To Dance with the Devil (The Blood Singer Novels) (22 page)

“Damn it, Fred!”

“You needed me. It was important.” He stretched out on the couch, looking terrifyingly frail. “Don’t tell Dottie.”

“You think she won’t notice?” I snapped as I looked around. I tried to remember exactly what the first aid was for this sort of thing. In the hospital with Dottie they’d given her fluids and carbohydrates. I ran into the kitchen. It was echoingly empty. Not a glass for water, no food in the cupboards. Shit! No, wait. There was a nutrition shake in my purse. I’d packed it because this was a fairly long trip and I didn’t want to risk getting vampity on the way. I ran out to the truck fetch it.

Fred was already breathing easier when I got back. Once he’d drained the shake, his color began to improve.

“Promise me you won’t tell Dottie. After the trouble I gave her the other day, she’ll never let me live it down. And I’ll be fine, I just need to rest.”

I scowled at him and didn’t answer. Chances were good that she’d hauled out her bowl and was watching us right now. So I said the only thing I could think of that would make him happy without getting me in trouble with his wife. “I try not to get caught between married people when they’re arguing.”

He gave a snort of acknowledgment tinged with wry humor.

“So, back to where we were before we got interrupted. What are your terms for leasing this place?”

He smiled, and for an instant, energy and animation filled his face. When he spoke, his voice was weary. “Six-month lease, going rate, and you cover the homeowner’s insurance. I don’t want to risk having this place uninsured with you using it.”

I didn’t argue. My record with insurance companies was a joke. I pay my premiums—very high premiums, mind you—but it’s reached the point where they consider me just too much of a risk. Go figure.

“Fine. Call your attorney. We’ll sign the paperwork as soon as he has it ready.”

My phone rang. Bubba’s number showed on the screen. “Graves.”

“Hey, boss. Everybody’s good. Tell Fred I owe him a beer. We’re in the car. Where are we going?”

I gave him the address of our brand-new safe house and told him to call Kevin, fill him in, and ask him to pick up groceries for the next several days.

“Done,” Bubba said. He hung up without saying good-bye. I was okay with that. I had another call to make, and it wasn’t one I was particularly excited about.

She picked up on the fourth ring. “Heather Alexander.”

“Alex, it’s me. They made a run for Michelle at the hospital. We got her out. She’s safe. But there are a couple of injured thugs in the kitchen. I can come in and give you a statement in a couple of hours.”

“A couple of
hours
?” She was pissed. “They had to evacuate the hospital, Graves. Get your ass in here now!”

“Can’t. I’m at least two hours out—and that’s if I drive like a maniac. I only saw what happened telepathically.”

“Then who … no. Never mind. Just get your ass in here. I’ll tell the guy in charge you’re on your way. You can tell us everything when you get here.”

*   *   *

“Okay, let me get this right.” The man speaking was FBI Special Agent Shawn Shea. He was six one and had black curly hair and the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. His skin had that porcelain quality with just a hint of freckles that told me of his Irish blood. His voice, however, was pure Midwestern. Shea was all business at the moment, and none too happy with yours truly. The interrogation room was a little crowded, I must admit, with Shea, me, my attorney, and two other law enforcement officers who were obviously friendly with me. I wasn’t sure how he did it, but Dom Rizzoli managed to loom while leaning against the wall, and Alex’s stony expression spoke volumes. Still, Shea plowed on. “You were out of town and you got a call from one of your employees telling you he’d spotted one of the guys who attacked you.”

“That’s right.”

“And he didn’t bother calling the cops.”

“I’m sure he would have, if there’d been time. But there wasn’t. The first priority is always to get the client to safety.”

“So why isn’t he here instead of you?”

“As soon as my client and her protectors reach the safe house and his relief arrives, he’ll come down and give you his statement.” He would, too. It was standard protocol. Bubba knew that.

“So you called it in instead.”

“Yes. I was a witness. And I figured if you moved quickly, you could pick up the guys in the kitchen and question them.”

The police hadn’t been quick enough. Jon and Ted were dead. Each had been shot once in the head with a .45, a different caliber from the .38 Bubba had taken from Jon. But that didn’t mean Shawn wasn’t going to try to pin the murder on him. I wasn’t going to allow that.

“And you know everything that happened.”

“The part in the kitchen, yes. The telepath who was working with me does, too.” I smiled sweetly. I knew Fred was in another room giving his own statement. We hadn’t coached each other or worked out a story, but I was pretty sure Shawn would accuse me of it. After all, Fred and I had made a long drive all by ourselves. “And I’m sure that the hospital security cameras probably caught the whole thing.” That last was a guess. I didn’t
know
that there were cameras in the kitchen, but I was betting there were. I have friends who own a restaurant. They had to install security to keep their meat and produce from walking out the back door with less than honest staff. It’s a common problem, and one I suspected the hospital had been forced to deal with.

Shea gave me a sour look. I forced myself to smile, though I didn’t feel like it. Just look at me, the good-natured businesswoman, cooperating her little heart out with the nice officers.

Alex said, “Cameras show Bubba and the girl leaving and a different guy coming in and offing the wounded.”

“One of yours, no doubt.” Shea was trying to provoke me.

I answered calmly. “Had to be one of the bad guys tying up loose ends. I don’t have that many people. I had a man and a woman with the protectee. My other guy was off duty and long gone. The woman was getting the car while Bubba got Michelle out of the building.”

“We have video of Bubba relieving Kevin at six o’clock, and of Kevin leaving the building with Paulie. And the guy in the kitchen is too short and dark to be Kevin.” The way Alex said it, I could tell she’d told him before—and probably more than once.

What was his problem?
I used telepathy to ask Dom and Alex simultaneously. I probably shouldn’t have done it, but he really was starting to get on my nerves. It was a good thing Fred and I had stopped for food for me on the way in or I might be getting really irritable.

“My
problem,
” Shea said, “is that every time you get involved in a case, bodies start stacking up like cord wood.”

I sighed. He was right. But it wasn’t my fault. It was my line of work and the level of bad guys I was going up against. This particular batch seemed to think that their people were as disposable as tissues. Somebody needed to stop them. I knew the police were trying, and now the feds were involved. But somehow I couldn’t bring myself to have faith in them. Besides, the bad guys had singled me out for their attention from the start. Call it intuition, or paranoia, or whatever the hell else you want, but I had this sinking feeling that I was going to be involved in this to the bitter end.

I spoke clearly, enunciating enough that the answer wasn’t
quite
insulting. “Not … my … fault.”

Roberto, my attorney, spoke up. “I think we’re done here. My client has been most cooperative. She’s given a statement. She was not physically present at the scene, and you have nothing that could connect her to any crime.” He rose. I rose.

“We’re not finished until I say so,” Shea snarled and gestured for me to sit back down. I didn’t and he took a threatening step toward me.

Dom straightened up. That’s all. He didn’t say anything, didn’t do anything other than move away from the wall. But Shea subsided.

Roberto opened the door and we left, walking along a wide hall that led to the fire stairs at one end and the cubicle farm at the other. We hadn’t quite reached the cubicles when Dom’s voice stopped me.

“Yo, Graves, hang on a minute.” I turned back as he stepped out of the interrogation room and started walking toward me; we met in the middle of the hall. Roberto waited nearby, still within earshot, ready to do his duty if need be but giving me at least the illusion of privacy if the conversation with Dom wasn’t business.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Glad to see you looking so much better.”

“Thanks. I got the flowers. They were great.”

“Yeah, the wife picked them out.” He shifted his weight a little uncomfortably. In the better light of the hallway I saw he looked tired, and while his suit was still crisp, it fit loosely, like he’d lost a little weight. He sighed. “Look, Shea’s an ass, but he isn’t wrong. The body count is climbing and we’re no closer to solving this than we were when we started. These guys have no limits. They attacked a freaking
hospital,
for Christ’s sake.”

“I know. I know.” I met his gaze. “I have some ideas, but nothing solid. What I’d really like to do is change things up—go on the offense. Because, frankly, playing defense just isn’t working.”

“No shit,” Alex agreed, joining us in the hall.

“What do you have in mind?” Dom asked.

I told him.

“You don’t ask much,” he said sourly. “Give me your number. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

23

When Gilda
Levy hadn’t been able to reach me by phone or e-mail, she’d contacted Dawna. Isaac was missing. I called Gilda right away. She said Isaac had been terribly upset since I’d spoken to him. He’d left the shop abruptly, shortly after noon yesterday, telling Gilda he had urgent business to take care of. No one had heard from him since.

Did I know where he’d gone? No. But I had a sneaking suspicion it had something to do with our meeting—and with Connor Finn. I was worried. Isaac is a skilled mage and he’s a tough old coot. He’d taken the news that something might be going on in the territory he was responsible for very seriously. I just hoped he hadn’t done something foolish as a result. Because tough as he was, and powerful as he was, he was still an old man. He’d never told me his age, but he had to be close to eighty.

I felt physically ill from worry and stress by the time I reached the Furnace Creek exit.

Isaac, where the hell are you?
I thought hard, trying to picture him in my head. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
Please don’t let him be dead.
It wasn’t like him to disappear without a word. He would never have missed Gilda’s birthday lunch. He wouldn’t worry Gilda like that.

I wished there was something I could do, but there wasn’t.

I was meeting Dom Rizzoli for breakfast at Irma’s Diner, a little place just off the expressway, nestled between diesel pumps and a car wash sized to accommodate semis. It had taken Dom some time to get things arranged, but he’d managed it.

Irma’s had the design of a classic fifties diner: a long narrow building with rounded windows and lots of chrome. Three different colors of neon chased around the upper trim and lit the big sign that showed a waitress holding a full tray. I pulled into the only empty spot in a large parking lot, slathered myself with sunscreen, and steeled myself for a dash through the sunshine.

The inside of the building was just what I’d expected. There was a long counter, with seats at fixed intervals. Booths lined the outside wall. The seating was all covered in bright turquoise vinyl; the low ceiling and walls were made of bright white plastic that shone in the light from the windows.

Rizzoli occupied a booth just steps away from the emergency exit, near the narrow hall that led to the restrooms—the only shady spot in the place. He wore jeans, a leather bomber jacket, and a sour expression. On the table in front of him was a white ceramic cup filled with coffee and a saucer with a half-eaten piece of cherry pie smothered in whipped cream.

“Hi, Dom.” I slid into the booth across from him.

“Celia.”

The waitress came over, an older black woman with broad hips and a ready smile. She set down a steaming cup of coffee and a little metal carrier filled with plastic tubs of cream and packets of sweetener. Dom raised his eyebrows when I ordered, but I ignored him. When the waitress left, he spoke.

“Explain to me again why we’re doing this?” Dom looked across the table at me, his expression more serious than I’d ever seen it. Since we’ve been through some hellish times together, it hit me hard that I had pushed him to his limits.

“Connor Finn has found a way to work magic from inside the Needle.”

Rizzoli shook his head. “Not possible.”

“He’s done it, Dom. I don’t know how, but he has. And he’s planning a big curse to wipe out the last of the Garzas. My source says he has to do it on the full moon.”

“So, Monday night. Your client is the Garza girl?”

“Yes, but she’s not the only person with Garza bloodlines.” I took a sip of my coffee. It was almost too hot to drink and strong enough to stand on its own without the cup. Perfect.

“Our records indicate she’s the last.” Dom quirked an eyebrow at me.

I dropped the bomb. “Connor Finn and his son, Jack, have Garza blood. They just don’t know it.”

His eyes went wide. For a long moment he just stared at me. Finally, he spoke. “You’re sure?”

“A ghost told me.”

“And ghosts can’t lie.” He took a bite of pie. His expression was thoughtful. “Connor won’t believe you. It’ll just piss him off if you tell him.”

“Maybe, but I’ve got to give it a shot. Lives are at stake. And while I couldn’t care less whether or not he survives”—in fact, I’d soooooo much rather he didn’t, but I wasn’t about to say that out loud—“Michelle’s just a kid. And then there’s his son.”

“What do you know about Jack Finn?”

“Not much, but I’ve met him. He’s one of the men who left me on the beach to burn.”

Rizzoli’s eyes darkened to almost black, his expression hardening to stone. “Sounds to me like the world might be better off without him.”