Vampire for Hire (10 page)

 
      
 
“
Hanner’s
working the case,” he said.

 
      
 
“May I speak with him?”

 
      
 
“Her. Rachel
Hanner
. Hang on.”

 
      
 
He got up from behind his desk, and as he did so, one of his knees popped so loudly that I nearly took cover. Sherbet looked slightly embarrassed. “Don’t say a word,” he cautioned.

 
      
 
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I smirked.

 
      
 
He returned a moment later with a young woman with perfect milky skin. She was also damn pretty, and I fought an overwhelming desire to hate her. She nodded at me pleasantly but didn’t shake my hand.

 
      
 
Bitch
, although I was secretly relieved. Shaking hands always followed a small bit of stress for me.

 
      
 
Sherbet asked her to sit and she did so next to me. Sherbet next asked me to retell my story and I did so, reciting it nearly word for word. These days, my memory seemed sharper and sharper. I had no idea what to attribute that to, but I wasn’t complaining.

 
      
 
When I was finished,
Hanner
nodded once and turned and looked at me. Her movements were economical and precise. She seemed like a well-oiled—and quite beautiful—machine. Her blond hair was pulled back tightly, revealing a smooth sweep of forehead. Her eyes were impossibly big, and most guys probably would have had the
hots
for her if she didn’t project such a fiercely calm and professional presence.

 
      
 
“I can’t imagine that a child knows how to block caller ID,” she said when I was finished. Her voice had a hint of an accent. Or maybe, for once, I was simply hearing perfectly enunciated English.

 
      
 
“Which is why I figured the phone had the block already programmed in.”

 
      
 
She nodded. “A reasonable assumption. Is your business number a toll free number, Samantha?”

 
      
 
“At the time of the call, no.”

 
      
 
“But you have it now?”

 
      
 
“Better. Just before coming here I added another feature to my phone, called Trap Call.”

 
      
 
“I’m not following,” said Sherbet.

 
      
 
No surprise there. Sherbet was an old-school homicide detective and probably not up to date on some of the modern tracing technology. Conversely, private investigators were almost always up on such new gadgets. New gadgets gave us an edge over our competitors. Including the police. Of course, having a freaky sixth sense was a hell of an advantage, too. He said, “And what does that do?”

 
      
 
“It’s a call forwarding service,” I said, “When a blocked call comes through, I forward it to Trap Call and their toll-free line. The caller’s ID shows up on their end, and Trap Call relays the information to me. Within seconds.”

 
      
 
Sherbet looked at Murphy. “This make sense to you?”

 
      
 
“Perfectly.”

 
      
 
“Good enough. So we wait for the next call, then?” he said.

 
      
 
I nodded. “If it comes. Until then, I would like to assist you on this case.”

 
      
 
“Do you have a paying client?” asked Sherbet.

 
      
 
“No.”

 
      
 
Sherbet looked at
Hanner
. “Could you use the help?”

 
      
 
“More than you know,” she answered.

 
      
 
He looked back at me. “You can help. Unofficially, of course.”

 
      
 
“Of course.”

 
      
 
Sherbet asked
Hanner
to leave the case file with him and she obliged. She smiled at me, nodded at Sherbet, and left.

 
      
 
The detective touched the file on his desk, and said, “I’m going to get some coffee. Maybe a donut. Okay, definitely a donut. I’ll be gone for about ten minutes. You are not to look at this official police file, and you are most definitely not to copy them on the convenient copy machine in the corner of my office.”

 
      
 
“Yes, sir.”

 
      
 
He set the file down in front of me, and when he left to get his coffee and donut, I quickly made a copy of the file. I slipped my copy in my purse and returned the original to its folder.

 
      
 
When Sherbet returned with his coffee and a fresh jelly stain, he calmly picked up the file and dropped it in the “Out” box at the corner of his desk.

 
      
 
“I trust you didn’t look at the file,” he said.

 
      
 
“Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”

 
      
 
“So what’s your first step?” he asked.

 
      
 
“First, I’m going to read a file I most certainly didn’t copy. And second, then I’m going to do what I do best.”

 
      
 
“Drive to soccer games in your minivan?”

 
      
 
“Hey, I only do that twice a week.”

 
      
 
“Go on.”

 
      
 
I said, “I’m going to relentlessly look for this little girl until I find her, using whatever means I have at my disposal.”

 
      
 
“All of them legal, of course.”

 
      
 
“Of course,” I said.

 
      
 
Sherbet sipped his coffee, and promptly splashed some down his shirt. He briefly glanced at it but he really didn’t seem to care, truth be known. Okay, now
that
is manly.

 
      
 
He said, “and don’t think I haven’t forgotten about our little talk, Samantha.”

 
      
 
Sherbet was referring to the recent supernatural activity happening in his town. Minor stuff, really. Just a werewolf sighting or two. Maybe a grave robbery. Maybe.

 
      
 
“I haven’t, Detective. It’s just that now isn’t a good time.”

 
      
 
He was nodding. “When your son’s better and you have a little time, we’re going to talk.”

 
      
 
“Of course,” I said, and got up. “I can find my way out.”

 
      
 
I left him staring after me, with his coffee and jelly donut stains.

 
      
 
Chapter Fifteen

 
      
 
I called my sister Mary Lou, and she told me that Anthony was sleeping peacefully. I breathed a sigh of relief.

 
      
 
“I think I just heard you breathe an actual sigh of relief,” said Mary Lou.

 
      
 
“Wouldn’t you?”

 
      
 
“He’s going to be fine, Sam. You worry too much.”

 
      
 
“It’s my job to worry too much,” I said.

 
      
 
“And it’s my job to call you on it.”

 
      
 
I asked her to watch him a little longer and she said she was planning on staying the night. Her own children were at home with their dad, which made me briefly envious. Hey, I’m only human.

 
      
 
I think.

 
      
 
Having Danny around had made my job infinitely easier. That is, until he started coming home later and later—and reeking of perfume. Then my life wasn’t easier. Then it had been a living hell.

 
      
 
I thanked her and clicked off and checked the time on my dash. It was going to be a tight squeeze but I should make it to my meeting on time.

 
      
 
I took Chapman Avenue to the 57 Freeway. From there, I joined a sea of other cars and headed south. Luckily, this sea was moving at a decent clip, and soon I was going east on the 22, where I exited at Main Street. From there, I headed south, passing one of Orange County’s greatest edifices: The Main Place Mall, whose postmodern glass-and-metal facade sparkled in the last light of the day like a giant beacon to desperate housewives with too much money and a penchant for giant-sized cinnamon rolls.

 
      
 
Somehow, I managed to resist the urge to spend thirty minutes looking for parking and pay twice the going rate for anything. Of course, I was dead broke and I doubted
Cinnabons
served chilled hemoglobin.

 
      
 
The broke part was why I was taking this meeting.

 
      
 
A few blocks later, I turned into the Wharton Museum parking lot. As I did so, the sun finally set behind a horizon cluttered with apartment buildings and old homes. I stepped out of my minivan and inhaled the warm dusk air and felt more alive than I ever did when I was human.