"Maybe," I said. Sheesh, everyone's a detective. "Is there a special crew that works the night shift?"
"Security crew, yes. I will introduce you to some of them shortly." Ms. Dickens paused and held my gaze. "I need to underline the importance of this investigation, Ms. Moon. We are a respectable, although small, cultural museum. We've had everything from rare Egyptian treasures to paintings by Van Gogh. A theft like this could shatter our international image and keep the popular exhibits away. Ms. Moon, the Wharton Museum is slowly making a name for itself as a world class cultural museum. We need all the help we can get, and we will pay big if you can recover the crystal egg."
We discussed exactly how big, and it was all I could do to keep my mouth from dropping open. We next discussed a retainer fee, and she paid it without blinking, writing me a company check. The retainer fee would pay my mortgage for the next three months, and maybe a car payment or two.
Things were looking up.
She gave me a quick tour and then we shook hands and I left the way I had come, passing more live exhibits of mankind in his natural working habitat.
Or perhaps they were just offices and cubicles.
Chapter Sixteen
I called Mary Lou and got the rundown.
Anthony was awake and seemed to be holding steady. No real progress, but no relapse either. Still, my gut churned. When I thought about my son, I saw something dark around him. The brightness and vitality that surrounded him was gone.
I desperately feared what that darkness could mean.
To get my thoughts off my son, I headed over to Zov's bistro in Costa Mesa, where I ordered a rare steak and a glass of white wine. The upscale Mediterranean restaurant was the epitome of hip, and I even noticed Orange County's bestselling writer sitting just a few tables down. He looked serious. Maybe he was plotting his next thriller. I wondered if he could sense that a real live vampire was sitting just a few tables away.
While I waited, I plunged into Maddie's police file, reading every note and witness statement.
I knew I should be with my son, and I would be soon, but for now there was a little girl missing, and she had made it very personal by calling me.
By calling me, even accidentally, she had assured herself of one thing: a private investigating psychic vampire mommy who was going to find her.
No matter what.
My food arrived quickly. The nice thing about ordering steaks rare is that they don't take long to cook. And as I read from the folder, I discreetly used a spoon to slurp the blood that had pooled around the meat. I also cut the meat up without actually eating it. I scattered the chunks around my plate, hiding some under my salad. I felt like a kid hiding her food.
The blood was wonderful and satisfied some of my craving, although I would need more later. And when I had drained the meat dry, I moved on to the glass of white wine. When the wine was done, I was done reading the police report, too.
Granted, there wasn't much to go on, but I had a few leads. I paid my bill, glanced a final time at the writer - who was now openly staring at me - and left Zov's Bistro.
I had a girl to find.
Chapter Seventeen
I was driving down the 57 Freeway when my cell rang. I glanced down at it. Kingsley Fulcrum, a one-time client of mine who had turned into something more than a client.
A few weeks ago we had been intimate, an experience that had rocked my world, and shortly after that I was reminded of what a scumbag he could be. Kingsley was a defense attorney. A very high profile and rich defense attorney. He got paid the big bucks to get people out of jail. As far as I could tell, the man had no moral compass. Killer or not, if the price was right, he would do his damnedest to get you to walk.
Did I still care for the big lug? Yeah, I did. Did the thought of him in bed turn me on more than I cared to admit? Sweet Jesus, it did. Did the fact that he had shown up in my hotel room a week or so ago as a fully morphed werewolf, dripping blood and reeking of death, scare the shit out of me? Hell, yeah.
I clicked on, resisting the urge to sing "Werewolves of London" yet again. When your boy is sick and you're looking for a kidnapped girl, well, your humor is the first to go.
"What, no 'Werewolves of London'? No 'Arooo'? You're losing your touch, Sam."
"It's not a good time, Kingsley."
"So serious. Okay, have it your way. Where will you be in about an hour?"
"My best guess? In the face of some crackhead punk."
"A shakedown. Sounds exciting. Tell me about it."
I did. I also told him about my son.
"Yeah, you've had a rough few days. How's your son now?"
"Sleeping last I heard."
"But you're still worried."
"More than you know." I paused, gathered my wits, and plunged on. "I see death around him, Kingsley."
"Death?"
"A blackness. A coldness. A sort of dark halo that surrounds his body. I'm totally freaked out."
Kingsley was silent for a heartbeat or two. "He'll be fine, Sam."
But I heard it in his voice. I heard the doubt.
"You don't believe that," I said. Tears suddenly blurred my eyes. I was having a hard time keeping the van in the center of the lane. "And don't deny it."
"Sam, I don't know anything, okay? I'm not psychic. My kind are not traditionally psychic."
"But my kind is?"
"Often. And you seem to be growing more psychic by the day."
"What do you know of the black halo? Tell me. Please."
"I know very little, Sam."
A nearly overwhelming sense of panic gripped me. "But you know it's not good."
"I know nothing, Sam. Look, now is not a good time to talk about this. You're driving. You're helping this little girl. Let's meet for drinks later this week, okay?"
"Okay," I said.
"Good. And Sam?"
"Yes?"
"I care about you deeply. Your family, too. Everything will be okay. I promise."
I broke down, crying hard, and clicked off.
Chapter Eighteen
I pulled up to a squalid house in Buena Park, about a mile north of Knott's Berry Farm. I sat in my minivan for a few minutes and took in the scene. Apartments across the street. A gang of Hispanic males a block away to the west. They were smoking and drinking and listening to music. The music pumped from a four-door sedan whose front end was hydraulically propped up off the ground two or three feet. The car looked ridiculous and cool at the same time. I wasn't sure which. The gang ignored my van, which was probably a good idea. The last time I had a run-in with a Latino gang someone had died.