"Did you ever find it?” Cyn asked.
"What's that?"
"Something he wouldn't give you?"
"You know, Cynthia, I did. Very recently, in fact."
"What was it?"
"You."
"What?” Cyn stepped away from the tiny vampire woman, suddenly uncomfortable.
Alexandra laughed at her reaction. “I told my brother I was lonely. With Matias dead—he died trying to defend me, but you know that, of course—I had no one left. I admired you, your strength, your courage. I wanted you as my friend, my companion."
"You could have called me on the phone,” Cyn commented.
Alexandra gave a tiny, very pleased smile. “Oh no, you don't understand. I wanted him to make you Vampire so you could be my friend forever."
Cyn froze, uncertain how to respond. But something must have shown on her face, because Alexandra laughed again, altogether pleased with her reaction. “Oh, don't worry, Cynthia,” she said breezily. “He said no.” She sobered then, gazing pensively over the marbled courtyard. “I don't think I've ever seen my brother as furious as he was that night, certainly never at me. He didn't speak to me for days, and then only to inform me that if any harm came to you because of me, he would personally stake me."
Cyn's face must have shown her doubt.
"He was quite serious, Cynthia. And he would be very unhappy if he knew you were here today; I don't think he quite trusts me yet.” Again that private little smile before she said brightly, “I'm told the contractor will be here tomorrow to rip out this ridiculous marble."
Cyn forced a laugh, relieved at the change of subject. “Well, thank God for that."
"He missed you, you know.” Alexandra said, giving Cyn a narrow look. “I've never known my brother to miss a woman, to miss anyone, as much as he did you when we were locked away up there in Colorado."
Cyn blew out a breath, frustrated. “You know, I'm getting kind of tired of everyone pretending this is my fault. Raphael's the one who walked away, not me."
"Men are fools, Cynthia. You surely know that by now."
"Tell me about it,” she muttered. A fresh round of enthusiastic piano music erupted from the music room. Both women looked up.
"Perhaps Mirabelle would enjoy some piano lessons,” Alexandra said grimly.
Cyn winced. “Good idea. Can I reach you through the estate operator?” When Alexandra nodded, Cyn said, “I'll keep in touch then. And Mirabelle has my cell number if she needs anything. Thank you for this, Alexandra."
"Yes, well. Perhaps we'll be friends then, after all."
Cyn doubted it, but hoped for Mirabelle's sake they could remain friendly. At least until they worked out something long term for the girl. She smiled at Alexandra. The vampire wasn't the only one who could fake a smile. “I'd like that,” she lied.
Alexandra's eyes gleamed with a greedy sort of joy, like a child eyeing a favorite candy. Abruptly uncomfortable, Cyn stepped away from the railing. “I'll just say good-bye to Mirabelle and be on my way."
"What's the hurry?” Alexandra said, mirroring Cyn's movement and more, coming close enough that Cyn could see the tiny creases in her carefully applied makeup.
"Cynthia!” Mirabelle's frightened voice broke the sudden tension and had both women hurrying back into the manor house.
Chapter Twenty-seven
It was a false alarm—Mirabelle reacting to the sudden appearance of one of Alexandra's many security vamps. Used to the Neanderthals who populated Jabril's lair, Mirabelle had been huddled in a corner when Cyn reentered the music room. The vampire guard had been almost as stressed by the situation as Mirabelle. It had taken only a few moments to reassure all sides, but Cyn had begrudged even that. She couldn't get out of Alexandra's presence fast enough. The old Alexandra had been a pretty anachronism. This new Alexandra made the sharks of Beverly Hills look like childish poseurs.
A short time later, Cyn left Malibu and the west side of town behind, driving aimlessly up and down Hollywood Boulevard and its side streets, stopping occasionally to flash Liz's picture. She'd always thought it must be an unpleasant shock when visitors saw that the world-famous city of Hollywood was actually a seamy, rundown part of L.A., home to more hookers and homeless than movie stars. With the exception of a trendy hotel or two, Cyn couldn't think of anyone she knew, or knew of, that actually lived in Hollywood. Hollywood Hills, maybe, high up where the dirt and crime were nothing more than twinkling lights in the distance, but not down among the seedy denizens of Hollywood itself. She cruised the known hangouts of teenage runaways, the shooting dens, the busy streets where cars slowed and sometimes a young girl or boy would take a ride to earn a few bucks.
Depressed by the whole scene, Cyn turned west once more, sticking to the side streets and alleys where a young girl might hunker down and wait out the night. She punched up Luci's number as she drove, hoping against hope that Liz had checked in. Luci sounded uncharacteristically harassed and out of patience when she came to the phone, and Cyn could hear shouts in the background.
"You need backup there, Luce?"
"What I need is a cage and some sturdy handcuffs,” Luci snapped, then drew a deep breath. “Never mind. It's been a rough night. Tomorrow will be better. Any sign of your missing girl?"
"Not a whisper, but I've barely started looking. I finally met with Eckhoff late last night and got a look at the uh ... files. I'm pretty sure the cops are on the wrong track, but no one's going to listen to me. At least not until I find something to prove it. I'm working on that too.” Cyn came to a stop sign and looked around; she was almost on top of one of the murder scenes. All the reasons for driving right on by zipped through her brain. It was late; she was tired; it wasn't her job. What the heck. “I'll get back to you, Luce."
She hung up and took a left turn, parking as close to the scene as she could get while remaining reasonably confident her truck would still be in one piece when she got back. She walked the rest of the way, very aware of the night around her, sliding a hand beneath her jacket and releasing the safety strap on her shoulder holster. She didn't expect any problems, but in this neighborhood, it was better to be sure.
She found the crime scene easily enough. It was a couple of blocks off the boulevard, a short alleyway used by low-end shops for deliveries and trash pickup. The alley was dark and smelled pretty much like alleys everywhere, eau de garbage with an undercurrent of desperation and urine. She pulled out a mini Maglite and crouched, studying the area.
"You don't look like a cop."
Cyn spun around as the disembodied voice came out of the shadows, right hand going reflexively to the butt of her weapon. A boy stepped into the meager light, maybe sixteen years old, thin and underfed like all the others. His eyes were bruised, his knuckles scraped. He'd obviously been in a fight recently. Probably not the first or the last.
"That's because I'm not,” Cyn said calmly, her hand relaxing, her eyes going back to the weeks-old crime scene.
"Joni died here,” the boy said.
Cyn looked up. “You knew her?"
"Sure. Everybody knew Joni. She hooked up a lot, always had money and was willing to share."
"Share what?” Cyn asked, thinking it was probably drugs, remembering which of the bodies had shown visible signs of drug use.
"Food, mostly,” the boy said, surprising her. “Joni got drunk sometimes, but she didn't do drugs. She had a few regular customers, old guys who liked fucking a little girl and didn't mind paying a little extra for the repeat experience."
"Yeah.” Cyn sighed, too familiar with the story. “You think maybe one of her clients killed her?"
"Maybe, but it was pretty late. Almost morning."
Cyn quickly reviewed what she remembered from the file. The vic from this scene had been reported on an anonymous 911. “How do you know what time it was?"
"I found her. Sat with her until the cops came."
Cyn's heart skipped a beat. There hadn't been any witness reports that she'd seen. “Did you see who did it?"
"Didn't see it. Heard it though. I think I scared the guy away."
"What'd you hear?"
The kid looked at her, suddenly suspicious. “Why you asking all these questions, if you're not a cop?"
"I'm a private investigator.” She pulled out a card and handed it over. “A family member hired me to find out what's going on.” It wasn't precisely a lie.
The boy squinted at the card and back at Cyn. “Kind of like that wizard guy Harry Dresden from the books?"
"Kind of, but without the magic. So, was she alive when you got here?"
"I don't think so.” A tired sort of grief washed over his features and he looked away. “Not long, anyway."
"What'd you hear before you found her?"
"A car and a lot of noise, like something big being thrown into the trash. I went to see what it was because sometimes people throw away good stuff, you know? It was a nice car, so I figured maybe it was something good."
"You saw the car?"
"Nah, but I could tell. The engine sounded all smooth and low, and when the doors closed, you could hear that nice thunky noise, not all kinds of rattles and shit."
Observant, Cyn thought, smart. She felt a moment of despair and wondered for the thousandth time why society threw these kids away.
"So what happened then?"
"Like I said, I think the guy must've heard me coming. He drove off pretty fast, burned rubber all the way.” He gestured at the ground and Cyn walked over, crouching to look closely at the thick lines of indistinguishable black.
"If you didn't see him, how do you know it was a guy?"
He thought about her question for a bit. “Just figured, I guess,” he said finally. “I mean ... aren't they always?"
