Not One Clue (22 page)

“F
ani Kolarova?” Vincent said, and grinned across the acre of plush backseat at me.

“I couldn’t really run with Jessica Rabbit,” I said, and he grinned, his teeth whiter than the buttery leather seats.

“Did you find out what you needed to know?”

“I don’t know,” I said, and sighed.

“You didn’t get no readings on whether one of them is the dude who’s sending your friend the mail?”

It had been one hell of a night, but I was almost to Sunland. Almost to bed. “I’m going to have to give it some thought,” I said.

He nodded. “And your friend … she still ain’t got no name?”

“Sorry.”

He gave a “That’s cool” shrug. “You want me to get rid of the dude that’s bothering her?”

“I don’t know who he is.”

“That’s gonna make it harder.”

“Story of my life.”

The driver pulled the limo up to the curb.

“Well, it’s been real, Ms. Kolarova,” he said.

“I live to entertain,” I said, and he smiled again.

“You let me know if you figure out who the dude is and I’ll pop a cap in his ass.”

“That might be the most charming offer I’ve had all month,” I said, and he laughed out loud as the driver opened the door for me.

We said our good-nights. I rose to my six-plus height on wobbly heels and made my way to the front door. The light was shining above it just like it was supposed to. I put the key in the lock, let myself in, and disarmed my security system. Harlequin was doing the I-gotta-pee dance done by all mammals. But I took a moment to remove Laney’s wig before turning him out. Letting down my squashed hair, I wiggled my fingers against my scalp, then kicked off my killer heels and tripped through the house to the back door. As soon as it opened, Harley nosed his way through, romped into the dust bowl, and squatted. I dropped a half-dozen bobby pins onto the little console near the window and released my long-held breath.

It was then that I heard a noise coming from behind the rosebushes beyond my fence. I glanced toward the house on my right. The Griffins were new to the neighborhood. They’d just moved in a couple of months ago, but it had taken less than a week for me to tire of sixteen-year-old Bryn. If she wasn’t playing music loud enough to break capillaries, she was making out with one of her many boyfriends behind the garage. Not that I was jealous or …

But in that instant, I realized something was funny. Both Bryn and her current beau were dark-haired. But one of the heads that poked up above the rosebushes seemed to be blond. Or hooded.

Or turbaned!

Shit! The truth dawned on me like the crack of a new day.

That wasn’t Bryn. It was Aalia. And she wasn’t alone. That much I knew even though she was only visible for a second before she’d disappeared behind the Griffins’ garage.

Pawing through my purse, I snatched up my cell and hit 911 with shaky fingers. It was busy. I ended the call and punched in Rivera’s number even as I raced back into the house for my Mace.

“Is it too much to ask that this is a late night booty call?” Rivera asked.

“I think he’s got Aalia!” I was back outside, gazing through the darkness and shaking like a tambourine.

“What’s your location?”

“My place. I saw someone by my neighbors’ garage.”

“Are you in the house?”

I backed inside, hoping Harley would follow. He did. “Yes,” I said, then closed my eyes for a moment and stepped outside again.

“Lock the doors,” he said. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Hurry,” I said, and closing the phone, stuck it in my bodice. It was a tight squeeze, but I needed it with me and mermaids don’t have pockets.

My bare feet were almost silent against my dusty yard. More silent, at least, than my pounding heart. Getting over the fence was neither simple nor pretty, but somehow I managed it. I ducked up against a garage, then taking a shaky breath, peeked around the corner.

Nothing.

Mace in hand, I trotted along the building, stopped at the next corner, and glanced out. And there they were. He wore a turban and a white robe. She seemed to be in jeans. They were almost to Vine Street. Almost to the car that waited there. The engine was running.

Panic spurred through me, and then I was moving. “Hold it!” I yelled, and stepped into the open.

The pair jerked toward me. He was holding her arm. That much I could tell, but little else.

The man spoke, low and guttural, but I couldn’t understand the words. They turned away.

“I’ve got a gun!” I yelled, and pointed the Mace at him.

He glanced over his shoulder at me. Time stood still, and then he smiled. I could see his teeth glow in the darkness.

“No. You do not,” he said, and raised his arm. It took me a shattered second to realize he
did
have a gun. That he was raising it. That it was pointed at me. My heart dropped toward my knees as my stomach recoiled in horror. Every instinct told me to dodge for cover, but I was frozen in place.

A bullet
pinged
in the darkness. I jerked at the impact, stumbling back against the garage, not feeling the pain for a moment. Another moment passed. No agony. I glanced down and found no blood. Jerking my attention back toward the street, I saw that Aalia’s abductor was down on one knee and in that moment I realized I hadn’t been shot at all.

He
had. And suddenly Aalia was racing toward me. I braced myself as she rushed into my arms, then gathered her against me, still holding the Mace, but her abductor was already stumbling to his feet, gun lifted.

I shoved Aalia behind me and raised the protection spray.

It was then that another man stepped into view.

“Put it down, Turk, or I’ll fry your ass where you stand.” Vincent Angler!

The Yemeni jerked his attention toward Vincent, snarled something as he glared at me and Aalia, then turned and leapt for the car.

Angler snapped off a shot. It
pinged
against the door, but the vehicle was already speeding away, engine revved as it careened around the corner onto Opus.

Aalia had my left arm in a death grip by the time Vincent loped over to us.

“What the fuck was that?” Even
he
sounded breathless. I was about ready to pass out from asphyxia.

“It’s a long story,” I said.

“Yeah?” He glanced at Aalia. Even in the darkness she was as pretty as a love sonnet. “Maybe you should tell it in the house, then.”

The first wave of adrenaline was starting to dull, leaving me shaken and numb, but I managed a nod. Walking was a little more difficult, what with the shaky knees.

I ushered Aalia through my back door. Vincent accompanied us. She glanced up at him, shy admiration in her eyes.

“This your friend?” he asked, just now loosening his tie.

I knew he was thinking of the weird letter-writer, but there really didn’t seem to be a reason to clarify at the moment. “Yes,” I said.

He nodded. Aalia pressed a little closer to me.

“You okay?” he asked, and stared down at her. To the uninitiated, it might have looked like a glare. The first time I had met Vincent I had wet myself.

As far as I know, Aalia was more controlled than that. She gave one clipped nod.

“What the hell happened?” he asked, and pulling his tie free, opened the top two buttons of his shirt. A fair amount of firm, black skin showed above the crisp, white V.

Aalia pulled her gaze from his chest, but failed to answer. Her usually olive skin looked pale, her lips almost lavender.

“Was that your husband?” I asked.

She closed her eyes and nodded again.

“Wait a minute …” Vincent sharpened his scowl. “You’re married to that fucker?”

I felt her wince. Maybe he did, too, because he took a deep breath and shoved the gun out of sight. A black James Bond on steroids.

“That guy was your husband?” he asked.

“Yes.” It was the first word she’d spoken since I’d spotted her beside the garage.

“You separated?”

It seemed to take all her courage to raise her eyes to his. “I left him and my homeland some days past.”

He glanced at her arm, then reached out and pulled back the sleeve of her jersey. She remained exactly as she was, eyes as wide as a fawn’s. “He do that?” he asked.

She pursed her lips and raised her chin the slightest degree. Pride and guilt all embedded in one confusing cocktail. Human beings—the ultimate mystery. “Yes,” she said.

He glanced away. A muscle danced in his jaw. “What’s his name?”

“Ahmad Orsorio.”

“You gonna go back to him?”

Pride again, less fear, and a smidgen of contempt. “Not so long as there is breath in me.”

Vincent stared at her. Something shone in his eyes for a moment, then he gave a short nod. “Then I’d suggest—” he began, but in that moment we heard sirens.

He raised his brows at me. “Another friend?” he asked.

“Probably.”

“I’ll take off, then,” he said.

“Not
your
friends?” I asked.

“Not generally,” he said and giving Aalia one more glance, stepped out of the house and into my backyard.

“LAPD,” someone yelled, and pounded on my front door.

“Rivera?” I called.

“Open the fucking door or I’ll tear the house down,” he snarled.

Yup. That was him.

23

Yes, the burka I could wear again. But so could I be fried in hot oil like the malawah.

—
Aalia Orsorio, spreading
her wings

I
locked my back door, then hurried through the house to the front door, where I clicked the dead bolt open and came face-to-face with a Glock. Rivera was behind it, looking grim.

“Where is he?” His gaze seared past me, sweeping the bedroom door, the steps, the living room.

This was a new side of Rivera. I mean, he’s generally foreboding, but this was foreboding going on deadly. It was kind of a turn-on.

“He’s gone.”

“The house is secure?”

I considered a joke, but decided I didn’t particularly want to get shot. “Yes.”

“And the girl?”

“Aalia?”

He still didn’t look at me, but swept his weapon sideways, covering every opening. “Is she here?”

“Yes.”

He exhaled, then lowered the gun a couple of inches, which was nice.

“Where’d the fucker go?” he asked. Rivera didn’t fool around with TV phraseology like “perps” or “bad guys.” It almost made me doubt the authenticity of Hollywood.

“North on Opus.”

“On foot?”

“Car.”

“What make?”

Crimony! Wasn’t it enough that I’d saved the girl? “Dark?”

He gave me a peeved look just as Aalia ventured into the living room.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yes, Lieutenant.” She nodded solemnly, cute as a frightened kitten. “I am well and sorry to disrupt your evening.”

I raised my brows at her. The woman had almost been abducted by her nut job husband. To my way of thinking the cops should damned well be disrupted.

“Perhaps …” She glanced at me. “Perhaps I could make the lieutenant some tea?”

Tea? Sure. Maybe she could whip up a little tiramisu, too, while she was at it. “Of course,” I said. “Help yourself to anything in the kitchen.”

She hustled away.

“How come
you
didn’t offer me tea?” Rivera asked. He was still gazing at the spot where she had disappeared into the kitchen, but some of the flat-eyed grimness had left his face.

I kept the growl to myself. “Maybe because I was still a little fatigued from saving her ass.”

He glanced at me, eyes sparking with humor, and I scowled down my irritation. Everyone was a frickin’ comedian.

“What happened?” he asked, and the grin disappeared.

I exhaled noisily, and realized my hands were shaking a little. “When I let Harley out in the backyard I thought I heard something near the garage. I assumed it was just Bryn making out with her latest and greatest, but then I realized something was wrong.”

“So you hustled back into the house where it was safe, right?”

I paused for a moment, then, “Maybe not immediately.”

He scowled, but continued without pulling out the cat-o’-nine-tails. “What
did
you do immediately?”

It was hard to decide how much to tell him. Sometimes he gets a little miffed when I do things that some might misconstrue as stupid.

“I had my Mace,” I said, remembering that little tidbit with pride.

“Your …” He swore, then gritted his teeth and held up one hand, as if that little gesture might prevent him from bursting into spontaneous flame. “What else can you tell me about the car besides the fact that it was dark?”

I shook my head, trying to remember, but I don’t usually notice cars. Unless it’s a Turbo Cabriolet. I’d sell my left boob for a Turbo Cabriolet. What do left boobs go for these days?

“Was it black?”

I thought about that for a second. “Maybe dark blue.”

“Full size? Compact?”

“Kind of medium.”

“Older model or new?”

“Holy crap, Rivera, I’m a psychologist, not a mechanic.”

“Did the bumpers look rounded or was it more boxy?”

“Rounded, I think.”

“Was the car running?”

“Yeah. He had a driver.”

“Was he armed?”

I squelched a wince. Here’s where it got dicey. “The driver or the—”

“Damn it, McMullen! Did someone …” He made a circling motion with his hand. “… in this vicinity have a weapon.”

I paused, then nodded.

He looked mad enough to eat iron. “What kind?”

“What are my options?”