Crave (Fallen Angels 2)

Yeah, you and I are the same. We got it from Dad.

"You know, you never talk about your death," she said as the Krups machine burbled and hissed.

His voice got hard. What's done is done, and that score needs to be settled between other people.

"Score?" When he said nothing more, she gritted her teeth. "Why won't you ever answer anything? I've got a list as long as my arm of things I want to know, but all you do is deflect or evade."

The further silence had her glaring over her shoulder: Daniel was leaning against the stainless-steel refrigerator, his translucent form throwing no reflection in the buffed finish. His blue eyes, the ones that were an identical color to her own, were staring at the floor.

"I don't understand why you're here," she said. "Especially if we can't really talk about the things that matter. Like how you died and--"

This is about your life, Grier. Not mine.

"Then why did you tell me to take that soldier home," she groused.

Now Daniel smiled. Because you like him. And I think he's going to be good for you.

She was not sure about that at all. She was feeling shattered already, and she'd known him for only a day. "Do you know what he's done? Who he's trying to get away from?"

Her brother's frown was not encouraging. That I'm not talking about. But I can tell you he's not going to hurt you.

God, she was tired of being surrounded by men who had duct tape over their mouths.

"Will I see him again?"

Daniel started to fade away, which was what he did whenever she put him on the spot about something.

"Daniel," she said sharply. "Stop running out on me--"

When all she got back was a clear shot at the refrigerator door, she looked up at the ceiling and cursed. She never had any control over when he showed up or how long he stayed. And she had no idea where he was when he wasn't haunting her.

Did he hang out at the undead's equivalent of a Starbucks?

Speaking of coffee . . .

Determined to follow through on something, anything, she got a mug and the sugar bowl and went to town on the hot and steamy--all the while wondering whether caffeine was a good idea given her nerves.

At nine o'clock, she left the house with the cash and a headache that seemed to have put its feet up on her frontal lobe and had plans to stay the day. After initializing the ADT system, she stepped out, closed the door and turned the dead bolt with her key-- Frowning, she stared up at one of the two wrought-iron lanterns by the entrance. A small strip of white cloth had been wound around its base.

Pivoting on her heel, Grier looked all around and saw nothing but parked cars she recognized . . . and a neighbor walking a chocolate Lab . . . and a couple strolling arm in arm . . .

Get a grip, Grier.

She was not in a Hitchcockian world where people were followed and planes pe-bombed from midair and secret signals were left on light fixtures.

Unwinding the scrap of fabric, she shoved the thing in her coat pocket so as not to litter and went over to her Audi. As she walked off, she engaged the big alarm--even though she didn't usually do that if she wasn't in the house.

Down at the police department, she met with a detective, turned the money over, and gave a statement. Attorney-client privilege did not extend to ongoing criminal activity, so she was required to say what she knew about the fighting ring, Isaac's participation in it, and the location where she believed they would still convene out in Malden.

While time passed and she talked, she had a growing conviction that Isaac was far gone by now--and chances were good no one from Boston would find him.

She had to wonder who would, however.

Two hours later, she stepped out of the precinct and stared up at the yellow sun in the cloudless spring sky. The warmth on her face made the cold breeze feel even more frigid, and the rest of the day loomed over her.

Her car didn't take her home.

It was supposed to. She sent it in the direction of Beacon Hill with the intention of crawling back into bed and getting some more sleep.

She ended up on Tremont Street.

As she went around the block where Isaac's apartment was, naturally there was no place to dump the Audi, and it was probably a sign for her to stay away. Persistence got her into trouble, though, when a VW Bug shuffled out and left a void. After wedging in, she locked up and went over to the house.

Knocking on the front door, she hoped that the landlady was home--and never thought she'd be glad to see someone like that again--

The woman opened up and Grier made the connection she hadn't the day before: It was Mrs. Roper from Three's Company. From the fake red curls to the plastic bangles.

"You're back," was the greeting.

"I just need to get in one last time."

"Where is he?" the landlady said, blocking the way.

Ah, yes, an information tollgate, Grier thought. "He was here last night. Didn't you hear him?"

Cue Jeopardy theme. Then . . . "The man's like a ghost," Mrs. Roper-esque bitched. "Never makes a noise. Only way I know he's there is that he already paid next month's rent. He's in jail, isn't he. Are you his attorney?"

"No." She hated lying. She truly did.

"Well, I think--"

As the sound of a phone ringing cut her off, Grier was ready to kiss whoever was calling.

Except the landlady batted the air with a dismissive hand. "That's just my sister."

Great. "Will you take me upstairs, please? I won't be long."

The ringing went silent. "Look, I'm not going to keep doing this. Get your own key."

"Oh, I agree--I need one. And I apologize."

The woman mounted the stairs like a bull, pounding up and grunting, today's muumuu swinging like a flag.

At the top, she unlocked the door with her key. "Now, I'm telling you--"

The phone started ringing again downstairs, and as that wig went to and fro, it was like a dog stuck making the choice between two tennis balls.

"I'll be back," Mrs. Roper announced gravely.

Kind of like the Terminator had gone drag queen.

Left on her own, Grier stepped inside Isaac's place and closed herself in, throwing the lock in the hopes that if the call didn't last long, that woman would assume it was a come-and-gone situation.

A quick review of the living room proved that he'd been by, but that was an of-course: The gun he'd pulled on her last night had to have been one of the ones she'd found and the sweatshirt he'd been wearing was what he'd used as a pillow. He hadn't taken everything, however. The sleeping bag was left behind, as well as some workout pants and a pair of Nikes--although the sensors on the windows and doors were gone.

In the kitchen, she found a neat pile of bills--clearly, they were an offering so that when no more rent was paid the score would be settled.

Leaning against the counter, she had no idea what she'd expected to find--

A soft creaking sound brought her eyes over to the rear door. When there was nothing else, she figured she'd imagined the footstep . . . but then the latch to the dead bolt turned slowly.

She straightened, her heart going haywire as she put her hand into her purse and got her Mace ready, which was better than the stun gun, given the distance. "Isaac?"

Except it was not her AWOL soldier.

The man who entered the apartment had black hair and tanned skin and he was wearing a dark suit under a trench coat. A patch covered his right eye, and he used a cane to balance his tall body.

"I'm not Isaac," he said, in a very deep voice.

The chilly smile he gave was the sort of thing that made you want to take a step back. Unfortunately, she was already against the counter, so there was nowhere to go.

And that was before he shut them both in together.

How much noise did she have to make to get Mrs. Roper back up here? she wondered.

"You must be the defense attorney."

Oh, Christ, she thought. This was what Isaac had wanted to protect her from, wasn't it.

Grier Childe looked just like her brother, Matthias thought as he stared across a galley kitchen at her.

And say what you would about the elder Childe's bleeding-heart politics and nosy predilections, he and that wife of his had done right on the procreating end. Both their kids were blond, blue eyed, with perfect bone structure. Cream of the old-school crop, as it were.

Plus the daughter evidently had half a brain, going by her r?sum?. And was without all those messy addiction problems.

He felt his lips stretch a little wider. "What's in your purse? Gun? Mace?"