I dropped the junk mail into the waste can. The bills I carried across the room to my desk. I'd sit down with the checkbook and pay the worst of them later.
The insistent beeping of the answering machine finally got to me. I had to know. I grabbed a pen and paper, went to the kitchen for a huge mug of steaming coffee and then settled in next to the telephone.
His was the first message. A bare few words,
"Kate, it's me."
He paused, "Dylan." He said it as though maybe I wouldn't recognize the voice. Not unlikely after five or six years, I suppose, but no such luck.
"I . . . I left a message with Joe, but I'm not sure he'll give it to you." Not a bad guess, since my jerky brother never said anything about actually talking to Dylan, or taking a message.
"I have to talk to you. It's life or death. I wouldn't call you otherwise. Meet me at Bernardo's
Thursday at one. Please?" All the muscles I'd worked so hard to relax last night tightened into knots at the sound of his voice. Shooting pain in my jaw told me I was clenching it. I rubbed my temples with my index fingers as I tried to decipher the nuances of the message. Of course, today was Thursday. Naturally.
Bernardo's is a 24-hour pool hall. It's within walking distance of the loft. It's considered neutral territory by the monsters. Dylan is part of the Herd, but he's still a yuppie. Bernardo's is not a place he would normally choose. That he had was . . . odd, and that set off little alarm bells in the back of my mind. At one o'clock in the afternoon most of the vampires would be off of the streets. While they can do sunlight, they don't like it. Joe has a theory that it's a vitamin deficiency caused by the parasite. I personally don't care. I just know that I like staying in sunlight.
"Why Bernardo's?" I muttered to myself as I wandered across the room to grab a bottle of water from the fridge. I twisted off the cap, pulled a vitamin tablet from a bottle in the cabinet and swallowed it with a long pull as I waited for the next message. It was nearly a full minute before the machine beeped again and I realized that there had been a long silence before Dylan had hung up. The next message was from the diamond
exchange. "Ms. Reilly, this is Mr. Goldstein. We have a shipment that has to be picked up in Tel Aviv no later than next Wednesday. Are you
available? Please contact me as soon as you return from Paris. The cutter, ahem, specifically requested that we send you."
A chuckle escaped me. The cutter in Tel Aviv is Gerry Friedman. For a seventy-year-old man, he's quite the flirt.
I hit the rewind button. Goldstein works out of several different offices, I wanted to make sure I called the right one when I took the job. I couldn't afford to refuse it.
Something about Dylan's call was still bothering me. I rewound the whole tape and listened to Dylan's message three more times. I still couldn't quite put my finger on the problem, so I moved on. Mike called to let me know that the nursing company had raised their rates for the day nurse, again, and that we'd need to talk. That was seriously unwelcome news, but no surprise. And it was handled for the moment.
The rest of the calls were from Joe and Connie. Fifteen calls for three useful messages. What a waste.
I checked the clock. Morris Goldstein's office wouldn't be open for a while yet. I had plenty of time for breakfast and a run. I went downstairs to check the weather to see what I wanted to wear. Yeah, I could look out the window, but being on the third floor in Denver is like its own little world. Once I dressed for cold and snow flurries to find that a Chinook wind stole the snow away before it reached the ground. I was boiling hot all day. Weird, yeah—but it's how it is.
I was standing at the front door in an oversized T-shirt and shorts when I heard a sultry baritone behind me.
"Hey Kate!"
I turned at the greeting and found Tom standing there. He looked good enough that my mouth went dry and my heart skipped a beat. This morning he was dressed in running shorts and a flame red Tshirt with black lettering that read "Firefighters like it hot." It stretched taut across his muscular chest and the shorts showed off the buff legs I had imagined were under those pinstripes last night. Unlike a lot of people with lycanthropy, his body is perfectly proportioned, not gangly at all, and his face. . . . I was staring. Damn it. I just can't seem to help it. He did notice. Tom smiled at me, flashing deep dimples, his eyes lingering over the length of leg showing between my shorts and cuffed socks. Yeah, I blushed. His grin widened, and his brown eyes began sparkling merrily.
"Want to join me for a run?"
I crossed my arms over my chest and threw a teasing look his way. "You ran all the way over here to ask me to run? Boy, if that isn't contrived." He laughed, just a few short chuckles. "Nah. I ran over here to pick up the key to the apartment. I was sort of . . . well, distracted yesterday." He pulled a thick, folded letter envelope from the back pocket of the shorts and held it out to me. "I signed the lease, and the money's in the envelope, too, so I hope it's okay." He smiled, but there was tightness around the corners of his eyes. "I'm afraid there's been a change of plans, and I need to get some boxes into the place today, if that's okay."
"Yeah? What sort of a change of plans? What's up?"
He shook his head, tiny little annoyed
movements. "It's not your problem, Kate. I'm just really glad I have a place to move into. That guy is a royal pain in the ass." White knuckles showed how hard he was clenching his fists.
I understood the feeling. "It's about the landlord of your other place, huh? What did he do?" Tom was getting more and more agitated as I watched. He was staring at the sidewalk and was lost in internal thoughts that made his jaw muscle bulge. I put a hand on his bicep to bring him back to this world. He jumped and then stared at me, startled. He took a deep, slow breath with his eyes closed and seemed to center himself.
When his eyes opened again, he was back to
normal—or at least as normal as he was
yesterday. "Sorry. I shouldn't let him get to me like that. But he barely told me two days ago that I had to move by the end of the month, and this morning there's a knock on the door and two guys say he's paid them to move my stuff onto the street!" I opened my mouth in shock. " What?! " My hands went to my hips and I barely suppressed a scream. "They can't do that, Tom. It's against the law!"
He shrugged and threw up his hands. "Not much I can do about it. A couple of guys I know are watching the boxes to make sure that nobody rips them off. But I really need to get the key and get back there. Do you mind? I know it's not the first of the month or anything—"
My brain immediately started working. This was wrong on so many levels that I couldn't even count them all! "Oh, we'll get your boxes all right. Just let me slip on a pair of jeans and grab my keys. I don't have the spare back from the other tenant yet, but mine will work just fine. It's a master." I spun around but he grabbed my arm. His look told me that he was afraid I was going to do something that get him into trouble. "Really, Kate. You don't have to get involved. I can bring the key right back."
I smiled tightly and removed his hand. "No, it's okay. We'll get you moved, and I'll be nice. But then your landlord is going to hear from the Housing Authority, the D.A. and anyone else I can think of very soon. I'll make sure of it! Guys who pick on people with no room to make waves really yank my chain."
He looked uncomfortable, but waited downstairs as I took the elevator up, turned off the coffee pot, grabbed my cell phone, keys, and wallet, and changed clothes.
The trip over to his building only took a few minutes. The building was one of the pre-renovation models, with crumbling brickwork and peeling paint on swollen doorways. It looked just like one of the crack houses on Cops— after the police raid. A couple of clean-cut burly guys were leaning against a growing stack of boxes, angrily watching the other two burly guys who were carrying boxes out of the building.
We pulled up to the curb and Tom hopped out. I waited for a break in traffic and then quickly opened the door and shut it before the next big delivery truck could clip me. A large green and white sign caught my eye as I started to walk toward Tom and his friends. I immediately
recognized the logo and lettering, but no way! I heard the swear words that I muttered under my breath while opening the passenger door of the truck to grab my cell phone.
Tom walked up to me with his friends, just as I started to dial.
"What's up, Kate? You suddenly look pissed off on a whole new level." He stared at me curiously, and I noted that his nostrils were flared wide again. I wondered what a werewolf could smell that a human couldn't. I'd have to ask someday.
I held up a finger to stop him as the woman at other end of the line greeted me. "Hi, is Keith there? This is Kate Reilly."
Tom cocked his head and narrowed his lids a bit, but then looked at his friends and shrugged. He opened the soda that his buddy handed him and took a sip.
"Hey, Kate! Good to hear from you. Did you change your mind about the property?"
I put on my best professional tone. "Hi, Keith. No, actually I'm calling about something different today." I put a bit of concern, and a hint of confusion in my voice intentionally. "Do you have the property over on—" I looked up at the building. "1840 Baker?"
"Hmm, that sounds familiar. Let's see." I heard clicking from his rapid fingers on the keyboard.
"Yep, that's one of ours. It's not for sale, though. We just have the management contract." I let out an annoyed breath that would be
obvious over the phone. "Boy, I was really hoping you weren't going to say that, Keith." Caution edged into his voice. "Yeah? Why not?"
"I just took on a tenant who lived there, and I'm standing in front of the building as we speak. There seem to be a pair of movers that were hired by the owner of the building and they're putting his stuff out on the street."
Keith could hear the other boot starting to drop, but he didn't quite know what to say. "Uh-huh. And . . ."
I learned a lot about the process of renting and evictions when I bought my building. Interviews with property management companies taught me more. One thing I learned from Keith was that managers tend to get stuck in the situation of being a buffer between the owner and the tenant. They always hate to hear that the owner is going around directly dealing with the tenants without involving them.
"No three-day demand, Keith. No FED
complaint, no court appearance, no Order of Restitution. Nada. Please tell me that you've got a renegade owner on your hands and that you didn't authorize this incredibly illegal situation. I'd hate to think that about you guys while I'm still considering hiring your company."
One corner of my mouth curled up as I heard him put down the phone and mutter violent swear words in the background. I winked at Tom and his buddies, who were trying to hide their laughter and failing miserably. Tom was staring open-mouthed at my side of the conversation.
Keith's voice was very serious when he finally picked up the phone again. "Kate, I swear to you that we had no knowledge of this action. I just checked the file on that building and we are supposed to be fully involved in evictions. We don't have anyone in violation of their lease. Everyone is paid up to date. I'll call our client, and if there's a legitimate reason for this, Kate, I promise you that it'll be handled in the proper way." He let out a frustrated sigh. "Can you grab one of the movers and let me talk to him, please?" I walked up to what appeared to be the head mover and held out the cell phone. "Excuse me, but the gentleman on my phone is the property manager of this building." I pointed to the posted sign on the building wall. "He' d like to talk to you." I stepped over to Tom and accepted a Coke
from his grinning blond friend. "You go, girl!" the blond whispered. I wiggled my eyebrows briefly while popping the can and taking a sip. Tom couldn't quite figure out what to say. He just looked confused and was watching it play out.
The middle-aged Latino mover stepped away
from us, toward the management sign. I could hear bits and pieces of the conversation—the name of the man who hired him and what they were to be paid. No, they didn't have the tenant's name; just a description and the apartment number. Finally, it was over and he returned and handed me back the phone.
When the other mover—a slender pale guy in his twenties, came out with stack of boxes, the first one said, "Hey, Dale, grab your stuff. We just got pulled off this job."
The man named Dale pulled a red paisley
handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face.
"That sucks. We gonna get paid for the whole day?"
The older man nodded. "Yeah. I told him it was a flat rate. I got the address to pick up the check."
"Oh. Okay, cool." Dale ripped open the hook and eye fastener on the front of his black nylon back belt, leaving it dangling from the shoulder suspenders. They walked away without another word and got into an old, beat-up pick-up truck. There was a moment of silence while we all
stared after the departing truck, trying not to choke on the thick blue smoke that belched out of the tailpipe.
Finally, the tall Latino friend with the Sprite waved his hand to clear some of the fumes away and spoke up. "Jeez. Any chance you could call my landlord, too? I could use a new fridge." We all burst out laughing.
Tom couldn't seem to get a grin off his face. He leaned back against one stack of boxes and shook his head. "I can't believe you just did that! In fact, I'm not quite sure what you did!
I shrugged and swilled down the last of the Coke. "Nothing much. I know the guy at the property management company. I was going to hire them to run my building. Basically, the owner doesn't get to tell you to get out. He hired a company to represent him, and is under contract to let them deal with the tenants. There's a whole legal process to remove a tenant. It takes days and days to go through. Since the owner doesn't have a leg to stand on for kicking you out, you don't