Medium Well (9781101599648) (3 page)

Danny did grin this time. “Now, Herman, give me more credit than that. D'Hanis didn't start making bricks until 1905. Take an honest look around this place. An imaginative architect could do great things with it, Herman.”

Herman sniffed. “We'll see.” He squinted up at the leaded glass windows over the carriage doors. “Needs work.” His gaze took in the sparse lawn around the building and the straggling basket of petunias over the door. “A lot of work.”

“But worth it, Herman. Definitely worth it. Potential for a real showplace here.” Danny gave him a smile just warm enough without overdoing it, pulling the key from his pocket.

The carriage house hadn't improved from the day before. If anything, it looked gloomier and dirtier. Zucker walked around the lower floor, peering into corners and studying the open space with half-closed eyes.

“What's the square footage?” he growled.

“Eighteen hundred.” Danny gave him a bland smile. “Give or take.”

“Bathrooms?”

“One upstairs. But lots of room to expand.” Danny waved his hand to indicate the multitude of bathroom locations. “This floor has plumbing, too.”

Biddy flitted to the side of the room, rubbing her arms again. It wasn't
that
cold. Zucker looked like he was sweating.

“Bedrooms?”

“One. But . . .”

“Lots of room to expand. I get the drift.” Herman gave him a wry smile. “All right, the downstairs I can work with. What about the upstairs?”

Danny smiled back, not wryly at all. “Let's go up and take a look around.”

He started for the staircase, motioning Zucker before him. For a moment, Biddy stayed rooted in place, her gaze locked on the stairs.

Come on, Biddy, a little help here.
Danny narrowed his eyes in her direction.

She moved forward stiffly, her arms folded across her chest. In the dimness of the lower floor, Danny couldn't quite make out her expression. He followed Zucker to the upper entrance.

Zucker stood just inside the door, gazing around the living room. “Lotta crap here.”

“Mr. Petrocelli could have it cleared out after the sale, assuming that was part of the contract.” Danny grinned again. “Unless the buyer would like to hang onto it. Could be some valuable collectibles here.”

Zucker grimaced.

Danny dialed it back a notch. “Or not.” He moved into the room, gesturing toward the far wall. “Fireplace looks like native limestone. Another one downstairs.”

“That one's bricked up,” Zucker grumbled.

“Easy enough to unbrick it.” Danny strolled across the floor. “Good wide planks here. Probably pegged pine.”

“Hard to tell with all this dirt.” Zucker scuffed the toe of his shoe along a floorboard. “Have to refinish it.”

Danny ignored that statement as too obvious for comment. “Three good-sized windows here over the carriage doors. Looks like leaded glass.”

“Not much light.”

Danny shrugged. “There'll be more light after the windows are cleaned. The leaded glass gives it period charm, Herman.”

He grinned in Zucker's direction again. Zucker scowled back. Okay, the man had no sense of humor. Time to move on.

“Look, Herman, the place needs to be cleaned up and restored, but we both know the potential is here. Take out the carriage doors down below and put in new windows. Restore the leaded glass up here. Refinish the floors. Clean up the fireplace up here and open the one downstairs again. Now you're talking at least two hundred fifty thousand, probably more like three hundred thousand, maybe more with the right buyer.”

Zucker squinted at him. “After I lay out all that cash to restore it.”

Danny shrugged again. “That's a given, Herman. But it's still a hell of an investment. And if you take both houses, you're looking at major money here.”

Zucker studied the room again, stone-faced. Near the doorway, Biddy rubbed her arms again. Danny willed her to stand still for a few moments.

“Where's the kitchen?” Zucker raised an eyebrow.

“Through here.” Danny started toward the door at the side, ignoring the faint prickling along his palms. Just a freakin' kitchen, not the doorway to the Hellmouth.

He pushed on the door before he remembered that it stuck. “Stubborn doorknob,” he improvised. “You'll probably want to take the door off anyway so you can open up the room a little more.” He pushed harder.

“Who the hell has an upstairs kitchen?” Herman grumbled from behind him.

“You could always move it downstairs.” Danny gave the door one more shove and felt it swing open. He stepped through the doorway and froze.

Everywhere he looked he saw blood.

Crimson fluid leaked across the floor and up the front of the sink. More red spread across the countertop, pooling in the grout between the tiles.

A line of bloody handprints marked the far wall, as if someone had tried to steady himself before collapsing into the large pool of red in the corner.

Danny staggered against the cabinets, then jumped back, staring down at the sticky red smear across his hand. He felt something drip on his forehead and looked up.

Blood seeped from the ceiling. Something dark was spattered across the plaster.

Danny felt his stomach lurch. “Holy Christ,” he gasped. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

“Ramos?” Zucker's voice sounded behind him.

Danny whirled toward the door. “Herman. Don't come in. Something's happened. I don't know . . .”

Zucker pushed past him. “What the hell are you talking about?” He stood in the center of the room, turning slowly. “What do you think happened here that didn't happen out there? A dirt bomb?” He narrowed his eyes, mouth twisting. “What are you trying to pull here, Ramos? Something I'm not supposed to see?”

“Oh, Mr. Ramos,” Biddy cried. “I'm so sorry. I know I should have gotten this cleaned up.” She fluttered her hands helplessly. “Mr. Zucker, I apologize. I was supposed to take care of all this.”

Danny stared at her.
Take care of all this? This slaughterhouse? This abattoir?
He jerked away from the kitchen counter. A slash of blood stained his pearl gray slacks. His stomach lurched again. He raised his hands and saw smears of red across his palms.

“Jesus, I've got to . . . sorry!” Danny turned to the sink and vomited up the gorditas he'd had for lunch.

“What the hell, Ramos, are you drunk?” Zucker's voice radiated outrage.

“No, sir.” Biddy fluttered toward him again. “Mr. Ramos has had the flu for a couple of days. He got out of his sickbed to see you today.”

“Terrific,” Zucker snarled. “Now I'll probably come down with it, too. Call me when you're healthy and/or sober, Ramos.”

“Let me give you the specifications and the engineering report, Mr. Zucker,” Biddy bounced frantically at his side like a terrified Jack Russell terrier. “Then you can talk to Mr. Ramos next week.”

“I'm not talking to Ramos again until he pulls himself together,” Zucker growled. “You can bet I'll be calling Big Al, though.” He lurched through the door without glancing back.

Danny stood with his eyes closed, listening to Zucker's heavy footsteps down the stairs. He could still smell the blood, feel it on his hands. His breath rattled in his chest.
What the hell was happening?

“Mr. Ramos?” Biddy's voice was quiet. “Danny? Are you okay?”

Was he okay?
Oh, yeah, absolutely swell.
He'd just tossed his cookies in front of a client, who apparently couldn't see that the room they were standing in was covered in blood.

But then, of course, neither could Biddy.

“Danny?”

“Okay,” he muttered. “I'm okay. We need to clean this up.” He turned to look at her, where she stood in the middle of the kitchen.

The suddenly bloodless kitchen.

Danny stared at his hands. Slightly dirty, but otherwise unmarked. He looked down at his pant leg. Pearl gray, no stains. He didn't bother to run his hand across his forehead—there wouldn't be any blood there either.

Wonderful.
He was a lunatic.

“Danny?” Biddy still stared at him, blue eyes wide.

He swallowed hard. “It's okay. I'll clean up the sink. Don't worry about it.”

“I'm not worried about the sink.” Her brow furrowed. In the gathering twilight she looked about ten years old. “What happened to you?”

“I thought . . .” He shook his head. “What did the kitchen look like when you first walked in?”

“Look like?” She blinked at him. “Like it does now.” She turned to look around her. “Dirty. Dingy. Dark.” She rubbed her arms. “Cold.”

“Not . . . anything else?”

Her concerned look had returned. “Like what? What did you see here, Danny?”

“I saw . . .” He took another deep breath. “Nothing. I didn't see anything. The room looked a little . . . off at first. Just for a minute. Weird light. That's all.” Danny stuck his hands in his pockets, doing his best imitation of a real estate salesman. “We need to get this place cleaned up before anybody else looks at it.”

“Maybe Mr. Zucker . . .” Biddy bit her lip.

Nice lips. Full and dark pink. Okay, he was clearly returning to some version of normal. “Herman won't be back. He'll figure I'm some kind of nut job and he won't want to work with me. But he may try to work with your sister.”

“Araceli gave this to you,” Biddy said staunchly, but he had the feeling even she didn't put much store in her sister's ethics.

“Yeah, and I'm going to sell it.” He squared his shoulders. “Zucker isn't the only buyer who'll see the potential here. But we do need to get the place cleaned up.”

“Right.” She pulled a notebook out of her purse. “I'll make a note to call the service tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow's Saturday.” He turned on the tap in the sink, watching the rusty water rinse the surface. “You can call on Monday. Unless you're going back to the office after hours tonight.”

“Tonight?” She gave him a startled look. “No. I'm . . . busy tonight.”

“Good for you.” He stood straight again. “Let's get out of here. We'll come back Monday and see what we can do.”

“Right.” She nodded, heading toward the stairs.

Danny turned in the doorway, taking one more survey of the kitchen. A lot of dirt and trash. A large antique wood stove. A couple of smeared windows. No handprints. No blood smears. No dripping ceiling.

He closed his eyes for a moment.
Trick of the light. Yeah, right.
He placed his hand on the doorknob and felt the prickling in his palms again.

Okay. Next time he'd let Biddy show the kitchen.

Chapter 3

Unfortunately for Danny, Zucker had made good on his threat to call Big Al. Big Al, in turn, had called Araceli. Saying Araceli was unhappy when they got back to the office was like saying Mount St. Helens belched.

“You threw up?” she cried. “In front of a client? What were you thinking?”

Danny gritted his teeth. “Trust me, I didn't think about it in advance, Araceli. If I'd been able to think about it, I wouldn't have done it.”

“Why did you go on a showing if you felt sick? Why didn't you postpone? Or call me? I could have shown the place to Herman.” Araceli began straightening her desk again, always a bad sign.

“I didn't feel sick before I got there.” Unlike now, when he still felt faintly nauseated.

Behind him he could sense Biddy vibrating with tension. He sighed. “Just a little flu, Araceli. I thought I'd beaten it.”

“Well, you didn't. Herman was furious. It'll take me days to get him back there, if I can get him there at all.” She tapped her notepad slightly to the right with her fingernail. “And it looks like I'll need to show the place myself the next time he wants to see it.”

“But Mr. Zucker is very interested in the place, Araceli. Dan . . . Mr. Ramos did a great job up until he got sick.” Biddy sounded like a six-year-old defending her big brother.

Danny clenched his jaw harder.
Don't help me, Biddy!
“I'll send him an apology. Maybe a box of those chocolate pralines he likes.”

Araceli shook her head. “A box of pralines won't make up for what happened. He won't talk to you now.”

“No, but it might get him to talk to you or somebody else in the office.” Danny pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes for a moment. The headache might be part of the nausea or it might be the result of this particular conversation.

Araceli narrowed her eyes, considering what Danny's concession might net her in the long run. “All right, give it a try. But in the future if you feel lousy, stay home!”

“Yes, ma'am.” He gave her his best boyish grin, or as close to it as he could come at the moment.

She waved an impatient hand. “Go. Lois took a couple of calls from your San Diego buyers. They had some questions.”

Danny blew out a relieved breath. San Diego. Normalcy, or something like it. “Okay. I'll get right on it.”

***

Biddy watched Danny stride down the hall toward his office. Maybe if she just trotted after him, she could get away before her sister realized she'd gone.

“Biddy? Don't just stand there. Close the door and sit down.”

So much for escape.
Sighing inwardly, she slid into the chair beside Araceli's desk.

“What the hell went on over there, Biddy? If Ramos had the flu, why doesn't he look sick now?” Her sister's eyes had the kind of flinty gleam that meant she was on the trail of something.

Biddy's stomach clenched. “Well, you know how it is, Sis. You throw up, you feel better. And he wouldn't go home afterward—too conscientious.” She plucked at a thread on her skirt. God, she hated A-lines. They made her look like something out of
The Brady Bunch
.

Araceli snorted. “Conscientious! That's rich. Probably just wanted to get back over here to see if he could find a way to butter up Big Al before Zucker called. I knew he couldn't handle that carriage house. I'll have to take it over myself. No matter what Big Al thinks, I can handle it just as well as Wonder Boy Ramos. My sales are just as good as his, considering how much other work I have to do.”

Biddy shook her head. “He did a great job, Sis, honestly. If he hadn't gotten sick . . .” She stopped, remembering his pale face in the kitchen. He hadn't been sick. He'd been horrified, then nauseated. By something he'd seen in the kitchen. Something she hadn't been able to see herself. Biddy rubbed her arms reflexively.

“So how exactly did this happen?” Her sister leaned toward her, eyes flashing. “Tell me the truth, Biddy. Was he drunk? Was that it? Because it sure as hell wasn't the flu.”

Biddy pressed her lips together hard. “He wasn't drunk, Araceli. He just didn't feel well.”

Her sister glared. “I understand loyalty, Biddy, but you've got an obligation to me, too. A bigger obligation than you have to him. I'm the boss here. And I'm your big sister.”

Biddy raised her chin, glaring back. Playing the guilt card wouldn't work this time.

After a moment, Araceli shook her head. “All right, all right, but I want you to keep track of him from now on, Biddy. If anything else happens, you need to let me know. Immediately!”

“Yes, ma'am,” she murmured, wondering if she should cross her fingers behind her back.

Fortunately, Araceli's phone rang before she could say anything else. Biddy bounced from her chair and out the door, with a quick wave in her sister's general direction. As she hurried down the hall toward her cubicle, her own phone chirped at her. She pulled it out of her purse and looked at the number.

“Skip,” she groaned, then hit the connect button. “Hi, I know I'm late. We had a crisis at work. I'll be there in a few more minutes.”

“Hey, Biddy, we've only got the rehearsal room for an hour.” Skip's voice sounded anxious for once. Could he actually be taking this gig seriously?

“It's okay.” She reached down to toss her briefcase onto her desk, casting a guilty look toward Danny Ramos's closed door. He probably wouldn't need her any more today—she doubted he'd want to see anyone from the Gunter family at the moment. “I'm on my way. I'll be there in fifteen.”

“Okay.” Skip paused. “Tico's Taqueria tonight, Biddy. Big time.”

“I know.” Biddy sighed. “Believe me, I know.”

***

He did
not
need to call his mother. Danny sat staring at his phone, trying to talk himself out of behaving like an idiot. He was almost thirty—he should be able to handle a crisis on his own.

Okay, his mom worried about him. Okay, she might be able to suggest something. Okay, maybe he needed somebody to tell him he wasn't nuts.

Even if he did call her, what the hell made him think she could do anything for him? Just because his dad always said she'd lived in a bruja's house for eighteen years. Calling his grandmother a witch didn't mean she was involved with the supernatural. More likely his dad had based his description on Granny's personality, given what Danny had heard about her while he was growing up.

Anyway, his mother definitely wasn't a witch. And she definitely wouldn't know anything that could help at the carriage house. Right?

Supernatural.
Danny closed his eyes. It hadn't been supernatural at the carriage house. He didn't believe in that stuff. On the other hand, if it wasn't supernatural, he was cracking up. Really not something he wanted to share with his mother right now.

As if he'd willed it to happen, his phone rang. Danny jumped, then checked the number. Brenda. He sighed. At least his mother wasn't psychic. Much.

“Hi, lover,” Brenda purred in his ear. “What time are you picking me up tonight?”

“Tonight?”
Hell.
Had he said anything particular about tonight? Was he supposed to take her somewhere special?

“Tonight.” Brenda's voice lost most of its purr. “Our date. Friday night. Remember?”

No, actually.
“Sure, baby.” Danny pitched his voice lower, trying for a little purring of his own. It wouldn't be a good idea to piss her off before he'd even picked her up.

“So what time?”

“How about seven thirty?” If he'd promised her dinner, seven thirty would still be in the ballpark.

“Fine. Where are we going?”

“Anywhere you'd like to go, sweetheart,” Danny growled. He didn't care where they went as long as they ended up in bed as soon as possible. An evening of recreational sex could be just what he needed to take the edge off.

Based on her sigh, Brenda didn't feel similarly inclined at the moment. “You don't have anything planned, do you?”

“Sure I do. It's a surprise, baby.” He tried for another seductive growl, but it sounded more like laryngitis. Not his day. Maybe he could bring her back to his place for takeout.

“Right,” Brenda snapped. “I'll bet. Well, I'll see you at seven thirty, then.”

Danny winced at the hang-up. He had a feeling takeout wouldn't produce the desired effect. If he wanted some nookie later on, he'd have to come up with someplace good to take her first.

And this day had started out so well.

He headed for the outer office, snagging a copy of the
San Antonio
Express-News
. Restaurants, nightclubs, dance halls.

No, no dancing. That much he already knew. With his luck he'd probably break a leg, maybe hers. He ran his finger down the column of nightclub listings, looking for a name that meant something to him. Brenda would want something trendy. At the moment, the most trendy place he could think of was Burger King.

His finger paused at one listing. Tico's Taqueria. He'd heard somebody mention that name not too long ago, but he couldn't remember who. It didn't matter. At least somebody had talked about the place. Good enough for him.

Danny tore the page out of the paper and stuffed it into his pocket. Maybe something was finally going right today. Time for a quick shower and a change of clothes.

He reached Brenda's front door by seven thirty-five, not bad considering the traffic on Highway 281.

Brenda always looked terrific—he'd give her that. Of course, considering the amount of money she invested in personal maintenance, anything less than terrific would have meant she'd been cheated. Subtle reddish highlights gleamed in her auburn hair—her eyelids sparkled with some kind of glitter. She was dressed, mostly dressed, in what he assumed was the latest in club wear. Her halter top dipped down to display the beginning of major cleavage. Her black skirt ended halfway up her thigh, revealing a significant length of Pilates-shaped leg and sandals with heels so high they must have threatened vertigo.

“So where are we going?” Brenda settled into the seat as he closed the door behind her, not bothering to pull down her skirt.

“Tico's Taqueria.” He slipped his Lexus into traffic, deftly avoiding a homicidal Ford Explorer loaded down with kids.

Brenda raised one immaculate eyebrow. “What the hell kind of place is that?”

“New music,” he murmured, trying to concentrate on the road rather than her thighs. “I've heard people talk about it. Supposed to be good.”

The crick in Danny's shoulders began to relax the farther north they drove. Putting distance between himself and the King William District suddenly seemed like a terrific idea. The San Diego investors were taking the Tobin Hill property, which meant the day hadn't been a total bust after all. Now, if Tico's Taqueria just turned out to be something other than a disaster, he could begin to believe that the carriage house wasn't as big a jinx as he'd feared. Maybe.

Brenda ran her fingers under the shoulder straps of her top, raising her breasts slightly higher. They weren't real, but he always appreciated good work.

“This had better be good,” she muttered, licking her soft pink lips.

Danny smiled. “Trust me.”

The slight narrowing of her eyes didn't bode well.

He turned off at the Stone Oak exit, inching through the clotted suburban traffic.

Brenda pouted picturesquely. “I don't see why you couldn't have told me about this place on the phone this afternoon.”

“And spoil the surprise?” He grinned at her, feeling a lot more like himself.

“Some surprise,” she grumbled, but the corners of her generous mouth trembled as she held back her smile.

Oh, yeah, maybe at long last, after the day from hell, he might actually be getting lucky. The GPS beeped out some directions, and Danny turned at the next corner.

Well, crap.
Getting lucky had just become somewhat less likely.

Tico's Taqueria sat in the middle of a particularly anonymous-looking strip mall between a dry – cleaning shop and an optometrist's office. Thick curtains covered the plate-glass windows in front, probably remnants of an earlier incarnation. A small display board read: S
HORTY
G
ONZALEZ
CD
R
ELEASE.
O
PENING:
T
HE
C
HALK
C
REEK
C
HANGELINGS.

“Oh yeah,” Brenda snapped. “This looks like one happenin' place.”

“Don't judge it by its outside, babe, wait 'til you hear the music.” Danny hoped he sounded a lot more confident than he felt. It would help if he could remember who'd been talking about Tico's.

The inside looked pretty much like the outside, but then he'd expected it would. Still, he hadn't expected that most of the Formica-topped tables would be full. A bored-looking hostess with bright blue streaks in her jet-black hair found them a booth in the corner, then started back toward the door.

“Menus?” Danny gave her what usually passed as his charming smile.

The hostess snorted. “What do you think this is, a restaurant?”

He felt his smile curdle. “It's called Tico's Taqueria.”

The hostess grimaced, shaking her head, and headed back toward the door again.

Beside him, Brenda was on a low simmer. “You don't know anything about this place, do you?”

“I know the music's great, babe.”

Ten minutes later, while they shared a basket of stale tortilla chips and a bowl of salsa from a jar that he'd cajoled from the barmaid, Danny desperately hoped he wasn't lying. At least the beer was cold.

A bank of lights flicked on to illuminate the stage, and the club sank into total darkness. The conversation at the tables around them slowed as a guy so large he looked like a Thanksgiving parade balloon wandered onstage scratching his gray beard. The crowd applauded loudly.