WHEN WE'RE IN THE CAR, IT SUDDENLY OCCURS to me that there were no paparazzi at the courthouse. A b.l.o.o.d.y carca.s.s doesn't attract vultures faster than a celebrity in trouble attracts the media. I half turn in the seat to look at Gloria.

"How'd you pull it off?"

I don't have to explain what I mean. She waves a hand. "My lawyer let it leak that I'd be arraigned at one this afternoon. Oops."

I have to admire his ingenuity though I pity the guy who walks out of the courthouse on a pandering charge and has a hundred flashbulbs go off in his face. I crank over the engine.

David's place has always been home to Gloria in San Diego. Since she knows better than to think I'd take her there, I ask, "Where are you staying?"

"I thought I'd stay with you."

The ten thousand reasons why that is not going to happen bubble to my lips like a geyser ready to spew. Luckily, I stifle the eruption when I realize she's kidding. I know she's kidding because she's staring at me with a "gotcha" smirk on her face.

"I have a suite at the Four Seasons," she says.

"I should have guessed. Where else would you stay but the most expensive hotel in San Diego?"

She ignores the sarcasm, rests her head against the seat and closes her eyes. I accelerate away from the curb. At least she's riding in front with me. If she'd gotten into the backseat, I might have been tempted to kick her skinny a.s.s right out of the car.

She's quiet on the ride to the hotel. I use the time to concentrate on that kid and where I've seen him before. It won't come. I'm not worried, though. I know I'll remember. Something will trip the memory and his ident.i.ty will float to the surface of my subconscious like pond sc.u.m.

The Four Seasons is San Diego's newest and finest. We pull up to the front entrance and a valet is there to open my door before we've come to a complete stop. Another valet is at Gloria's door, gushing like an excited schoolboy when he recognizes her. He either doesn't know or doesn't care that she's coming from a night in jail. He rushes past us to open the door to the lobby. Gloria sweeps past him like the queen with her livery.

I follow after getting the valet ticket. No one rushes to open the door for me. I'm only her driver.

Gloria is at the front desk, collecting messages and her key. At least she waits for me to catch up before starting for the elevator.

She goes straight to the elevator cordoned off with a red rope. A uniformed bellboy opens it for her and we pa.s.s into a car with only two stop b.u.t.tons. PH1 and PH2. She inserts a key card and hits PH2.

The elevator whisks us up in perfumed silence and whispers to a stop. The door opens into the suite's marble foyer. It's a setup I've only seen in movies. There is a fountain, lots of greenery, and a carved, twelve-foot-high double door. She opens it with the same key card she used in the elevator and steps aside so I can go in first.

I've been in a lot of beautiful homes and hotel rooms, but nothing like this. The penthouse faces west with a view over the city, over Pacific Coast Highway, over a vast expanse of ocean. It's an un.o.bstructed view, inside and out, both because we're twenty stories up and because the entire wall is made of gla.s.s. No structural beams or window frames. How they did it, I couldn't begin to guess.

There is furniture on both sides of the gla.s.s, cla.s.sical leather pieces on the inside, wicker chairs and lounges on a terrace outside.

It's breathtaking. It becomes more so when Gloria presses a b.u.t.ton and the "wall" retracts. The salt-air smell of ocean wafts in.

Gloria takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

"G.o.d. I was afraid I'd never smell fresh air again." She tosses her key and the stack of messages on a small mahogany table near the couch. Not all of the messages, though. Before starting for a door to the right of the living room, she extracts three from the pile and palms them. She calls back to me, "I'm going to shower and change. There's coffee in the kitchen. Order room service if you're hungry. I can't stay in these clothes another minute."

She doesn't wait for a reply but disappears into what I a.s.sume is the bedroom, closing the door behind her. I wonder whose messages she so subtly removed. She obviously didn't want me to see who left them. Takes all the fun out of being nosy if the object of your snooping is on to you. I go through the ones she left behind anyway. Nothing but calls from print reporters representing everything from the Enquirer to the Wall Street Journal.

She took the interesting ones with her.

I wander in the opposite direction, finding the kitchen behind another of those carved doors. There's a coffeemaker already set up on the counter. I push the b.u.t.ton and beans grind, water filters and coffee drips into a cut-gla.s.s decanter.

A coffeemaker with a crystal decanter. Why am I surprised?

There's something else on the counter. A copy of a search warrant. The objects of the search include a gun and a key card. Since there are no accompanying receipts, the police left with nothing.

All the same, I open cupboards and look on my own. What I find is everything the type of person who can afford to stay here would need for spur of the moment entertaining . . . tins of foie gras and caviar, sleeves of toast points and wafer-thin crackers, expensive chocolates. More exploring finds the wine cooler hidden behind cherry cabinet doors, six bottles of wine and six bottles of champagne. China, crystal, a silver service, gold-leaf flatware.

I sniff, letting vampire senses kick in. No residual smell of blood means there were no b.l.o.o.d.y clothes stuffed in any of these corners. No smell of cordite or oil. No gun, either.

A low, muted chime announces that the coffee is ready. I grab a coffee cup and close the cupboards. I didn't really expect that there would be anything to find. Gloria is vain and selfish, arrogant and narcissistic. But she isn't stupid.

Besides, I don't think she had a chance to come back here last night. She was at the restaurant with David and me and then she was in jail. Judging by the looks of the place, the hotel must have a concierge service on call to clean up after a warrant search. The place is immaculate.

I pour myself a cup of coffee and doctor it with cream (real, none of that flavored c.r.a.p) and sugar, and have taken a seat on a chaise on the terrace when Gloria rejoins me. Her skin glows, her wet hair falls in waves around her face. She has on pale yellow silk pajamas that look both tailored and expensive. Wearily, she falls into a chair opposite me. She gestures toward my cup.

"Any more coffee?"

My evil twin wants to say, "Yeah, in the kitchen. Do I look like a gofer?" The fatigue in her eyes, however, unleashes a rare moment of compa.s.sion and I find myself getting up, going into the kitchen and pouring her a cup. I'm not compa.s.sionate enough to ask if she wants cream or sugar, though.

She accepts the black coffee with a grateful smile. After drinking a moment or two in silence, she says, "What do we do now?"

I place my cup down on the gla.s.s-topped table between us. "Now you tell me about Rory. Anything that will point me to someone other than you with a motive to want him dead."

She tilts her head, eyeing me over the cup. "I really don't know anything. We didn't tell each other personal things. There was no need."

I start to say something nasty about her lack of moral fiber when Lance and last night's escapade flashes into my head. Okay. So if you asked me to tell you anything personal about Lance, like where he lives or who his enemies are, I wouldn't be able to answer, either.

On the other hand, I didn't go into business with the guy or cheat on my boyfriend with him.

"I know you spent your time s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g, but you must have come up for air once in a while. Did you ever overhear a telephone conversation that seemed off? Ever see anything that particularly disturbed O'Sullivan or made him mad?"

Gloria ignores my tone and lets her gaze drift out across the sea. After a moment, she replies, "Not really."

"Not really? Come on, Gloria. Think. This is going to be the shortest investigation in history if you don't give me something to work with. The suit he threatened you with. He suspected you of embezzling?"

She waves a hand. "It was hara.s.sment. He kept the books, for G.o.d's sake. He knew there were no missing funds. It was another ploy to get me to back down. To resume our relationship."

"I'll need to see that note. Is it still at the restaurant?"

She nods. "I'll call the manager and tell him to give you access to the office. Is there anything else?"

"Is there anything else?" I'm having a hard time reconciling this lethargic Gloria with the sharp-tongued harpy I'm used to. "Yeah, Gloria, there's something else. Why did you go to Rory's house yesterday? He was blackmailing you for s.e.x. He was alone. You weren't afraid he'd force himself on you?"

Gloria isn't listening. She's focusing on the coffee cup in her hand. A hand that begins to tremble. She places the cup carefully on the table.

That's when it hits me. "Did you take something, Gloria? A sedative or a tranquilizer?"

This time when she looks at me, I see it. The dilated pupils, the gla.s.sy stare. "You did, didn't you?"

"I didn't get a moment's sleep last night. I'm so tired."

Great. "Stay with me. Tell me about O'Sullivan's home life. How did his wife act toward you in public? Did she ever let on that she knew the two of you were f.u.c.k buddies?"

A spark of life. Gloria leans forward. "If Laura knew we were having an affair, she never let on. Never. We had dinner, the three of us, many times. Sometimes, in the beginning, David joined us, too."

"You had dinner with David and Rory and his wife while you were s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g Rory. b.a.l.l.s of steel, Gloria. No wonder his wife has it in for you."

"I know what she told the reporters," she says. "She lied. I don't think she knew a thing about Rory and me."

"At least until last night."

"Until last night."

I shake my head. "You're sure O'Sullivan didn't say anything to his wife sooner? She says he confessed the affair weeks ago and she forgave him."

Gloria narrows her eyes. "Let me ask you something. If your husband confessed he was having an affair, would you invite the woman to his birthday party? Or a few days ago, invite her to your home for lunch?"

"Only if strychnine was on the menu."

She bobs her head. "Exactly. I'm the actress. There's absolutely no way Laura could have treated me the way she did if she'd known Rory and I were having an affair. She's his second wife, by the way. The trophy wife. She knew him. She'd have her sensors out for any indication that he was being unfaithful. She'd recognize the signs. After all, it's how she hooked him. She worked as his personal a.s.sistant. Emphasis on the personal."

Gloria watches me as she spins her tale. It sounds like motive enough. The second wife protecting her turf against the perceived usurper. It's neat and tidy. It could well be true. All the same, Gloria seems to be overlooking one important fact. While the current Mrs. O'Sullivan may not be an actress, the story she spun for the police was convincing enough to land Gloria in jail.

"I'll look into the wife's background. See if she has a gun registered in her name."

"Your friend, Chief Williams, should be able to help you, right? He'll give you access to the police reports?"

I shake my head. "He's on administrative leave. I don't have a contact in the department right now. Your lawyer will have access to those things. Call Sutherland and have the reports faxed to my office. You have the number."

I drain the last of the coffee and stand.

Gloria does, too. She extends her hand. "I'll call right now. Thank you, Anna. For doing this. I know you don't want to."

I return the handshake. Oh, but I do want to. The smile on my face must look to Gloria like a gesture of goodwill. The truth is, it's a gesture of good riddance. One way or the other, Gloria is soon to be history.

I can hardly wait for her to be gone.

CHAPTER 19.

WHEN I LEAVE GLORIA, I HEAD TO MY OFFICE. I realize as soon as I'm in the car that she never answered the question of why she went to Rory's yesterday in the first place. She pulled a neat little trick, distracting me with the coffee cup and the trembling hands. She recovered herself quickly enough, though, when the questions shifted to Mrs. O'Sullivan.

She's hiding something. I'm tempted to turn around and go right back to the hotel, force her to tell me what O'Sullivan said that sent her scampering to his home. Truthfully, though, there's another matter I'm more interested in. I want to find out why Frey objected so strongly to my meeting with Sandra. Frey and I have fought some pretty dangerous characters-human and otherwise.

He knows I can take care of myself. The fact that he reacted so negatively means something.

Should I take his advice? Call Williams? And yet, when I saw Williams last night, did he offer any advice? Issue any warnings about meeting with Sandra? No. In fact, all he did was push the same b.u.t.tons. Warn me that I was living a lie and that I'd crawl back into the fold soon enough.

I think Frey is overreacting.

I glance at my watch. I'm not due at Mom's until later. I may as well resume my reading on the deck of our office. Then when Gloria's lawyer faxes me the reports, I can look them over right away and decide what to do next.

David and I share an office on Pacific Coast Highway. Close to Seaport Village. Our business, fugitive apprehension, bounty hunting, has boomed in the last year or so. It's the perfect career choice for two adrenaline junkies. David is an ex-pro football player who couldn't face the prospect of opening a car dealership or becoming a sportscaster when he retired. I was a schoolteacher who couldn't face another year of teenage angst.

My parents still don't understand how I could have made such a radical career change. They never recognized the wild child who only went into education to please her mother. From the beginning, teaching was an ill fit. When I found myself hating the cla.s.sroom even more than some of my students, I knew it was time to quit. Meeting David in a kickboxing cla.s.s and listening to his stories about bounty hunting was like a door opening into another world. I only had to throw his six-foot-six frame on his b.u.t.t a couple of times to convince him to take me on as a partner.

That was almost four years ago.

Before I became vampire.

I unlock the door and step into the empty office. I miss David. Though our relationship isn't what it was before a rogue vamp attacked and turned me, we still share-what? Love of the chase. Freedom. An appreciation of what making good money does for your lifestyle. Now, with Gloria soon to be but a bitter memory and that point of contention gone, maybe we can start having fun together again.

Yeah. Fun that does not involve eating or showing how strong and fast I've become or avoiding mirrored bars and backlit windows.

Not b.l.o.o.d.y likely.

The most I can hope for is that his next girlfriend doesn't make it her mission to get me out of his life. G.o.d knows, Gloria tried hard enough.

I trudge over to the slider and pull it open. The deck stretches the length of our office and is suspended over the bay. The sky above is deep blue and the water below white tipped and frothy.

We're in the corner office. The neighbor to our left, a real estate broker, has strung Christmas lights and installed a tree in the middle of his deck. His slider is open, too, and the not-so-soft strains of Christmas carols drift out. For once, it doesn't bother me.

For once, I'm not dreading Christmas. For once I think maybe I won't fight with David about putting up our own tree.

That is a.s.suming he comes back before Christmas.

I lean against the deck rail, relaxing for a minute. Since my body temperature is much, much cooler than the 98.6 degrees of a human, and the air feels slightly warm to my skin, I figure it must be in the sixties. A clear, perfect December day.

Frey's book calls to me. Not literally, although it wouldn't surprise me if it was capable of such a thing. I retrieve it from the desk, roll my chair out onto the deck and settle in.

Let's see-chapter two. I thumb to the page.

I skim the text, letting the salient points sink in and skipping the irrelevant.

When bitten by a werewolf, a person does not undergo a drastic change. Not at first. He or she is taken to the woods and left there by his "sire" with no weapon and no food. He is told he must obtain a belt of wolf fur. He must obtain that belt within fourteen days or before the full moon, whichever occurs first. If he does not kill a wolf in that time, he dies.

If he is successful, the pelt becomes his talisman. He is accepted into the werewolf community and is initiated into a pack. The pack is his family. He is free to choose a mate, but only from within the family. If there are not enough females in the pack, he must earn the right to bring another over. The subjugation of females is complete within a pack. Mating is for life. Werewolves only propagate by an exchange of blood. Once bitten and initiated, the werewolf must, within its lifetime, turn two others to complete the circle of life. The rule is strict-he may turn only two. Rogues who disobey this edict are dealt with severely. (No details are given, but since I've dealt with rogue vamps before I can imagine what it means-death.) The chapter ends and I'm left fuzzy headed and confused, partly from the strain of interpreting the difficult text and partly because what I read contradicts everything I ever knew about werewolves.

As soon as that thought pa.s.ses through my head, the absurdity of it makes me laugh. The same could be said about vampires. Until I became one, I had quite a different perspective on the subject. Hadn't almost everything I believed about vampires proven to be false? Why should the popular mythos about werewolves be any less false?

And yet, there is one glaring inconsistency. Sandra is the leader of a werewolf pack. She's female. Definitely, unquestionably female. From what I saw the other night, her pack is 90 percent female. There were maybe two or three males in Culebra's bar that night. Unremarkable males obviously because I can't remember what they looked like. I wonder their purpose? s.e.xual toys?

Heavy lifters? Bike mechanics?

Hmmm.