Legacy (Page 35)
WHEN I AWAKEN THE NEXT MORNING, LANCE IS gone. I didn't hear him leave. The emotional exchange with my parents at dinner, the terror I felt at Sandra's, the mind-numbing relief of sex with Lance left me exhausted. When I finally succumbed, it was like falling into a great dreamless pit.
The sleep of the dead.
I only wish I felt rested. Instead, I feel restless. Restless and full of dread for a day that holds no promise of resolution for any of my problems. When my eyes drift to a bedside clock, however, those feelings are swallowed up by a moment of panic.
Shit.
It's eight thirty. I'm supposed to meet Jason at the coffeehouse at nine.
I throw back the covers and head for the shower. Lance's smell is strong on me-the musk of sex and sweat and healthy male vampire. I'm not about to go out smelling like I spent the night doing what I did. Especially when meeting a teenage boy.
I turn the shower on full force and hot. Since I don't have the body temperature of a human, I can stand under a steamy hot shower and not feel the burn. I lather up head to toe, paying particular attention to the nether regions, rinse off, and jump out.
Slather on perfumed body lotion. Comb out my hair. Pull on jeans, a T-shirt and black leather boots. Grab a leather jacket, and I'm out the door by eight fifty.
Lestat's. The onboard GPS tells me the address is 3343 Adams Avenue. The Normal Heights area. It's Sunday, so though I know I won't make it by nine, I also know I shouldn't be too late.
At nine ten, I'm pulling up in front. The storefront has big picture windows, and through them, I can see an array of well-worn couches and chairs clustered around well-worn tables. Not many people inside. Two hippie types in a corner. No Jason.
Did he think I wasn't coming and leave? Would he do that after only ten minutes?
Cursing myself for being late and Jason for being on time, I climb out of the car and dart across the street.
The first surprise comes when I walk in. The shop is a long, narrow space with the counter area along one wall. There's a guy with his back to me pouring beans into a grinder. He gives a start, puts the bag down, doesn't turn around.
Vampire?
It's my turn to be startled. The guy looks at me over his shoulder. He's a nerdy-looking, chunky fellow with dark hair combed across a wide forehead, black horn-rim glasses perched on a narrow nose and thick lips.
I nod. This your shop?
He turns toward me. His name tag reads "Gordon." He shrugs. I wish. I work here. Pretty cool decor, huh?
The walls are hung with original art along with a few scattered crucifixes, an assortment of miniature cast-iron "death skulls," a half dozen ornate mirrors (I send Gordon a raised eyebrow at those although I notice they're set high enough that you'd have to be ten feet tall to see your reflection-or not) and a crystal chandelier over the wood-and-glass alcove where the two guys I spotted before are playing chess.
There are also festoons of garlic. I don't smell or feel anything. Another raised eyebrow gets this response: They're artificial. Made of raffia. Look real, though, don't they?
Too real. Are you trying to keep vamps out?
He shakes his head. I don't like it, either. It's my cousin's idea. He owns the shop.
He's not a vamp, I take it?
You're not worried he'll find out about you?
He blows air through pursed lips. It comes out a disdainful pffft.
Look at me? Do I look like a vampire to you? When I decided to change, I thought I'd get all buff and cool looking. I was hoping for Spike and got Xander. The only thing that got buffed was my brain. I'm smarter and faster but no less nerdy looking. Go figure.
I give him a sympathetic shrug. At least you had a choice in becoming.
You didn't?
I don't want to talk about that, so I look around. The windows are covered with something that looks like amber Saran Wrap. The two humans playing chess in the corner don't cast a reflection.
How'd you do that with the windows?
He smiles. Nonreflective film. Told my cousin it would decrease the heat and glare in here. It does, but it also allows me to be in here during the day or night.
Before he can say anything else, a couple steps up to the counter. They have short, unisex haircuts and are dressed in silk sweat suits that scream uptown chic. I move aside so they can place their order. The case under the counter is full of baked goods and they take their time making a decision. I don't blame them. The stuff looks so good I wish I could eat again. Once they have their goodies in hand (lattes and chocolate muffins), they move off to a table.
I want to ask Gordon how he came to be a vampire. I don't get many opportunities to talk, really talk, with other vamps. There are more people outside, though, getting ready to come in. Time to get down to business. I jab a thumb toward the door.
I'm supposed to meet a kid here. He's about fourteen, blond, stands about five feet tall. Have you seen him?
He points behind me. You mean him?
Jason has come in and is looking around the shop, a hesitant expression on his face. He doesn't see me at first, his eyes flit from the couple who just sat down in front to the long hairs playing chess. Then he spies me at the counter and walks straight back.
"I'm Jason. Sorry I'm late. The bus-"
He's held out a hand. I take it without thinking. "I'm Anna, Gloria's friend."
He pulls his hand back out of mine. "Your hands are really cold."
"Sorry." Shit. Gotta learn to curb that reflex. I rub the offending hand on my jeans. "Poor circulation."
He shrugs. "Do you want some coffee?"
I'm surprised and impressed that he made the offer first. Shows maturity. "Yes." I look over to Gordon. "Coffee, double cream, one sugar."
"You want something to eat?" Jason says.
Gordon, meanwhile, is smiling at me. You dog. Isn't he a teeny bit young for you?
Jason orders a double espresso and a whole-wheat blueberry scone. When I make a move to pay, he holds out money to Gordon and says, "No. This is on me." Then he looks around again, and points to a table in the back of the cafe. "Let's sit over there."
I let him take the lead. The last time I saw him, he was in a panic, running up the court steps to Gloria and collapsing in her arms. Today, he's calm and composed. He's dressed exactly like a rich teenager on holiday break from prep school would be: Abercrombie & Fitch baggy jeans, red polo with the collar up, Vans with the laces untied. His young face is drawn, however, and he's projecting the manner of someone much older-fourteen going on forty.
Maybe that's what finding your father's dead body does to you.
Once we're seated, he starts right in. "How do you know Gloria?"
"She's my business partner's girlfriend."
"What's his name?"
"David Ryan."
"What did he used to be?"
"A football player. For the Denver Broncos."
"What's he do now?"
"He's a bounty hunter."
He pauses. I guess I passed the audition because then he blurts, "Gloria didn't kill my father."
I stir my coffee, watching his face. "Your mother seems to think she did."
"Stepmother. My real mother died two years ago. Right after my dad left us."
The words are heated, but his face remains impassive, aloof.
"I'm sorry, Jason. I didn't know about your mom."
He shrugs. "She was sick. Had been for a long time. Timing sucked, though. You'd think my dad could have waited before leaving us. He knew how sick she was, but he had a new girlfriend and I guess he wasn't thinking too clearly."
Again, no rebuke, no real emotion in his response. Is it an act for my benefit? I pause a heartbeat before saying, "Must have made you pretty mad when he left."
He meets my gaze. "My mom and dad had problems for a long time. Laura wasn't his first girlfriend. Mom should have left his sorry ass years before he walked out. He was my dad and I guess I loved him, but he wasn't nice."
The answer is well thought out and delivered so calmly that I'm unsure how to proceed. Something about this kid's demeanor is setting off warning bells in my head. No fourteen-year-old is this poised two days after his father's murder. Maybe I should switch gears. "And Gloria? How do you know her?"
"She's my dad's business partner-" He pauses, re-phrases. "Was my dad's business partner."
"What do you mean?"
"I saw you with her at the courthouse. You looked pretty upset."
He picks at his scone. He hadn't yet touched it or taken a sip of his coffee. Now he breaks off a tiny piece and raises it to his mouth. He doesn't take a bite, though, and his hand falls back to the table. "I like Gloria. She's nice. She always treats me like an adult. I know she was spending time with my dad. I know they had a relationship. She couldn't have killed him."
"And you know this . . . how?"
He folds his hands and places them in his lap. His shoulders hunch. "Because I know who the killer is."
I raise an eyebrow. "You do?"
He sets his jaw. "It's my stepmom. It's Laura."
"I thought you were with your stepmother all day. At least that's what you told the police."
For the first time, his composure slips. His eyes widen, fill with tears. "I don't care. She did it. I know she did it. I even know why."
I nod for him to go on.
"It's because of the trouble my dad was in. I think he was going to be arrested. He was going to jail."
Jason looks close to breaking down. I don't want him to become so flustered that he runs out on me so I sit still and give him a moment to collect himself. He does. More quickly than I would have expected. The eyes lose their panic, his face relaxes.
Tentatively, I begin. "Why do you think your dad was going to be arrested? I don't remember seeing that mentioned in any of the newspaper articles. It's something I'm pretty sure the police would have known."
He blows out a breath. "Maybe not. I heard Dad and Laura the morning he was killed. They were talking in the study and didn't know I'd come in. I could hear it all from the hall. Dad said something was about to come out. Something bad. Dad said we had to leave the country now. Laura didn't want to."
"Did he say what the trouble was?"
"No. Only that we couldn't stay here. If we did, we'd lose everything. Laura was furious. Said he was exaggerating. She said her life was here and she'd leave over his dead body." He puts subtle emphasis on the last words. "That's why I know she did it. I just don't know how."
I lean in toward him. "Why didn't you tell the police what you just told me?"
His expression shifts, back to anger. "Would the cops believe a kid? And I told you, we were together all day. I'm her alibi. I don't have any proof. But you can investigate. You can find something to prove Laura is the one who killed my dad."
I sit back in my chair, studying Jason. He's doing the same-studying me. Gauging my reaction to his charge that his stepmother killed his father. Hefty charge. He's got his jaws clamped so tight, I see the muscles twitch.
After a moment, he says, "You believe me, don't you?"
I'd like to. It would make more sense than Gloria killing O'Sullivan over-well, over anything. The realist in me knows that thinking something and proving it are two different things.