Jeanne Stein - Retribution

FOR THE THIRD TIME IN TWELVE HOURS, I AM BACK at the warehouse. I perform my bat-woman routine and shimmy my way inside. It’s two a.m. I’m trying to decide whether to copy the file or take it when the decision is made for me. I hear a car pull to a stop outside.

No time to waste. I grab the file and lock the office door. I peek out front, but the lot is empty. The car must be at the loading dock.

Shit.

I run back through the factory and leap to the ledge. From the windows, I can just see the front of a white van backed up to the loading dock. I don’t hear any noise and the doors to the factory don’t open.

What are they doing? Trying to break in? A competitor trying to steal the formula?

It’s so quiet, I’m beginning to think whoever drove the van here left in another vehicle. Maybe it’s a vendor waiting to be the first in line for his supply of Burke’s miracle cream. I hunker down. I’ll give it twenty minutes and then I’ll take my chances and find another way out.

I don’t have to wait that long. Ten minutes later, the van starts up and pulls away. It’s a white Econoline with no markings and no tags.

I leap to the ground and look around. The loading bays are closed tight, no indication at all that anyone tried to get in.

I look in the direction of the retreating van.

Maybe I’m not the only one up to no good.

BY THE TIME I REJOIN WILLIAMS, THE RESTAURANT and bar have closed. He and Ortiz are sitting in the hotel lobby in big overstuffed chairs arranged around a table. We have the lobby to ourselves. There’s no one behind the desk to eavesdrop. I see a clerk through an open door in the back sipping from a mug and reading a magazine. He looks up as I come in but, besides a curious glance my way, makes no move to intercept me. His eyes slide back to the glossy pages.

Williams follows my gaze.

It’s all right. He’s a friend of ours .

His imperiousness provokes the usual reaction in me. I snort. Of course he is. What are you, the Godfather?

It’s always the same with you two, isn’t it? Ortiz says before Williams can reply. His tone is reproachful and impatient like a parent addressing squabbling children.

My fault, I know. Williams brings out the bitch in me. And there isn ’t time. Embarrassed, I hand Ortiz the folder and watch as he and a visibly aggravated Williams divide the lot. Soon their thoughts are centered only on the task of sorting through the files. I wait, anxious and uneasy. If this doesn’t yield anything important, I’m wasting precious time.

I focus on the two men, willing them to hurry it up, marveling at how different the two are.

At some point, Ortiz changed into civilian clothes. I think it’s the first time I’ve seen him out of uniform. He’s wearing slacks with a knife-edge crease and a long-sleeved polo shirt. He’s a vampire who looks a like a thirty-year-old human. He’s about five feet ten inches tall and weighs a lean one-sixty. He has the darkly handsome look of his Hispanic/Native American heritage: an aquiline nose, dark hair and eyes and olive skin stretched over high cheekbones.

His expression is somber as he works. He’s been a deputy under Williams for as long as I ’ve known him, but there’s more to their relationship. I don’t understand it and I have no desire to. Ortiz is genuinely nice while Williams is decidedly not.

Finally, Williams separates one sheet from the stack and Ortiz, two. They look at one another.

Here’s one.

And two others.

They’re showing each other the pictures they’ve chosen from the file. The picture Williams is holding is of the dead woman we found across the street. She looks much better alive.

“Who are the other two?” I ask.

Ortiz reaches for a slim leather folder on the table in front of him. He retrieves two artist ’s sketches from inside. He holds the sketches next to the photos from Burke’s files, turns them around so I can see.

The resemblance between sketch and photo are remarkable in both cases.

Williams turns to me. “Remember the men who reported being attacked by women who cut them for their blood?”

“These are the women?”

“You tell me. These sketches were made from the victims’ descriptions.”

I take the photos and sketches and lay them out on the table for a closer look. “I’m sold. Is this enough to get a warrant?”

Williams shakes his head. “A warrant for what? We still don’t know what connection Burke has to these women except that they’ve used her product.”

“That’s not enough?”

He fans the thick file of photos. “Not when there are a hundred other women here who don’t seem to have gotten themselves into trouble.”

I pick up the two photos and look to Ortiz. “Can I take these?”

Ortiz nods. He makes a note of the names and addresses printed on the backs of the photos and slips the rest of Burke ’s file and the sketches back into his folder. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to Coronado,” I reply. “To the address I found in Burke’s file. If I’m lucky, it’s hers. After I take care of her, I’ll visit these two.”

Ortiz frowns. “You’re going to Burke’s alone?”

I’m afraid Williams is going to insist on coming with me. I jump in before he can.

“It’s better if I do. If I get caught, neither of you should be involved. Someone has to take care of Culebra and Frey. This is the address I found in her file at the warehouse.” I send it to him telepathically, adding, “If you don’t hear from me in two hours, then you can send the cavalry.”

“I will.” Ortiz’ dark eyes flash. He writes the address in a notepad and slips it into his pocket. “Be careful, Anna.”

Williams, for once, doesn’t say anything.

THE ADDRESS I GAVE ORTIZ, THE ADDRESS ON J AVENUE I took from a utility bill in Burke ’s office, is across the bay in Coronado. I can’t even claim gut instinct that it belongs to Burke. All I can do is hope it ’s hers. If I’m wrong, I’ve wasted more precious minutes of Culebra’s life.

It’s a quick trip across the bridge and straight down Fourth Avenue to J. The neighborhood is old money—wooden shingles, tile roofs.

Multistoried houses with big yards and picket fences.

Not what I expected. I expected a black magic woman to live in seclusion behind high brick walls covered with poison ivy.

Doubt starts gnawing a hole in instinct.

The street is dead quiet in the early morning hours. I park half a block from the address and work my way on foot to the alleyway that runs behind each house. When I get to the right house, I leap the fence and crouch down, watching, listening.

I’ve got my gun in my hand. Ready this time. But I know it’s too much to hope that Burke will pass by a window. Too much to hope I’ll get a clear shot without giving myself away or allowing her to escape. Again.

I see and hear nothing out of the ordinary. The house is dark. The only sound, the faraway ebb and tide of the ocean a half dozen blocks away. I don’t feel anything, either. None of the strange vibrations I did around Culebra. A bad sign. Wouldn’t I feel something this close to the place where a powerful spell is being cast?

I touch the chain around my neck. Wouldn’t the amulet be sending a warning?

The windows along the back of the house are shuttered. I make my way closer and try to peek between the slats. It’s no good. I sneak around to the front, staying low to avoid being seen from the street. It’s three a.m., but you never know when some insomniac pain-in-the-ass neighbor might decide to walk the dog.