Under Wraps (25 page)

“What did you do to her?” Nina ignored me, her words sharp and directed at Parker.

“Me?” Parker wagged the bottle in front of Nina’s nose. “Don’t ask me, ask Robert Mondavi.”

Even in my less than optimal state I could feel the heat as Nina’s eyes raked over me.

“It was St. Supery,” I whispered.

“She’s had a little too much to drink,” Parker explained in a low voice.

Nina’s dark eyes slid to the ceiling.

“And an issue with the microwave.”

“I made pot roast!” I said brightly. I looked at Nina’s white fangs and frowned. “It’s too bad you don’t eat.”

“No, it isn’t,” Parker and Nina said in unison.

“This is nice,” I said, pulling my legs up onto the chair and curling my arms around them. “It’s like we’re all having a dinner party. A nice, normal dinner party.”

The last splat of pot roast peeled off the ceiling and hit Nina right between the eyes.

“Come on, Lawson,” Parker said, tugging on my arm. “Let’s get you into bed.”

“Let’s!” I said, standing up quickly.

Nina grabbed my arm. “That’s fine. I think you’ve done enough, Detective Hayes. I can get my roommate to bed.”

I linked an arm around each of them, feeling lighter than air as they dragged me into the living room. “My friends,” I said, happily.

Nina stepped away from me and stooped, her dark eyes focused on the scatter of crime-scene photos I had left on the floor.

“Are these from the murders?” she asked, her head cocked.

“Yeah,” Parker said. And then, to me, “They were supposed to be confidential.”

“Whoops!” I sang. “They must have fallen out of my safe.”

“We know the first one is Alfred Sherman—”

“Sophie’s attorney friend,” Nina supplied.

“Right. The second was a vagrant. Forensics just came back with an ID. Dauber. Dauber Sawyer.”

Nina leaned down, her bare feet making no indentation on the soft-pile carpet. “Dauber Sawyer is no vagrant.” Her eyes were wide, matter-of-fact. “He’s the general manager of Dirt. He went missing over a week ago.”

“He went dead about a week ago,” Parker said, straightening up.

Nina’s eyebrows went up. “How dead?”

My stomach gurgled. “How dead is there? Isn’t there just dead and”—I looked at Nina—“undead?”

“Really dead,” Parker finished. “Was Sawyer a demon? How well did you know him?”

Nina shrugged. “He wasn’t a demon. He was a seer.”

I felt the saliva go hot and metallic in my mouth. “A seer?” I whispered.

Parker looked hard at me. “A seer whose eyeballs had been gouged out.”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” I said, weaving my way toward the bathroom.

Chapter Eighteen

I locked the bathroom door behind me and then sunk down onto the cool tile, cradling my head in my hands.

Sophie Lawson, General Failure.

I clamped my eyes shut, feeling light-headed and odd, and that was when I saw Mr. Sampson.

With my eyes closed I had a perfect image in my mind of Mr. Sampson, though not from any memory I’d ever had. He was chained, but not against the chocolate-brown walls of his UDA office, and he looked disheveled and forlorn. He was in his human form, but his clothes were ragged and torn, and his usually pink-scrubbed skin looked sallow and was streaked with dirt and blood.

“Sophie?” he whispered, his lips dry and cracked, his voice low and hoarse. “Sophie, can you hear me?” His brown eyes were searching in the dim light.

I could see my own head nodding and then hear my own voice. It reverberated, dreamlike, through my skull.

“Mr. Sampson! Are you okay?”

“Oh God, Sophie, you’ve got to get me out of here. We’ve got to stop him.”

“Where are you?” I heard myself say. “Stop who?”

“I’ve got to get out of here before the next moon cycle. If I turn into a wolf down here, I won’t be able to turn back. Not ever. That’s what he wants.”

“Who? That’s what who wants? Mr. Sampson! Tell me where you are!”

I could see the terror in Mr. Sampson’s wild eyes. “I’ve got to go,” he said, his voice going low again. “Please, Sophie. Hurry!”

I blinked, and I was standing upright in the bathroom, my bare feet lost in the pink shag bath mat. Nina was knocking on the door.

“Soph? Soph, you okay in there?”

I nodded and tried to speak, but my throat was parched and dry. I steadied myself against the sink, taking a long swig directly from the faucet. “I’m okay,” I finally croaked, pulling open the bathroom door.

Nina and Parker peered in at me.

“Sophie, you look awful.” Nina wrapped her hand around my wrist, brushed her cool palm against my forehead. “And you’re burning up.”

“It’s the pot roast,” I said, avoiding both Parker and Nina’s studying gazes. “I just need to clean up. I’m fine, really.”

Parker narrowed his eyes. “But your eyes …”

I couldn’t tell if the look on his face was interest or disgust, but he seemed to be keeping his distance. I blinked, pressing my fingertips against my cheeks. “What’s wrong with my eyes?”

Nina pushed me into the bathroom and I blinked into the mirror. My usual clear-green eyes were a deep amber color, the irises outlined in a glaring crimson. I blinked a few more times and they faded back to green.

“Weird lighting,” I said, pushing past Parker and Nina. “Um, I’m going to go to bed now. Nina, can you show Parker out, please? I’ll just see you at the station tomorrow, Parker. Right now I just really need to get some sleep.”

I closed my bedroom door on Nina and Parker, both their faces drawn and concerned.

I couldn’t worry about them right then.

I had to find out what this meant.

I fell onto my bed and squeezed my eyes shut, calling out Mr. Sampson’s name in my mind. Nothing happened. I pulled my knees up to my chest and clenched my hands into fists. “Mr. Sampson, Mr. Sampson, Mr. Sampson,” I murmured into the darkness. “Mr. Sampson, can you hear me? It’s Sophie. Mr. Sampson, please, answer me!”

“Um, Sophie?”

I opened one eye and peered at Nina, standing with her arms crossed in my doorway.

“Go away,” I told her. “I’m trying to talk to Mr. Sampson.”

Nina came into the room, using her naked toe to raise the dust ruffle on the bottom of my bed. “Is Mr. Sampson under here?”

“No,” I said, blowing out a long sigh. “I don’t know where he is. Is Parker still here?”

Nina wagged her head, her eyes still focused intently on me. “I sent him home like you asked. Sophie, what’s going on with you?”

Nina sat on the edge of my bed and I swung my legs over, sitting shoulder to shoulder with her. “In the bathroom, a few minutes ago. I could hear Mr. Sampson talking to me … in my mind.”

“Are you sure it was Sampson and not the bottle of white wine you snarfed down?”

I propped myself up on my elbow, excited, in spite of myself. “Nina, I think I’m getting my powers.”

Nina bit her lip. “ESP?”

“It would make sense, right? If my grandmother was a seer? And my mother?”

Nina yawned. “And you’re the most powerful wizard at Hogwarts. Sophie, I think you need to get some sleep. And take a couple of aspirin.”

I flopped back onto the bed. “I thought of all people you would understand.”

Nina flopped down beside me. “I’m not people.”

“I don’t know what it is—ESP or whatever. All I know is that I heard Mr. Sampson’s voice. I saw where he was and he said he needed help. We were
communicating.
”

Nina sat bolt upright and sprung off the bed. “You saw where he was? Well let’s go save us some werewolf!”

“Well, I saw the room he was in. Not like an address or anything.”

Nina sat down again. “Well … is it anything you can describe? Is there anything significant about it?”

“I keep trying to look for something, to see if there is something that I’ve forgotten about what I saw, but I don’t think there is. If I remember something worthwhile, then maybe I can have Parker
CSI
my vision.”

Nina looked down, tracing the pattern on my bedspread. “Sophie, I think we should leave the detective out of this.”

“Leave Parker out of the case? But it’s his case!”

Nina swallowed. “I don’t trust him.”

I crossed my arms. “Because he’s a breather? Because he smells funny? Come on, Nina, you don’t trust anyone who has blood but doesn’t drink it.”

Nina frowned. “I trust you.”

“Only because I haven’t staked you in the heart yet.”

Nina snorted. “Like you could. But really, Sophie, I’m serious.” She stood up, silently crossed the room. “I thought there was something weird about him from day one.”

“On day one you thought he was a tasty snack cake.”

“Really though, what do you know about him?”

“I know he’s a cop, so he’s one of the good guys.” I smiled weakly. “Cops are always the good guys, right?”

“Only if vampires are always the bad guys.”

She had me there.

“Like I said, I’ve been around awhile and there’s something about this Parker Hayes that’s off.” She wrinkled her nose. “Something that doesn’t sit right. I just can’t quite put my finger on it yet.”

“Look, while my luck with men hasn’t exactly been”—I licked my lips—“stellar …”

“Like the Mentos commercial guy.”

I glared at Nina, who ignored me, pulling her long black hair into a ponytail. “Sorry. Go on.”

“I don’t think I’d overlook the signs of homicidal mania in a potential boyfriend.”

“Now he’s a potential boyfriend?”

“Potential platonic work friend,” I corrected.

Nina shrugged her small shoulders, looking away.

“Oh, and I’m supposed to take dating advice from the woman who dated Lenin
and
Stalin?”

Nina’s eyes were wistful. “Oh yeah, my Russian phase.” She shuddered. “Such drama queens, though. But my feeling about Parker isn’t exactly based on … feeling.”

My heart beat a little faster. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I looked Parker up, Soph. He’s not a detective with the San Francisco Police Department. He was an officer with the Buffalo Police Department in New York.”

“I know. I told you that. He transferred over here. I even saw the fancy cardboard boxes in his office.”

Nina licked her lips. “Sophie, Detective Parker Hayes was killed in the line of duty three and a half years ago.”

I couldn’t help but go all Haley Joel Osment on her. “You mean, I see dead people?”

“No.” Nina brushed a glossy lock of hair from her forehead, uncovering a sharp widow’s peak.
“Your
Parker Hayes—or this one—isn’t dead. He’s very much alive.”

I flashed back to the day Parker and I first met, to our meal at the diner. I thought about how he took my hand, slid my palm into his shirt so I could feel the warm beat of his heart—very much alive.

“Yeah.” My voice came out as little more than a whisper.

“And he’s telling us that he’s a detective. He’s lying to you, Sophie. He’s been lying all along. Detective Parker Hayes isn’t who he says he is.”

“No.” I wagged my head. “That’s wrong. I saw him at the police department. I saw his name on the door. I even saw the police chief in there talking to him. Don’t you think they would know if Parker isn’t … Parker? Or if he isn’t even a detective?”

Nina shrugged. “I don’t know. But I do know that we need to find out who he is and why he’s here.”

I nodded, fear pulsing through my body, a cold sweat breaking out on my upper lip. I sucked in a shaky breath. “Parker is looking for Sampson.”

Nina looked at me, her dark eyes cold. “We need to find him before Parker does.”

She didn’t say it—didn’t need to—because we were both thinking the same thing:
Could Parker Hayes really be the collector?

Nina put her hand on mine, and her cold touch ran all the way up my arm. I looked at her, at her pale, milky skin, at the tiny white triangles pressing at the corners of her lips. Nina and I both stared out the bedroom window, watching the city lights press through the thick San Francisco fog.

“Okay, then. Where do we start?”

Chapter Nineteen

Nina fished around in her Birken bag and pulled out a file folder, pressing it close to her chest. “Are you sure you want to see this?”

I nodded, and a warm heat roiled through my body. “I’m sure. I want to see it.”

I took the folder with shaking hands, opening it slowly. Looking up at me was a four-by-six-inch head shot of a smiling man with spiky blond hair and a tight smile. His narrow shoulders barely seemed to fill out his navy blue police uniform, and printed in clear, careful scrawl across the bottom of the photograph were the words
Officer Parker Hayes, Buffalo, NY.

“That’s Parker Hayes,” I whispered.

Nina nodded, her eyes warm.

“But it’s not Parker Hayes.”

There was no doubt about it. This man was not the man I knew. I gingerly put aside the photo and scanned the dossier about Officer Hayes—eye color: blue; hair color: blond. I noted his birth date, hometown, and then, with unsteady breath—the date he died.

“I don’t get it. Why is Parker pretending to be a dead guy?”

Nina took the file from me and thumbed through it. “It says that this Parker died while investigating …” Her voice trailed off, and when I looked up, she was gnawing on her lower lip.

“Died investigating what?” I asked.

Nina closed the folder. “Parker Hayes died while investigating a string of strange murders in Buffalo. Two victims. One completely drained of blood.”

I gulped, my saliva tasting metallic. “The other missing his eyeballs?”

“Remember the other night at Dirt, when we were trying to figure out what all these victims had in common?”

“Yeah,” I said, “and we really couldn’t come up with anything.”

“We
couldn’t, but I found something interesting when I was looking for Parker’s info. Alfred Sherman filed a police report two days before he died—reporting a stolen wallet.”

“Okay, so?”

“There was a break-in at Dirt a few days before Dauber went missing. He called the police, and they came out, but they couldn’t find anything. Just came around to take a report.”