Now, what was a respectable attorney doing at the grand opening of a cheesy strip club in Riverside?
I didn't know, but I was going to find out.
Chapter Twenty-four
It was almost sunrise and I was feeling my energy fading.
I had already warned Monica of my "condition". That is, she thought I had a rare skin disease that kept me out of the sun, which, of course, necessitated me keeping odd hours. She promised she would let me sleep during the days, and that she would not leave the hotel room on her own. I told her to wake me if she needed anything, but that I didn't awaken easily; she would have to give me one hell of a good shove, or two. I told her she could do just about anything she wanted, other than leave the suite, open the curtains, or answer the door.
She agreed to my terms, and for her sake, I hope she honors them.
My body was shutting down. Quickly. I felt vulnerable and weak and easy to subdue. But even at my weakest, I still couldn't be killed, unless someone drove a stake through my heart.
And why would anyone want to do that to such a sweet little thing?
Vampires might be immortal, but we sure as hell felt human about this time; that is, just before sunrise. (And, no, I didn't sleep in a coffin. Just give me a bed, darkness, and some peace and quiet.)
When I shut down, I do so in waves. The first, a draining of energy, always hits me about a half hour before sunrise. And ten minutes before the sun came up, the second wave hit.
That was always a rough wave. I was stuck between exhaustion and sleep. I usually lay down at this time, because within minutes I would be out cold. But when the third wave hit, I absolutely had to lie down and sleep. I was out of options.
For now I was in the middle of the second wave. The sun was minutes from rising and my body was exhausted. And that's when my IM window popped up on my laptop.
Are you up, Moon Dance?
Yes, but not for long.
First or second wave? asked Fang.
Second wave. Almost third.
So I have only a few minutes.
Yes.
I like knowing that I'm sometimes the last person you think about before going to sleep.
You've said that before.
When I was in the second wave, I was often short and to the point and didn't feel very flirty. I felt exhausted. I felt as close to dead as a person could feel.
I also like knowing that you might dream of me.
I rarely dream, Fang. And besides, what am I supposed to dream about? Words that appear in a pop-up window?
There was a long pause. Almost too long. I felt myself going catatonic. If Fang didn't say something soon, it was going to take all my last energy to shut the computer down and crawl over to the couch in the pseudo-living room.
Then perhaps we should meet someday, Moon Dance.
Now it was my turn to pause. I sat back, and as I did so, I had the peculiar sense that something wanted to leave my body. What that something was, I wasn't sure. A part of me. Perhaps my soul, if I still had one. Within seconds I would be out cold.
Through a narrow gap in the curtain, I could see the sky lightening with the coming of the sun.
Are you being serious, Fang?
Yes.
I drummed my fingers on the wooden desk. My brain was fuzzy, thoughts scattered.
Did you say meet? I asked.
Yes. Now, sleep, Moon Dance. Goodnight, even thought it's morning.
Goodnight and good morning, Fang.
Chapter Twenty-five
"You're sure you're okay?" I asked Monica for the tenth time.
She nodded but looked a little overwhelmed. I didn't blame her. We were at Chino State Prison in Ontario, California, sitting in a stark waiting room with a few other people. I had made special arrangements with the warden for a late evening visit. Both he and the inmate agreed. Being an ex-federal agent has its advantages.
The plain waiting room was smaller than I thought it would be. We sat in plastic bucket seats that were covered with gang graffiti. Took some balls to carve gang graffiti in a prison waiting room.
Monica looked lost and fragile, and I wondered again at my logic for bringing her here. Chad was busy tonight and I had had no one else to turn to. As I was contemplating calling the private investigator Kingsley and I had met at the beach, brainstorming out loud, Monica had volunteered to come with me, telling me she would be fine. "After all," she had said, "I'm just going to be in the waiting room, right? I won't be seeing him."
I reached out now and held her hand, forgetting for a moment that my own was ice cold. She flinched at the touch, but then gripped my hand back tightly.
"Sorry," I said. "My hands get cold."
"So do mine. Don't worry about it." She squeezed my hand again, tighter, and looked at me. "So what are you going to say to him?"
"I'm going to convince him to leave you alone."
She nodded and looked down. I didn't want to mention that maybe her ex-husband's next attempt to find someone to hurt her might slip past prison officials. Although all his calls were monitored, there is more than one way to smuggle information out of a prison.
"How are you going to convince him?" she asked.
"I don't know," I admitted. "I'm going to kind of feel my way through it."
"He'll want to kill you, too, you know."
"I'm not worried about him."
She kept holding my hand. Hers, I noticed, was shaking. I shouldn't have brought her -
But maybe this was a good thing for her. Maybe on some level, she was facing her fears.
Just then the heavy main door into the prison opened and a young, serious-looking guy wearing a correctional uniform stepped into the room.
"Samantha Moon?" he asked.
I gave Monica's hand a final squeeze before I released it. "I'll be back," I said.
Chapter Twenty-six
Ira Lang was shown through a heavy metal door.
Monica's ex-husband was a medium-sized man in his mid-forties. He was wearing an orange prison jumpsuit, and not very well, either. The clothing hung loosely from his narrow shoulders and flapped around his ankles when he walked. He looked like a deflated pumpkin. Ira was nearly bald, although not quite. Unlike my client, Stuart, Ira did not have a perfect bald head. In fact, his was anything but. Misshapen and oddly flat, it was furrowed with deep grooves that ran from the base of his skull to his forehead. What Monica had seen in the man, I didn't know.
I watched from behind the thick Plexiglass window as Ira was led over to a chair opposite me. I noticed the guard did not remove the handcuffs, which were attached to a loose chain at Ira's waist, giving him just enough freedom of movement to pick up the red phone in front of him and bring it to his ear, which he did now. I picked up the phone on my side of the Plexiglass.