Thirst No. 3 (13 page)

“Of course, the policeman. Do you two live together?”

“We spend a lot of nights together, but he has his own place. Still, we talk every morning no matter where we sleep. We were supposed to have breakfast together. He never showed up, and he’s not answering his cell.”

“Have you been in to work today?”

“Yes. I felt too restless to stay. I’m worried about him—I don’t know what to do. I feel like I should call the police.”

“Don’t call them yet. I just arrived in LA—I might be able to help you. But it’s important that you stay away from work the rest of the day.”

“You’re really here?”

“Yes.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I want to talk to the person in charge of IIC. Who should I ask for?”

“There are several principals. Tom Brutran is the president of the firm, but everyone knows his wife, Cynthia, is the real boss. I doubt either of them will see you without an appointment, and they won’t give you one on such short notice. They’re busy people.”

“I think they’ll see me. Remember, I’m listed as a ‘person of interest’ in their files.”

“That’s true. Should I go there and help introduce you?”

“No. That would be a mistake. Under no circumstances do you want to connect yourself to me. You haven’t spoken of your visit with me, have you?”

“No. Jeff hasn’t either. Oh, God, do you think something has happened to him?”

“I can only hope he is okay. The more I learn about your company, the more they disturb me.”

“What do you mean?”

I want Lisa afraid. Her fear may be the only thing keeping her alive.

“I looked into the disappearance of your ex, Randy Clifford. He was killed by a notorious hit man named Marko. The man usually works for the Mob, but IIC paid him a large fee to make Randy disappear. He also wiped clean all his computer files.”

“Where did you get this information?”

“My sources are impeccable. I strongly recommend that you come down with a serious case of the flu and don’t return to work for the next week. I need time to figure out what IIC’s up to.”

“I told you what they are up to. They’re making tons of money on Wall Street and funneling it through dozens of dummy corporations.”

“That doesn’t explain how or why they’re doing it. Lisa, do you know a girl named Shanti Garuda? She’s originally from India but she now lives in Texas.”

“No. Who is she?”

“Someone I had an interesting conversation with this morning. Have you found out any more about the Array?”

“No. I finally asked a few friends at work about it.”

“What did they say?”

“It’s what they didn’t say. They clammed up fast.”

“Interesting. Listen, I’ll be at your firm in a few minutes. I’m going to go now, but I promise to meet you afterwards.”

“Wait! I can’t just sit around here and do nothing.”

“Lisa, you’re the one who came to me and told me IIC was dangerous. Since then I’ve done plenty of research on my own and discovered they’re more dangerous than any of us realized. Stay away from work and stay away from Jeff’s house.”

“What’s wrong with Jeff’s house?”

She’s too strong-willed to simply obey. I have to use the
power of my vampiric voice. Even before I speak, I let the tendrils of my will stretch out and envelop her. I speak in a clear but soft voice.

“Under no circumstances are you to go there until we meet up. This is very important. Do you understand?”

By her sudden change in tone, I can tell my words have penetrated deep into her psyche. “I understand,” she mumbles. “I’ll wait for you.”

“Good girl,” I say, and hang up.

IIC is located deep in Malibu, far north of the business heart of town. The area is mostly empty grass hills with an occasional twenty-million-dollar mansion thrown in for good measure, lest one forget the cost of local real estate. The firm is situated in a beautiful but modest-sized structure two miles from the coast, atop a manicured hill with views of the Pacific so wide I wouldn’t be surprised if Hawaii were visible on a clear day.

I admire the architecture because it breaks every rule in the book and somehow remains standing. Virtually solid glass, it stands four stories tall on a series of white support beams that make up an interlocking collection of rectangles, squares, pyramids, and yes, remarkably, spheres. Which leads me to believe it was designed by a model maker on acid. The building is not merely modern; it is from a generation not yet born. If IIC is trying to hide their money, they’re not trying too hard.

I park and casually enter the building. The welcoming
secretary sits beside a busy switchboard. I say hello and tell her I’m there to see Cynthia Brutran. She asks if I have an appointment.

“Just tell her Alisa Perne is here,” I reply.

The secretary puts the call through, and I’m mildly surprised that my name alone does the trick. The woman tells me to have a seat, Ms. Brutran will see me in a few minutes.

The few minutes stretch into twenty, and I grow restless. I’m about to stand and strengthen my demands when a young woman with a three-year-old child enters the building and asks to speak to the firm’s official president, Thomas Brutran. She is also told to take a seat and ends up sitting across from me. The woman’s little girl is ridiculously cute, and I find my impatience evaporating.

“What’s her name?” I ask the mother.

“Athena,” the woman says. “Her father is obsessed with ancient Greece.” Mother has red hair like her child, green eyes, but whereas Athena will grow up to turn every male head in a room, Mom is still struggling with her postpregnancy fat and appears stressed. Indeed, we are talking less than ten minutes when she excuses herself and says she has to use the restroom. Standing, she gestures to her daughter and looks at me.

“Can you watch her a minute?” she asks. “She seems taken by you.”

The request is a little odd. Athena is trading grins with me, true, but we haven’t exactly bonded. The woman is showing a
reckless amount of trust by turning over her child to someone who is essentially a complete stranger. But hey, this is Malibu—the woman probably needs the privacy of the restroom to swallow her half dozen prescriptions.

“No problem, I’ll take good care of Athena,” I say.

The woman collects her bag and hurries away.

“You must have a trustworthy face,” the woman at the switchboard observes, reading my mind.

“I thought the same thing,” I reply, following Athena out of the corner of my eye as she wanders toward the painting on a nearby wall. The art, like the architecture, is so modern that the artists apparently feel no need to learn how to draw or paint. Nevertheless, the bright colors appeal to the child. She points at a bright canvas.

“Heaven,” she says.

“Is that what heaven looks like to you, Athena?” I ask.

“Daddy’s gone to heaven.”

The secretary and I exchange a worried look.

“I’m sure he’s okay wherever he is,” I say.

Athena nods. “I miss him.”

“It’s okay to miss him. It just means you love him.”

Athena’s face darkens. “Mommy says he’s gone. That we’ll never see him again.”

The remark is so painful, I hardly know how to respond. “Wherever your daddy is, I’m sure he’s thinking of you, Athena.”

The remark appears to comfort the child, but it’s been a
long time since I played the role of mom. I might have said the wrong thing, because one second Athena appears to be enjoying the brightly colored paintings and the next second she grabs a glass vase holding a rose from beneath one of the pictures and lifts it over her head. Before I can stop her—without switching into hyper mode—she breaks it on the glass table where it previously stood.

Athena howls in pain, her tiny fingers covered with blood and pieces of glass. Feeling like the world’s worst babysitter, I rush to her side. With my vampiric sight, I quickly identify five slivers of glass that have penetrated her skin, even through her blood. I’m picking them out, scratching myself in the process, when I hear the hysterical voice of the child’s mother.

“What have you done to my daughter?” she screams.

“Nothing. She broke a vase and cut herself. It looks worse than it is. If you’ll give me a minute, I can pick out the last few pieces of glass.”

“Get your hands off of her!” the mother cries, and runs over and yanks the child from my hands. The woman behind the desk stands.

“It was nobody’s fault,” she says in my defense. “Your daughter grabbed the vase before either of us could stop her.”

“Shut up!” the mother snaps.

The young woman frowns. “Pardon me?”

“You heard me,” she says as she turns for the door. “Just be happy I’m not suing you both. And tell your goddamn
boss to shove his gold leaf investment program up his ass.”

The young woman goes to swear at her but manages to control her temper. She swallows. “I have bandages in the other room. If you could please give me a moment to fetch them . . .”

“To hell with you both!” Athena’s mother shouts before storming out the front door. The secretary and I exchange amused looks.

“I hope she didn’t upset you,” she says.

“Not at all.”

“You know the old saying: No good deed goes unpunished.”

“That’s the story of my life.”

The woman points to my bleeding hand. “You’re the one who needs the bandage.”

I held Athena firm while picking out the glass, but a wounded child is one thing I’ve never learned to totally control. My fingertips are more badly scratched than I realized. Yet they are healing rapidly.

“That’s not necessary,” I say, raising my hand to decrease the blood flow into my fingers. “I’ll just pop in your restroom a minute. I’ll be fine.”

The secretary shakes her head as she strides away from her desk.

“A couple of bandages will keep the cuts from getting dirty.”

“I’ll take them when I get back.” Cradling my injured hand with my other hand, I try to keep my blood from spilling on the floor. It is an old habit of mine, to guard my blood. Once in the restroom, I let the hot water wash over my cuts. Already they have sealed; nevertheless, I’m careful to wash away the faintest sign of my blood.

When I return to the front desk, and the secretary, I hide my healed fingers beneath a paper towel. I gratefully accept the woman’s bandages and casually wrap them around my fingers. The secretary is a polite soul.

“I’m really sorry you had to be subjected to all that.”

“The child moved so fast. I don’t know if it was the talk about her father, or if she hated that painting.”

“Did you see her face just before she broke the vase?”

“No. She was looking away from me.”

The secretary frowns. “Her eyes suddenly blazed. Something set her off. I don’t know, that kid kind of spooked me.”

“She seemed sweet,” I say, but my words lack conviction. Something about the kid bothered me as well.

Ms. Cynthia Brutran calls for me a few minutes later. The secretary directs me to take the elevator to the fourth floor. At the top of the building, I’m met by what appears to be Ms. Brutran’s personal secretary—a young man who couldn’t look more sexy if he was naked. He flashes a warm smile, apologizes for my having to wait, and directs me to the boss’s office.

Ms. Brutran sits behind a beautifully finished walnut desk
crowded with keyboards and computer screens. To say the lady multitasks would be an understatement. She’s forty but looks ten years younger. She’s had work done to her face and neck by an exceptional surgeon. It would take my eyes to spot it.

Her short brown hair has a bright sheen. She wears a single piece of jewelry, a diamond ring encircled with a dozen tiny rubies. The central stone is exquisite, without significant flaws, and is no doubt worth more than most people make in a lifetime. She has on a beige pantsuit. Her overall look is professional but relaxed. I’m dressed in a black skirt and a red blouse, and hopefully project the feel of a hunter.

Yet Ms. Brutran isn’t truly relaxed. Her gaze is intense, and she does not hesitate to let me feel its heat. It’s probably an old habit—to intimidate weaker souls in business meetings. She doesn’t know exactly what I am, but she knows something about me. She’s guarded but not fearful. I smell steel and gunpowder coming from the drawer on her right. I find it interesting she keeps a loaded weapon so close at hand.

“I hear you had a little accident downstairs,” she says.

“News travels fast in your building.”

“To me it does. Are your fingers okay?”

“Just scratched, thank you.”

“My receptionist said your name is Alisa Perne, and that you need to speak to me. May I ask the nature of your business?”

I stare at her and allow a measure of my power to enter my gaze. She blinks under my invisible and extremely subtle
assault but does not back up or try to look away. For the first time I notice how disciplined her mind is. I don’t get an immediate sense of her thoughts, although I reach for them. It’s as if she wears a psychic helmet over her head. I’m intrigued.

“Simple curiosity,” I reply.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Please, let us dispense with the innocent act. You agreed to see me—a complete stranger off the street. Who made no appointment ahead of time. Whom you have never met before in your life.” I pause. “You must have a reason.”

She hesitates, then nods. “I ran your name through our database. It says you’re a person of interest.”

“Does your database explain why?”

“Of course. Our company research has identified you as one of the wealthiest women in America.”

“That’s extremely confidential information. How did you come across it?”

“Frankly, I don’t know. In my daily business I often use our database, but I don’t spend time creating it.” She pauses. “May I ask how you’ve managed to stay so completely out of the public eye?”

“Through great effort. But now you and your firm have invaded my privacy. I want to know why.”

“We’re an investment firm, one of the most successful in the country. It’s only natural we should seek out people such as yourself with a large amount of wealth.”

“Is that what you do? Manage other people’s money?”