Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) (11 page)

He pulled off his helmet. Damp red curls were plastered to his head. His hands and face were covered with zinc oxide, but scratches were visible through the white ointment.

Wilkerson blinked. Some of the crazier vamps came out in daylight, smearing themselves with sunblock and piling on the protective gear. You'd think Londoners would have caught on by now—realized that immortals walked among them—but there were so many punks and weirdos in the city, the vamps slipped under the radar.

The secretary stood in the doorway, clutching a folder. “Sorry, Mr. Wilkerson. I tried to make him wait.”

“Where's Yok-Seng?” Wilkerson asked.

The secretary pulled a face. “The loo.”

Wilkerson picked up the phone.

“Are you ringing the Zuba brothers?” Moose cried. “Let go of that phone or you'll be making future calls with a stump.”

Wilkerson dropped the receiver into the cradle and frowned. He wasn't frightened. Not yet. “I thought I'd seen the last of you,” he said.

“It takes more than the Zubas to scare me. They might have caused me to break my blooming leg, but I can still get around. So don't get ideas.” Moose winked. “You should be flattered. I came out in daylight just for you.”

“I'm late for a meeting.” Wilkerson shifted his eyes to the boarded-up window.

“Surely you have time for a sit-down.” Moose looked at the secretary, who was still hovering beside the door, her breasts heaving. “Boo!” he yelled, waving his hands.

The woman squeaked and ran out of the office, slamming the door behind her.

“Are you tapping that bird?” Moose asked Wilkerson.

“What?”

“Are you diddling your secretary?”

“My private life is none of your concern.”

“Maybe not. But is it Cynthia's concern?” Moose leaned forward. “That's your girlfriend's name, isn't it? Poor Cynthia is clueless. Living by her lonesome self in that big manse in Kensington. Nothing but a snub-nosed dog to keep her company while you do the big nasty with others.”

“Get to the point.” Wilkerson's eyes narrowed.

“I'm a tracker. I know where you live. Send the Zubas after me, and Cynthia hears about your bloody affairs. I've got mates. They know about you. And
her
.” He nodded at the door. “Your crumpet.”

“I don't care what you tell Cynthia.” Wilkerson folded his hands.

“Maybe I'll do more than talk to her. You care what the other toffee noses think. A dead girlfriend won't get you knighted.”

Wilkerson's right eyelid twitched. “Why are you here?”

“To finish the job.”

“The assignment has been passed on.”

“To who? Don't I rate a second chance? Maybe I'll ask your crumpet.”

“Leave her out of it.” Wilkerson said.

“I'd love to, mate. But I can't.” Moose waved at the boarded-up window. “Don't you want to hear about last night? I stole the air cast at Saint Mary's—it was a fucking madhouse, by the way. Humans are so fragile. Then I went back to the crime scene.”

“That was foolish,” Wilkerson said. When vampires had OCD, they wreaked havoc. No matter what the bloody sods began, they felt compelled to finish. Wilkerson frowned. In his social circle, and in the circles just beyond his reach, a murder would be delicious fodder for the gossips. They would descend like magpies on an apricot tree, picking and shredding until nothing remained. The negative buzz could reach the newspapers, and he didn't want anyone scrutinizing his company.

Moose's head disappeared inside the garbage bag. He muttered to himself about toffee noses, then emerged holding a fuchsia leather scrapbook. With a flourish, he flipped back the cover, pulled out a small photograph, and slid it across the table. The snap showed a messy bedroom: an unmade bed, books piled on the floor, a tiny painting of some sort above a desk.

Moose waved at the picture. “This is
her
room, Miss Clifford's. Rather tacky, innit? The snap was taken before I spent time with Miss Dowell—by the way, her blood was red, not blue.”

Wilkerson's jaw tightened. “Quit pottering.”

Moose pointed to the photograph. “It was taken two weeks ago. The date is stamped in the lower right corner. We'll call it the ‘before' picture.”

Wilkerson shifted his gaze to the door. Where was Yok-Seng?

Moose reached into the bag again and pulled out an eight-by-ten glossy photo. It looked like something from an official crime scene. Moose arranged the snaps, whistling “Drowsy Maggie.”

“Tell me what's different about these photos, mate.”

Wilkerson blinked. The eight-by-ten glossy showed a larger version of the girl's messy bedroom. But the wall above the desk was empty. He looked back at the small scrapbook photo. The vibrant painting hung on the wall.

Moose thumped the tiny snap. “The art is missing, mate.”

Wilkerson shrugged. “Maybe it broke, or she threw it away. You know how women are. Always fussing with the décor.”

“I bet she took it,” Moose said.

Wilkerson squinted at the small photograph. The art resembled a plaque, roughly the size of a hardback book, but the top portion was curved. A buzzing filled his ears. His heart vaulted inside his chest, leaping painfully against tissue and bones. This was a Greek Orthodox icon—his icon. He'd thought it was lost forever and yet here it was, hanging on an idiot girl's wall, exposed to environmental insults.

Moose stood, and the air cast squeaked. “Am I fired or not?”

“I haven't decided.” Wilkerson looked away. “Come back in a few days and we'll talk.”

“No tricks?” Moose's forehead wrinkled. “No Zubas?”

“I thought you weren't afraid.”

“I'm not, but I don't want trouble.” Moose slung the bag over his shoulder.

The door opened, and Yok-Seng charged into the room. He lunged toward Moose, but Wilkerson pushed between them. “Moose was just leaving.”

The Cambodian gave a short nod and stepped against the wall.

“He's a man of few words, isn't he?” Moose laughed.

“Yok-Seng doesn't need a vocabulary.” Wilkerson paused. “Mind if I keep these snaps?”

It wasn't really a question, but Moose pursed his lips, as if giving the matter deep thought. Then he shrugged. “Sure, why the hell not?”

After he left, Wilkerson rummaged in his desk drawer for a magnifying glass and held it over the small photograph. A red-robed figure materialized, a woman holding an ostrich egg in one hand, a book with gilt pages in the other. Wilkerson reached across his desk and buzzed his secretary.

“Get Mr. Underwood,” he said.

 

Caro stepped out of the bathroom, pressing a damp cloth to her face. She'd lost her lunch and didn't think she'd ever eat again. Two murders in two days and both victims had bled to death; yet the deaths had occurred in separate parts of the world. They couldn't be related. Or could they?

The night she'd been informed of her uncle's death, a prankster had kept calling the Bow Street flat. Maybe he'd been outside watching. And waiting. Jude had been on Bow Street that night. He knew her telephone number because her uncle had given it to him. How much time had elapsed between the time he'd approached her on the sidewalk and when he'd shown up at the airport? An hour maybe? Was that long enough to kill Phoebe and dash off to Heathrow?

Yes.
No. His clothes would have been disheveled and bloody, right? But they were clean. She set down the washrag.
Think, Clifford. Concentrate.
The murders had to be related.

Adrenaline spiked through Caro's veins. She felt an urgent need to leave the hotel and make her way to the embassy in Sofia. Her hands shook as she scooped up her clothes, her uncle's pens, the rabbit's-foot keychain, and the tiny flashlight. She stuffed everything into her bag and ran to the lobby.

The clerk with the hoop earrings stood behind the desk, but Caro didn't take the time to settle her bill, just hurried outside and looked for a taxi. Clouds swabbed over the hills, blending into the scrubwater sky. Everything was damp and gray, reminding her of London, the winter days and nights forming a drab continuum.

Two men in red jogging suits walked toward her, ones she'd seen in the hotel. They wore wraparound sunglasses that reflected trees and buildings. Chalky, white cream covered their faces. Why were they wearing Kabuki makeup?

The tall man lifted one hand.
“Miss Clee-ford!”

She'd seen him last night, in the bar. And the stumpy fellow had tried to steal her bag in Sofia. Her heart slammed against her ribs, and her mouth went dry.
Run, run, run.
She sucked in a mouthful of cold air, then sprinted in the opposite direction. She stopped at the first taxi she saw and climbed into the backseat, dragging the duffel bag onto her lap.

“Avtobusna spirka,”
she cried. “Hurry!
Pobarsai!
”

The cab jolted forward and its headlights swept over the road. She clutched the seat as the driver pulled into traffic.

The other cars had their headlights on, too, and it was only late afternoon. She looked out the taxi's back window, her breath fogging the glass. The men in jogging suits hurried across the parking lot and got into a brown Dacia. On the rear bumper was a sticker: I'LL NOT DIE TODAY.

What's that supposed to mean?
Caro thought. She saw a flash of movement near the front of the hotel. Jude ran out of the black doors and skidded on the sidewalk. He stared at her taxi, waving both arms. Caro almost told her driver to stop, but those men in the red suits alarmed her. She watched Jude run into the parking lot and climb into a white car. Then she lost sight of him as her taxi turned the corner. St. George's golden domes flashed by. She couldn't remember where the bus station was located, and she hoped her driver was going in the right direction.

She glanced out the back window again and looked for the Dacia and Jude's car. She didn't see either one, but that didn't mean she'd lost them. Trucks and smaller vehicles jammed the boulevard, their headlights shimmering over the damp pavement.

Caro turned around and pulled a map from her bag. She found the Hotel Ustra and drew a line to the bus terminal on Bulgarian Boulevard. She glanced up just as a red Moskvitch darted out of a side street and plowed into the taxi. The jolt knocked her against the door, and her map went flying. The taxi spun around and skidded onto the sidewalk.

The taxi driver got out and waved his fist in the air. His forehead was bleeding. Behind him, the Moskvitch's horn blared in a flat monotone, and smoke drifted up from its hood. The car's occupant lay motionless over the steering wheel. The taxi driver opened Caro's door. Blood ran down his chin and hit the pavement. He pointed east.
“Avtobusna spirka,”
he said.

He was telling her to make her own way to the bus station. Fine, she could do that. People circled the red Moskvitch and peered through the shattered windshield. She reached into her bag, yanked out a T-shirt, and handed it to her driver.

“To stop the bleeding,” she said and slid out of the taxi. Cars stretched out in both directions. No brown Dacia. She didn't see Jude's car, either. She stepped into the crowd and walked toward the intersection. While she waited for the light to change, she decided to call Ilya Velikov. As she groped inside her bag for the phone, a brown Dacia whizzed by. The taillights blinked, and the car angled into a parking slot. The creepy men got out, ignoring startled glances from pedestrians, and turned in Caro's direction. She ran to the end of the block and darted in front of a redheaded woman who yelled something in Bulgarian.

“Sorry,” Caro said. Still gripping the phone, she looked over her shoulder to check on the men. The sidewalk was jammed with pedestrians, but she didn't see anyone in sunglasses or red jogging suits. She turned around and bumped into something solid. She looked up into a man's white-washed face. He smiled, and his makeup cracked at the edges. It was the tall, gaunt man, and his sidekick stood beside him.

He slapped the mobile phone from her hand. She started to run, but he grabbed her shoulders and spun her around. She ground her heel against his instep. He cursed, then a thin smile creased his face and he tightened his grip. His companion seized her right elbow. Their cold bodies gave off a foul smell.

“You're hurting me, dammit!” She kicked the tall man's kneecaps. He jammed his hands under her armpits, lifted her off the pavement and bolted down the sidewalk toward the brown Dacia.

“Help!” she yelled in English. She jabbed the man with her elbows, smearing the white makeup into his hairline. People stepped out of the way as the squatty man flashed a badge. The tall Bulgarian carried Caro to the Dacia. As he started to toss her into the car, she reached out blindly and her fingers sank into the runt's bushy hair. He tumbled into the backseat with her, cursing and peeling back her fingers.

She bit his hand. He howled and kicked the back of the seat, denting the leather. A red blur moved past her and something sharp pricked her jaw. “Release Teo or I will make you bleed,” the tall man said.

Her fingers relaxed. Teo scooted away, rubbing his scalp. “The bitch is strong,” he said.

“And she is not afraid. Yet.” The tall man leaned back, and Caro saw the glint of a knife. Her stomach tensed. Oh, God. Oh, God. Was he going to stab her? What about witnesses? Pedestrians flowed past the Dacia in a colorful blur of Christmas sweaters, and not a single person looked her way.