I would’ve mentioned something sooner, but I thought you knew.”
Which meant Sara was dipping into her coffers to keep us afloat. Great.
One of the benefits to working with Miss Sara Jane Halloway was that her parents had been very successful in their investments in stocks and real estate before they were killed in a horrific accident—a drunk driver on the interstate who careened into theirs and three or four other cars—three years earlier. Sara and her younger sister, Janine, split the estate; it left both of them very, very wealthy.
It cheesed off Janine and the surviving relatives that, instead of carrying on the family tradition in real estate, Sara had partnered with me in this private investigations venture. Janine hadn’t taken up real estate either, but for some reason she expected Sara to pick up the slack and run everything.
Though she’ll never admit to it, I’m almost positive that pissing off her family was why Sara did it.
We first met five years ago in college; I was working on a degree in criminal justice, she was halfheartedly pursuing a joint business and corporate law degree. I was frantic to keep my grades up so I wouldn’t lose my scholarship. She was considering dropping out and taking an extended vacation in the Hamptons.
Since we had a few classes together, I helped her out and urged her to at least finish up the term. By the end of the following year, we both had our degrees and had cemented a friendship. I met her parents a handful of times when she invited me along to parties or other outings at one or another of her family’s properties. The parents were nice enough but the rest of her relatives kind of left me cold, especially the neurotic, whining Janine.
More often, I invited her over to my parents’ place—a little ramshackle house on a hill overlooking the Sound. It was tiny compared to what she was used to, but the warmth and affection my Irish-Catholic family showed her made her far more interested in going to my clan’s gatherings than her own.
While I loved it that Sara helped finance the start-up of this crazy idea of mine, I told her all along that if it didn’t look like we were going to make it financially, we’d have to just sell the biz and start something fresh. I didn’t want to be a burden or a freeloader. I hate being indebted to people.
She protested and bitched about it a bit, but in the end we came to terms. I even paid back most of my half of the start-up money she’d fronted me. A couple more takes like my latest and I’d have the balance paid off in no time.
I really didn’t relish the idea of selling the business, but I also didn’t want it to be said that I was a hanger-on to Sara for her money. I got enough of that back in school. Plus, with two successful brothers, I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of letting on to my parents that my biz was a failure. They already gave me enough crap for being a PI instead of a lawyer like Mike. My mom was fond of dishing that one out, along with the whole don’t-you-think-it’s-about-time-you-settle-downand-pop-out-a-few-grandkids-for-me speech. Sara gave me hell for that, laughing about it and bringing it up every few days for weeks afterward.
Rather than keep Jenny waiting, I took a breath to get some semblance of control over my temper and told her not to worry. “I’ll go over the numbers with Sara when she gets back. Look, it’s Friday. Why don’t you go ahead and take off. I’ve got to go get ready for tonight anyway; I’ll just wrap up here and lock up.”
Behind her glasses, her brown eyes held a hint of sympathy, though I had the feeling she’d head straight home and start posting her résumé all over the Internet. She was probably convinced we were going under. But between Sara’s generosity and my latest contract, I was sure we’d be able to pull out of this mess just fine.
So why did the whole situation still rankle so much with me?
“I heard you took a job doing something with that vampire who owns all those nightclubs. The one who’s in the news all the time. Is that right?”
I grimaced and nodded, avoiding her questioning gaze.
“Be careful, Shia. Those things are dangerous.”
“I know. Don’t worry. I don’t plan on doing any more than asking a few questions and leaving. They give me the creeps.”
She put a hand on my arm, surprising me with her serious expression and the touch of worry in her voice. “I’m not kidding, Shia. My cousin died about two years ago while she was dating one of those—those things. Those monsters.”
My eyes widened and after a moment I remembered to close my open mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. When? Why didn’t you say anything?”
She shook her head, not quite looking at me now. Her voice grew into a quiet, broken whisper, and terror gleamed in her soft brown eyes. “It was a couple of months before I started working here. Shia, you need to know this. You need to be careful. The coroner—he said it took her hours to die, bleeding out like that. The way it left her…after. I can’t bear the thought of it happening to someone else I know. Not again. Not you, please don’t let it get you, too.”
Almost involuntarily, my hand came up to gently wipe away the single tear that trickled down Jenny’s pale cheek. The feel of her trembling even under that light touch was frightening all on its own. For her sake, I smiled and took up her cold hands in both of my own to try to put her at ease, steeling myself against letting any of my private doubts come to the surface. Despite that, I knew the sincerity in my voice never touched my eyes. There was too much fear in them for that.
“I won’t. I promise.”
Chapter 4
Royce’s clubs are a shade more risqué than his restaurants, though all of them are usually packed. Vamp-run establishments are “the thing” right now. I guess to some people, the idea of rubbing elbows with a leech is titillating.
His newest restaurant, La Petite Boisson (I suppose “The Little Drink” sounds more tacky in English), is the kind of outfit where you’d spot people like the mayor, celebrities, visiting dignitaries from other countries, that sort of thing. I would stick out like a sore thumb there. Not to mention that even a glass of water from that place was way outside my budget.
Luckily, his website said he was going to make an appearance tonight at The Underground, one of his less expensive nightclubs. I’d been there plenty of times. The bouncers know me on sight, and usually let me through at the front of the line as long as I wave some money at them. It’s not my favorite hangout, mostly because of the BDSM theme. The music is heavy industrial or dark techno stuff, and they have scantily leather-clad male and female dancers in cages hanging up near the ceiling, high over everyone’s heads.
Maybe that’s some people’s idea of a good time, but it usually just gave me a headache.
Unfortunately, it seemed the majority of my “find-that-cheating-rat-bastard” clients (as opposed to “find-that-rat-bastard-that-owes-me-money” and “watch-that-shifty-eyed-rat-bastard-for-me” clients) thought their significant others were hanging out in establishments like this. What was even more unfortunate was that they were usually right. Every once in a while they’d prove me wrong by actually working late in the office. Once the boyfriend I was checking up on was working a second job in secret so he could pay for the engagement ring he wanted to spring on his paranoid soon-to-be fiancée. Yes, really. There may be some hope for humanity yet.
After tidying up at the office, I locked up and headed home to change. Pressed slacks and a business jacket wouldn’t
