Rick was quiet, his face in cop mode--a hard, unfeeling mask. After a long moment he said, "I've heard of Renee Damours. Word is, she made a play for the master of the Rousseau Clan about thirty years ago and lost to Bettina before she disappeared into the city's underbelly. But all we got is rumor and gossip. We don't really know anything."
He turned to the vamp file cabinet and opened the second drawer, withdrawing two files. I hadn't gotten to this batch in my study. One thin file was a history of the purge. A thicker one was a history of the Rousseau Clan, which I took, and, at his instruction, thumbed to a section on the Damours, all five of them. I flipped to a page detailing Renee's history, to discover that most of the info was speculation and rumor gleaned from unnamed sources; it was only marginally better than nothing. According to the file, Renee Damours didn't attend parties, didn't attend gatherings--the command performances of the entire vamp assembly to deal with matters of the vampire state or the health of its members--no matter who demanded them. She didn't travel, and didn't troll for fresh meat. "She's a stay-at-home kinda gal," I said, "for decades. She's got to have cabin fever."
Rick hummed a note of amused agreement.
She seldom left her lair, which was rumored to be in the Warehouse District, the same part of the city where the most recent vamp party took place--when I saw the witch glamour and the watching witches. Not likely that the witchy happenings were an accidental concurrence; at this point, I wasn't willing to believe in coincidence.
Rick passed me another sheaf of papers, photocopies of letters and news accounts with a face sheet titled "History of the Purge." Date of occurrence: the late seventeen hundreds. Page two was a summary composed by Elizabeth Caldwell, who noted that Renee Damours had brought her chained family to New Orleans from Haiti and immediately purchased several large blocks of land, including some along the Mississippi, in the Warehouse District. Again, we were back to the Warehouse District. The entire district had smelled vampy. Renee could easily have a hidden lair there.
Rick murmured, "Want to hire me to look up the current owners of her original land?"
Without looking up I said, "Sure. Just put it on my tab." I couldn't help the wry smile that pulled on my mouth. I had hired Rick when he was undercover to look into some land ownership and purchases. So far, I hadn't paid him.
"You are going to pay me for my time, aren't you?"
I pulled a folded money order from my jeans pocket and held it out to him. He grunted, unfolded the paper to check the amount, and grunted again. "Nice. This is more than I was hired for. What's the rest? Tip? Or do I have to . . . work it off?"
His question had a decidedly erotic tone to it and I didn't have time for flirting, not with Angelina and Little Evan missing. "Tip. Definitely tip."
"Spoilsport."
"But you can buy the beer on your tip money on Saturday night. After the children are back home safe and sound."
"Deal." His voice was toneless again, all business, the life-or-death business of being a cop. I sometimes envied them the ability to turn that stony, cold mien off and on.
I felt a vibration and Rick pulled a cell phone from his pocket, opened the cover. His brows went up as he checked a text message. "I'm being shunted to the special cases division. I have a conference today at five in"--he checked the text again--"room 666. What kinda meeting place is this?" He closed the cell and put in back in his pocket. " 'Bout time the brass gave me something to do besides paperwork. I hate paperwork. What?"
I pulled my brows back down and stuck my eyes back on the file. "Nothing. Can I get copies of these files? It's a hassle coming all the way down here every time I need info."
"You'll miss me, but I'll see what I can do."
"I haven't slept in two days. I'm heading back to my bed."
Rick leaned in and pushed back the hair that brushed my cheek. Tucked it behind my ear. His fingertips were warm on my skin. "Alone?"
I spluttered with laughter. This guy could twist anything into innuendo. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I certainly hope so."
So tired I could barely think, I made it home and to my rumpled bed, where I stole four uninterrupted hours of sleep, waking only when someone knocked on the front door, three distinct taps, leaving the wards sizzling in reaction. It had to have hurt, telling me that it wasn't a delivery or a salesman. It was more imperative than that. I had a visitor. Or maybe a Visitor. The queen of England would knock like that, taps to announce herself, not to ask admission.