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  I let the “Detective” Strong go. “Police Chief Williams has taken a personal interest in the case,” I say. “He is meeting with us himself this morning. He is very impressed with Ryan. I can assure you, Ryan will be safe.”

  I offer my hand to his parents. Mrs. North takes it first.

  “Find Trish, Detective Strong,” she says. “She deserves better than she’s been given.”

  Mr. North shakes my hand in turn, and then he gives his son a brief hug. “Take care of him, Detective Strong,” he says to me.

  Ryan squirms away self-consciously, embarrassed at the display of parental concern. I think it sweet, though telling Ryan that would no doubt add to his humiliation.

  I feel their gaze on our backs as we make our way to the sidewalk and the waiting squad car. That wasn’t so bad, though I hook an eyebrow at Ryan. “DetectiveStrong?”

  His mouth curves into a grim, tight-lipped smile. “When you said you would be picking me up in a police car, I kind of let them think you were a detective. It just seemed easier.”

  If that gets back to Williams, I’ll never hear the end of it.

  Ortiz takes us to the Mission Café and drops us in front. Williams’s orders were for him to wait with us until he showed up, but I see no reason to keep him. Williams will be here in ten minutes, so I thank Ortiz and tell him I’ll explain to the chief that I let him go.

  At first, he balks. But I remind him that I’m a vamp and can take care of myself, and that he probably has more pressing matters to attend to-like keeping the streets safe for those who aren’t and can’t.

  We have this conversation internally, Ryan standing outside the car waiting for me to join him. Ortiz finally agrees and I climb out, spying the coat and wig I’d rolled up and thrown into the back seat. I took them to prevent Bradley and Donovan from seeing them in Williams’s office. But I certainly don’t need to be hauling them around with me now. “Take those with you, will you?” I ask, motioning toward the bundle. “Leave them with Sergeant Harvey and I’ll pick them up later.”

  He gives me a two-finger salute and pulls away.

  Ryan looks toward the café. “What are we doing here?”

  I usher him inside with a hand on his elbow. “Chief Williams thought it best to meet at a safe location.”

  One of the waiters indicates that we should seat ourselves. I steer Ryan to the back wall and we take a table with a clear view of the front. “Want something to eat?” I ask Ryan. “Great French Toast.”

  He looks at me like I’m slow-witted. “I know,” he says. “I practically live next door to this place, remember?”

  “Sorry. You’re right.”

  But when the waiter comes to take our orders, he only asks for a glass of orange juice and I order coffee. The waiter looks a little surprised. Nobody comes to the Mission Café for just coffee and juice. It’s the best breakfast place in town and one of the eating places I miss the most. This and Luigi’s near the cottage. Oh well. Those days are gone.

  I tell him that we’re waiting for someone and that eases the uncertainty from his expression, however temporarily. Williams is sure to disappoint him, too.

  Ryan hasn’t let go of the book bag since we left the house. “You can put that on the seat next to you,” I suggest.

  But he shakes his head. “No. It wouldn’t be safe.”

  “Ryan, we’re in a public place. I’m here. I wouldn’t let anyone take it.”

  “You’re a girl,” he says. “You might not be able to stop it.”

  I start to smile, to crack a remark about how he seems to have forgotten how I handled Cujo, but I don’t. He’s far more agitated than I’ve ever seen him. “Has something happened?”

  He leans across the table. “I think someone’s been following me,” he whispers.

  “What?”

  “There was a guy outside my house last night. He stood across the boardwalk, by the dock on the bay. He thought no one noticed, but I saw him. He was looking at my house.”

  “Are you sure? Until this morning, I don’t think anyone knew about you, Ryan. I didn’t tell anyone and I’m pretty sure Trish didn’t. Mr. Frey knew nothing except your name and that you helped Trish run away.”

  Ryan shakes his head stubbornly. “I didn’t imagine it. He was there.”

  “Can you tell me what he looked like?”

  Ryan looks around as if to assure himself that we can’t be overheard. He glances over his shoulder, toward the door and freezes.

  “That’s him,” he gasps, the color draining from his cheeks.

  I follow his gaze.

  Special Agent Bradley is standing at the door to the café. He’s talking to the waiter, his eyes sweeping the interior. When he spots us, he smiles and points.

  “There they are,” he tells the waiter in a low voice.

  I listen carefully for the rest.

  “My family is right there.”

  I can hear Ryan’s heart pounding in his chest. My own heart is doing the same thing. His family? I have a very bad feeling as I glance at my watch. Williams is ten minutes late. When I left him, Donovan and Bradley were on their way up. What’s Bradley doing here now?

  I look over at Ryan and motion for him to come sit beside me, leaving the opposite chair for Bradley.

  Ryan gets up and moves stiffly around the table. I put my arm over his shoulder and squeeze. “It’s all right. I know who this is.” It’s only half a lie.

  But Ryan hears the unease in my voice. He lowers the book bag so it’s out of sight under the table.

  Bradley approaches. I figure his wide smile of greeting is deceptive, aimed more at anyone who might be watching than Ryan and me. I’m proven right when he takes the seat opposite me at the table and the smile vanishes. He reaches across and takes my hand.

  “We should be going, Anna,” he says, squeezing. “I have a car waiting out front.”

  I pull my hand back. “I don’t think so. Chief Williams is joining us. He would be upset if we left before he got here.”

  The waiter approaches with a coffee pot and an extra cup. Bradley waves him off with a frown that leaves no question as to its meaning-leave us alone. The waiter backs off.

  Bradley leans toward me again. “Williams isn’t coming,” he says. “He sent me. I’m supposed to bring you and the boy back to his office. He and Donovan are waiting for us there.”

  Ryan is watching Bradley. “Who is he?” he asks me.

  Bradley answers the question himself by producing his badge and ID. “FBI, son,” he says. “Special Agent Bradley. I understand you have evidence we can use to put some very bad men behind bars. Anna, here, has been helping us. Now it’s time you showed us what you have.”

  Ryan shifts in the seat, hands out of sight under the table. “Why were you at my house last night?”

  Bradley nods, a smile of approval touching his lips. “You’d make a good field officer, Ryan,” he says. “I didn’t think anyone saw me.”

  “You haven’t answered his question,” I interject. “Why were you at his house?”

  The smile evaporates when he looks at me. “Routine investigation. We found out where Trish went to school before she moved. We got a list of her friends. When you gave us the slip yesterday, we spent some time checking names on the list. I got Ryan. When I was convinced Trish wasn’t with him, I moved on.”

  It sounds so simple. And logical. I feel Ryan relax as he slumps a little, tension draining from his shoulders and neck.

  I feel no such relief. Something is wrong. Williams would never have sent Bradley to meet us without getting in touch first. Especially after our conversation this morning.

  I pull out my handbag and wallet, extracting a twenty. “Ryan, will you please go pay our bill?” I put my hand on his under the table and gently pull the book bag out of his grasp. “Then we’ll go with Agent Bradley.”

  Bradley straightens in his seat and reaches across to stop Ryan. “I’ll take care of the bill,” he says quickly. “You two s
tay here.”

  He jumps up and makes his way to the cashier. I turn to Ryan and put as much intensity as I can into my voice and expression. “You have to get out of here. Now.”

  His face colors and his mouth opens.

  “Don’t ask questions and don’t argue.” I’m grasping his arm to emphasize how serious I am. He tries to pull away, but I squeeze harder. “I’m not kidding, Ryan. Something is wrong. Get up now and go out the back, through the kitchen. Don’t go home or to school. Go to the cottage. Don’t call anyone and don’t answer the door. Just stay there until I come for you.”

  I’ve got the keys out and I thrust them at him. He looks close to tears, but he swallows hard and takes them. He starts to reach for the bag.

  “No. I should have done this before now. I’ll keep the computer. As long as I have it, you should be safe.”

  Ryan’s eyes grow big and I turn to see Bradley finishing up with the cashier.

  “Go. Now.”

  For once, Ryan doesn’t hesitate or argue. He jumps up and disappears into the kitchen. I know the back door leads to an alley, and Ryan knows his way around the neighborhood well enough to get to the cottage without having to travel the main road.

  I take the computer out of the bag and lay it on the table. It’s the first thing Bradley sees when he comes back. He looks around for Ryan, but his expression is neither concerned nor angry at his disappearance.

  “You sent the kid away?”

  I nod, running a finger over the laptop. “This is really what you want, isn’t it?”

  He smiles and picks it up. “And I know where he lives, don’t I? Just in case it becomes necessary to question him in the future.”

  He motions for me to get up and grasps my arm as we walk outside. The Fairlane is parked at the curb. I could easily get away, grab the computer, and be off before he realizes what happened.

  But the chill in his voice when he talked about Ryan sounded a warning. His meaning was clear. If I’m to protect Ryan and save Trish, there’s a lot more I have to learn. And Bradley appears to be the man with answers.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Bradley puts the computer into the trunk of the car. He opens the passenger side door. “Get in.”

  I slide onto red leather tuck and roll upholstery. “Nice car,” I say. “Your dad know you have it?”

  He doesn’t respond. His face is a neutral mask. He acts as if he’s lost all interest in me now that he has the computer. He puts the car in gear and pulls into traffic.

  “Where are we going?”

  He doesn’t answer that question either, so I try another. “How did you keep Williams from coming to meet Ryan and me?”

  That one provokes a reaction. He glances at me. “Ididn’t have to do anything. Seems Williams was called to a command performance at the Mayor’s office. He figured you’d be safe since you had Ortiz with you. You’d just sit tight and wait for him. But when I saw Ortiz back at headquarters, I guessed that you’d sent him away. I guessed right. Patrolman Ortiz didn’t think it a problem to tell the FBI where he’d left you.”

  “How did you know about Ortiz anyway?”

  “When we had to wait to go up to the Chief’s office, I knew there had to be a reason.” He snickers. “I saw you sneak out back to the squad car. And when Ortiz returned, I recognized the wig and coat he handed to the desk sergeant.”

  Since I seem to be on a roll, I throw out another question. “Where’s your partner?”

  “Accompanying the Chief to the Mayor’s office. Didn’t see any point in both of us going. After all, Donovan knows everything I do about the investigation.”

  His tone is mocking.

  We’re headed south on Mission Boulevard

  , back toward town. Bradley lapses into cold silence. We take Pacific Coast Highway

  past the airport, and for a brief minute, I think we’re going to my office. But then he turns east on Broadway, toward SDPD Headquarters.

  Which makes no sense at all.

  “Where are we going?” I ask again.

  This time he answers. “We’re going to visit a friend of yours.”

  I frown at him. “What friend?”

  We pass police headquarters and continue on Broadway into Southeast San Diego. Now I’ve traced a lot of skips into this neighborhood, but not one I’d call a “friend.”

  Southeast is the “bad” side of town. It sits up on a bluff with a view over 94, and once you cross that freeway bridge, you’re in another world.

  In the daylight, the neighborhood looks benign. Little stucco ranch style houses in various states of disrepair on big lots. But when you look more closely, you see those little houses are surrounded by big fences. Concrete bunkers three to five feet high topped with ornamental wrought iron. And like bunkers in wartime, their purpose is to keep what’s inside protected from whatever or whoever is outside, whether that might be the police, the drug dealing competition or a determined bounty hunter.

  David and I don’t relish our forays into this neighborhood. I can’t imagine why Bradley is bringing me here now. But I know it can’t be for any good reason.

  In the early morning, the streets are deserted. The business conducted here is done at night. The Escalades and Hummers are as secure in their driveways behind padlocked gates as their owners are secure in their beds behind security bars. There are a few young children playing in yards, accompanied by some nasty looking dogs, but for the most part, it’s eerily quiet. There’s a feeling of uneasiness, like tiptoeing around a sleeping giant you don’t want to waken.

  Bradley seems to know the area well. He navigates the maze of streets south of Market easily, finally pulling to a stop at the curb in front of a pink stucco house. The ironwork on the fence matches the bars on the windows and doors, a sign of an “upscale” residence. The grass is cut in the yard, and it’s actually green.

  Someone must be watching for us because as soon as Bradley opens his car door, the garage door at the end of the driveway slides open, too.

  That’s when I see it.

  A blue VW.

  I look at the numbers on the mailbox.

  3946.

  And the street sign on the corner.

  Quail Street.

  This is Darryl Goodman’s house. No-neck.

  I can’t believe I didn’t guess it.

  Darryl is approaching the gate, smiling as if he’s greeting a lover, excited, eager, his eyes bright with pleasure. “You’re a day early,” he says. “We aren’t supposed to meet until tomorrow.”

  He looks over my head to Bradley. “You got it?”

  Bradley moves to the back of the car and opens the trunk. Darryl watches as he removes the laptop and holds it for him to see. He claps like a satisfied little kid.

  Then he turns to me. “And where are our little friends?”

  “What little friends?”

  “Don’t be coy, Anna,” he fires back. “It doesn’t suit you.”

  Bradley slams the trunk closed and grabs my arm, propelling me toward the gate. “She let the boy go,” he says. “But I know where to find him.”

  Darryl nods and unlocks the gate. He swings it open for Bradley and me to enter. The closer I get, the more I’m assailed by an odor emanating from Darryl’s body. It’s sickening sweet and pungent. Too late, I realize what it is. Bradley is behind me, blocking any escape as my legs go suddenly weak.

  Darryl puts out a hand to steady me. “What’s the matter, Anna? Don’t like my after-shave?”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  But it isn’t aftershave.

  Garlic. Darryl reeks of garlic.

  Bradley watches us with a puzzled frown. “What’s going on? What’s the matter with her?”

  Darryl’s smile is self-satisfied and arrogant. “You don’t know about Anna, do you?”

  “Know what about Anna?”

  “I have such a surprise for you.” He grips my arm tighter and pulls me toward him. “And for you, too, Anna. Come on, let�
�s go inside.”

  My legs tremble from the mere effort of walking. He holds me against his side with an arm around my shoulders so I can’t escape the smell. One of the old myths about vampires is undeniably and irrevocably true. We can’t abide garlic. Avery tried to explain it once-something about garlic containing a compound that affects our energy source. Erases it actually. I’ve experienced it in a small way when I’ve been exposed to food laced with garlic. But this is beyond mild queasiness. And there is something else happening. An overwhelming feeling of lethargy. I’m powerless and too overcome with exhaustion to care.

  Darryl opens the door and shoves me inside. Relief to be out of his grasp washes over me. But the relief is temporary. I’m in a living room-small, cramped, almost pitch black because of heavy drapes covering the windows. I stumble over an ottoman, straighten up, and immediately lose balance as the nausea hits. Wreaths of garlic are hung on the walls and festooned over furniture like macabre party decorations. I double over and start to retch.

  Darryl laughs.

  Bradley’s puzzled voice seems very far away. “What the hell did you do? God, the smell in here is awful. Open a window.”

  “Oh no,” Darryl says. “Couldn’t do that. Anna would like it. And for once, Anna is not going to get what she wants.”

  Bradley moves into my line of sight. He’s looking at me, confusion casting a shadow on his face. “Is she allergic to garlic? How would you know that? I don’t get this, Darryl.”

  Darryl comes close, grabs my arm, and flings me toward the couch. I land on my side, fighting to clear my head, still retching.

  Darryl sits on the ottoman facing me. “I’m going to tell you what’s wrong with Anna,” he says. He’s watching me as he directs his words to Bradley. “She’s a vampire.”

  Bradley laughs. “Yeah. Right. Whatever you’ve been smoking, I’d like a hit.”

  “I’m serious,” Darryl says. He reaches out a hand and smoothes a lock of my hair away from my face, as if to get a better view.