Deadly Dozen: 12 Mysteries/Thrillers (188 page)

“What is it, Lena?”

“Nothing...You just reminded me of someone.”

“Really? Who?”

Sounding vulnerable—which in itself was astonishing—she whispered, “Nick, what is it you want, more than anything else?”

He gave it some thought. Despite the connection they seemed to be making, he didn’t feel comfortable opening up to her.

“I don’t know, really. I was hoping a job change might help me find out. How about you?”

She set her lips, didn’t look at him, and when she answered him her words came reluctantly—apparently she didn’t feel any more comfortable opening up than he did.

“I just want to be able to make sense of everything. I want a world where things are in order. Where the evil this entire race of humans is so capable of is eradicated. Where those who deserve to be in charge are, and those who do wrong are brought to justice.”

“A tall order indeed. I suppose you’ve some idea about how that can happen?”

Finally, her eyes met his. “Together, we can make it happen.” She put her hand on his, a gesture that felt disturbingly intimate. “It’s all about being aligned.”

“With what, or whom?”

“Those with the power to help.” Gradually, the innocence and vulnerability ebbed like the tide pulling out. Her feisty sensual charm returned with a vengeance in her posture, her eyes, her curling lips. “You’re in a good position to make a difference, Nikolai.”

“That’s what I’m counting on.”

She put her hand around the back of his neck. Pulled his face down so close their lips nearly touched.

“But make no mistake, you gorgeous creature. If you fail, after all the latitude and special treatment you’ve been shown...”

She was as lethal as she was alluring.
Fight or flight
. Nick pulled away, grabbed her wrists, and held her in place.

“I don’t respond well to threats.”

“Mmmm...that’s good, because I’d rather motivate you with rewards.” She moved in close to whisper in his ear. “Go and check on your third assignment, then come back to suicide girl later in the morning. You’ve got till midnight to
persuade
her.”

Nick could hear her laughing as she vanished from his construct.

CHAPTER THIRTY

MARIA HADN’T ANSWERED LITO’S CALLS for two days now. Her condo in Mission Valley looked like it had been ransacked. No sense trying to use the GPS to track her location, she knew to shut off her cell phone.

He entered the condo with his spare key. Maria never liked that he kept a copy, but since he paid for everything she couldn’t really argue. And besides, he’d only used the key once, to scare off a USD college punk who had gotten the idea in his empty head that he could spend the night. For just a moment Lito was back when life was simple, when all he had to do was to punch a bully in the face to teach him not to mess with his baby sister.

Awwwwwwk!

A raven gawked down at him from the eaves dripping with last night’s rainwater. It cocked its head, stared at him with one glassy eye, and proceeded to mock him. Repeatedly. Every caw seemed louder and more disdainful.

He swore and reached around his back for his gun. All the anger he felt for Alfonso coalesced for a brief moment into a focused beam of hatred aimed at the hideous raven. But the thought of awakening the neighbors at 7:15 AM with the crack of a Baretta Bobcat convinced him to restrain himself.

“Next time, little
diabolo
.” He smiled. “Next time.”

Lito locked the door and walked to his red 135i. Owning a Beamer wasn’t something he really cared about, he only did it to keep up the image of success and power. He did like that smell of fine leather, though.

But as he climbed into the cockpit, the smell brought little comfort—he was too aware of the empty passenger seat.

Got to find a replacement for Alfonso.

But who? Until he learned of Alfonso’s flirting with the Suarez syndicate, there’d been no one else he trusted.

As he drove out of the parking area, the foreboding bass line palpitations from the
Confutatis Maledictis
movement of Mozart’s
Requiem
poured forth from the speakers. The bright morning sun hid behind a gray cloud even as Lito put his sunglasses over his eyes, from which a solitary tear rolled down his cheek.

Rapt in the power of music, Lito never noticed the black Cadillac following him.

At the top of his lungs, he sang with the male chorus:

Confutatis

Maledictis

Flammis acribus addictis
...

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

HOPE LAY AWAKE IN THE KING-SIZED BED in the hotel room so graciously purchased on the handsome stranger’s dime. She stared at the rectangular glow on the wall now changing from orange to bright yellow as the rising sun cast its light through the window.

Wrapped in the sheets, she was completely naked, wishing she could simply enjoy how clean everything felt, how nice the rose-scented pillows smelled, how good her skin felt after her first shower in a week—all thanks to that generous man who’d saved her.

Had this been another time, another life, she might well have thought more about the nice man’s looks: beautiful eyes, chiseled features, and oh yes, very strong arms.

But no.

She allowed no such thoughts, not since the final nail was hammered into the coffin of her soul several years ago. Never again would she allow herself to desire anything other than to escape the miserable life in which anyone she’d ever allowed into her heart had either beaten, molested, or otherwise betrayed her.

The one drop of rain in that barren desert had been taken away and along with it, Hope’s will to live. Being rescued by a Clive Owen-ish hero couldn’t change that—he’d only prolonged her pain.

She sighed, reached for the phone, and dialed.

“Good morning, front desk. How can I help you?”

“Couldn’t sleep a wink last night.”

“I’m sorry, Ms...Matheson. Is there anything we can get you?”

Clive
had
said to put everything on his credit card.

“I need a bottle of Ambien. They’re sleeping pills.”

“Of course. We can call in a prescription for you and have them delivered.”

Prescription. Right. The last doctor she saw refused to give her any because he thought—he
knew
she was suicidal. Which was why she’d not been to any kind of doctor, even though as a homeless person for nearly a year she probably could have gotten to one through public assistance. Too complicated, too much trouble.

“Never mind,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

“Is there anything else, perhaps?”

“It’s all right. I’ll try something else.” Which was to say, another method of ending it all. She hung up, hugged the pillow to her chest, and curled into a fetal position. Whoever said “it’s all in your head” had no idea what it meant to be truly depressed. The physical pain radiated from her gut all through her chest—the
last
place it went was her head, though that hurt like the devil too.

She wanted to keep it from getting too messy in this fancy hotel room, what with its thick white carpet, cherrywood furniture, and pristine marble bathroom. But she’d have to go the gruesome route of mirror shards and crimson bathwater.

She’d cut herself before, so she wasn’t worried about how it would feel. It was the thought of all that blood flowing from her wrists into the tub that made her stomach clench. She had to do it, though. And no point putting it off.

Hope climbed out of the bed, put on the soft white robe she’d try to keep away from any of the blood—no sense in ruining it—and looked for something heavy enough to smash the mirror.

An odd euphoria rushed through her, lightening her mood, making her heart beat rapidly.

It’s almost over.

Maybe that’s why she seemed almost excited.

And in the privacy of her locked hotel room, she would not fail again.

There.

On the polished desk sat an antiqued brass paperweight that looked really heavy. She lifted it: it was. This would do nicely.

She wound back her arm to hurl it at the mirror—

A knock on the door.

The paperweight slipped out of her hands and hit the floor with a thud.

“Room service,” a woman’s voice called out. But she hadn’t—

She opened the door to find a young lady standing there with a white paper bag in her hand.

“For you, ma’am.” And she left.

It was from a pharmacy. On closer inspection she saw that it was in fact a prescription for Hope Matheson. She tore the bag open and found a large orange vial with a safety cap, on its label her name printed along with the name of the drug Zolpidem Tartrate (Ambien) 10 mg and the instructions: Take as needed.

As needed?

There must have been at least sixty pills in the bottle.

Had the front desk managed to find a way to get it for her after all?

Perhaps someone was looking out for her.

Someone who understood her pain.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

LENA KNEW WHAT SHE’D DONE wasn’t appropriate. Helping Nick complete his assignment didn’t represent the best method of ascertaining his capabilities or loyalty.

Having shed the appearance of the hotel’s housekeeping staff, she strode out into the lobby turning more than a few heads, men and women alike. The whiny little human had been the low-hanging fruit among Nick’s three assignments, the one he was close to completing without her delivering the pills. But she wasn’t going to take chances with so little time before the Cabrillo Stadium event, just days away. Anyway, Morloch need never know about her helping Nick. As long as the goal was reached, what did it matter how?

Evaporating from physical perception as she walked through the exit and onto the sidewalk, Lena paused. Something didn’t feel right.

She’d been watching Nick carefully since he brought Hope to the Broadmore. Though he denied it vehemently, he fancied this mortal. That was why he’d hesitated to help her meet her demise. And of course he lied about it. Lena expected nothing less from angels of his stock. They were not above subterfuge, something Lena had good reason to know all too well. That made him the perfect candidate.

With one leap, she launched herself onto the hotel’s roof. It was only a few stories, nothing like a New York skyscraper but a fine spot for perching invisibly while she thought about angels who lied, angels who got entangled with humans…

This had to be a passing thing for Nick. He couldn’t be developing genuine feelings for a human. How could a superior being see humans as anything but barely sentient mammals?
Cruel, filthy animals.

A sharp pain burrowed into the center of Lena’s ribs. Odd, she rarely felt pain. And it brought an irritating wetness to her eyes.

#

“Oh, my Lord, Punkin’!” George Walker stands at the open door and drops his lunch pail. He rushes over to his nine-year-old daughter, who sits alone at the kitchen table, dabbing cuts on her bruised face with a white towel stained with blood. “What in the world happened to you?”