Chapter 14
We stepped directly into the living room. It was empty of furniture except for some weights, a single, small couch to one side, and a flat-screen TV bolted against the opposite wall. Spartan, thy name is Chaz.
The men spread out, searching the tiny house. I stayed by the entrance, taking in the details. Though the reek of Were habitation permeated the place, laced with old pizza and gym socks, it wasn’t as overpowering as it would have been if he’d been spending time here recently. His indoor plants were still alive. We weren’t tripping over stacks of mail on our way in. There was a glass on the windowsill—very out of place and unlike him. Someone else had been stopping by to take care of his things.
I checked the kitchen next. It was only slightly more homey than his living room, since he had a blender and a juicer along with some cooking utensils, a spice rack, and a huge jar of protein powder on the otherwise empty counters. There was a small stack of mail on top of the breakfast nook table. I flipped through the envelopes briefly. Bill. Bill. Spam. Bill. Credit card offer.
Penthouse
magazine. Yeah, not helpful.
Patrick started to reach for the mag. I took great pleasure in smacking the back of his hand. “Don’t touch anything. You’re not wearing gloves. You want to leave fingerprints for the cops to find so they can book you on a B&E charge?”
Rubbing the back of his hand, he gave me a sheepish glare, a touch of red showing high on his cheeks. “Yes, Mom.” His reply was sarcastic, but hopefully he wouldn’t be so painfully stupid again as to leave evidence behind.
Bo grinned and rolled his eyes at me. Good to know he couldn’t stay pissed at me for long. Shaking my head, I stalked out of the kitchen and worked my way over to the stairwell leading to Chaz’s bedroom. Jack was examining some picture frames on the wall. Having seen Chaz’s credentials any number of times, I wasn’t particularly interested, and doubted the hunter would find anything he could use among them, either.
Taking the stairs two at a time, I pushed the door to his bedroom open, half expecting to find somebody inside.
Nothing. His bed was made, nothing but a couple of magazines and a wilting fern on top of his dresser. All that told me was that Chaz wasn’t the one who was coming here to see to his mail and his plants downstairs. Most likely he’d forbidden whoever it was to come up here to fiddle with his more personal effects in his absence.
The computer I’d urged him to get was off, a few DVDs stacked next to it. The last movie we had watched while in his bed had been on that cheap piece of crap. He’d gotten rid of the TV up here as soon as he figured out how to play movies on his computer. It had taken me a few months to cajole him into trying paperless bills, too. I knew some of his passwords—I’d been the one to set up the online accounts for some of those bills. He also apparently had learned how to take the pictures off the digital camera I’d bought him for Christmas last year to save them on that flash drive so I wouldn’t find anything on the computer.
Fucking bastard.
It took me a few counts to ten before I was calm enough to sit down at his desk and turn the computer on. The log-in password, as I’d figured, remained unchanged. When I opened his e-mail program, it didn’t prompt for a password, just downloaded a series of new items.
Most of it wasn’t of interest. Billing notices. A couple of updates from a physical fitness magazine. A whole lot of offers for Cialis, Viagra, porn, winning notices from the Swiss lotto, requests to act as the recipient of some dead or dying official’s millions, and enough viruses to set his scanning program to light up with alarms. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say Chaz had posted his e-mail address somewhere public online. Also, he hadn’t checked this account in almost two months, so there were a formidable number of messages to wade through.
Once the virus scanner settled down, I skimmed through the downloads until I spotted the latest e-mail from his bank. Crud. They’d switched to viewing the statement on the Web only. When I clicked the link, of course half a dozen pop-ups opened with his browser. Grumbling under my breath, I ignored them and tapped in his social security number and the same password he’d asked me to set up for his computer log-on.
Invalid.
Hmm. He’d always complained about how hard it was to remember his passwords if they were all different. It had taken me awhile to convince him that he needed to think about digital security by using different passwords for different Websites and programs. He’d protested, didn’t know how he was expected to remember them all, and wanted me to sort it out for him.
Narrowing my eyes, I opened up the desk drawer, and nudged around the pens and paperclips. There was a small notepad inside. Much as I’d guessed, he’d kept the page where I’d written all of his user IDs and passwords, and then added a few of his own, instead of destroying it after memorizing them like I’d instructed.
The porn Website log-ons explained all the pop-ups. Ugh.
I tapped in the password, breathing a sigh of relief that it worked, and immediately went to his checking account to see if there’d been any recent activity.
Jackpot! He’d been using his debit card almost every day for the last two weeks to buy something from a store in Peekskill. That could mean he was staying at the property in the Hudson Highlands. Thank goodness I wouldn’t have to chase his ass all the way to Buffalo. Forty miles was a lot more feasible than four hundred.
I printed out the statement—then cursed when I noticed the last two purchases.
One at a gas station in White Plains, and another at a mini mart down the street from my apartment.
He was back in town. Or he had been, as of two days ago. It was entirely possible he had come back to retrieve the USB before either the police or I could get our hands on it. No doubt he knew he was being hunted. If he hadn’t known I was after his ass before, he had to know now that I’d beaten Kimberly ten shades of black and blue.
Though I was still mightily pissed, I kept my temper in check long enough to check his hard drive for any other clues. Nothing important. The page of passwords would serve me in better stead. All I found were more pictures—oh, holy hell, one of them was of
me
—and a rather impressive collection of porn. The picture of me had been taken while I was asleep on the bed right behind where I was currently sitting. He’d captured me without clothes, the scars on my stomach and ribs plainly visible.
Seething, I proceeded to reformat his hard drive.
Once the process was well under way, I spun away from the computer and looked up into Jack’s eyes. No telling how long he’d been there, watching over my shoulder. I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d seen the picture of me.
He didn’t take his gaze off mine. “You finished here?”
Flushing, I looked away first. That was good, because it reminded me to grab the pad and the printout of the statement. “Yes. I found some useful stuff.”
“Good,” he said. “So did I.”
Neither of us elaborated. Neither of us spoke.
Bo broke the thoroughly awkward silence by poking his head in the door. “Hey, you ready to go? Patrick says he thinks someone might have noticed we’re here.”
Most of the neighbors were likely to assume it was fine we were here since a number of them knew me. Not too many people had a head of long, curly hair quite my shade of fire engine red, so no doubt if anybody had been watching, they’d recognized me. Then again, if some beat cop had been knocking on doors, one of them might have called to alert the police I was here. Peachy. Wish I’d thought of that sooner.
We didn’t run, but we moved rapidly out of the place, turning off the lights and locking up behind us. I returned the key to its place under the pot, then hopped in the backseat, pleased to see Bo had decided to let Patrick sit up front this time.
“We have one more stop,” Jack said.
Patrick shoved his seat back, narrowly missing my knees. “What’s the plan, chief?”
“One of my contacts said he’d found a lead on the Sunstrikers and that other group we’ve been looking for.” Patrick and Bo nodded, the three of them leaving me adrift. What other group were they searching for? “I’m supposed to meet him at the Carl Schurz Park. It’s on the way back if you take the Midtown Expressway.”
It added a bit of time to our route, but none of us had any objections. Though I was curious, I didn’t pry into this other group they were after. It probably had something to do with whatever that project was Jack hadn’t wanted to tell me about.
I did want to let them know what I’d found, though. “Hey, Jack? I know where Chaz has been hiding the last few weeks. He was only a few miles outside of town, over in Westchester County. He’s somewhere in town now, though.”
Patrick glanced back at me, his brows nearly raised to his hairline. “No shit? You found that crafty fucker?”
“Watch your language around the lady,” Bo admonished.
I grinned. “Almost. I’m getting closer. I’ve got access to his bank activities now. I can see when he makes a purchase. The last one was two days ago—right by my place. So he’s probably back in the city, staying with one of the other Sunstrikers.”
‘Probably shacking up with Kimberly,’
the belt said.
Nobody asked you.
Out loud, I said, “It’s only a matter of time before he uses his card again.”
“Good,” Jack said, semi-distracted by traffic. “When we get back I’ll put Keith on it. He can cross-reference what we know of the pack members. Maybe we can narrow down the neighborhood to a street or two, see if we can pinpoint where he’s staying.”
It didn’t take long to reach our destination. We piled out of the car and huddled in our jackets, working our way to the Peter Pan statue in the park plaza. Some of the flowering plants in the landscaping were wilting with the onset of winter, and this close to the water was bitterly cold at night, but it was lovely and quiet. We didn’t see many people on our way to the rendezvous point, only passing a jogger and a couple of late-night dog walkers. This place was nothing like the tourist trap that Central Park had become.
At Jack’s command, Patrick broke off from us to scout the area and ensure we were alone. He melted into the shadows and was gone.
It might have been the cold or the city smog, but something was making Jack cough more than usual. I gave him a careful pat on the back when he doubled over, a fist held to his mouth while he struggled to catch his breath.
The wet sound of his breathing wasn’t good. He was running out of time, as surely as I was.
When he’d stopped gasping so much, I pulled away, giving him some time to collect himself. After a minute or so, he straightened, running a hand over his face. Some distant part of me noted the scent of blood on the air. On his hand. His lips.
Maybe he had less time than I did.
None of us acknowledged the weakness. Once he caught his breath, he resumed stalking down the path that led to the plaza like he owned the place, acting like nothing had happened. If that was how he wanted to play it, more power to him. Bo and I trailed behind.
The few lights didn’t seem to banish the darkness here. Though I had no trouble seeing in the dark, thanks to the night vision the belt granted me, I wasn’t sure how well Bo, Patrick, and Jack were doing. Jack seemed to know where he was going; he found the steps leading down to the circular plaza containing the bronze statue of Peter Pan and his four-legged friends, a deer, and a rabbit. Someone was seated on one of the benches across from the graceful arch of a bridge overlooking the landscaped depression. It was an excellent place for a clandestine late-night meeting: quiet, peaceful, and right in the heart of New York City.
The person Jack was here to meet was bundled up in a long trench coat, a fedora, and was smoking a cigarette to boot. Clearly we had a Humphrey Bogart fan on our hands.
Whoever it was tipped their hat down, hiding their face as Jack approached. He made a slight gesture that Bo and I took to mean to wait by the stairs. I assumed as badass a pose as I could while being bored and cold in an ill-fitting, fake fur-lined parka. Bo did a far better job of looking menacing as he folded his arms and adopted a bodyguard stance.
Jack muttered something so quietly, even with the help of the belt attuning my senses, I couldn’t hear what he said. Whoever was sitting on the bench responded in kind.
A few things happened at once. Patrick’s body landed with a sickening crunch on the flagstones between Jack and me, apparently thrown from on top of the bridge. At the same time, a group of shifted Weres hopped off the top of the arch to follow Patrick down, while others loped down the steps from the other side of the park. As far as ambushes went, this one was certainly planned out well. Fuck.
Worst of all, whoever that was who’d been sitting on the bench moved with liquid speed and grace to their feet and sucker-punched Jack. When the hunter staggered back, turning around, his shirt had a growing red stain between his ribs—and just before he went to his knees, above the cherry glow of the cigarette, I caught the sight of flashing yellow eyes staring at me from the darkness under the fedora’s brim.