“Full name?” Costa asked.
“Wendy Larson.”
“Do you mind?”
I slid out of the chair so he could sit. He pulled up the national database and logged in. I frowned at his list of options, which were far more extensive than my own.
“Are you going to read over my shoulder?” he asked.
“That was the plan.”
He stiffened but continued his search. A few quick clicks later, he ended on a page with a Skokie address.
The wheels squeaked as he rolled the chair out from under the desk. “Let’s go meet the parents.”
Wendy Larson’s parents lived in one of the wealthier suburbs just north of Chicago. With access to the Red Line, one of the trains leading directly to various locations in the city, the neighborhood was desirable for people who worked in the city, but who also wanted the slower pace and free space that could only be found outside of the high-rises.
Costa parked in front of the quaint white home. With its shutters and large front porch, it would have fit in a small town in the southern part of the country more so than a Chicago suburb, and I wondered if her parents actually used the old wooden swing that hung on the porch.
I knocked on the door, trying to ignore the sensation of Valerio Costa’s body standing so close behind mine. The coolness that had clung to his hands when they touched me at the station seemed to cling to his whole body, and I shivered.
“Are you cold?” he murmured.
“I’m fine, thank you.”
Saved from his response by the door opening, I almost sighed in relief at the sight of the woman behind the door.
Dark brown hair tucked into a neat bun at the base of her neck, she looked so like Wendy that I would have guessed them to be sisters. But Wendy didn’t have a sister, so the tall woman had to be her mother.
“Annette Larson?” I asked A quizzical look on her face, she nodded. “Yes, I’m Annette.”
“My name is Marisol Whitman, and I’m a detective with the Chicago Police Department. This is Agent Costa.
We need to talk to you about your daughter.”
Her polite smile faltered. “What? Is everything all right? Has there been an accident?”
“We hope everything is okay. And we don’t know that anything has happened to Wendy, but we need to speak with her, Mrs. Larson.”
She waved us into the foyer but didn’t invite us farther.
“What is this all about?”
“When was the last time you spoke to your daughter?”
“I talked to Wendy last week; she was fine.”
“Is your husband home?” I shot a quick glance to Costa. He was the lead investigator on this, so why was he letting me do all the talking?
“No. Frank is out of town.”
“We’d like to speak with him, as well.”
“He’s quite unreachable. And he hasn’t talked Wendy.
They don’t keep in touch.” She crossed her arms, and her face hardened. “What is this about?”
“Wendy hasn’t been seen since last night when she left the library with another young woman who has been reported missing.”
“Excuse me? Last night? Do you have reason to believe that something has happened?” Her voice was tight, as if she spoke through gritted teeth.
“No…it’s just…” I struggled with how to explain.
“The other young woman, for reasons we can’t divulge, is unlikely to have spent the night away from home if not coerced,” Costa said.
Mrs. Larson let out a high-pitched laugh. “Oh my goodness, how silly. You come to my home and scare me.
Make me think my daughter may be in danger or hurt. All because some overprotective parents can’t believe their daughter stayed out overnight?”
“That’s n-not—” I stumbled over my words, trying to figure out how to explain in a way that wouldn’t sound stupid.
Her amusement dropped as suddenly as it appeared.
“Get out. Get out of my house.” She stomped a foot and pointed at the front door. “I don’t need you people coming in, worrying us. Take your prejudices elsewhere.”
I looked at Costa, desperate for him to say something, do something, but instead he reached out and gripped my elbow, hand still cool against my skin, even through my blouse. Lightly, he tugged me toward the door.
I searched my mind for a response, any kind of response to make her take us seriously, but it was as if all my training had never happened, all of my experience was null and void. As we stepped through the doorway, Mrs. Larson barely waited for us to clear the frame before slamming the door behind us.
“So what was that, exactly?” I finally asked as we waited in line for a table at The Grill House.
Costa glanced at me, and though I tried to keep the anger boiling in my stomach off my face, I wasn’t entirely certain I was successful.
“She hasn’t talked to her daughter in more than a week. I’d be surprised if she spoke with her any more often than the occasional birthday or holiday. We weren’t going to get any information out of her.”
I tapped my foot and stared at his calm face. “How do you know that? We barely got anything out of the woman.”
“I’ve been doing this a long time.”
I crossed my arms and raised my eyebrows at him.
“Been doing this a long time? Can you vague that up a bit more for me?”
A grin touched his lips, and the small expression transformed his face from merely handsome to dangerous.
“All right, if you’re going to demand all my secrets. She was hazy as to when she’d last talked to her daughter.
Not like she was hiding something, but like she wasn’t sure or didn’t want to admit how long it had been. She was practically bathed in guilt. Something has happened in that family to alienate their daughter.”
“Humph,” I said. “Let me guess—given enough time you could have figured out what that was without her saying.”
His grin broke into a full smile, and I found myself smiling in return. “I could probably make a few good guesses now.”
I made a whoop-de-do gesture with my hand and turned to smile at the hostess. I considered telling Costa that I’d gotten the same impressions he had from Mrs.
Larson, but decided against it. Being underestimated was something I was really good at, and it might be my only advantage with the OWEA agent. I’d check Wendy’s phone records, but I imagined it had been quite a long time since she’d talked to her parents.
“It’s probably because she’s in college,” I muttered.
“Excuse me?”
I frowned. I hadn’t meant to speak aloud. “Wendy’s mom. I’ll bet she doesn’t talk to Wendy much because her daughter’s in college.”
His brows drew together like he wanted to ask more, but the hostess interrupted us. “Detective,” she said, “we have a table ready for you and your friend.” She turned her smile to Costa and he nodded at her, his face once again covered by the serious mask that seemed to be his default expression to the world.
She seated us in a booth and the waitress who moved in to take our order was one I knew by sight, if not by name. Bright blue hair spiked on top of her head to form something that reminded me of blue fire. A professional smile was affixed to her face.
“Hi there, I’m Lisa. Can I get you guys something to drink?”
“Water,” Costa said.
“Lemon?”
“No, thank you.”
She turned her attention to me. “And for you?”
“Hot tea, please.” I gave her my practiced smile before looking back to Costa as she hurried away from the table.
“So what you were saying before, about the sirens. I know that they’re supposed to be a bit xenophobic, but do you really think the woman—even though she’s a siren— would quit talking to her daughter over something like college?”
“Yes,” I said simply. “They aren’t just xenophobic. They believe strongly in not mixing in with normals or even nonsiren otherworlders. It’s self-preservation, and you can hardly blame them for it. They’re powers are unique and powerful. People tend to fear them. How much do you know about sirens?”
“I know that they have the power of suggestion.”
That was one way to put it. “If you hear a siren sing, you do what they want. Period. For a time after you hear the song. The amount of time depends on how powerful she is—but it’s generally thought to be short. Only a few minutes if she doesn’t sing you under again.”
“So it’s similar to a succubus thrall,” he said, bitterness lacing his tone.
I grimaced. “No. Not really. What sirens do takes away all willpower for the time you’re influenced, without cost to them. But, once it’s over, it’s over. They can’t control a person or make them forget. That’s why the few sirens who have used their song on victims have almost always been caught and punished.”
“Unlike a succubus, who can ruin your whole life if you let her, without cost.” The bitterness in his tone turned to anger.
I stared at him. “Actually, the succubus takes a big risk using her powers, too, you know. The emotional connection built between a succubus and her mate is lasting, and it affects her just as much as it does him.”
He shook his head, as if denying the truth in my words, and then leaned back in the booth and put his hands behind his head. “Surprised that doesn’t hurt after a while.”
“Pardon?”
“Keeping that fake smile on your face all the time.”
No amused expression touched his face, and he looked genuinely quizzical.
“It’s not fake.”
“Really? Your kid sister is kidnapped and you have it in you to smile at strangers?”
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes for a moment.
When I opened them, he was frowning. “I’m able to do what I have to do, act how I have to act, in order to stay on this investigation, no matter how much I want to drop my smiling cop face.” I waved, gesturing around the restaurant.
