Black Arts: A Jane Yellowrock Novel (6 page)

“Estimates would be nice,” I grumbled as I strapped in and Eli started the motor. “But don’t forget we’ll have to go through the Vieux Carré Commission. And I promise, it’ll be a pain.” Dealing with bureaucrats always was, and every upgrade we made to our base of operations was a permanent loss, unless covered by Leo or Katie. We didn’t own the building and I was iffy on tax law about real estate upgrades. And I hated that I had to even think about such things.
Business.
When did I become a
businesswoman
?
Eww
.

The SUV was nondescript and slightly battered, its internal lights worked only when you flipped a switch, the engine was powerful enough to drag several hundred horses behind us, and the back was modified to hold an abundance of weapons under lock and key. The blades and firepower were intended to kill rogue-vamps, Naturaleza vamps, and vamps who didn’t abide by the restrictions set up in the Vampira Carta—the legal code that the Mithrans had lived by for centuries. Tonight, the SUV was carrying only us and the weapons we wore, nothing special. Well, that I knew of.

Guilbeau’s, pronounced G’bo’s, was in the French Quarter, a new restaurant in an old three-story brick building, replacing a business that hadn’t survived the dearth of tourists after Hurricane Katrina. There was valet parking, and a red-vested boy who looked as if he were twelve years old raced out into the damp night and took the keys, driving away as we pushed through the revolving door. The restaurant had a venerable air, as if it had existed since Jean Lafitte’s time, with deep burgundy carpeting and a roped-off area for patrons awaiting a table. The place smelled heavenly, if God were a carnivore and liked his meat seared and bloody. I had just finished my supper and my mouth was already watering.

Piano music played in the background; just ahead I could see a black baby grand and the black pianist, also wearing black, his fingers running lightly across the keys. Another man, wearing a tux, stood behind a little desk, like a pulpit poised at the wider entrance to the restaurant proper. I started for the guy, but Eli held me back, a hand on my upper arm. “Let me,” he murmured.

I shot him a glare, but waited. Eli approached the guy, who I guessed was the maître d’, and moved his jacket back as if to display something. They murmured for a bit, the words obscured by the music, something classical and springy that made me think of bunnies hopping through tall grass, before Beast swiped them with her claws and chomped them with her killing-teeth. Eli stepped back and whispered into my ear, “The general manager has been notified that we’re here, and would like to see last night’s and this morning’s security footage. He’s remarkably agreeable.”

“Uh-huh. You wearing a fake badge?” I asked.

“You want to see the footage or not?” There was laughter in his breathy comeback and I shook my head, smothering my retort. I mean, yeah. I wanted to see the footage, but not by impersonating a cop, which was illegal. A lot of cops in this town didn’t like me much. Go figure.

I pasted a smile on my face that attempted to look trustworthy and surely didn’t succeed, but the manager, a small, lithe man wearing black, natch, and an ear wire, walked through the restaurant and, without introducing himself, motioned us to the side and up a narrow stairway. He must have wanted to get the big, bad, dangerous-looking people out of his lobby, pronto.

The stairs were not standard height—not even matching, nonstandard heights, each an inch or two off from the ones above and below, and I stumbled twice as we switch-backed up constricted landings to the second floor. The manager’s office was small but tidy, with an old PC and flat-screen, some closed, leather-bound books, a small adding machine, pencils and pens in a green glass cup, a sturdy, scuffed-up desk that looked as if it had been there since World War Two, and had probably been put in place then, by a crane, through the window, since the stairs were so narrow. For sure they’d never move it any other way.

He sat in the desk chair and motioned us to the guest chairs, all three with low arms and narrow seats that made my knees stick up in the air. The chairs had been made for short, thin people, not tall, long-legged people. “I’m Scott Scaggins, general manager of Guilbeau’s, and I had no idea anyone had gone missing. Give me the times you’re interested in, and about ten minutes, and I can have the digital footage up, copied for you, and a list of employees who were on last night.” He pulled a pair of spectacles out of his breast pocket, perched them on his nose, and punched keys on the keyboard. “We’re in. Time?”

“We appreciate your assistance in this, uh, delicate matter. We’d like to see from two twenty through two thirty a.m.,” Eli said, leaning back in his chair as if he owned the joint. “We’ve been told it was a private party. We only need to talk to employees who served for the party.”

Scott didn’t look from his fingers as he typed. “Which party?”

Which left me stymied, but Eli didn’t even hesitate. “The governor’s daughter and her friend didn’t say, but from her recent interest in vampires, we’d assume the one hosted by the local vamps.”

The manager snorted, again without looking up, which was a good thing because my eyes were bugging out of my head.
The
governor’s daughter? Did he just imply that we are looking for the governor’s daughter?
I looked at Eli, thinking,
Are you insane?
He just smiled, if you can call that little twitch of lips a smile.

“I would hate to be raising a girl in this vampire climate,” Scott said. “Everyone thinks the vamps are all sparkly and pretty, and forget that they drink blood.
Human
blood. The vamps throw a party and every teenager within miles is all over the place. We have to hire security to keep them out.”

“Who did you hire last night?” I asked.

“Lewis Aycock’s company. He’s a Vietnam War vet. The owner likes to give vets jobs anytime he can. A boost back up, you know, and all Lewis’ personnel are vets.” He looked up under his eyebrows and back to his screen. “The client knew of him and was agreeable.”

I didn’t know him, and so let it pass. “And the client?” I asked.

“Not saying that without a court order,” Scott said. “Bring me a piece of paper signed by a judge and I’ll tell you everything—names, dates, alcohol consumed, hors d’ oeuvres served, numbers of guests, cost totals, tips, and credit cards used. Not until then. And the waiters don’t know who the host was, so don’t bother asking.”

“The governor prefers to keep this under wraps for now,” Eli lied smoothly. “If it becomes a criminal matter, you’ll get a warrant.” I just shook my head.

“And it’s up,” Scott said. He flipped the flat-screen around and we watched for ten minutes as humans, blood-servants, and vamps left the restaurant, getting into cabs and limos, and a few walking. No one entered the restaurant during the ten minutes, not after two in the morning.

I leaned in when a pale-skinned, black-haired female appeared on the screen, showing only the top of her head and her hands holding the wrap she wore.
Bliss
. The woman beside her had scarlet hair and was wearing rings on every finger. She tilted her head and I recognized Rachael by the shape of her nose and the multiple rings through her earlobes. And the tattoo on her left wrist. It was a dragon, the body and tail wrapped around the wrist, the fire-breathing head on the top of her hand. It was new, and I’d seen it only a week past, when she complained about the pain and itching. Once upon a time, Katie had not allowed her working girls to get tattoos, but now things were different. Katie was different. She didn’t seem to care about body adornment or other things that she used to. She was, on the other hand, way more territorial than she used to be. With them was a man who stood to one side, only the top of his head and shoulders visible in the camera—slender and muscular with spiked hair and dark clothes.

“That’s them,” I said.

Eli covered for me. “And the people with
her
?” he asked.

I hesitated only a moment, feeling my way, before saying, “The boss will be ticked off about the whole thing.”

“So we shouldn’t tell the governor everything. In fact, we shouldn’t tell him anything,” Eli suggested.

“And we’ve agreed to differ,” I said, as if we had a long-standing argument about how to protect the interests of our employer—who was the freaking governor. Eli was insane.

On the screen, the man, possibly a waiter, handed the girls into a black cab limo and it drove off as he stepped back again.

Some humans left, one female wearing a hat and trailing a long scarf. The arm of a man was around her as if to support her, her gait that of someone ill or unsteady after too much liquor, their faces never in view. Three other men left just behind them, the small group moving like vamps, breaking up at the door. One wore a tuxedo and seemed to move off fast, maybe in pursuit of the woman with the scarf and the other man, though all we could see from the angle of his head was dark hair and jacket and a satin stripe on the outside of his pants leg as he strode off. The other two, both in dark slacks and suit coats, stood for a moment, body movements suggestive of discussion, and then they too left, heading in different directions.

A scant two minutes later, a similar black car pulled up and waited, the driver a fuzzy form making a cell call. It was Troll. He waited. And waited. He made three more cell calls before eventually giving the valet the keys and entering the restaurant. And leaving moments later, tension showing in the set of his shoulders. He was on the cell, talking as he drove away.

To Scott, Eli said, “That’s all we need, those twenty minutes of footage. And you have the governor’s thanks.”

“Yeah, well, tell him he has my sympathy. He has his hands full if his daughter’s fallen in with that redheaded chick. She works for a vamp who runs a whorehouse. Seriously, he needs to consider chaining her up in the attic or something. If I’d known she was underage, I’d never have let her in, but everyone had an invitation.” He opened a desk drawer and handed Eli a heavy, engraved invitation, the kind old vamps used, the paper made of mostly cloth, the words printed in gilt.

Eli handed the invite to me and I nodded my thanks, studying the card. The message was innocuous and uninformative. “The pleasure of your presence is requested at ten o’clock tonight at Guilbeau’s for a coming-out soiree. Black tie.” The party started late, like any vamp party. No names, and no RSVP. Not much help here.

The manager hit a button and his PC whirred. Behind him, a printer chattered. He handed Eli the printed paper first and again Eli passed it to me. It was a list of the waitstaff. Six names, with addresses and phone numbers. While I was studying it, he handed Eli a CD and stood, offering his hand.

“Thank you for your time,” Eli said, standing and taking the proffered hand. I followed a moment later, out of sync with the bonhomie of the good old boys.

“I thank
you
for keeping the restaurant’s name out of the press. Letting the governor’s underage daughter into a vampire party would not be good for our reputation or good standing,” Scott said.

I just shook my head and headed down the stairs. Back outside, the wet night had become a downpour, which totally matched my mood. The valet brought our SUV around and we drove away. I lasted a whole block before I busted out with “The
governor’s daughter
? Are you
nuts
?”

Eli gave that twitchy smile and said, “We got what we needed, didn’t we?”

“Yes, we did. And if he takes it any further,
our
faces are on the security footage now. You are insane. Totally insane.”

“We just have to make sure we don’t do anything that makes him take it any further.”

I gusted a breath and looked out into the night. The windshield wipers squeaked slightly as they swept the rain away. I shook my head. “Okay.”

“Just okay? No atta boy? No ‘Heeey, duuude, that took balls’?”

I laughed softly and shook my head again. Eli Younger was entirely too pleased with himself. But he did do good. We had footage and names, neither of which we would have been given had we gone in with an honest request. But still. “I think you were
thinking
with your little brains,
dude
.”

• • •

When we reached home, my first action—after getting Evan to remove the security spell from the house for a while—was asking for news of Molly, to which the Kid said, “No. Nothing. Nada. Not yet. The cops are searching the mountain roads for any car that might have driven off the road. She isn’t in any hospital and I’ve checked them all. She hasn’t used her cards or an ATM. I’ll tell you if I get anything. Don’t ask me again. Gimme the CD.” All the words ran together, accompanied by a jittery hand-waving motion for me to hurry up and give him the data from Guilbeau’s. He sounded grumpy, but I sorta understood that. His work space had been invaded by Big Evan, who had been pacing while we were gone. Pacing a lot. Passing by Alex’s work space every few minutes and asking the same questions I was asking. It had to be nerve-racking.

I speed-dialed Troll from the living room, while watching the CD with Eli and Alex. He answered on the third ring. Instead of replying to his “Janie girl,” I said, “What, exactly, did the girls say to you when you dropped them off, and what, exactly, did they say when they called you for a pickup last night? This morning. Whatever.”

“Deon drove them out, and according to him, they were whispering and not sharing, which he considered way more than rude, and he sulked for hours. But when they called for a ride home, Rachael said, ‘Hey, Sugar Lips. Can you pick us up at Guilbeau’s?’ I said yes. When I got there, they weren’t out front, so I went inside. They weren’t there either. I called Rachael’s cell and was sent to voice mail. I asked to see the security footage and was told to get lost. End of story.”

“She calls you Sugar Lips?” I tried to put the vision of Troll with the endearment of Sugar Lips and couldn’t make my brain fit around the two concepts.

“Yeah, when she’s feeling
friendly
. Whaddaya got?”