off the sport mode and put it back into automatic. The dual clutch takes some getting used to.”
He quirked an eyebrow at her in a flippant, you-don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about look. Figured. All men thought their DNA made them better drivers.
“I don’t have time to give you a lesson,” she said. “And I can’t be distracted wondering when the hell you were going to shift.”
As if his mere presence just inches away wasn’t distracting enough.
CHAPTER FIVE
“THIS IS IT.” THE MAN TAPPED a knuckle on the taxi window. A small, unadorned prayer box dangled from a hole in his thick pinkie nail and clinked against the glass. “Wait for me around the corner.”
“For how long?” the driver said, his nicotine-graveled voice sounding more like a growl. “I’m scheduled for a pickup in an hour.”
The passenger slipped him a hundred-dollar bill, the pads of his fingers brushing against the cabbie’s outstretched palm, and he repeated his command. “Wait for me. I’ve got another one marked for you when I return.”
The driver’s eyelids fluttered a few times and his worn expression softened. “Sure, I’ll be right up there.”
After navigating past a line of young palm trees and stepping over the uneven pavement of the walkway, the man stood on the front porch as sounds of a TV blared through the half-closed door. Noticing a scuff on the toe of his shoe, he stooped to brush it off, irritated when it didn’t disappear. He straightened up, realigned his black jacket and rang the doorbell.
He waited, then rang it again.
“Brice!” a female voice called from inside. “The pizza guy’s here.” Footsteps shuffled on the fake Spanish-tile floor a moment later.
“I didn’t order any damn—”
The door was flung open with gusto, creating a slight breeze across his forehead. He smoothed his slicked hair back in place as a man in a stained college sweatshirt appeared at the other side of the screen. The smell of cigarettes, fried food and beer-laden blood filled his nostrils. He pulled a handkerchief from his inside pocket, folded it carefully and dabbed his upper lip.
“Oh, Jesus. Ah, Father, what can I do for you?” The man pushed the screen door and held it open. “Would you like to come in?”
He touched the mandarin collar of his jacket. It wasn’t the first time he’d been mistaken for a man of the cloth, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. “Heavens, no. I’m tremendously sorry I did not call first. I don’t wish to trouble you, but I have a simple request that had to be made in person.”
“Yeah, sure, what is it? Father … Father …?”
“Rejavik. The name is Rejavik.” With his hands clasped at his waist, he held a smile in check and tried to look pious. “You take on boarders from time to time, is that correct?”
“Not really, Father Rejavik. My old lady used to, but not anymore. Why? You looking to rent a room?”
Rejavik held back his contempt. He’d rather lie on a beach at noon, have the sunlight leach every ounce of energy from his body, than spend one night in this filthy shit hole. “I’m trying to locate a member of my congregation who may have stayed here several years ago. His name is Alfonso Serrano. Tall fellow, blond hair, blue eyes.”
“Hey, Marge,” the man yelled over his shoulder. “You remember a renter named Alberto?”
“Alfonso,” Rejavik said quietly. Idiot.
“Why does the pizza guy want to know?” she yelled from the other room.
“Oh for Chr—” Brice clamped a hand over his mouth and hiccupped through his fingers. “Sorry, Father. A few years ago?”
Rejavik nodded.
“I haven’t lived here that long but I know Marge had a long-term renter for a while. Maybe he’s your guy.”
“Let me speak with her.”
“Hey, Marge!” No answer. The television laugh track, prompting the desired proletarian response, blared from the other room. “Marge!”
Enough of this. Rejavik placed his palm on the man’s shoulder. “Take me to her.”
The man jerked away and eyed him warily. “What the hell was that? It felt like an electric shock or something.”
Not quite the intoxicated simpleton I’d assumed. “I’m terribly sorry. With the cooler air, I sometimes conduct a little more electrostatic energy this time of year. There—” he touched the doorjamb “—it’s dissipated. Forgive me.” He held out his hand to the man and gave him a benign smile.
Tired of these pathetic niceties, he silently counted to three, at which point he’d spill this fool’s blood and get the answers from Marge himself. Either way, it didn’t really matter, although he just picked up this suit from the cleaners and didn’t want to get it soiled again so soon. He was hungry, but not desperate.
Thick, sausagelike fingers gripped his hand and the human’s energy flowed into his body like an open spigot. Ah, yes, very good. Palm-on-palm was much more effective than contact through clothing anyway, making thought suggestions harder to resist. Although palm-to-forehead was best, he didn’t think he could bear touching the man’s sweat-stained face.
“Take me to Marge, then lie down and go to sleep.”
Within a few minutes, the man was sleeping on a ratty couch, the television was turned down and Marge’s hands were clasped between his.
“He has eyes like Paul Newman,” she said, “and he’s tall. Had to duck under the attic beams and couldn’t stand up all the way. He pays in cash, six months in advance, but like I said, I haven’t seen him in a long time. Don’t remember his name being Alfonso, though. Do you think he could be the same guy?”
“He stayed in your attic room?”
“No, he didn’t like it there. Said he needed to come and go at weird hours and didn’t want to disturb us, so he rents the outbuilding at the back of our property. Not sure why ‘cause he’s hardly ever there, but, hey, I’m not complaining. Don’t think he’s into drugs or nothing.”
“When was the last time he was here?”
She shrugged. “Six months. A year, maybe more. Like I said, I don’t keep track. Pays like clockwork though.”
Wedged against the rocky hillside a half acre from the rear of the house, the wooden shed looked largely forgotten. Tumbleweeds lay among the rusted-out garden tools, empty paint buckets and other assorted junk that leaned against the outside walls. Some idiot—probably the one who’d answered the door—had parked a dented blue car, now up on jacks, so close to the shed that it blocked the small door. The woman unlocked it and stepped aside to let him pass.
The interior should’ve smelled stale and dusty, a perfect environment for black widow spiders and scorpions, but it didn’t. It had obviously
