Jeanne Stein - Legacy

“Detective Harris.”

He stops when he hears his name and meets me at the bottom of the stairs. The uniforms at his side step between us, frowning, until he waves them off. He says something to them and they move away toward the waiting police cars. Then he turns his attention to me.

“Ms. Strong.”

I gesture toward the building. “What were you doing in my partner’s condo?”

He smiles. “You aren’t that naive.” He reaches into a pocket and pulls out the search warrant. “I would give this to Mr. Ryan but he doesn’t seem to be around. It’s a copy of a search warrant. Duly executed. I left another in the apartment. Care to tell me where he’s gone?”

I glance over the warrant. No surprises. It lists the same items as Gloria’s. When I look back up, two more uniforms and another suit have come downstairs. Empty-handed.

Harris takes the warrant out of my hand. “Where is he, Ms. Strong?”

I put on an innocent face and shrug. “Don’t know, Detective. He left town after you arrested his girlfriend. He was a bit upset.”

Harris laughs. “I can imagine. You find out your girlfriend is unfaithful and a murderer all in the same evening. It would ruin my night.”

The next instant the amusement is gone from his face. “That’s assuming he hadn’t learned about the affair earlier. If I find out he had, Mr. Ryan may have more to deal with than a broken heart.”

He turns away then and rejoins the cop waiting by the patrol car. I watch them pull away. At least he didn’t press me for information about David’s whereabouts. Nor did he threaten me with obstruction. I guess Gloria is still number one on his hit parade.

I let myself into David’s condo with my key. There are two ways to toss a place—the neat way if you don’t want to make it obvious what you were looking for or the trash it way if you don’t care.

Harris didn’t care. Not that he broke anything or deliberately went out of his way to mess things up, but drawers and cabinets were left open, the clothes in the closet pushed to one side, items on David’s desk rearranged. David, the neat freak, will not be happy.

I’m not going to straighten up. David should have been here to supervise instead of slinking away like a whipped puppy. Serves him right to come home to a mess.

On my way out, I do stop, though, to scoop up the newspapers accumulating on the doorstep. He hadn’t bothered to stop delivery. David takes both San Diego and L.A. papers, and when I toss them onto the living room coffee table, a picture on the front page of the Los Angles Times catches my eye.

More than catches my eye. Trips that memory switch I’d been waiting for.

Rory O’Sullivan and his wife and son.

Jason. The kid I saw on the court steps with Gloria.

JASON O’SULLIVAN. NOW I REALIZE WHERE I’D SEEN him before. Not in person, but in media accounts of the restaurant opening. He’d accompanied his parents that night. Video of the three of them exiting a limo and being greeted at the door by Gloria had run on every newscast.

So what was he doing this morning hugging the woman accused of killing his father?

I pick up the phone and call the hotel. When I ask to be connected to Gloria’s room, I’m told she’s left a “do not disturb” message. Crap. I leave a message for her of my own—“Call me. And do not ever have the operator refuse my calls again.”

I slam the receiver down. She’s probably in a sedative-induced coma. She made it clear on the courthouse steps that she wasn’t going to talk about Jason, which leaves only one other person to ask.

Jason.

David doesn’t have a desktop computer at home, only a laptop, and it’s nowhere in sight, so I figure he must have it with him. That means back to the office.

David and I are Mac people. We each have a monitor on opposite sides of our big, oak partner’s desk. I power mine up.

I figure odds are against a listed telephone number, but check online anyway. I’m right. No listing in his name. I could ask Gloria’s lawyer to get it for me, but then I’ll have to explain why I want it. Since Jason is a minor, I’d rather not involve Gloria’s lawyer, Jason’s mother and the army of O’Sullivan lawyers no doubt on the family payroll when I talk to him. Time enough later to share information.

If it turns out there’s anything to share.

I do know another way to track down a teenager.

I log on to MySpace. David and I got an account not long ago for this purpose—it’s a great tracking tool. I do a search for “Jason O’Sullivan.” I get ninety-four hits, including every variation of the name you can imagine. Sixteen actually are “Jason O’Sullivan’s.” It takes the better part of an hour to sort through some pretty whacked-out profiles to find one that seems promising. Says he’s eighteen, naturally, looking for friends. Lives in L.A. The kid in the picture, though it’s not a sharp image, looks like the kid I saw with Gloria today.

It’s worth a shot.

I send an instant message: FRND OF GLORIA. RESPOND FUR 2.

I have no way of knowing if this is the right Jason or if he’s online. Nothing to do now but wait.

So, it’s back to Frey’s book. I settle into my desk chair, prop my feet up on the desk and start to read.

A few paragraphs into chapter three, and I have dubbed this one “the care and feeding of werewolves.” Werewolves are human in most aspects twenty-seven days out of the month. Except for not being able to make babies (something weres and vampires have in common), they work (or “toil” in the book’s archaic turn of phrase) in jobs, can have a social life outside of the pack, attend church and perform “works of goodwill” in their communities.

It’s the other three days that create problems.

Werewolves must make a change at least once a month, usually during the full moon. The moon, however, does not cause the change. It’s the life cycle of the were that requires it. Since a transformation must take place at least once a month in order for the were to survive, the full moon is merely a way of calculating time. A lunar wake-up call.

If the were does not make the change, his body goes into “crisis” (a condition not described), from which he will not recover. He needs the belt of wolf fur to make the change. Without it, the animal cannot emerge. (What does this “belt” look like? Is it literally a belt of fur that can be taken off? Does it meld into his skin to precipitate the change? Damn. Not enough details here.) If he doesn’t “metamorphose” at least one time a month, he dies.

However, if he is transformed during the full moon, the odds are increased that the were will do humans harm. Since early recorded history, it has been observed that many animals are more prone to bite during a full moon than any other time. In his animal form, the were is particularly vulnerable to this behavior. Ordinarily, the were will only do what wolves do—hunt, feed, mate in a pack. Food sources are what would be found in the woods: small rodents, birds, such game as they can bring down. Should a pack happen upon a human, however, while an ordinary animal might be frightened away by aggressive behavior or shouting, a were pack is more likely to attack. The majority of werewolf killings occur this way.

How does one recognize werewolves? Most obvious is to see a pack in an area or location where wolves should not be, specifically, in a town or village. If the animals are observed acting in ways that suggest a higher intelligence or unusual physical abilities, or if you strike one with a nonmetallic object and do no harm, or (I love this one) if you are in an area with a large concentration of immigrants from Eastern Europe, most likely you will have made contact with werewolves.