Leo decided to ignore my emancipation proclamation, and said, “Your Department of State has elected not to require that a postmortem autopsy be performed upon the body of the deceased were-cat, this in keeping with the demands of the Party of African Weres. Their investigative arm is at a standstill, stymied by the demands of Kemnebi. Your Jodi Richoux—”
“She isn’t mine.”
“—is unable to take control and unwilling to follow my orders.”
“Go figure.”
“You will discover who killed Safia. And you will bring him to me.” The phone clicked off. I noted that the sun was well above the horizon. Leo’s lair had to be so deeply underground that no sunlight could penetrate in order for him to be active during the day. I’d seen vamps active by day once before, in a cave deep underground. And I’d seen a very old vamp, stinking of sunscreen, strolling the city streets once, just at sunset, when the last rays of the sun still cast a soft gray light. Could all old vamps day-walk? Was the ability to day-walk something only some bloodlines had? I remembered Evangelina’s comment about some vamp blood being poisonous and some not. I was getting the feeling that not all vamps were equal, and lack of knowledge was biting me in the butt again.
And Rick was in trouble. Maybe big trouble.
From memory, I dialed a number in Boone, North Carolina. Maybe I’d say my cell phone bill was a business expense and try to get Leo to pay it. Before now, I’d only e-mailed Reach with personal status and professional kill info; I’d never called him. Reach ran several independent Web sites for PIs and others in the specialized community of security professionals. One site was dedicated to vamp-hunts and hunters, a free, public site where he posted stats, kills, and hunters’ professional information. But if one needed his other skills, they came at a price.
He was a shadow in the world of PIs. If you needed something hacked or tracked, and if you were independently wealthy—like oil-sheikh rich—and if you had even a smidgen of digital info to give him, you could hire his services. But there was no guarantee of success, and he had ways to make sure you paid, success or failure. I took a breath and my financial future in my hands as Reach answered.
“If it was anybody but you,” Reach said, his voice hoarse and granular with sleep, “I’d send a virus to fry your cell, laptop, and brain, in that order. What are you doing up so freaking early, Jane Yellowrock?”
I felt like I’d been slapped. So I got mouthy, which always seemed to work when I was playing with the big dogs. “Late, Reach, not early. No rest for the wicked. I need some help.”
“Not wicked. You’re one of those God-lovers. What do you want? And it’ll cost you double for getting me up so early. You’re with Bank of America, right?” He read me my account number and named his fee. My heart dropped at the amount, but I didn’t dicker. Reach could reach anywhere and do anything, and with Rick in trouble, that was what I needed. “I’ll start a money transfer, if you approve.”
“Yeah, whatever. I need a location of a cell phone, a GPS tracking of its whereabouts for the last seventy-two hours, incoming and outgoing numbers and triangulation of any cells he contacted, the addresses and info on any landlines that he communicated with, and any texts that were sent to and from the number in that time period. If the cell is off, then I need everything until it went off. And if you can reach out like the hand of God and turn it on, I need you to do that too.” Reach started to interrupt. “Yeah, I know it’s gonna cost me big. Take it from the account. And I need a photo location.” With my thumb, I sent the photos to Reach. “Check your e-mail.”
Keys clacked in the background. “I see the number and a sucky-quality photo. The number is registered to Rick LaFleur, who happens to be . . . well, well, well. An NOPD cop.”
“You got a problem with that?”
“Not me. Who’s the babe?”
“I don’t know.”
“You say that like she’s on your shit list. You like the boy toy, right?”
I took a breath to keep from telling him to mind his own business. Once you contract with Reach, you and everything in your life is his business. “The cityscape is New Orleans. Using it, you ought to be able to give me a search grid for the hotel; even better if you save me time and just tell me the address.”
“What. You want me to do all your work for you? I’m not psychic.”
I was beginning to wonder. “See if you can estimate if any of the incoming or outgoing cell calls triangulate with the grid of the hotel address.”
“Dayum girl, you are loaded. What you been dealing in—drugs or sex slaves?” I figured he had just seen my savings account balance. He answered himself, “Never mind. I don’t want to know. This job sounds like fun.” I heard sounds in the background as Reach finished pulling up his arsenal of hacking and tracking systems. “Maybe I’ll only charge you the usual fee instead of double.”
“You sweet-talking devil, you.” I closed the cell and tucked it into a pocket, kicked Bitsa on, and roared off.
I made it to vamp HQ in time for breakfast—human blood-servant breakfast, not vamp breakfast, which probably took place at dusk, involved fangs, and did not require cooking. The headquarters’ chef put on quite a spread, with a dozen meats, eggs, pancakes, beignets dusted with powdered sugar, biscuits, waffles, pastries, crepes filled with whipped confections, and chicory coffee with cream. I wasn’t much of a coffee drinker but I poured a mug and filled a plate and sat with Wrassler, who looked at my plate, looked at my stomach, and chuckled.
I ate in silence for a while, pausing with a forkful of bacon and egg casserole halfway to my mouth when Wrassler said, “You know what I like about you, Legs?”
I grunted and took the bite. I had a feeling that the moniker, Legs, was gonna stick to me.
“You eat like a man, fight like a man, and think like a man. But you still manage to have woman stamped across your chest. Figuratively speaking. I love the leather look.”