Читать книгу: «The Calling», страница 2

Chapter 2

NYPD Detective Peter Daly never made it home after the drive-by shooting. From the moment the call had come in, just past midnight, he’d been on the job.

It was just as well. He didn’t really have any reason to go home.

The sights at the morgue that morning had been grim. Three dead, all below the age of sixteen. Another one in critical condition. Amazingly, three had survived with barely a scratch.

He was still puzzling about those three as he stood on the sidewalk, examining the scene of the shooting once again. The Crime Scene Unit was supposedly finished here, but Peter thought there had to be something they’d missed. Something that would explain how three kids had escaped a fusillade of bullets.

He stepped backward, off the curb and into the middle of the street where the car had paused. With as many rounds as the Tec-9 could fire, you didn’t need good aim. Just point and shoot. That was enough to hit almost anything within close range.

Which didn’t explain how three of the children had somehow gotten away. Nor could the children explain it either. All they recalled was that they were suddenly whisked into the stairwell next door. The hangers-on in the neighborhood, religious semisuperstitious types from what Peter could see, had murmured that an angelita had saved the children. It was a miracle.

Peter didn’t believe in miracles or maybe even Heaven for that matter. But Hell. Hell was right here, he thought as he ambled back to the sidewalk, searching for any clues the Crime Scene Unit might have missed. Along the street and stoop there was nothing. Down in the stairwell of the building next door, he hit pay dirt.

Some drops of blood. Just a few on the top step leading down to the shelter’s lower level. Along the railing, what appeared to be a smear of blood. Removing a kit from his jacket pocket, he swabbed at the drops and the smear, and then safely tucked the evidence away for analysis.

Glancing up at the shelter, he wondered if anyone there had seen anything. Or if someone within had been responsible for the supposed miracle. And the blood.

As Peter turned, he caught sight of the garbage cans. A veritable source of information. He popped open the lid on the first receptacle. Nothing but recyclables. Lifting the lid on the next one, he noted the refuse from last night’s dinner. Taking off his jacket, he undid the cuff on his white shirt and rolled it up. Then he gingerly placed his hand in the garbage—a job he totally hated—and rooted around. Barely below the surface he came across something tucked into a bag from the local grocery.

The santero down the block had claimed to have been shopping. Peter grabbed the bag from the garbage. He undid the tied handles to reveal a woman’s blouse. Easing the blouse out using the plastic of the bag, to avoid contaminating the evidence, he noted the bloodstains and two glaring bullet holes—one high up on the shoulder, the other along the rib area.

Curiouser and curiouser. Peter slipped the blouse back into the bag and returned to his car. He stuffed the blouse into an evidence bag and noted the details about his discovery. Placing the blouse and the swabs in his trunk, he decided to visit the local market to see just who had been shopping last night.

As Peter walked to the Gristedes, just a few blocks away, he was struck by the neat and tidy conditions of this area. There was a sense of safety and community he hadn’t expected in this neighborhood. But then it hadn’t been the least bit safe for those involved in last night’s shooting.

At the market, Peter had no luck with the clerks or manager on duty. The night shift had just left. But the manager offered to let Peter view a tape from the night before.

There was a clear shot of a woman making a purchase shortly before midnight. A beautiful woman wearing a shirt much like the one Peter had discovered in the garbage.

“Do you know who she is?” Peter asked, motioning to the image paused on the screen. Had she been another victim? If she’d been hurt, why hadn’t she shown up in a local hospital?

The manager shrugged. “I’ve never seen her before. Maybe one of the clerks has.”

One by one the clerks were called into the manager’s office and one by one they all failed to recognize the woman in the video. Peter thanked them and added the tape to the other evidence in his car.

Then, figuring he had nothing to lose by following his instincts, he walked up the short set of steps to the door of the Artemis Shelter, identified by a small bronze plaque. Vaguely he recollected that Artemis was a warrior goddess in Greek mythology and wondered who had chosen the name for the shelter and why.

A young black woman with a toddler balanced on one hip answered his knock. “May I help you?” Hostility came off of her in waves.

Peter held up his shield for the young woman to see. “NYPD. I’m here investigating last night’s shooting. Do you mind if I come in?”

“Do you have a warrant?” she asked, maintaining her position smack in the middle of the doorway to bar his entry.

“I just want to ask a few questions. Find out if anyone saw anything last night.”

“Come back when you’ve got a warrant.” She was about to slam the door in his face when he reached out and grabbed the edge of it.

“There’s no need for this. Just a few questions.” Although given all that he’d found between the garbage can and the grocery store, he’d have enough probable cause for a warrant.

When the door fully opened again, the woman from the grocery store stood behind the young black woman. He’d thought her beautiful in the grainy video. Up close, she was stunning.

Jet-black hair fell in thick waves, framing a heart-shaped face with just the hint of a cleft in her chin. Her skin was the palest of café con leche and her eyes were large and a startling shade of crystalline blue. Barely thirty years of age.

Peter felt poleaxed as she focused her cool gaze on him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Sofia is just a little protective. What can we help you with?”

Her tones were cultured, with a bit of an accent. Southern, not that he was any kind of expert.

“Detective?”

Embarrassed at his almost juvenile silence, Peter stammered as he said, “I’m investigating last night’s shooting. I’d like to speak with you, if you have a moment.”

“Actually, breakfast is a rather busy time—”

His interest was replaced by irritation. “Miss—”

“Ms. Turner,” she corrected with an almost regal lift of her head.

“Ms. Turner. We can either do this here or down at the precinct, which would take substantially more time out of your busy day.” He took out his notepad from his jacket pocket to stress his point.

The young black woman protested at the same time as the vision of beauty said, “Detective, I’d rather not—”

“Ma’am. Please understand. Between the videotapes from the grocery and your garbage can, I have probable cause. I’d rather not complicate this with a warrant.”

What little color she had fled from her face and for a moment he worried she might faint. Instead, Ms. Turner stiffened her spine. “Sofia. Could you make sure the children are ready for school while the detective and I share a word in the kitchen?”

Sofia nodded curtly and glared at him as she stepped away.

Ms. Turner opened the door wider, giving him space to pass, and held her hand out in invitation. “Please come in.”

Peter stepped inside to a whirlwind of activity. Ms. Turner hadn’t been kidding when she said it was a busy time. Sofia and another woman were handing out lunch bags and checking schoolbooks for at least half a dozen children of varying ages and ethnicities.

Ms. Turner walked down the hall adjacent to the parlor and past stairs leading to the upper floors of the converted brownstone. At the far end of the hall, Ms. Turner took the stairs leading downward and he followed.

On the lower level was a large dining room that opened onto a small, neatly kept courtyard. The tiny patch of grass was a bright green from the spring rains and someone had been busy planting flowers.

The dining room table was still littered with the remains of breakfast. At least Ms. Turner was being truthful about that.

She walked to the kitchen located at the front of the building. There was a door at one end and he suspected it was the one that opened into the stairwell where the children had taken refuge last night. “May I?” he asked and at her nod, he confirmed his suspicions.

When he closed the door, Ms. Turner motioned to the worktable. “May I get you something? Coffee? Beignets? I just made them fresh this morning.”

“Ben-what?” he asked, confused, but he took a seat at the table. He hadn’t eaten since an early dinner the night before.

“French donuts.” Ms. Turner poured a cup of coffee and placed it in front of him. The aroma was wonderful. Beside the cup, she added a pitcher of steamed milk and a small silver dish with brown sugar.

“Donuts, huh?” He added sugar and milk to the coffee, took a sip and nearly groaned at how tasty it was.

Ms. Turner didn’t wait for his answer. She gave a wry smile as she placed a plate of the ben-donuts before him. “They say the way to a cop’s heart—”

“Is with donuts? I don’t think so,” he teased back. Then he picked up one of the square bits of dough, which were still warm, and took a bite. This time he did groan, “Or maybe it is. Thank you. I haven’t eaten in a while.”

Samantha examined the detective, trying to make some sense of him. He was in his early thirties, but there was a weariness in his stance and gaze that spoke of having seen too much of life. Handsome, if you liked those Nordic types. Thick hair streaked with varying shades of blond fell in uneven layers around his face. The raggedness of the haircut was boyishly appealing in an “I don’t care” kind of way. He had pale hazel eyes tinged with the tiniest bit of light green.

As they’d walked through the shelter, she’d noticed he was tall and physically robust, inches over her five foot seven height. A rangy kind of build, though with more strength and bulk than a runner. Possibly kept there by the way he ate, she thought with some humor as he devoured the plate of beignets.

“Would you like some more, Detective?”

A wash of pink colored his cheeks and he wiped his mouth with a napkin to remove all traces of powdered sugar. “No, thank you. Do you mind if—”

“We get to the questioning. I’m not sure I can be of much help.” She hoped to avoid any questions that would involve her in the investigation. She couldn’t afford anyone delving into her background too deeply. Plus, despite a feeding earlier that morning, she was feeling weak once again. Losing control in front of this detective…she didn’t want to think about it.

“A tape from the store shows you buying groceries just before midnight. Since I walked the route, I’m guessing you got back to the block as the car drove by.”

“I was already in the shelter when I heard the gunfire.”

“Really?” He raised one sun-lightened eyebrow. “I found a blouse in the garbage. Just like the one you were wearing at the grocery store.”

“Coincidence? Passersby regularly use those garbage cans.”

“Passersby with two bullets in them?”

Samantha smiled and held her hands up to emphasize her point. “Do I look like I’ve been shot, Detective?”

He eyed her up and down and then asked the unexpected. “Mind if I check?”

Peter watched as his request registered. Her blue eyes grew hard like diamonds. Her jaw worked up and down a few times before she croaked, “Excuse me?”

“You posed a rather interesting question, Ms. Turner. Did you expect me not to take you up on it?”

Her eyes blazed with anger. “You, sir, are no gentleman.”

Definitely not a New Yorker. Problem was, everything about her made him think of sultry Southern nights and sex, which were the last things he should be thinking about. Recovering, he said, “You can ask one of the other women to come down and act as a witness. Or we can go—”

“Down to the precinct,” she finished for him even as she reached for the buttons on her blouse.

“Please turn around, and lower the shirt.”

She did as he asked, revealing the upper part of her back, unmarred except for a myriad of faint uneven lines. Old scars?

She gazed at him over her shoulder and he felt as if he’d been kicked in the gut. There was so much pain, so much fear and anguish in her gaze she couldn’t hide it.

Without thinking, Peter laid a finger on one of the pale lines. Her skin was as cold as ice.

She wrenched away from him. “Don’t.” She grasped the opening of her blouse as she whirled to face him.

Peter took a step back, shocked at his own actions. At what he was feeling about this woman he’d only just met. He’d had enough of women in his life, after all. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

“Do you need anything else, Detective…? Come to think of it, just what is your name?”

“Daly. Peter Daly from the twenty-third. Who did that to you? Mr. Turner?” Instinctively his hands curled into fists as he imagined exacting punishment on her behalf.

Anger emanated from him. Samantha cringed and stepped away. “It was a long time ago and I’m over it.” Not that she really was. Her reaction to his touch had proven that. “Please. Just go.”

He hesitated, clearly troubled, but then he reached into his pocket, withdrew one of his business cards. “If you need anything, just let me know.”

Samantha didn’t know how to read his offer. Had she just gone from suspect to victim? If the former, he’d be back.

As for the latter, the good detective was obviously a man used to not only dealing with violence, but meting it out when necessary. And more violence was the last thing she needed in her life. “Goodbye, Detective.”

“Not goodbye, Ms. Turner. We’ll be seeing each other again.”

Any other woman might have viewed a further visit from the handsome detective with anticipation.

It was an indication of the state of her undead life that she viewed it with dread.

Chapter 3

Samantha Turner was a frickin’ saint. Or at least, that’s what most people believed along the block where the shelter was located. The funny thing was, when asked if they’d had any personal contact with Ms. Turner, most said they’d never seen her. The remainder had only seen her once or twice.

The one thing they all agreed on was that the area had gotten better in the three years since Samantha had opened the shelter.

A one-woman frickin’ social improvement campaign.

Peter didn’t know why he was so annoyed about the supposed sainthood of Samantha Turner. Maybe it was because he knew that behind a woman’s beautiful face and virtuous ways was often a soul filled with deception.

His ex-wife had been beautiful. She’d been sweet and oh-so-needy of Peter’s attentions. Warm, willing and waiting for him, even when he’d worked the long hours required of a beat cop. He’d been working his way up the ranks so he could provide for a wife and family. Oh, how he’d looked forward to the day when they could have children and buy that home they’d always wanted.

Peter slapped shut the file on his desk. Glancing into the squad room, he realized no one had even noticed. There was too much going on.

Just as there had been too much going on in his life for him to notice what his wife was doing when he was gone. Eventually she had walked out on him with her lover and their life savings.

Beautiful is as beautiful does.

Samantha Turner was an exceptionally beautiful woman.

How had she come to be where she was? Who had marked her back with those scars?

Criminal any way you thought about it. Which meant there had to be a record of it somewhere. With that information, he might get a more complete picture of the enigmatic head of the Artemis Shelter. Maybe that would help him deal with her, know how to get her to open up and provide whatever information she had about the shooting.

More than anything, Peter wanted to nail those responsible for the killings, but he needed more evidence. So far, he’d been unable to track down the car. The license plate number had revealed that it had been reported stolen a few days earlier. It might not ever be found if it had been turned over to a chop shop. And the descriptions provided by the sole witness weren’t very specific—described a large number of youths in Spanish Harlem.

So, Ms. Turner might be the key to breaking this case and because of that, he needed to know more about her. He went through the various databases available to him, from the local ones to those kept by the Feds. Hours passed. His investigations yielded nothing except a Social Security number and minimal financial information. For anything more detailed, he’d have to ask for help. Escalate the investigation. If she’d been a suspect, he wouldn’t hesitate to bring in others and expose her private life to greater scrutiny. But Samantha Turner wasn’t a suspect. She’d done nothing wrong. There was no reason to sic anyone else on her…yet.

He had a job to do and if he stepped on some toes while doing it, so be it. At least that’s how he felt until he remembered the faint lines on her back and the look she’d given him.

He recognized that almost haunted expression. He’d seen it in the mirror more than once in the months after his wife’s desertion.

So, this time, he would cut Ms. Turner some slack. Respect the pain he’d seen in her eyes. Leave it and her alone.

That’s what Peter told himself as he put his fingers back on the keyboard. That’s what he told himself as he listened to the M.E.’s phone call about the evidence he’d turned in the day before. The blood couldn’t be typed nor could any DNA samples be extracted. Had Peter bagged the evidence properly? Had the materials been close to any chemicals or excessive heat that might have compromised them?

With a tired sigh, Peter answered the M.E. and hung up.

Glancing at his watch, he realized that with little happening in the investigation, he might as well call it a night. Head home to the fourth floor walk-up apartment in downtown Manhattan that wasn’t the house in the suburbs with the neatly manicured lawn he’d always wanted. That thought made him remember the tidily kept courtyard at the Artemis Shelter. Was Samantha the one who’d been busy planting flowers?

She shouldn’t be on his mind. She was just a witness. Not a suspect. Not a victim. At least not on his watch. Whoever had failed her had to deal with that guilt. Not him.

He had enough to handle. He didn’t need any woman in his life, especially one with as many secrets as Samantha Turner.

Which was why he called himself a fool when he drove away from the precinct and headed uptown to ask Ms. Turner a few more questions.

Chapter 4

Samantha was in bed when the call came from her longtime vampire friend, Diego. His youngest charge was missing.

Samantha was weak. Weaker than she should be after multiple feedings, but she couldn’t refuse her friend’s plea for help. Even if it meant going to the downtown vampire club she detested.

The Blood Bank was an odd kind of place, hidden in a dark alleyway and unknown to humans—except those who had a desire to experiment with dark elements. Those people managed, by word of mouth, to spread the news about the club’s existence. As for the demons, they, too, let others know—this was where the normal rules of the human world didn’t apply.

The Blood Bank provided demons with a place to let loose and to feed from the fine stock of blood acquired from a select group of blood banks and butchers. Even, occasionally, from a willing human participant, although the club had strict rules about siring humans on the premises.

The humans, on the other hand, went to the club for many reasons. The naive ones believed the fake vampires put on a good show. Others wanted to believe the vampires were more than actors and got a kick out of possibly mingling with the undead. And finally, there were those true believers who were always ready to search out a chance to embrace the darkness.

A darkness in which she had lived for too long, when what she desired most, like Diego’s poor lost little vampire, was the light. Only all that was light and good was far beyond her reach, Samantha thought, and then for some reason, the good-looking blond detective came to mind. He was as forbidden to her as the light: first for being a human; second for being a man.

As Samantha, Diego and his lover, Esperanza, strolled into the club, the crowd parted before them, as if sensing their inhuman power. All of the booths and tables near the back of the club were filled, but that didn’t deter Diego.

He examined all the spaces and then walked to a booth populated by a group of Goth-looking kids barely out of their teens. He met the gaze of each of them and in a soft voice, which did nothing to diminish the menace behind his words, said, “You were just leaving, weren’t you?”

Two of the three abruptly rose, but one young man lingered, despite the exhortations of his companions that it was time to go. He stared at Diego insolently, the sneer on his face accented by piercings on his upper and lower lips. As he smiled, the sharp points of fangs became visible.

A wannabe, she thought, failing to sense that otherworldly energy that set apart her kind from the many humans within the club.

“Actually, I’d planned to stay a little longer,” the young man said.

Samantha laid a hand on Diego’s arm when he moved toward the Goth. “Please. He’s just young and foolish—”

Diego cut her off abruptly, his normally light blue eyes beginning to glow with the unnatural light of his transformation. “Then he will learn a painful lesson.”

In a blur of movement, Diego sat beside the young man, holding his hand in a viselike grip. Fear appeared in the young man’s eyes as he stared at Diego’s face. Although Diego had yet to morph to his full vamp state, he showed a tiny bit of fang in a display of power.

It worked.

“Please, man. I’m going. I’m gone.”

When Diego released him, the young man scurried away to meet his friends, who had melted into the packed club.

Diego smiled and assumed his human face then motioned for her and Esperanza to join him in the booth.

With a huff, Esperanza said, “I hate this place, Diego.”

Diego stroked her long auburn hair tenderly. “I know, querida. But this is where Meghan is most likely to show up.”

His missing charge, Meghan, being the reason all of them were sitting in a place they generally despised. For vamps like Samantha, Diego and Esperanza, the Blood Bank was a last resort when they needed a real feeding, one not from bags or beef blood. Here, they could occasionally find a human willing to provide them with a quick sip.

Nearly a century earlier, in a club much like this in San Francisco, Samantha had first met Diego and Esperanza. She’d been looking for a vampire she’d suspected of abusing one of the girls in the shelter where she was working as a cook. She’d wanted to make sure he wouldn’t trouble the young woman again, but the vampire had been killed earlier that night in a fight with Diego.

She’d been fearful of Diego’s strength until she’d realized that, like her, he believed in using his power to make things right.

Which was the reason they were all here tonight, Samantha reminded herself as she tried to find the young vampire in the crowd.

Meghan was only twenty-one years old. Forever twenty-one. When they’d first met her two years ago, Meghan had only been a vampire for a few months, which meant she couldn’t tolerate the effects of daylight and missed feedings.

In the vampire world, only the strong survived and strength came with age. If weak vampires survived the usual challenges like sunlight and garlic, they had to keep out of the way of stronger vamps who could, if they wanted, put a quick end to their lives for the slightest of infractions. Crosses and stakes were low on the list of dangers because people just weren’t scared anymore thanks to the proliferation of the undead in the media.

But Meghan, the missing vampire, was pathetically weak. So much so that Diego had taken pity on her when she’d attempted to kill her sire, thinking that would free her vampiric curse. Diego had given her a place to live and offered his human servant as company when Meghan wanted to stay awake during the day like a human. Like Samantha, staying indoors to avoid the strong noon light and slipping outside for a chance at normalcy when the sun was weak.

Meghan had run out on Diego’s servant a few days earlier, and she’d been missing since. This club was the one place Meghan was likely to return to, either to feed or go after her sire once more.

Samantha carefully scoped out the crowd, but there were a number of coeds who matched Meghan’s description—long blond hair, slender, petite and young.

A waitress came by, dressed in a getup that Marilyn Manson would envy—a tight black merry widow and black lace stockings. “May I get you something?”

“A round of blood. Nothing but human,” Diego said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

The waitress rushed to comply, returning to the bar that was kept stocked by payments to health inspectors who turned a blind eye to the unusual libations the club offered.

Samantha glanced back at her two friends as they waited for the server to return.

Diego was as stunning as always, in a charcoal-gray silk Helmut Lang suit and black silk shirt that exposed the pale white skin of his chest. His nutmeg-brown hair was down to his shoulders and straight. His eyes were a marvelous blue—clear and bright like an ice-fed mountain stream. He turned heads, but not just because of his looks. There was something almost regal in his carriage. Probably because before he’d been turned, Diego had been a Spanish lord. A betrayal during the Spanish Inquisition had resulted in his imprisonment and torture. It was deep in the belly of a Spanish prison that he’d been “converted”—although not in the way the priests would have imagined.

As beautiful as Diego was, Esperanza was as plain, but with a good, if sometimes selfish, heart. The one thing Esperanza hated was sharing Diego’s attention with the women he’d saved over the years.

Women like the missing Meghan. Women like Samantha.

Strays and lost souls who often frequented places such as the one they were now visiting.

But unlike other clubs with an obvious theme, the Blood Bank had none. Only walls, ceilings and a bar painted black. The booths, chairs and tables—where they weren’t scarred and exposing whatever material was beneath—were, of course, black.

It matched the hair and clothes of most of the people in the place. Or at least, most of the wannabes. Meghan’s blond looks would have stood out, except that occasionally, like tonight, the bar got its share of first-timers who were there to check out the wild stories they’d heard. Unfortunately, most of those club virgins had a tendency to look like Meghan.

“So, do you think she’ll show up tonight?”

“Who knows?” Esperanza replied with an impatient shrug.

The waitress delivered their drinks and hot on her heels was none other than Blake, Meghan’s sire, looking as surly and punk as ever. As the waitress departed, Blake planted his fists on their table. “Wannabes.”

Wannabe humans he should have said, since all of them knew what the young vampire thought of them. Samantha didn’t know anything about Blake’s background, but if he’d suffered even a small bit of the violence that she and her friends had endured during their human lives, he would better understand why they chose not to harm others now that they were virtually immortal.

“That outfit looks like something out of the seventies,” Esperanza taunted, motioning with her head to Blake’s chain-studded black jeans and jacket.

“Well, I think I look right fine.” His words had a hint of a cockney twang to them, an affectation he’d adopted when someone told him he looked a bit like Billy Idol. Samantha almost laughed out loud as he followed his words with an obviously practiced sneer.

Instead, she said, “Meghan is missing again, Blake. Have you seen her?”

“Been there, done that.” He studied her face. “Are you okay, because you look a bit wan.” Then he quickly added, with a wiggle of a pierced brow, “Could help you out, love, if you know what I mean.”

Impatiently Diego said, “Just tell us about Meghan.”

“Little chit was here last night on one of her rampages.” There was a bit of swagger in his stance as he continued, “Think we finally settled things between us. She didn’t seem to mind putting the bite on me in the alley.”

Vampire-to-vampire feeding being the ultimate of pleasures, Samantha thought. Esperanza had the palest touch of embarrassed color on her face while Diego’s showed nothing but annoyance at Blake’s locker room talk. Much like humans, polite vampires didn’t discuss intimate details. Feeding on another vampire was as intimate as having sex—dangerous, mind-blowing, near-death sex.

“That was a risky thing, amigo. With Meghan in one of her states, she could have easily ripped your throat out,” Diego said.

Blake leaned forward until he was almost in Diego’s face. “Jealous, old man?”

In a flash, Diego wrapped his hand tight around Blake’s throat and squeezed hard. Blake fought to free himself, but Diego’s grip was too strong. When he finally released the punk vamp, he said, “Respect your elders, Blake. As for Meghan, she is under my protection. And so I ask, do you know where she went?”

Blake took a step back from the table, rubbing his throat. “I think she wanted a snack after our little get-together. She left with some old dude late last night and didn’t come back.”