Fane and Raina were already gone when I tumbled from the coffin. I hadn’t slept well, which was unfortunate; the undercover operation began tonight, and I needed to be on my game. I pushed thoughts of Tristan away, the same thoughts that had prevented me from getting a good night’s sleep. I missed him and if rarely seeing him is what the future held, something would need to change.
I texted Regina Ramirez to see if she remembered to stash the dark wig I’d need for the sting in my desk drawer. Gentlemen may prefer blondes, but these predators were no gentlemen.
I remembered, she responded immediately. It’s under your desk in a brown paper bag. Walked around the store for a couple of hours today. No luck. Nothing suspicious outside either.
I thanked her, then dug through my closet for a short denim skirt I hadn’t worn since high school and hoped it would still fit. I tossed it on a chair and went in search of the sluttiest shoes I could find. Unburying a pair of Jimmy Choo black stilettos with rhinestone overlays littered across the heel, I grimaced. Bianca had bought them for me for my high school prom, and my feet hurt just looking at them.
Failing to find a blouse risqué enough to attract attention, I wished I’d consulted Fane. Risqué was his trademark. Whipping open my lingerie drawer, I considered various alternatives and decided on a red camisole overlaid with black floral lace. Envisioning myself in the entire ensemble, I cringed and rescued a trench coat from the back of the closet. There was no way in hell I could possibly endure Quaid’s bulging eyes or abusive commentary.
I headed for the bathroom and unstuck a vanity drawer seldom opened, its contents mostly cosmetics. I applied some foundation with a light touch, powdered my cheeks with a rosy blush, swept my eyelids with a soft blue shadow, and curled my lashes mercilessly before applying two coats of mascara. Because I couldn’t see my reflection, I hoped I didn’t look hideous and nearly forgot to apply lipstick.
The precinct door swept open, and I hurried past Detectives Donahue and Franklin, but not before Franklin took the opportunity to look me over and mumble something I wished I hadn’t heard. I drilled my eyeballs into the back of his head as he swaggered toward the parking lot.
“What’s your rush, Crenshaw?” Donahue said, lingering behind. “Long time, no see.”
He was a big, gator-necked man, long on smiles and short on succinctness. Much like his lovable ancestors, he had a passion for Irish whiskey and racy limericks, both obsessions often overlapping his on-duty hours. At any other time, I might have enjoyed our accidental encounter, but tonight I had my head wrapped around entrapping dangerous men.
“Sorry, gotta go; I’ve got a date. Let’s catch up sometime.”
“A date, huh?” he said, spirited green eyes snaking over my trench coat. “Who’s the lucky guy?”
“Guys,” I said, tossing my hair and flashing him a toothy smile.
He grabbed his chest and stumbled backward. “Whoa. Guys is it?”
I shook my head and rolled my eyes. “It’s a sting, Donahue.”
He laughed and bumped my elbow. “I’m just messin’ with you. Ramirez told me all about the undercover op. You want someone to watch your back?”
“Nah, piece of cake. Thanks, anyway.”
“Sure thing. Hey, don’t be a stranger, Celeste. Good luck,” he said, more as an afterthought, as he raced after Franklin.
I found Quaid sipping a Diet Coke while studying the Missing Persons Board. I hoped another victim hadn’t been added. Although the men had abducted Meghan Whitlow midafternoon from Budget Bizarre off Sixty-Third and Rona Gonzales had met her fate in the evening, serial offenders often varied their modus operandi in order to prevent capture. Regardless, I had a hunch the kidnappers would return to the location that had served them well but vary the time of day. With any luck, they’d decided to stick to Wednesdays.
“If you need me, give me a call on my cell. I’ll be working the stakeout,” I reminded him.
“Is that why you’ve got that bag of hair under your desk? I thought it was a wet rat and almost stomped it to death.”
“I think the bigger question here is why you were under my desk going through my things.”
He shrugged. “I thought it might be food.”
I planted a hand against a hip. “If it was food, Quaid, that food doesn’t belong to you.”
He shrugged off the rebuke. “Where you headed, exactly?”
“Budget Bizarre on Sixty-Third, just off I-435.”
“Bring me back a bucket of Popeye’s chicken. I’ll pay you later.”
“No can do.”
“Fine,” he said, shoving sausage fingers into a pocket and pulling out a wad of wrinkled bills. “Keep the change.”
“I’m not getting your chicken, Quaid.”
“I’ll just ride along and get it myself.”
“The hell you will. Low profile, Quaid. That zoot suit of yours screams plainclothes cop.”
“Have it your way, Crenshaw. But we both know you’re going to miss me.” He waved a hand over his shoulder as he made his way toward the canteen.
I parked in the back corner of the parking lot. The stingy beams thrown off the dim security lamps proved accommodating, and I settled in, sinking comfortably against the soft leather seat. A dark sedan circled the lot twenty minutes later and my preternatural vision identified two males, late-twenties, both wearing caps slung low. I had my hand on the door handle when the car came to rest just outside the crosswalk. One man leaped out and opened the trunk. He stepped inside the store, disappearing beyond the automatic doors. He returned a few minutes later accompanied by a woman in her sixties pushing a full cart. Unless they’d brought their mother along for the nefarious act, the only thing of which these two might be guilty was sponging off of dear old mom.
After the three left, I moved the car to a well-lit area, turned on the interior light so I’d be seen, fluffed the wig, and reapplied lipstick. The Glock, stowed away in a thigh holster, was chafing my skin and I repositioned it. Removing the trench coat in the cramped front seat required a contortionist’s skill, and I dislocated a shoulder in the process. I popped it back into place, not surprised that the intense pain prompted protruding fangs. I flicked off the interior light and waited for my teeth to recede. Then I sauntered toward the entrance, swinging my hips and clip-clopping the stilettos against the pavement. Chuckling to myself, I assumed I looked less like a runway model and more like an old nag entering the Kentucky Derby.
Once inside, I walked every aisle in the store, twice. Afraid someone might alert store security, I returned to the toy section and selected a book, a puzzle, and a gothic doll for Raina.
Passing the women’s clothing section, I attracted a clique of mean girls who followed me around the store making snide remarks. They brought back more than one unpleasant memory of high school, igniting a slow burn as I suffered the recollections. I managed to ignore them until a spitball hit me in the back of the head. I spun to face them and resisted the urge to pluck the shield from my bra. I decided it wasn’t worth blowing my cover.
“Don’t you ladies have anything better to do?”
“Don’t you?” one said, afterward blowing an impressive bubble with the enormous wad of gum ballooning a cheek.
I turned around and kept walking, spitballs pummeling my ass like rubber bullets. They had great aim, even better salivary glands. Because they’d drawn so much attention to me by that point, I felt any kidnapper worth his salt would move on to easier prey. I produced my shield and shoved it under Bubble’s nose. “Move the fuck along.”
Her mouth fell open and she backed away, mumbling an apology. The rest of her entourage ran for the exit, and she bolted after them.
I was nearly to the checkout lanes when a cold blast swept through me. My heart began to race, every exposed vein throbbing against skin transitioning to a luminous green. A woman shrieked, and I closed my lips over angry erupting fangs and dropped Raina’s gifts on the floor. A throng of terrified customers darted out of my way, one woman blessing herself, another pulling her child behind her, as I dashed toward the exit. Once outside, my head swiveled in the direction of the highway, my sense of smell responding eagerly to the scent of fresh blood.