“Do you think Melanie is staying with him?” I asked Barbie doubtfully as I looked at the address. Bull’s apartment was in one of the city’s less attractive neighborhoods. “I have the feeling a white goth girl would stick out like a sore thumb around there.”
Barbie nodded. “I’m sure she would if she showed her face, which she’s probably not doing if she thinks her family’s going to burn her if they find her.”
I grimaced. Too true. “Of course, we’re not going to blend into the crowd, either.”
Barbie shrugged. “I’ve gone into worse neighborhoods and lived to tell about it. And our friend the Boy Scout is our best shot at locating Melanie.”
I had to concede the point, which explains how Barbie and I found ourselves standing in the dingy hallway of a seriously nasty apartment building, knocking on Rick the Prick’s door while the floor beneath our feet rattled from the rap music blasting from the next-door apartment. The hall had the vomit-and-piss stink of a subway station, and I wondered how a girl brought up on the Main Line could stand the place.
Repeated knocking was getting us no results, and the longer we loitered in the hallway, the more apt we were to draw unwanted attention. We’d been stared at and propositioned a number of times as we’d made our way into the building and up the stairs, but so far that was it. I wanted to keep it that way.
I reached out and gave the doorknob a good rattle, testing the strength of the lock. It felt pretty flimsy—I could probably bust it even without having to let Lugh take over my body and use his superior demon strength, something I would allow him to do only under the most dire circumstances. I was never going to get used to the utter lack of control that went with having a demon driving my body, or the sickness I often experienced when he once more receded into the background.
Barbie must have seen the direction of my thoughts. She put a restraining hand on my arm, then reached into the pocket of her black cargos—part of what I liked to call her “Stealth Barbie” outfit—and pulled out a set of lock picks. Some of her methods as a private investigator were somewhat less than ethical, but I wasn’t about to complain.
Barbie knocked on the door once more. “Come on, Rick,” she said loudly. “I’m not in the mood to pick this lock, but I will if I have to. It’ll be a piece of cake.”
When there was still no answer, Barbie shrugged and inserted her tools into the lock. I wasn’t sure I liked the idea of us bursting in on the guy—the chances were good he’d be armed, and he might shoot first and ask questions later if he felt threatened. I was about to mention the possibility to Barbie, but was interrupted by a voice from behind the door.
“Who the fuck are you, and what do you want?”
Rick the Prick, I presumed.
Barbie and I had agreed in advance that she would do the bulk of the talking, seeing as she had the tact and patience I so obviously lacked. So I bit my tongue and let her answer.
Barbie removed her tools from the door and smiled up at the peephole. Her looks and that smile were enough to stop traffic, and I bet Rick was thinking impure thoughts about her the moment he got a good look at her. Myself, I stood a little off to the side, where he couldn’t see me. I have a tendency to intimidate people—a tendency I’d honed and perfected over years of being the queen of attitude—so it was best to have Rick’s attention focused on the harmless-looking Barbie instead. Never mind that she wasn’t nearly as harmless as she looked.
“We’re looking for Melanie Sherwood,” Barbie said, still smiling. “We thought you might have some idea where she is.”
“Don’t know her. Get the fuck out of here.”
Barbie was unperturbed by his response. “Of course you know her, Rick. You’ve been dating her for about a year. My friend and I really have to talk to her. It’s very important. Like, life-or-death important.”
“Fuck. Off.”
“You think tossing off an f-bomb every sentence makes you into a tough guy?” I asked, unable to resist. Barbie gave me a reproachful look, and I tried to look innocent.