Raphael (17 page)

Cynthia woke slowly, jarred from an almost drugged sleep by pain. She rolled over and gasped, swallowing a groan as every muscle complained. What the hell? She opened her eyes, blinking at the unfamiliar surroundings. And then she remembered. The warehouse. Kolinsky. Oh my God, Raphael! She rolled over in a panic, thankful to discover she was alone. She closed her eyes in a different kind of pain, and tears found their way down her cheeks.
You are such a fool, Cyn.

She groped to the side of the bed and stood. Spying a bathroom across the room, she made her way over to it, turned on the light and stepped in front of the mirror, almost afraid of what she'd see. The gash on her forehead where Kolinsky had hit her was closed, scabbed over in a neat line above her right eyebrow and surrounded by bruises that were already beginning to yellow with age. Twisting to one side, she frowned at the grazing bullet wound on her arm from early in the fight. A stab of pain answered her probing, but nothing more than an angry red scar marred her pale flesh. She wrapped her arms around herself uneasily. Had she been out that long? Long enough for wounds to heal or ... She flashed back to the small office in the warehouse, Raphael's eyes gleaming as he licked her wounds, her own mouth filling with...

She spun around and dropped to the toilet, vomiting uncontrollably, gagging in horror when she saw the black of regurgitated blood, like coffee crystals floating in the artificially blue water. Had she actually drunk some of Raphael's blood? And what did that mean? She only knew rumors about how vampires were changed, reborn, whatever the hell they called it. Was she a vampire now? Gripping the sink for support, she pulled herself to her feet and staggered back to the elegant bedroom. Heavy drapes covered the window, but she could see a line of light around the edges and hear the steady hiss of the waves. She walked slowly over to the glass and, cursing herself for an idiot, hesitantly slipped the fingers of one hand into the hot sunlight. Nothing. Okay. So she wasn't a vampire.

She yanked the drapes fully open. The sun was dropping fast. Which meant she had to get out of here now.

A frantic search of the bedroom turned up the remnants of her clothing. She tugged them on, snarling in frustration to find the zipper on her jeans torn beyond recovery. Her sweater was more or less intact, enough for modesty anyway, but it wasn't long enough to cover the gap at her waist. She opened the closet and found Raphael's long, leather coat hanging there, dark and stiff with blood and ... other things. A vague memory surfaced of the big vampire wrapping her in its warm depths before carrying her out to the cars where Duncan waited. Duncan and the other vampires. Waiting while she and Raphael had sex, for God's sake, in the middle of a fire fight. What the hell was wrong with her?

Her face hot with belated embarrassment, she dragged the heavy coat from its hanger and pulled it on. It would have to do for now. Her boots sat next to the bed, splattered with blood like everything else, but undamaged. It felt good to tug them on her feet, to have something solid, something of her own. A quick glance around the room sent her rushing over to a table near the door where her weapons lay waiting for her. Both had been cleaned and reloaded, one tucked into her shoulder rig. She took off the coat long enough to don the holster, then drew it back on quickly, sliding the other weapon into a pocket. That was it. No keys. Where was her car?

She stood next to the door, listening, but heard no sound from the other side. She twisted the knob slowly, then pulled the door open and peered into the hallway. No one. Orienting herself by the view from the window, she figured she was on the second floor, not far from Raphael's office. Probably where he stashed his blood donor du jour for easy access, she thought nastily. Reaching the first floor, she hesitated, edging down the hall and into the spacious entry.

There were guards here. Human guards. Looking past them, she could see her car parked outside, exactly the same spot as last time. So maybe the keys were in it again? Was she a prisoner? If she simply walked out like she knew where she was going, would they try to stop her?

Cyn straightened, tugging the heavy coat closed, and slipping her right hand into her pocket, feeling her spare Glock's reassuring weight. With a confident nod and a smile for the surprised guards, she strolled toward the glass doors and was out the door and into her car before they'd really registered her presence. The keys sat in the ignition; she twisted them quickly, and the Land Rover responded with its usual heavy rumble. The pressure rolled off her chest as she drove away from the house, then tightened again as she thought about the guards at the gate. Maybe that's why the house guards hadn't bothered to stop her. There was no need.

She slowed down as the guard stepped out of the gatehouse and approached the side of her car. “Ms. Leighton, I didn't know you'd be leaving."

"Going home to change clothes.” She wrinkled her face meaningfully. “You know how that is."

The guard looked uncomfortable, but nodded. “I guess I do, but I don't—"

"I'm not a prisoner, am I?” she asked, feigning confusion.

"Of course not, but—"

"Well, then, I want to go home and change clothes. It's only five minutes from here."

"Uh, okay. I guess. You'll be coming back?"

"Of course.”
Eventually. Someday.

The guard frowned, but signaled his buddy and the gate rolled open. In only minutes, Cyn was breezing down the highway toward her own place.

Her garage door stood open, so she rolled inside and opened the car door. She was moving slowly now, the high of her easy escape beginning to wear off as sore muscles asserted their unhappiness. She wanted nothing more than a long soak in a hot bath, and maybe a nice, deep tissue massage. She almost groaned out loud at the very thought of how good it would feel.

"Ms. Leighton?"

Cyn jerked in surprise, her hand going to the gun in her pocket before she recognized one of Raphael's human guards standing in her garage. “What?” she said irritably.

"Are you supposed to be here, ma'am? I mean, I was told to watch the place because you'd be staying up at the estate for a few days."

"Really? And who the hell told you that?"

"Lord Raphael, ma'am."

"Figures. This is my house.” She peered at his name tag. “Tony. So as for whether I'm
supposed
to be here. I think that's up to me."

"I don't know, ma'am. I better check in.” He lifted his cell phone ... so Cynthia shot him in the leg. He fell to the hard concrete with a cry of pain.

"I'm sorry, Tony,” she apologized, rushing over. “Really, I am. It's nothing personal. I'm sure you're a nice guy trying to do your job. But I can't have you bringing down the house on me. I need a little air. You can understand that, can't you, Tony?” Cyn was babbling, almost as shocked by the turn of events as poor Tony, who could only moan in response.

"I'm sorry,” she repeated. She grabbed the small pillow she kept in her back seat and shoved it under his head. A quick check of the bullet wound verified that she hadn't hit anything vital, but there was still some bleeding. Ignoring his fretful attempts to stop her, she stripped off his belt and slipped it around his upper thigh in a tourniquet of sorts, grimacing at the position of his leg. The bullet might have hit bone, but she couldn't do anything about that right now.

Next, she jumped up, ran over and hit the button to close the door so her neighbors wouldn't see a bloody man lying in her garage. Bad enough they might have heard the shot, but most of them should be gone on a workday afternoon, and people really didn't pay attention to what went on outside their own little worlds anyway.

After confiscating Tony's cell phone and gun, she hurried into the condo, yanking blankets and more pillows from the downstairs closet and dumping them on the floor near the stairs. Upstairs, she snagged a couple bottles of water and some nice Percocet the oral surgeon had prescribed after pulling her wisdom teeth. As drugs went, it had been major overkill, which was why she'd never taken any, but it
had
made her wonder what kind of wimps he usually dealt with. On the other hand, it was perfect for poor Tony, who was going to be feeling a world of hurt very soon. She ran back to the garage. Tony glared at her with pain-fogged eyes as she was making him a nice little nest to rest in.

"You shot me,” he moaned in disbelief.

"I know. I said I'm sorry."

"I can't believe you shot me."

She just looked at him. Maybe it was shock. “Come on,” she said, tugging him up onto his one good leg. He cried out and Cyn winced in sympathy as she helped him over to the pile of blankets she'd arranged. “I'd put you in the house, but you're really better off out here, especially if it's vamps that come to rescue you. They won't be able to get into the house, you know, and even you guys,” she meant the human guards, “would have some trouble. I'm a bit paranoid when it comes to security. If they did manage to break in, the alarm would go off and the security company would come and ... well, I think Raphael would be pretty unhappy about that, don't you?"

"You shot me,” he mumbled.

"Yeah,” she said shortly. “Look, take this nice pill.” She put the pill in his mouth and held the water bottle up, forcing him to drink. “This will all seem like a dream soon.” She gave Tony a quick pat and dashed back up the stairs, racing through the rooms like a mad woman. She tore off what was left of her bloodstained clothes and put on fresh jeans and a t-shirt, along with her own heavy leather jacket. Raphael's long coat she hung in her closet, remembering with a pang how perfectly it had draped the vampire's powerful body.

Focus, Cyn!
Yanking off her bloody shitkickers, she drew on her most comfortable Zanotti western boots. She grabbed whatever else she thought she might need, threw it into a duffel bag and was back in the garage in fifteen minutes. A fast check of Tony found him dozing happily, his color good, the bleeding all but stopped. All good. She nudged him awake.

"How often do you check in, Tony?"

"Not gonna tell you."

"Sure you are. Come on, how often?"

"Every hour,” he mumbled. Wonderful pills, truly.

Cyn glanced at her watch. Twenty minutes after three. So had he checked in at three? Or was he due to check in soon? She had no way of knowing, but let's assume the worst.

Standing on the back bumper of her truck, she could barely see out the long narrow window at the top of the door. No one around. With the engine running, she hit the opener, backed out, then closed the door again as soon as her hood cleared the threshold. She didn't know where she was going, but she wanted to be long gone before Tony woke up and found out she really wasn't a bad person. After all, she'd left him his cell phone.

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Cyn drove south on Pacific Coast Highway with no destination in mind. She'd considered and dismissed the idea of stopping at her office. If Raphael had thought to put a man on her condo, the next place he'd look for her would be the office. On the other hand, she really needed a shower and some rest. She picked up her phone to call the local hotels, then noticed she had two messages, both from her friend Benita. She played back the first message.

"Hey, chica. I'm calling you back."

Cyn paged forward to the next message. “Lemme esplain,” her friend said in an exaggerated Ricky Ricardo accent, “You called. I called you back. Then
you
call
me
back."

Cyn was still laughing when she hit the 10 freeway on her way to Benita's.

Benita Carballo lived in a small fifties era bungalow west of downtown L.A. The house was one of hundreds, if not thousands, built after World War II to accommodate the workers flooding into Southern California's burgeoning military-industrial complex. They were small, usually two bedroom structures, with a single bath and modest yard. The original construction had been wood siding, although many of them had been upgraded to stucco over the years. Benita's was one of those. Her house was neat and well-cared for, pale yellow with white trim. When Cyn pulled up at the curb, all the shades were drawn and the morning paper still sat on the front step. Her friend's car was parked in the short driveway, in front of a detached garage which Cyn happened to know was used as storage space by a variety of friends and family.

Cynthia picked up her cell phone and punched in Benita's number. It rang several times before the machine picked up.

"Benita, it's Cyn,” she said loudly. “Pick up, pick up, pick up."

Someone picked up the phone, then dropped it with a loud thunk. Cynthia jerked her ear away, then back in time to hear Benita's sleep-roughened voice say, “Chica, you better have a very good reason for waking me up."

"Hey, this is me calling back. Besides, it's almost rush hour ... and I mean afternoon rush hour."

Benita snorted. “It's rush hour twenty-four hours a day in this town. What's up?"

"I can't call to say “hi” to an old friend? I've gotta have an up?"

"Tell it to the rich boys, baby. I know you better."

Cyn sighed dramatically. “Eckhoff told me you might have answers to some questions."

"Eckhoff? Did you know that old man's pounding Jennifer down in records?"

"No shit? He told me he had someone; I thought he meant his dog."

Benita coughed a surprised laugh. “That's the Cyn I know. So where are you?"

"Right in front of your house. See what a polite person I am? Did I ring the doorbell? No. I called first."

"Dios mio. Come on in. I'll make coffee."

By the time Cyn reached the door, Benita had opened it and disappeared again. Cyn scooped up the paper and opened the old-fashioned, wood-framed screen door, letting herself in. The house was neat and tidy, with shiny wooden floors. Nothing was out of place, not even a magazine or a book. It barely looking lived in. She figured Benita had a cleaning service, because the girl Cyn remembered was not that neat. She could hear her friend puttering around the kitchen and made her way in that direction.

Benita glanced over her shoulder when Cynthia entered the tiny kitchen, arching one eyebrow as she took in Cyn's battered and bruised face. “I see we've got some catching up to do.” She pulled a couple of mugs from the cupboard and set them on the tiled counter. “I've been gone a few days, so the best I can offer is coffee and a reheated bolillo from the freezer. You want anything else, you're going to the store."

"Coffee's fine. What're you working on for the department these days?"

She shrugged off the question. “The usual,” she said.

Cyn covered her surprise by walking over and sitting on one of two bar stools that stood against the wall. It wasn't like Benita to be coy. Even after Cyn had left the department, Benita had always been eager to share pretty much everything about her assignments. “Eckhoff says you're working the Russians."

Benita turned sharply, her dark eyes suspicious. “Why'd he tell you that?"

"Jesus, Benita, what's the problem? I asked him a few questions, and he said you could probably answer them better than he could."

"What questions?"

"I'm looking for a Russian. All I have is a name. Kolinsky.” She was watching the other woman closely, and so she caught the slight tightening of her expression at the name.

"Sure,” Benita said with forced ease. “Kolinsky's local, but you might be too late. He got hit pretty hard last night. What's this about?"

"Who hit him?” Cyn asked, wondering how much had gotten out about their raid. She didn't know for sure, couldn't remember anything after the fire fight, but she thought they'd taken Kolinsky alive, and maybe a couple of others, as well.

"I don't know any details yet, but if he's who you're looking for, you may have to look somewhere else. What's your interest anyway?"

"I think he kidnapped someone close to my client. And my client wants that someone back."

"Kidnapping? Not your usual bag, chica."

"So Eckhoff has told me. What about somebody named Pushkin? Eckhoff never heard of the guy, and my source was a little shaky."

"Pushkin?” Benita run a shaky hand through her short hair before answering. “No,” she said. “Never heard that one.” She jumped up, suddenly hyper. “Those bolillos are sounding good, after all. You want one?” She pulled a plastic bag from the freezer.

"No, I'm good, thanks. So, how's the job?"

"Sucks, but it's gotta be better than doing dirty work for vampires, right?"

"Okay.” Cyn stood, hurt and insulted. “Clearly I've made a mistake here. You go back to sleep, maybe wake up sweeter, and I'll get my information somewhere else."

She was halfway to the front door when Benita called her back. “Look, I'm sorry, Cyn. Come back. This assignment's gone on too long and it's getting to me, that's all. Come back. Please."

Cyn turned around and studied her doubtfully. Then she shrugged. “All right. Let's start over. So, what's up, Benita?"

"They've got me working the Russians is what. It's not my territory; it's not what I'm used to. I don't know these people, I don't know their culture, their customs, and it's stringing me out like crazy."

"Why you? I mean, you're a great cop, but...” Cyn gestured. “You don't exactly blend.” Benita was a pretty Latina with dark eyes and curly black hair that she kept painfully short.

Benita blew out an exasperated breath. “Tell me about it. Unfortunately, one of the targets likes his meat nicely browned, so here I am."

"No accounting for taste, huh?"

She laughed. “That's what I keep telling him.” Her face sobered before she turned to pour the coffee. She walked over and handed Cyn one of two mugs, gesturing at the sugar on the bar behind Cyn. Opening the refrigerator, she poured half and half right from the carton into her own cup. Cynthia shook her head at the raised carton and spooned some sugar into her coffee while Benita put the cream away and joined her on the bar stools.

"So, where'd you get Kolinsky?” Benita asked.

"From a dying man."

"Who was he and how'd he die?"

"I didn't know him, and as for how ... too young and unexpectedly."

"How do you know his information's any good?"

"Let's say this guy was motivated to tell the truth."

"Fuck."

"Yeah."

"Bad luck about that hit last night,” Benita said too casually, taking a sip of her coffee. “Might be bad luck for me, too."

"Wait, he wasn't your guy, was he?"

"What? Oh. No. No, my guy's a lot higher than that.” She lifted her gaze, taking inventory of Cyn's battered face. “You look like you've hit some bad luck, too."

"What, this?” Cyn waved away her friend's concern with one hand. “A stake out gone bad. Guy cheating on his wife didn't want his picture taken."

"Imagine that."

"Yeah. Listen, Benita, you be careful with this Russian. Eckhoff tells me those are some bad people."

"Yeah.” She looked away, then back. “You know, I think it might be too late for careful. Look,” she continued, suddenly full of enthusiasm. “If you really want to know what's going on with these guys, why don't you come with me tonight? There's a big to-do, some fucking Russian thing, I don't know. But they're all going to be there. It's a crown performance. Should be a good party if nothing else.” She reached out and tugged the ends of Cynthia's stylishly ragged hair over the cut on her forehead. “They'll love you, girl. A little makeup and you'll be fine as always."

Cynthia thought it over. Something odd was going on. Benita was acting strangely, full of secrets one minute, then all happy and “Hey come to the party” the next. On the other hand, if Cyn could get inside even for a night, chat up a few of the bad guys, flirt a little. She didn't think much about her own looks, but that didn't mean she wasn't aware of them. Men generally liked her, at least until they found out she had a brain.

One thing she knew for sure after seeing last night's operation, Kolinsky wasn't the end game of Alexandra's kidnapping. She'd bet money his involvement ended with blackmailing Judkins and inserting the unlamented Barry onto the estate. He probably had nothing at all to do with the actual kidnapping. Of course, what she should do, instead of haring off on her own investigation, was wait until after dark, and call Raphael to find out if they'd questioned Kolinsky yet, and what, if anything, he'd told them. But then, Cyn had never been one to do what she should.

"Okay,” she agreed. “Sounds good.” She glanced down at what she was wearing. “I have to get some different clothes."

Benita ran her gaze over Cyn's worn denims and leather jacket. “Yeah, you do. These guys are really big on dressing up. Wear something sexy and short, something that shows off those long, skinny legs of yours."

"My legs are not skinny, you midget.” It was an old, familiar argument between them.

"You keep telling yourself that, chica.” Benita checked the time. “Look, the party's closer to your house than mine, so why don't you wait while I change, then we can go directly from your place."

"Mmm, maybe not. I'm kind of avoiding my place today. You go ahead and get ready, I'll go shopping.” She stood, her muscles reminding her of how sore she was, which in turn reminded her she'd never gotten that hot bath. She sighed. “Listen, uh, before I go, can I grab a quick shower?” She stripped off her jacket without thinking. “I mean I don't want to try on clothes all—"

Benita gasped, her eyes widening as she took in the full extent of Cyn's blood and bruises. “You got boyfriend trouble, girl?"

"Yeah,” Cyn mumbled. “Something like that. How about that shower?"

Benita gave her a doubtful look, shaking her head in disapproval. “Be my guest, chica. Clean towels in the hallway closet."

"Thanks."

"And don't use all the hot water!"