Cynthia searched for something to say. "How did your husband come to work for, um, the company, Mrs. Judkins?"

"It's all right," she said with a watery smile. "I know what they were, what they are. Scott and I talked about it, whether it was the right thing to work for a vampire." She blushed slightly. "I feel foolish even saying it. So many people don't believe they're real, or pretend not to."

"It's not exactly a secret."

"No, but it's not talked about either, is it? I suppose they want it that way." She looked away, suddenly sad once again. "So, what happens now? I know Scott had..." Her lip trembled and she took another sip of water. "Do you know? That is. Do you know how he..."

"There was an attack on the estate. The attackers were well-armed and several guards were killed before anyone understood what was happening. The motivation is somewhat unclear at this point, although we are investigating." A sudden thought occurred to Cyn. "We have reason to believe there may be some connection to organized crime. I don't know how much Scott told you about what he did."

"He hardly ever talked about it," Emily said with a melancholy smile. "He said this was his refuge. This house, our daughter ... me. But things slipped occasionally, you know how it is." She looked at Cynthia. "You're married, Ms. Leighton?"

"Uh, no. But I understand," she lied. "Did he have any friends he talked to? Maybe even someone he worked with?"

"Not really. We lived so far away. Most of the others lived closer to the estate, so it was difficult. Lately, he'd been spending a lot of time with someone my cousin's husband introduced him to. Barry something. I heard them talking a few times, but I never met him myself."

"You said your cousin introduced them?"

"My cousin's husband," she corrected. "Ronnie. This Barry worked with him. Ronnie's a truck driver. That used to be a good job, you know. Until they started recruiting over in Mexico. Now they bring in people who live ten to a room and work for half the price. So guys like Ronnie are out of luck. Anyway, he got this job at some warehouse over in East L.A., and it's worked out really well for him. When he found out where Scott worked, he introduced him to this guy Barry. I guess Barry was looking for a security job. My husband never really talked to me about it." She frowned thoughtfully, glancing at Cyn and away as if trying to decide whether to go on.

"Mrs. Judkins? Was there something you wanted to tell me about Barry?"

She made a face. "It just that Scott didn't seem to like him very much, but they spent a lot time together anyway. That's odd, don't you think?"

"Did you ever hear them talk about work, anything-"

"Was Barry involved in this? Did he do something that got Scott killed?"

Cynthia regarded the other woman silently, feeling guilty at the idea of pumping a grieving widow for information. On the other hand, this might be her only chance. "It's possible," she admitted. "We do have reason to think Barry was involved."

"But not Scott! You can't believe that! Scott would never do something like that. He's a good man..." Her voice faltered. "He was a good man. And he loved his job, Ms. Leighton."

"What sorts of things did they talk about? Your husband and Barry. Did they talk here, or was it-"

"No! Scott never brought Barry here to the house. They talked on the phone mostly, or met at a local bar." Her mouth tightened in disapproval. "I didn't like that, Scott going to the bars so much." Emily grew silent. Cyn was just about to say something to prompt her, when she started talking again. "Like I said, I didn't hear much, but there was one thing that kind of stuck in my mind. A name, I think. I took a cla.s.s last semester at the college. A night cla.s.s, you know, for people who want to learn something interesting, or meet someone, I guess. There were an awful lot of single people there. Anyway, it was a poetry cla.s.s, 19th century poetry, and that's why the name stuck in my mind."

Cynthia smiled encouragingly, wondering if the story was going anywhere.

"Pushkin," Emily said, as if that explained everything.

"Pushkin? You mean the Russian poet?"

"Exactly. That's the name I heard on a voice mail message. I picked up Scott's messages by mistake and there was a message from Barry. Of course, as soon as I realized what I'd done, I hung up."

Sure you did, honey, Cynthia thought to herself.

"But he said that name. Pushkin. Which I thought was odd."

"Hmm. The name doesn't mean anything to me, but it might to someone else. That might be helpful, Mrs. Judkins. Thank you." Cynthia cleared her throat nervously and reached for her purse and the fresh envelope she'd prepared.

"Ah, I know this is difficult, Mrs. Judkins. But, well, I have some paperwork here that you need to see."

Emily took the envelope hesitantly. She glanced up at Cyn, as if asking for permission, before gently lifting the flap. Her eyes filled with fresh tears when she saw the life insurance benefit statement, as if that single piece of paper brought home that her husband was really dead. By the time she got to the first check, and then the second, the tears were rolling unheeded down her face and her mouth was hanging open, stunned. "This is-"

"A lot of money. Yes. Raphael Enterprises takes its responsibilities very seriously. Your husband died doing his job, and the management doesn't want you or your daughter to suffer because of it. That's not enough to live forever." She gestured at the two checks. "But if you manage it carefully, it'll last awhile and maybe even put something away for your daughter's college education. It doesn't replace Scott, but-" She shrugged. "It's something we can do."

"Thank you," Emily breathed. "I wouldn't have known-"

"Mrs. Judkins, forgive me for intruding, but do you have family? Is there somewhere you could take your daughter, somewhere not in California?"

Emily looked at her in surprise, then alarm. "You think whoever killed Scott might try to harm us? To harm my daughter?"

"I don't mean to frighten you, but these are very bad people. You've got the money there to build yourself a new life pretty much anywhere you want. It might be good for you, for your daughter, to get a fresh start."

Emily clutched the envelope to her chest and stared at the house around her, as if cataloging the memories. "I have family in Wisconsin," she whispered. "Maybe..."

"You don't need to decide right now," Cynthia hurried to say. "You don't even need to let me know what you decide." Please don't tell me what you decide! she pleaded privately. "It's just something to think about." She stood and tugged her jacket straight. "I'm sure you want to call your family," she said, thinking about the urn sitting in her truck. "I've uh, I've got-"

"Oh G.o.d, I have to call Scott's parents." Emily buried her face in her hands, drew a breath and looked up. "Thank you, Ms. Leighton, for coming to telling me. You've been very kind."

I have? "It's the least I could do. Your husband talked about you and your daughter, he thought about you all the time."

"You knew Scott? You worked with him?"

"At the end. Yes. At the very end." Cynthia made her way to the door, suddenly eager to get away from this comfortable home and its memories. "If you need anything further, if you have any questions, there's a card in the envelope with a number you can call."

She was already pulling open the door, steeling herself for her final, necessary act of delivery, when Emily called out from behind her. "What about Scott's ... remains." The last word was a disbelieving whisper. "I know we agreed to cremation, but how is that..."

Cynthia blew out a breath, struggling to put some sort of dignified face on it. "I, uh ... I have your husband's urn in my car. I'm sorry, but I didn't want-"

"Oh. Oh my G.o.d."

"I'll, um, I'll get it for you. If that's okay?"

"Of course. I..." Emily was crying again, hard, wracking sobs that collapsed her to the couch.

"Please let me call someone for you," Cynthia said miserably.

"h.e.l.loooo!" Cynthia jumped as a voice called from outside the half-opened door. "Emily, you home?"

Cyn pulled open the door all the way to admit an older woman, stylishly but affordably dressed, old enough to be Judkins' mother or aunt. Please let it be her mother or aunt!

"Emily, dearest, whatever..." The new arrival gave Cyn a suspicious look, then hurried over to comfort the grieving widow. Cynthia used the interruption to rush out to her truck and retrieve the brown box from the back seat. She'd thought about putting it all the way in the back, in the cargo compartment like she would have any other box, but it seemed too impersonal for someone's ashes. On other hand, the front seat was way too creepy, so Scott had settled for the back seat. Still a people place, but not quite partic.i.p.atory.

Emily and her consoler had disappeared into the depths of the house by the time Cynthia returned, so she deposited the carton on the dining room table-again debating, floor or table, finally settling on the table since it probably didn't get used that much anyway. She thought about calling out to say good-bye, but then figured Mrs. Judkins had probably heard pretty much everything she wanted to about, from or to Cynthia Leighton, so she closed the door quietly behind her, climbed into the Land Rover, and headed for the one man she thought could provide some answers. Who was Kolinsky and what did he have to do with a long-dead Russian poet?

Chapter Twenty-five.

It was shift change at the station; blue uniforms crowded the hallways, coming and going amidst the usual flotsam of a big city police station. She saw a few people she knew and waved; saw some others she knew and looked the other way. There was more than one reason Cyn had decided to become a private investigator. Low whistles of appreciation for her snug skirt followed her pa.s.sage through the warren of desks in the squad room. So much for sensitivity training, she thought. Dean Eckhoff was waiting for her when she rounded the corner to his office, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling like he'd been waiting a long time.

"Cut the dramatics, Eckhoff, you've got nowhere else to be and you know it."

He let his chair drop to the ground with a scowl in her direction. "I'll have you know, Ms. Leighton, that I've got a lady friend who's very anxious for my company this evening."

"Yeah, but she only wants you to scratch her belly while you watch Wheel of Fortune, and that doesn't come on for a couple of hours yet."

Eckhoff shook his head in disgust. "You wound my ego, Cyn. How's a man supposed to make it in the world when a beautiful woman says things like that to him."

"As if," she said, chuckling. She gave a deep sigh and flopped down on the chair in front of his desk, painfully aware of her short skirt and bare legs.

"Rough day?" he mocked.

"You have no idea." She eyed her old friend. "You look good, Dean. Maybe you really do have a lady waiting for you." Eckhoff was a tall, skinny guy who dressed like an Oxford don and could talk like one too, when he got the urge. Which urge usually involved an inordinate amount of alcohol. His eyes were a washed out blue and what was left of his hair still showed some red through the gray. He'd worn a comb-over for years after he started going bald, until Cynthia had given him her unvarnished opinion on comb-overs. Turns out he had a perfectly nice skull.

"So what brings you way over here today, gra.s.shopper?"

She smiled. "I'm working a job for a client. It looks like a kidnapping, probably extortion to get something out of my guy. Some information surfaced that makes us think there might be a connection to the Russians."

Eckhoff frowned. "Isn't that a little out of your league, Cyn? Did you tell him to call his friendly police force?"

"You know me better than that, Dean. Of course I did. But this guy's not gonna make that call. He's got reasons. Pretty good ones, actually."

Eckhoff regarded her somberly. "This one of your special clients?"

"Maybe," she acknowledged, which was the same as admitting it.

"Yeah. Well, that does make a difference, I guess. Can't blame the guy for wanting to keep a low profile. So who's working it with you?"

"Just me, all by my lonesome. You know I work alone."

"Which is why you're no longer wearing a blue uniform," he replied sourly.

Cyn shrugged. "Partly. So, what do you know about the local Russians? I've got a couple-"

"Not my territory, sweetie."

"Not directly, no. But you must have caught a few cases, heard a few things?"

"Not lately. Listen, Cyn, I really do have to get out of here. You want to walk out with me?"

"Sure," she said, puzzled. "I'm parked out back."

"Perfect."

Eckhoff put a companionable arm around her and pulled her close as the station house door closed behind them. "You wanna be careful talking about the Russians around here, Cyn," he murmured softly. "They've got someone feeding them from the inside, and we can't figure out who it is. They've pulled everyone from this division."

Cynthia laughed up at him, as if they were having a lighthearted conversation. "How long?" she asked.

"Couple of months, maybe more. How much do you know?"

"Not much. I've got two names. One's pretty solid, guy's name is Kolinsky. The other's a long shot. Pushkin. And a possible hit on a phony export company over in East L.A. Pretty weak, but it's all I've got so far."

"I don't know anybody named Pushkin, but Kolinsky runs out of Odessa Exports over on Vermont." Bingo, Cyn thought. "I probably have a mug shot handy; I'll fax it to you. He's not the top guy," Eckhoff continued. "But he's pretty d.a.m.n close. Your friend Carballo would know more. I hear they've got her working that side of town these days."

"Benita?"

"The only one I know."

"That's not her usual beat."

"Hey, I don't ask questions. But I'm pretty sure it's reliable. Listen, Cyn. That's a bad crew. These Russian guys are some bloodthirsty motherf.u.c.kers. You don't go in there alone, you hear me? Even if it's only to ask questions, you take some of those vamps along. I hear they put even the Colombians to shame."

"Thanks, Dean. I owe you one. You give your girlfriend an extra belly rub for me." She grinned, then stood on her toes and kissed his freckled cheek.

"No respect. Take care, gra.s.shopper. I mean it."

Cyn did a mock little bow, her hands palm to palm in front of her. She strode across the parking lot to her own car, the setting sun nearly blinding her. She climbed inside and flipped down the visor, then turned the ignition and headed toward Malibu. The vampires would be waking soon and it was time to play with some bad guys.

Chapter Twenty-six.

Cyn turned off the highway and dropped down the short drive to her condo, fumbling for the opener in her SUV's center console. Her headlights swept over the closed garage door, and she looked up automatically as she clicked the device. She swore softly. A familiar long, black limo was parked against the ice plant-covered hill, and she didn't need her headlights to identify the small mountain standing next to it. Juro. Which meant ... the limo door opened as she drove past and she caught a glimpse of broad shoulders and dark hair. Of course.

She parked the Land Rover and was swinging her long legs out of the truck when Raphael strolled into the garage. Well, d.a.m.n. The vampire lord was dressed all in black, from his long-sleeved t-shirt to his oh-so-tight denims and smooth leather boots. And over it all, he wore an ankle-length coat of black leather that just begged to be touched, smelled, rubbed all over one's body. Down, girl.

She met Raphael's eyes, letting her appreciation show. Why pretend? The vampire lord returned the compliment, sweeping his gaze the length of her body, lingering on her bare legs beneath the short, slim skirt, before traveling up to meet her eyes in turn. "Good evening, Cyn," he said in a voice that promised so much more than merely good. "What do you have for me?"

Cynthia stared at the beautiful male specimen in front of her. Vampire or not, Raphael was fully, gloriously male. There was no doubt of that. Nor of the instant, almost irresistible, attraction she felt toward him. She gave a nearly desperate, sobbing laugh at her own helpless reaction to him. Behind him, Duncan gave her a scandalized look, but Raphael merely laughed with her. He was an arrogant son of a b.i.t.c.h; he understood perfectly.

Cyn took a deep breath and kneaded her forehead, trying to rub some sanity into her brain. "Listen," she said, with a glance at Duncan. "I'm sorry about last night, the whole thing with Judkins-" She looked up to find Raphael only inches away. He smiled.

"Sweet Cyn." He touched one cool finger to her cheek, the softest touch. "A misunderstanding."

She looked into his eyes and felt herself falling. She looked away, conscious of the other vampires watching. "I've got a location for Kolinsky," she said, breathlessly. "I came home to change clothes..."