?”

“You’re making fun of him because he’s short? I thought you told Barakov flaws were interesting.”

“Unless you’re an asshole. Then they’re fair game.”

“She disappeared, Zack. Went missing seven years ago without a trace.”

“Ho-ly shit!”

I smile. “Knew you’d like that. Listen, I have a lunch date with a friend—”

“I’ll start digging.”

“You don’t mind following up on the lead?”

He’s already clacking away on the keyboard. “Are you kidding me? I’m
so
going to enjoy this!”

He clicks off and I settle back in the tub for a quick soak. I feel a certain sense of satisfaction that the mere mention of my being in the tub drove Zack to distraction. I wonder if he’s, at this very moment, thinking of me. I shake my head as I recall the zealousness with which he began typing. Barakov is the only thing on Zack Armstrong’s mind right now. And I’d bet everything I have that Zack is not picturing the doctor naked and in a bath.

I’ve no sooner gotten off the phone with Zack than my cell rings again.

“What? You want a progress report on the bath?”

There is prolonged and pointed silence on the other end. I check the caller ID. It’s a number I’m not familiar with. Definitely not Zack.

“Sorry,” I mumble. “This is Emma Monroe.”

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 have my space and I let him have his. But there are complications, if you know what I mean.”

“Of course I do. Evan is a vampire. There are naturally some things you’ll never be able to share.” For thousands of years vampires have lived among, but separate from, humans. Now that’s changing. The boundaries are blurring, with more and more vampires like Evan blending in, holding down jobs, buying homes, and participating in all aspects of society. I make a point of looking around the spacious condo. “But he’s mainstreamed pretty well, I’d say.”

“He has. Evan’s not the problem.”

“So who is?” I ask.

“I am.” She leans toward me, hands clasped on the table. “He really wants to take our relationship to the next level. These last few days have been great. And he sees that as a sign we should make this living arrangement permanent.”

“And you don’t?”

Her hands unclasp and fly upward. “I don’t know. What if I move in and it doesn’t work out? I don’t want to lose Evan.”

“So keep your place.”

Now her hands flutter like hummingbirds’ wings. I reach over and grab them. “Have you talked with Evan about how you feel?”

She shakes her head, her eyes suddenly brimming with tears. “I’m afraid.”

“Of Evan?”

She gasps. “Goddess, no, not afraid like that.”

“Then what?”

“I’m afraid if I don’t agree to move in, he’ll end our relationship.”

I sit back and look at my friend. “I wish I could tell you what to do,” I say at last. “But you need to talk to Evan. From what you’ve told me about him, he’s a pretty levelheaded guy. If he respects you, he’ll respect your feelings.”

Liz’s smile is rueful. “I just wish I knew what those feelings were.”

“Well, the way I see it, you’ve got until your apartment is painted, a week, to decide. In the meantime, enjoy roughing it in this überluxurious condo with a man who obviously adores you. I’m sure it will be tough, but you’ll muddle through.”

Liz laughs. A real laugh. “Hurry up and eat. I want you to help me pick out a cocktail dress for a benefit Evan and I are attending tomorrow night at the Hotel Del.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Yeah. Real tough.”

While I eat, Liz asks me questions about work in general, my new partner in particular. I answer in nonspecific, noncommittal terms.

When I’ve finished eating, I ask in what I hope is an offhand way, “Does my dampening spell need a boost, you think?”

Liz jumps on what I’d hoped was an innocent enough query with the intensity of a witch who smells a trick question. “Why? What’s going on?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to be sure I’m not giving anything away.”

“Because of what happened with my client in the parking lot?”

Why not? I nod.

She tilts her head and peers at me through narrowed eyes. “Nope,” she says at last. “Spell’s holding just fine.”

“So nothing’s leaking through. The glamour and dampening spells are both solid, safe?”

“Safe as houses.”

Shit. That’s what I was afraid she was going to say. Zack got a zap of my powers in the kitchen, all right, but what’s going on now is something else entirely.