Medium Rare: (Intermix) (6 page)

“Okay, okay.” Harry turned back to his monitor and clicked a few keys, then typed in DuBois’s name.

Evan stared over his shoulder, watching the database sort through the alternatives. After a few seconds, another screen appeared with a picture and some text—a mug shot of a very pissed-looking, somewhat older Alana DuBois.

“Surprise, surprise. Not an upstanding citizen. Did time for fraud in Dallas.”

Evan peered at the screen. “What’s her name—her real name?”

“Sylvia Morris. Looks like she used Alana DuBois as her professional name.”

“Professional? She run any scams around here?”

Harry pursed his lips. “Not that she got caught for. Hang on, let me check under Sylvia Morris to see if we’ve got anything recent on her.” He tapped a few more keys, with no apparent result. “Doesn’t look like it. Maybe she’s been clean since she came to San Antonio.”

“And maybe she just got better at whatever she was doing in Dallas.” Evan frowned again. “What was the date on that arrest?”

“Four years ago. She did ninety days. Doesn’t look like she was all that skillful—they got her for selling lucky charms to elderly customers after telling them they’d die without them. My guess is if she’d been active around here doing anything other than spook shows, we’d have heard about it.”

“Spook shows.” Evan leaned back in his chair. “Speaking of spook shows, what do you know about a club called Nightmare on Novalis?”

Harry shrugged. “They run some of the local ‘ghost tours’ for the tourists. You know, take them down to see the haunted railroad tracks, go over to the Menger to check out Teddy Roosevelt, that kind of thing.”

“No trouble?”

“Not that I’ve heard. Of course, they’re in a part of town where I wouldn’t go wandering around by myself if I was a tourist, but since I’m not, it doesn’t bother me.”

“What about the guy who runs it, Garcia?”

Harry shook his head. “Forget it, Evan, I’m not checking Augie for you. You’ve got no good reason to ask.”

Evan leaned back in his chair again. “He hired Alana DuBois to conduct the séance where she was last seen, so he’s one of the last people who spoke to her. She disappeared after she ran the séance—didn’t even go back to pick up her paycheck.”

“But you’ve got no evidence that anything happened to her at the séance itself, right? And you’ve also got no evidence that Augie did anything illegal, either to her or anybody else. I’m not doing any fishing expeditions for you. Not unless you turn up something that indicates foul play.”

Evan sighed. “Okay, you win. I’ll dig around and see if I can find a threatening note or something bloodstained.”

“That would be nice.” Harry reached for the photograph again. “You want me to show this around? See if anybody recognizes her?”

“That’s my only print. I’ll see if I can make a copy for you.” Evan tucked the picture of Alana DuBois, a.k.a. Sylvia Morris, into his pocket.

As he headed back down the hall, he told himself the uncomfortable clenching in his gut was probably the result of his lunch at that taqueria on Frio. It had nothing to do with a vanishing con artist named Alana DuBois or maybe Sylvia Morris.

After all, people disappeared all the time, usually because they wanted to. And it was even more of a stretch to think that Rose Ramos had a point and that Alana/Sylvia’s disappearance after the call to him was a little too convenient.

Evan’s stomach clenched again. He sighed as he headed for his car. It all boiled down to something he’d already figured out, around the time Rose Ramos had ambled into his office.

Ms. Rose Ramos was trouble on a stick.

Chapter 7

Rose spent a couple of hours searching through newspaper databases for articles on William Bradford in San Antonio. What she mainly found were photos of Bradford at charity events. He was usually with some attractive woman, seldom the same one twice.

Considering the size of the donations the charities wanted, Bradford was apparently either very successful or sought out for his celebrity value. Maybe both.

Around seven she went to the kitchen for a sandwich. She should have been delighted to be on her own for a change. Instead, she found herself thinking about giving Delwin a call. Maybe he’d talked to the police and found out something more about Alana DuBois.

She picked up her phone and started to select his number from her address book, then caught herself just in time. What the hell was she doing? She didn’t really want to talk to Delwin, did she? Why would she contact him?

She had a sudden image of Delwin the way he’d looked when she’d first walked into his office. The slightly overlong, blue-black hair, the odd amber-colored eyes that tipped up a bit at the ends. The nose that looked like it belonged on an ancient Roman statue. Delwin might look a little like a man with some personal demons, but she had to admit it—he was surprisingly hot.

Which had no bearing whatsoever on her plans for the rest of the night.

Sighing, Rose punched the number for Nightmare on Novalis into her cell phone. Maybe she could get some more details from Augie on that potential customer.

The phone rang five times then switched to voice mail. Rose disconnected, brow furrowing. Maybe she should just go to the club. She felt restless suddenly. Probably something else that she could blame on Delwin.

She remembered his expression when she’d told him she’d been to the club before, that polite disbelief. Okay, so she’d been wearing her thrift shop clothes, but still. She really hated feeling like somebody’s homely cousin and dressing like a bag lady. And she was good and tired of Delwin assuming she was a charity case, even if that was what she wanted him to think.

She headed for her bedroom, tossing off her T-shirt and cutoffs. Maybe it was time for her to do a little hell-raising of her own, just to remind herself that she could. The rest of her work could wait until tomorrow. Tonight she was going back to Nightmare on Novalis, this time to have a little fun.

Forty minutes later, she studied the new bouncer running the door at the Nightmare. He was checking IDs with minimal interest, flicking his gaze from face to face, making sure they were the same as the ones on the driver’s licenses.

Okay. Hell-raising time.
Rose caught his glance deliberately, putting enough heat into it to singe his eyelashes. Then she peeled off the jacket she’d worn to walk from her car.

The bouncer blinked, swallowed, and caught his breath in a small gasp. “Have a good evening, ma’am,” he stuttered, handing back her driver’s license.

Rose smiled, showing teeth. “I intend to.”

The Nightmare looked slightly less dismal at night than it did during the daytime, but it still didn’t bear much close inspection. There were a couple of tables full of goth girls near the front of the room, all black leather and chains, but not too many other customers yet.

The goths were barely legal and probably too poor to buy more than a couple of drinks during the evening. On the other hand, they added enough atmosphere to almost make up for the cheesy fake spiderwebs in the corners and the Frankenstein’s monster doll slumped behind the bar.

Rudy had turned on the accent lights that made him look a little like the bartender in
The Shining
. Augie would probably have had him in full zombie makeup if he could have gotten Rudy to go along with it.

Rose climbed onto a barstool, letting her black leather skirt ride up to midthigh on her bare legs. The deep V of her blue satin blouse dipped down to her sternum. Grandma Caroline’s smoky blue chalcedony pendant jostled against her cleavage. Smiling, she hooked the three-inch heel of one silvery sandal over the barstool frame. “Hi, Rudy,” she purred.

Rudy glanced her way, eyes widening. “Hey, Rose. You sure look better than you did this afternoon.”

“Thanks.” Rose grinned more widely. Just the kind of reaction she was looking for. She felt better already. “Is Augie here?”

Rudy nodded. “In his office.”

Rose gave him another smile. She’d take care of business with Augie and then see who there was to dance with. The DJ in the corner was just getting warmed up. “Thanks.”

Augie’s office door was closed, probably because it was still early in the evening. Rose knocked and waited.

A moment later, the door opened and Augie filled the space. His eyebrows arched as he looked at her. “Well, well, Rosie. Twice in one day!”

If she hadn’t learned her listening skills from Skag, she might not have caught the faint strain in his voice. She peered up at his face and saw the slightly tightened skin around his eyes and the firm set of his jaw. She smiled in what she hoped was a reassuring way. “This afternoon you said you might have a customer for Locators, Augie. I didn’t get the details.”

Augie glanced behind her into the darkness of the Nightmare. “Delwin here with you?”

Curiouser and curiouser.
“Nope. Just me. So what can you tell me about the job?”

“Don’t have the details with me, Rosie.” Augie’s mouth moved into a stiff smile. “Can I call you in a couple of days?”

Rose shrugged. “Sure, I guess.”

“Come on, have a glass of wine. On the house.” Augie put one immense paw on her shoulder, steering her back toward the bar as he closed the office door behind him. “Didn’t mean to make you come all the way down here for nothing.”

Augie’s slight push was meant to be friendly, Rose knew, but somehow it felt a little more like he was propelling her away from the office. She found herself wondering just what Augie had in there he didn’t want her to see.
Or who.

Rudy poured her a glass of Vampire merlot, the house wine, and she took a few decorous sips, watching the goth girls circulate around the dance floor. The DJ had the techno turned up to mild-hearing-loss level.

“Have a good time tonight, Rosie,” Augie bellowed in her ear. “Call me if you need anything.”

Rose watched him hurry back to his office.
Hmm.
Augie the man-mountain wasn’t normally the hurrying type. She craned her neck, but the office door closed too quickly for more than a quick glimpse of the darkened interior.

Thirty minutes later, after a glass of merlot and a couple of dances, she felt depressingly ready to leave. A boy whose pimples were cruelly emphasized by the black light had made a weak pass. A middle-aged man in a vintage polyester shirt wanted to buy her a drink. She’d turned them both down politely, but nobody else in the club looked any more interesting. Even the goth girls had already drifted away to some other destination.

For an evening of hell-raising, this one had been a complete bust.

Sighing, Rose gathered her purse and slipped out the door, pulling her jacket over her blouse as she walked down the deserted sidewalk toward the side street where she’d parked. The presence of the bouncer at the door was supposed to discourage predators, but Rose gripped her keys just in case.

In the distance she heard dogs barking—baying, actually. Like hounds on the hunt, only bigger. A sliver of unease crept across her shoulders, but she shrugged it off. Somebody’s yard dogs. A lot of the houses in this part of town kept a couple of pit bulls or German shepherd descendants for insurance against burglars.

She unlocked the car door and slid into the front seat, relocking the door immediately. She wasn’t nervous, really, just cautious. But she did leave her cell phone on the passenger seat where she could reach it quickly if she needed to.

Even with the windows closed she could still hear the dogs. Grimacing, she started the engine and pulled out into the street, heading for the freeway on-ramp.
Must be hell trying to sleep around here. Maybe animal control doesn’t come out at night.
For just a moment she was aware of vague shadows dancing in her rearview mirror, but when she looked more closely, the street was deserted.

Nothing out there, Rosie. Nothing at all.
Still, she pulled onto the brightly lighted interstate with a feeling of relief.

A few minutes later, she turned onto South Alamo, heading for home. The streetlights seemed fainter all of a sudden, dimmer. Mist. Another foggy evening. Must be a symptom of global warming or something. As a rule, San Antonio wasn’t known for this kind of autumn weather.

She parked in her driveway, then glanced down toward the river at the end of the backyard. Mist hung in the live oak leaves, reflecting the shrouded lights along the river paths, just like fog on the Thames in an old Sherlock Holmes movie. On an impulse, Rose slipped her purse over her shoulder and headed toward the hiking path.

As she strolled along the sidewalk near the Johnson Street Bridge, she realized she wasn’t the only one who wanted to see what the river looked like in the fog. A few couples ambled along the near path, and she saw some of her neighbors standing in their yards. Well, she assumed they were her neighbors—with the fog it was hard to tell. Sort of people-sized lumps, anyway.

There wouldn’t be this many people around in a Sherlock Holmes movie. On the other hand, having this many people around made it less likely she’d run into Jack the Ripper. Not that she was uneasy or anything.

For some reason Alana DuBois popped into her mind. Rose’s jaw tightened. Alana DuBois definitely hadn’t been done in by Jack the Ripper, at least so far as she knew.

She walked to the center of the bridge and rested her elbows on the wrought iron railing, leaning forward to look down into the black water. The fog muffled sounds as well as lights, making the voices around her indistinct in the darkness. Sherlock Holmes on the Guadalupe.

Far down the river, she could hear dogs barking. She frowned, turning slightly toward the other side of the bridge. That baying sounded a lot like the dogs she’d heard at the Nightmare. She couldn’t remember ever hearing dogs in her neighborhood before, particularly not at night. She was fairly certain the King William Association would be all over anybody who kept a couple of pit bulls in their yard.

She peered through the darkness and mist billowing around the river, toward the shadows under a clump of cypress a half block down. Had something moved there? She squinted, straining to see in the gloom. Something
had
moved, a vague shape heading in her direction.

The barking was louder now. Rose glanced back at the couples on the path, but they strolled on, oblivious.

The barking stopped suddenly, the silence almost more threatening than the noise had been. She stood very still, feeling her heart thump. Somewhere close-by she heard a growl, low and vibrating. She squinted at the shadows across the river. Surely it was her imagination. She leaned forward, narrowing her eyes.

At the edge of the darkness under the trees, something smoldered. Two somethings. A moment passed before she realized what she was seeing.

Two large eyes. Large, orange, glowing eyes, in fact.

“Oh, holy crap,” Rose gasped, backing away from the railing. “That can’t be good!”

***

Evan sat staring at his cell phone, wondering why he was having this inner conversation when he’d already decided not to call Rose Ramos until morning.

On one hand, he hadn’t found anything that couldn’t wait for a few hours. The news that Alana DuBois was a crook whose real name was Sylvia Morris wouldn’t be a surprise.

On the other hand, Rose’s opinion of his research skills seemed somewhat low. Of course, there was no reason he should care whether she was impressed with him or not. But he did. Finding Alana would at least show he wasn’t a total incompetent.

On the other hand . . . Evan sighed. He was already out of hands and he still hadn’t figured out what to do about Rose Ramos. Or why he felt this sudden, urgent need to see her.

He flipped through the stack of papers on his desk and found her résumé. The address was in the King William District, not exactly on the way back to the apartment he was renting in Alamo Heights. Still, maybe he’d just swing by her house. If he saw a light, maybe he’d knock on her door.

Or maybe not. It all depended on how he felt when he got there.

Evan grimaced again. Right now, he was too antsy to sit around the office. Rose Ramos was becoming a pain in the ass again, and this time it wasn’t even her fault. He threw some of the papers he’d been studying into his briefcase and headed out the door.

***

As soon as she hit the bike path, Rose realized that a short skirt and high-heeled sandals were not the ideal clothes for running from things with glowing eyes. Her soles slid on gravel, almost throwing her off her feet. After a few more stumbling steps, she reached down and jerked off her shoes, tossing them behind her as she headed for the grass. The barking grew louder. The animals must have reached the Johnson Street Bridge where she’d been standing only moments before.

Glass, sharp pebbles
, her practical side admonished,
you need shoes
.

Freakin’ monsters!
yelled her Riordan ancestors.
Run!

She raced past one of the couples, dimly aware of their stares. “Everything okay?” the man called.

Okay
? Were they deaf? Crazy? “Dogs,” she panted, wheeling around to look at him. “Pack of dogs coming.” The barking was much louder now, closer.

Dogs. Chasing through the night. Her heart thumped louder.

The man looked at her blankly. “Dogs? Where?”

She wanted to yell at him, but she didn’t have time. Instead, she began to run again, heading up the grassy slope toward her backyard. Grandma Caroline’s pendant thunked heavily against her breasts.

“Miss?” the man called from behind her. “It’s okay. There’s nothing chasing you.”

“Right,” she panted. The barking, accompanied by growling, snarling, and the snapping of massive jaws, seemed almost at her heels. If no one else saw them, then they were definitely supernatural and definitely not good. Even her limited experience with phantoms told her that much.