Tuesday

By the time I get home, I'm exhausted. The myth about vampires being creatures of the night is just that. Some things don't change when you become a vampire. If you were a morning person before the change, you will remain a morning person. I need my eight hours, so when the alarm goes off at six, I literally have to drag myself out of bed and into the shower.

The need for that first cup of coffee is another of those constants. I don't bother to get dressed before I plug in the pot. By the time I've slipped on jeans and a sweater, the coffee is ready and so am I.

I take a cup of coffee and go to stand on the balcony that spans the front of my apartment. I have a view that extends over Seaport Village and west toward Coronado. In early morning, the bay is quiet, the motionless water shimmering like liquid gold in the sun.

I sip coffee and let the caffeine awaken sleeping brain cells. Mom is arranging for me to spend the day at her school in the guise of an extra security person hired because of Barbara Franco's murder. There will be grief counselors on campus, also, so another unfamiliar face shouldn't be cause for alarm. The few teachers who might recognize me know what I do for a living. It's not too far a stretch to imagine a Bail Enforcement Agent moonlighting as a security guard.

And the irony is not lost on me that for the first time, my choice of occupation is not a matter of dissension between my parents and me. Not once last night did they mention how much they wished I'd give up this quasi-law enforcement gig and go back to teaching.

Carolyn didn't know the particulars about Barbara's death, but I'm assuming there will be something in the newspaper. I finish my coffee, grab my purse and start down for the parking garage. There's a newspaper kiosk just outside the elevator door. I drop in the requisite coins, pull out the paper and fold it under my arm. I'm busy searching my purse for car keys when I run head first into the last person I expect to see - my sometimes boyfriend, Max.

So much for a vampire's catlike reflexes. I literally bounce off his chest. He laughs and gently holds me at arm's length.

"Hey, sunshine. Where are you off to in such a rush?"

Max is one of those big, handsome men that makes a female's heart beat faster - human or vamp. He's six foot three and weighs in at a well-muscled two hundred twenty-five. He's Latino, with eyes the color of the ocean. The combination of suntanned skin, dark hair, and those glorious eyes takes my breath away.

This morning he's wearing shorts and a muscle shirt that emphasize most of his best features.

Most. Not all.

He's holding my arms and smiling down at me. I gather my wits together enough to cleverly ask, "Where did you come from?"

"Originally?" he says. "Or just now?"

I shake my head. "You know what I mean. When did you get back from DC?"

He makes a move to turn me back toward the elevator. "I'll be happy to fill you in. But let's go upstairs. It's been way too long since we've seen each other and I've missed you. A lot. Want to see?"

I've missed him, too. It's been a long time since we've been together - really together. Since I became a vampire, in fact. First it was because feeding and sex are so intertwined, I was afraid to let myself go there with Max.

He doesn't know what I am, of course. No human does.

And then I got involved in a thing with Avery, the vampire who mentored me.

That didn't work out so very well. In fact, because of that relationship my home got burned to the ground and my partner almost killed. Not things I'm proud of. But during all that time, Max was working undercover as the driver for a Mexican drug lord. That case came to a close and he was sent to Washington to clean up the details. He's been gone the last two months.

But now, here he is.

I stare into his wonderful face, heat rippling my skin with such a strong flush of sexual desire I almost succumb to the temptation to take him back upstairs. I think I've learned to separate feeding from sex in the time we've been apart, but unfortunately, I don't have time to test the theory. I'm due at Mom's school at eight, and I need to get David working on a trace.

Reluctantly, I extricate myself from his hands. "I can't. Not now. I have to go to the office. Come with me. There's something I want to tell David and you should hear it, too. In fact, you may be able to help."

The corners of his mouth turn down. "Great. Spending the morning with you and David. Just what I fantasized about all the way from Washington."

He takes my hand and follows me to my car. I use the remote to open the doors. When we're both inside and heading out of the parking garage, he asks, "Help you with what?"

"Wait until we get to the office," I reply. "I'll tell you and David both at the same time. Fill me in on your case. What's going on?"

He shrugs. "It's a wrap. Martinez's currency exchange houses in Mexico are history. The dozen or so businesses he used on this side of the border will be next. Martinez will have to find a new way to launder his drug money."

Martinez is the head of the Mexican mob - the guy Max worked undercover for as his driver. I sneak a sideways look at his face. "But Martinez hasn't been arrested yet, right?"

Max catches the real question I'm asking. He reaches over and caresses my shoulder. "I'm not in any danger. At least not yet. Martinez wouldn't be crazy enough to come after me here, even if he figures out who I am. He may be a greedy, ruthless bastard but he's not suicidal. He'll lay low for a while. In fact, we have intel that he and his family are in Columbia. At the hacienda of one of his suppliers."

"When do you expect to go after him?"

"As soon as we have extradition ironed out. So far, the Federales have agreed to cooperate. For the time being, it's best to let Martinez think he's in the clear. That it was just minions like me who got picked up. When the time is right, we want to catch him by surprise."

He sounds very matter-of-fact and unconcerned, but I know as long as Martinez is loose, Max is not completely safe. Sooner or later it's bound to get back to Martinez that the driver he thinks is in jail is actually a federal agent putting together the case against him.

But right now I'm pulling into the parking lot in front of my office so the conversation is put on hold. The office is on Pacific Coast Highway, in a low-slung, concrete building that used to belong to the Star-Kist people when tuna fishing was a thriving industry in San Diego. The building stood vacant for over fifteen years, prime waterfront real estate. A consortium of businessmen, my father among them, worked out a deal to convert the property to office space. He cut David and me a deal, and we got first pick of the renovated spaces - a corner office with a deck over the water. To top it off, we have designated parking spots, a luxury unheard of this close to Seaport Village and the marina.

Nepotism is not always a bad thing.

David's vehicle, a yellow Hummer with all the chrome bells and whistles, squats in its space. I ease the Jag in next to it. Max gets the hungry look of a little boy on his face as he traces a finger along the Hummer's door as he goes past.

He catches my eye and grins. "I've been thinking of getting one of these."

Right. Just what you need in Southern California - a gas guzzling monster truck. I didn't understand it when David bought his and I don't understand it now. Men and big vehicles. Go figure.

Dad's largesse did not extend to springing for new furniture, so the office is outfitted with stuff we brought from our old digs. There's a big oak partner's desk in the middle of the room, two oversize captains chairs perched one on either side. They have to be big. My partner is six foot six and weighs two hundred fifty pounds. He was a tight end for the Raiders and stays in shape.

We have a filing cabinet along one wall. Next to it is an old scarred credenza with a coffee maker and mugs on top, supplies underneath. We each have computers and telephones on our respective sides of the desk. A printer and fax sit on a small worktable near the slider that leads to the deck. The only other piece of furniture is a small refrigerator, just big enough for a couple of six packs. It's not much, but it's all we need.

The smell of brewing coffee greets us as we come in. David is busy at the credenza, his back to us. He's dressed in jeans and a Hawaiian shirt that stretches across the muscles of his back as he moves. He has the kind of smooth, olive skin that retains a tan all year long. He has short-cropped brown hair and blue eyes that can either sparkle with pleasure or cut you dead with cold precision.

When he turns around, he's got two mugs and he thrusts one out to me.

"Glad you're here. Just got a call. We've got - "

He stops short when he spies Max coming in right behind me. The animation drains from his face just as the oxygen seems to drain from the room. The blue eyes become crystalline. David's spine stiffens, his brows crease, his mouth thins with displeasure.

It happens every time. There's a dynamic at work here that I'll never understand. The two men have a lot in common. Both are big guys, both went to college on sports scholarships. David played football at Notre Dame. Max, baseball at USC. After college, David went into pro football. Max played baseball for a while until he blew out his shoulder. They're both adrenaline junkies, which explains their job choices when the sports gigs wound down. Yet, with all that, they can't stand to be in the same room.

I refuse to play their silly game. I pass the mug that David holds out to me back to Max and proceed to fill another one. "You were saying?" I prompt, ignoring the way David is ignoring Max.

David swallows a mouthful of coffee, eyes shifting back and forth from me to Max. Finally, he says, "It's not important." His eyes settle on Max. "So, Max, you're back from Washington, huh? For good?"

It's obvious from his tone what he wants the answer to be. I'm sure Max picks up on it, too, but he doesn't show it as he shakes his head. "No. There's more to be done." He puts a hand around my waist. "I just wanted to spend some time with Anna."

David looks at me. "So what are you doing here?"

That's my cue. I motion for them to sit down. David takes his seat, Max, mine. I perch myself on the corner of the desk. In as short and concise a way as possible, I tell them what happened last night. There's a moment of silence when I finish.

David speaks first. "I never met your brother. But I know what you've told me about him. To find out he had a child must have been quite a shock to your folks. How are they holding up?"

"As well as can be expected."

"Do they believe the kid is Steve's?" Max asks. "Are you sure this Carolyn isn't running some kind of scam?"

David shoots me a look that says it figures Max would ask something like that. But it's a fair question.

"I didn't believe it at first," I reply. "Carolyn offered to run DNA tests. And we saw pictures. In fact," I rummage in my handbag and pull out Trish's picture along with one of my brother's at the same age. "See for yourself."

I lay the pictures side by side on the desk. David and Max lean forward.

"There is a resemblance," Max says after a moment. "It doesn't prove she's Steve's daughter."

"No," I admit. "It doesn't. But if it turns out Carolyn is lying to us, there's a murdered teenage girl, another who's missing, and a teacher at my mom's school that may be a pedophile, or worse. I think it's worth looking into."

Max is shaking his head. "This is a job for the authorities. If the girl has been kidnapped, the FBI should be called. They are far better equipped to handle this sort of thing than you and David."

David frowns indignantly, but I speak before he has a chance. "You're right. If we knew Trish had been kidnapped, I'd be the first to make the call. But maybe she's hiding because she knows something about what happened to her friend. Her mother is afraid if the police find her first, they'll assume she's involved. If we find her first, we can make a deal with the authorities if we need to."

David quickly nods in agreement. "What do you want me to do?"

I pick up a notepad and begin to jot down the names as I explain. "The murdered girl's name is Barbara Franco. I don't know anything about what happened to her except that her body was discovered yesterday. Could you call your contacts at SDPD and find out what you can? I brought the newspaper. There may be something there to get you started. I'll be spending the day at Mom's school. I want to see this Daniel Frey in action. Mom will give me access to his personnel records, but you could run a check on him, too. I plan to follow him after school. See what he does. Where he goes. We can meet back here, say at six?"

David takes the pad from my hand. "I'll get started right away."

"What can I do?" Max's tone is resigned. He understands there is no point in arguing against our plan of action.

I'd actually forgotten for a moment that he's in the room. "Thanks, Max," I reply, smiling up at him. "I appreciate your wanting to help." There's a pause while I try to come up with something for him to do, but it's an awkward moment.

Max puts the coffee mug down on the desk and stands up.

"Well, I should probably check in with the boys downtown. Maybe we can have dinner tonight."

His eyes are guarded, but I catch the flash of disappointment. I walk him to the door. "I'm sorry I can't spend the day with you," I say, reaching up to hug him. "I mean it."

His body relaxes against mine a minute before he straightens up and reaches for the doorknob. "I'll be at my old office in the Federal Building if you need me," he says. "Let me know about tonight."

He nods over my head to David, and then he's gone.

* * * *

My mother's school is in La Mesa, about fifteen miles east of San Diego. This is the first time a student at Valley Vista High School has been murdered. Combine that with Trish's disappearance, and I have a feeling the media will be out in force.

And they are. I count four news vans in the visitor's parking lot. Mom advised me to park in the faculty lot, so I make my away around a swarm of reporters and concerned parents to the back of the school. Most of the parking spaces are filled, leaving me to assume teachers, administrators and staff are already assembled at the meeting Mom had called for eight o'clock.

As I make my way on campus, I'm approached by a uniformed security guard. He asks for identification, which I produce. He ticks my name off a list on a clipboard and asks if I know my way to the administration building.

I assure him that I do. He doesn't acknowledge that my last name is the same as the principal's, which leads me to believe he's been hired for temporary duty.

Valley Vista High is a typical Southern California school. Open, sprawling; the buildings buff colored, one-story stucco rectangles with red tile roofs. Like most schools in the district, it's a closed campus, meaning students are not allowed to leave at lunch. Because of this, there are lots of "green belts" outfitted with benches and tables. Made of concrete, not wood. Prevents hormonally charged teenagers from carving their lascivious desires into the benches and tables. It is not impervious to tagging, however, and no matter how tight the security, a determined kid can sneak spray paint onto campus and mark his territory like a mongrel pup.

A maintenance man is busy scrubbing last night's artistic endeavors off one of the benches as I pass. He looks up and gives me a nod, then returns to his labors. Here in the back of the school, at least, it's business as usual.

Not so in the front office. I spy Mom through the door of her office. She's talking with a couple of uniformed policemen. They are standing behind someone who is seated with his back to me. When she spies me, she crooks a finger, inviting me in.

I'm barely through the door when the person in the chair turns to face me. My heart gives a little jolt. It's the Chief of Police, Warren Williams, and the last time I saw him, I nearly killed him.