Chosen

There’s desperation in her voice, fear. When I don’t respond, it veers to anger. “Damn you, A

Again, she doesn’t give me a chance to answer.

“He told me he talked to you. He said you’d come to an understanding. He was optimistic that you were ready to cooperate. If it was a trick, if you’ve done something to hurt him, I swear I’ll come after you.”

I doubt it would make a difference if I told her Williams and I had come to an agreement. She has no reason to trust me. Better for her to be angry than afraid. Fear is debilitating. Let her nurse the anger. Anger gives you focus. Anger gives you strength. Anger keeps the i

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Mrs. Williams. I did see your husband in Palm Springs yesterday. I’m sure he’ll be home soon. Try not to worry.”

Stupid. Empty sentiment.

She makes that sound in her throat again—half gasp, half stifled hiccup. It’s only when she breaks the co

Crying.

CHAPTER 24

I don’t lie down, don’t try to sleep.

Instead, I spend the night pacing. Something has gone terribly wrong. What it is, I can’t say. I only know it involves Williams and Underwood.

And that is not good.

Lance thinks I’ve lost my mind. I’ve called him three times in the early morning hours. I tell him I just want to hear his voice. In reality, I’m terrified he won’t pick up. Irrational, maybe, but I don’t stop until he tells me he’s on the way out the door to the last photo shoot and that he’ll be headed for the airport by noon. He’ll call me when he lands in San Diego and I’ll pick him up.

I’m making yet another pot of coffee when the doorbell rings.

It’s seven a.m. Too early for visitors. Not that I ever get visitors. Not the drop-in kind. To get visitors you have to have friends.

I can count my friends on three fingers.

Frey will be getting ready to go to school.

David is out of town.

Lance, ditto.

My stomach twists. Not vampire senses, but human gut reaction tells me whoever is on the other side of the front door is not here to deliver flowers.

I flip the coffeemaker on, cross the room to the front door.

I realize how anxious I am when my shaking hand slips off the doorknob at my first bungling attempt to open the door. I take a firmer grip, literally and figuratively, and pull the door open.

Detective Harris nods in greeting. Behind him, a uniformed policewoman stands off to the side.

Harris and I stare at each other a moment before he says, “Sorry for the hour. I have some news. Do you mind if I come in?”

I open the door wider, the only invitation I’m capable of extending. My throat has gone tight and dry. Harris comes inside, the policewoman doesn’t. She moves to stand beside the door as I push it closed.

My first thought, Harris is human. It must be human circumstances that bring him here. “God. It’s not David, is it? Has there been an accident?”

He shakes his head. “No. Not David.” He pulls a small notebook from a pocket in his jacket, opens it, glances down at the page, then up at me. “You were in Palm Springs recently?”

Now I know how wrong I was. Whatever happened, it has nothing to do with the mortal world.

I nod. Wait.

“Did you see former police chief Warren Williams while you were there?”

“Yes.”

“Under what circumstances?”

“He was staying at the home of a mutual acquaintance.”

“And who would that be?”

“Julian Underwood.”

Harris already knows the answers to these questions. I know because he doesn’t once consult his notebook or jot anything down. I wait for the question he doesn’t know the answer to.

“How did Williams seem to you when you saw him at Julian Underwood’s?”

I frown. “How did he seem? He seemed fine.”

“Not depressed? Anxious?”

Hardly. He’d just secured the pact we’d spent the last year battling over. Can’t bring that up. “What’s this about? Has something happened to Williams?”

Harris flips his little notebook closed, focuses on my face. “We found his car in the desert. Burned. We found a gun and a spent cartridge. His wedding ring. His watch. It looks as if he armed an incendiary device to torch the car, got back inside, set it off, and shot himself.”

There is so much wrong with that scenario that my head swims with the enormity of it. I can only stare at Harris, objections ricocheting around my brain like buckshot against metal. He, in turn, stares back at me. Watching. Waiting. Wondering. Patience personified.

Irritating as hell.

I blow out a puff of air. “Does Mrs. Williams think her husband was suicidal?”

In my head I’m screaming, of course not. He was a vampire. A two-hundred-year-old vampire. His mortal wife would know more than anyone that a vampire that old doesn’t commit suicide. He’d outlive any problem he’s likely to encounter—or do away with it.

I’m hoping my face doesn’t betray my thoughts. Hoping I’ve scrubbed away all emotion except concerned curiosity.

Harris sidesteps the question. “Mrs. Williams thinks you may have been the last person to see her husband. Which is why I’m here. When did you return to San Diego?”

“Yesterday. Around nine in the morning.”

“Did you come back alone?”

“No. I was with my boyfriend, Lance Turner, and another friend, Daniel Frey.”

“And they’ll corroborate this?”

“I can give you their phone numbers.”

“What did you do after you got home?”

“Went to the office. David was there and our new partner. You know her. Tracey Banker.”

“You were there the rest of the day?”

“Until five or so. Then I went home.” I hold up a hand. “And no, I have no one to corroborate that I stayed home last night. I was alone.”

Harris shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. Forensics puts the time of death at around mid-morning yesterday. I’ll take those numbers now, if you don’t mind.”

Forensics? An immolated vampire would leave nothing but ash. A stopped watch maybe? The clock in the car?

Harris has the notebook open again and a pencil poised. He’s looking at me, waiting for me to move. I reach for my cell phone, call up the numbers for Lance and Frey, recite them.

Harris copies the numbers but I can tell from his expression, he’s only going through the motions. He doesn’t consider me a suspect in spite of what Mrs. Williams might have implied.

And I’m sure she implied a lot.

He starts toward the door, pauses, turns back around. “Warren Williams may have been relieved of his post, but he was a good chief and a good cop. Mrs. Williams doesn’t believe her husband committed suicide. I get the impression you don’t, either. I know he considered you a friend so I’ll tell you, we’re not closing the books on his death until we’re sure one way or the other. If you think of anything to help in the investigation, I hope you’ll call.”

I watch Harris stride down the walk to a waiting car, my thoughts and emotions so jumbled, I’m having trouble making sense of either. I close the door, walk zombielike to the couch and sit. Long after Harris leaves, I remain there, head back, legs outstretched, too shocked to do more than stare at the ceiling.

I can’t wrap my head around the idea that Warren Williams is gone. He’s been a constant source of irritation and I keep waiting for a sense of relief to overtake the sense of shock.

It’s not happening.

What is happening is a strong sense of doubt.

Is he gone?

Or is this a trick? It’s not entirely inconceivable that Williams concocted some elaborate ruse to disappear off the radar. Maybe he got tired of his mortal existence, his mortal wife, and set up an escape route. It’s what a vampire would do if he wanted to start over.