S. Harper - Cursed

He leans against the back of the sofa. “Does the FBI know that you’re here?”

I smile. “They don’t track my every move.”

“They do. You just don’t know it,” he says, jabbing the air for emphasis. “They can track you using your cell phone—FBI, CIA, NSA.”

“I’m here unofficially,” I volunteer, hoping to get the conversation back on track.

“That’s what they all say.” He crosses his arms over his chest and leans back on the sofa. “What department are you with?”

“Missing Persons. San Diego Field Office.”

“And they know about vampires? About this place?”

Whatever I say, I’ll be feeding into Simon’s paranoia. May as well tell him the truth. “No. This is off the books.” Sort of.

I’m tempted to use my powers to ensure truthful answers, but I’m not sure it’s necessary. I suspect the same person that called Rose on her cell phone already ordered Simon to cooperate with me. I wouldn’t be here with him otherwise. My eyes do a quick sweep of the ceiling. There’s a camera here, too. I pointedly look up at it when I add, “Time really is of the essence.”

Simon follows my glance, smiles, and slides into the chair behind his desk. “Isabella Mancini.” He types the name into the computer. “What do you want to know?”

“Did anything unusual happen the last day she was here?”

“She’s a drive-through customer. She never actually came in.”

“Drive-through?”

“We offer home delivery, drive-through, and pickup. Home delivery is more expensive and by credit card or direct withdrawal only. Pickup is the most economical, but not very convenient. Parking in this neighborhood can be a bitch.”

“Tell me about it. Where is the drive-through window?”

“On the Fourth Avenue side of the building. She picked up on time, as usual, paid cash. That’s all I can tell you. She hasn’t been back since.”

“Are there any security tapes I could review to see if perhaps she was being followed?”

“I’m sorry, no. We don’t have a camera on the pickup window. For obvious reasons. Our customers demand privacy.”

“Maybe I could speak to the person who worked the window that day? See if he or she remembers anything?”

“We have two people covering each shift. They rotate working the window and getting the orders prepared for pickup. Cash is picked up every hour when the supply for the next one is delivered. José was on that day. I remember him saying something about going to Baja for the weekend. I can try his cell, but you know how reception is down there.”

“Please. Try.”

Simon dials the number using a program on his computer. I hear it ringing, then going to voice mail. He leaves a message. “Dude, it’s Simon. Listen, an Agent Monroe is going to call you and ask you a few questions about a customer. It’s cool. Tell her whatever you remember.”

He scribbles José’s number on a Post-it and hands it to me. “The signal in Mexico totally sucks. You might not be able to reach him until Monday. Anything else I can help you with?”

I pocket the number. “I’ve heard there’s been some trouble in other states, some political conflicts resulting in vandalism and violence against mainstreamers. Have you encountered anything like that?”

Simon shakes his head. “No, the California operation runs like clockwork. There have been a few problems in New Mexico and Arizona, but we’re adding extra security at those locations.”

He’s sipping on his drink, answering my questions with the friendly candor of two college chums discussing one of those video games on his wall. “Simon, I have to ask. Just what do you do here?”

“My official title is Operational Director, Western Region. I was recruited from Cal Tech three years ago. Hey, you showed it to Rose, can I see your badge?”

So our mystery man isn’t the only one who’d been watching. I pull my badge out and hand it to him.

“Cool.” He hands it back to me. “Anything else I can tell you?”

“Amy Patterson and Evan Porter.”

“What about them?”

“They’re both missing. Do they get blood from you?”

His fingers fly across the keyboard. “Evan is on home delivery, and so is Amy. We deliver in Styrofoam chests containing dry ice twice a week, signature required.” He frowns. “Amy missed a delivery a couple weeks ago. She hasn’t contacted us since. We left several discreet messages about rescheduling. No response. Evan is scheduled for delivery today.”

I lean forward. It occurs to me this might be a way to identify additional missing vampires. “Would it be possible to get a list of others who have missed deliveries or appointments?”

“Missed them in the past week?”

“How about the past six months?”

“It would take some time. We have accounts in pending status for a variety of reasons, lack of payment, people who are on vacation, et cetera.”

“We only need those that don’t have an explanation and haven’t resumed. I’d appreciate it,” I tell him. “There could be more missing. So far the common denominator in these three cases is that they are all vampires and—”

“We sourced their blood, I understand. We’ll work on it. Shall I email you the file when it’s ready?”

I don’t bother mentioning the other common denominators, Barakov and possibly even Green Leaf, as I hand him my card. “Thank you for cooperating.”

He smiles. “The order came down to give you whatever you needed.”

“Order? From whom?”

Simon’s desk phone rings before he can answer. He picks up the receiver, listens for a moment, then hands me the phone.

A deep baritone voice on the other end says, “We’ll have the list to you within twenty-four hours. Find our missing, Agent Monroe.”

The man doesn’t give me a chance to respond or ask questions. I’m left listening to the dial tone. The voice wasn’t one I’d heard before. It wouldn’t be easily forgotten. “Who was that?” I ask, handing the phone back to Simon.

“The boss.” Simon presses an intercom button and Rose appears like a genie out of a bottle. “Nice to meet you, Agent Monroe.” Simon grins as if he’s got a delicious secret. “We’ll be in touch.”

• • •

Zack is at his desk when I get back, working on his computer.

“Did you find anything?” I ask, slipping out of my jacket and hanging it on the desk chair. I lean over his shoulder to view the monitor.

Zack gestures to the screen. “Well, I couldn’t find any checks from Isabella to Green Leaf. No automatic deductions from any of her accounts, either. But Amy supported them. I discovered five checks made out to Green Leaf in the last five months that were marked as charitable donations. She also contributed to the Red Cross, a San Diego food bank, and the Humane Society. And there’s another connection. . . . Green Leaf has a special grant program that subsidizes training for contractors and laborers who promote and install the latest and greatest in green products. It looks like one of those Green Leaf crews installed the shades on Amy Patterson’s windows.”

“Giving them access to her apartment.”

“Yup. You have any luck at Wicked Ink?”

I look around. Other agents are milling about within hearing distance. “It was . . . interesting. . . . I’ll fill you in later.” I take my own seat at the desk across from him. “Although they did promise to get me a list of other customers who have missed deliveries or pickups lately.”

Zack lowers his voice to a whisper. “You think there might be other missing . . .” He glances around, too, regroups. “Others like Amy and Isabella that we don’t know about?”

“I think it’s a strong possibility,” I say.