Jeanne Stein - Retribution

There’s a long hall with doors opening on both sides—offices, no doubt—and a door in the back. Through the one on the end is something that looks like the landing to a flight of stairs.

“Can I help you with something?”

The enthusiasm has gone out of the receptionist’s voice.

I turn to her. “I’m not here to place an order,” I say, stepping back to the desk. “But I am interested in the company. What can you tell me about Simone Tremaine?”

The silky smooth smile of the saleswoman returns. “She’s wonderful. She discovered the formula for Eternal Youth herself. Are you from the press? I have a press kit I can give you.”

This time I take the offering. It’s slick and glossy and the first page is a headshot of Simone. “Where is she from, do you know?”

“New York. She was in advertising there. Which is why she’s so good with the media. They love her.”

Yeah. That and the fact that she can hex people to believe anything she wants.

I flip the twenty or so pages contained in the kit. Every one has a photo of Simone along with before and after shots of middle -aged women transformed from drab to gorgeous. No cream could possibly—

The receptionist interrupts my train of thought with a laugh. “I can tell from your expression you’re skeptical of those results. Most women are.” She reaches for something at her feet and comes up with a handbag. She fishes out a wallet and flips to a driver’s license.

“How old do you think I am?” she asks.

“I’m not good at that game,” I say. Being a vampire puts you at a disadvantage.

She holds out the picture so I can read her date of birth.

I look from the license to the woman and back again. “Is this a joke?”

She laughs. “Nope. I’m an Eternal Youth customer myself. And I’m fifty-two years old.”

I react the way she expects—with shocked appreciation at the transformation. I don’t bother to tell her that she’s probably under some kind of spell, that the woman she has so much admiration for is a cold -blooded killer who has to be working an angle that I’d bet is more complicated than rejuvenating aging skin. Belinda Burke is not a humanitarian.

Instead, I take the literature and, thanking her for her time, leave. I’ll come back tonight, when I can be alone with Burke’s files and see for myself what’s going on.

In the car, I call Williams. I tell him who Burke is pretending to be, and he promises to pass the information to Ortiz. Legally, we can ’t prove she’s done anything illegal. Yet. So there can be no official police involvement. But at least Ortiz may be able to use his connections to track her down.

Then I call Frey. This time he answers. He sounds spent. Culebra’s condition worsened once, about an hour ago, but he adjusted his counterspell and Culebra is resting again.

I fill him in on what I learned. Culebra’s relapse would coincide with my confrontation with Burke in the restaurant. She knows now that we’re working against her.

What I don’t tell Frey is that she knows it’s Frey who is keeping Culebra alive. May as well not add to his concern.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” I ask Frey.

“Yeah,” he says. “Find Burke. Kill the bitch.”

IDON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH MYSELF. I GO back to my vantage point above the warehouse. It’s midafternoon. There are still cars and trucks coming and going from the parking lot. Inactivity chafes. Williams hasn ’t called, which means he has nothing for me from Ortiz. My first plan—to break into the warehouse—seems the most logical.

I settle down to watch and wait, something I should be used to in my line of work. Stakeouts are part of the bounty -hunting business.

Except I usually have David to help pass the time.

I’m alone here and this is very personal.

I spend some time leafing through the Eternal Youth brochure. Two things jump out: the dramatic results the cream seems to have wrought and the price for those results. Burke is getting two hundred fifty dollars for a twelve-ounce jar . . . a month’s supply.

Yikes.

I throw the brochure aside and start to pick apart what Burke said to me in the restaurant. She mentioned wishing she’d had more time.

More time to what?

And what “curves” did life throw her? Culebra’s appearance? He must have recognized her. How? I certainly didn’t. Was the entire story he told me about going out of town a lie? Was he here all the time?

Nothing makes sense.

The only thing that does is the threat against Culebra and Frey. No riddles there.

It’s a fucking long wait.

It isn’t until midnight that the place is finally quiet. By now, my skin is twitching with impatience. I watch as the last car pulls out of the lot.

If there’s a night watchman, he didn’t drive a car to work. I sprint down the steep bank and head for the back of the warehouse.

I had plenty of time to decide how I’d break in. The building is about three stories high. The only windows are right below the roofline.

They are the old-fashioned, pull-down windows, so there are no ledges. I circle the building twice before I find one that looks like it isn ’t completely shut tight. I’d rather not damage anything, which is why I’m not smashing the door and going in through the front.

I use my shimmying skills for the second time today. It’s really rather fun. Like having invisible suckers on the palms of your hands. It’s all upper body, my feet seek purchase like a rock climber’s, but it’s more pull than push. Idly, I wonder what I look like. Hope it’s not a giant spider.

I hang down from the roof and work at the window. It groans and gives way and I slide inside. These vamp powers are becoming second nature and once I accepted what I am, they seemed to grow stronger. Not entirely unpleasant.

There’s a catwalk that runs along under the windows. I crouch here, waiting for any indication that I’ve tripped a security circuit. I don’t hear the whir of cameras or see the glowing beam of a motion detector. There are no lights on, but I can see to the factory floor thirty feet below. No guards come looking. After a moment, I step off the ledge and land on my feet next to the assembly line.

No jolt, no shock. I pat at my hair. Not a strand out of place.

Cool.

The factory floor looks like any other mechanized assembly line. Ingredients are measured and combined in big stainless -steel pots at one end and the finished jars of cream emerge from the other. The conveyor belt is still but all the components are lined up and in varying stages of completion as if a switch was hit at the end of the day and the line stopped. I walk the length of it, picking up jars, sniffing, looking for—I’m not sure what I’m looking for—but nothing jumps out at me. I take one of the finished jars and open it. The contents are a pale pink in color and heavily perfumed. Under it all, though, I detect something that smells slightly of raw meat. It makes me draw back in disgust. I close the jar and slip it into the pocket of my jacket.

At the end of the factory, there are two doors. Both locked. I’m prepared. I fish my lock picks out of another jacket pocket and go to work.

I remember from this afternoon that there was a door at the end of the corridor leading from the reception area. I’m assuming that door opened into the factory or to stairs leading from it. The first door I open, though, is a locker room and employee lounge area.

The other is the one I’m looking for. It opens to reveal a flight of stairs. At the top, the door leading into the corridor I spied this afternoon. On each side of that corridor are office spaces, six of them, all with doors now closed. My task is simplified, though, by the little brass plaques on each. I head right for the one that says “Simone Tremaine, President.”