I waggled my files. “Dixon in? I need to talk to him.”
Eldridge flicked a page of his magazine, effectively letting me know he was bored. “He’s busy. You’ll have plenty of time to talk to him at the staff meeting.”
I straightened, clenching my jaw. “I need to talk to him now. It’s official UDA business.”
“Send her in, Eldridge!” Dixon Andrade’s voice was spun silk even as he called from his inner office. His hearing was 100 percent killer vamp, as was his olfactory skill, which meant he got a whiff of my Lady Speed Stick as I nearly jumped out of my pants. Disembodied voices never cease to creep me out.
Though it’s been over a year, I found that walking into Dixon Andrade’s office still pricked a little pang of sadness in my heart and gave me a small shudder of fear. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to walk into this part of the UDA again and not think of Pete Sampson, not think of the day I walked in and found my desk smashed to smithereens and his office—including the steel wrist and ankle cuffs used to hold him through full-moon nights—destroyed. The worst thing about that night was that Sampson was missing, blood was spilling in the streets, and Sampson—my Sampson, who had given me my first job, took me under his wing, and brought me more morning donuts than my pants could stand—was the chief suspect.
Now Dixon was lounging behind a desk the size of a Hummer, dressed, as usual, in a top-notch Italian suit that hugged every inch of his six-foot-plus frame. He looked formidable with his dark hair slicked back, his eyebrows pinched in a cautionary scowl. And that was before he showed his fangs.
“Ms. Lawson.”
“Dixon, hi. Thanks for seeing me.” I flopped down in his visitor’s chair and slid Mrs. Henderson’s file across the desk. “Mrs. Henderson didn’t show up for her appointment today, and neither did two other regulars over the last week. No answers when I call, no cancellations, nothing.”
Dixon’s dark brows rose, his eyes catching on something over my left shoulder. I turned and sighed.
“Hi, Vlad.”
If Dixon was San Francisco chic, Vlad LaShay had all the chicness of Castle Drac, circa 1850. His black pants were a heavy wool blend, his red damask vest was resplendent, and his frilly white ascot made him look like a dork.
“Nice ascot,” I said.
“Are we making the announcement first, sir?” Vlad asked, effectively ignoring me.
My ears perked. “Announcement?”
Dixon and Vlad shared a look; my head ping-ponged between them.
Finally Dixon shrugged; his broad shoulders nipped his ears. “She’ll find out soon enough. Ms. Lawson, Vlad is the Underworld Detection Agency’s new head of operations.”
Dixon grinned and Vlad beamed.
I wasn’t sure what caught me more off guard, the sight of Vlad smiling like someone who wasn’t perennially sixteen and mad at the world, or the fact that Vlad, with his face full of smooth planes and soft hints of baby fat, was going to be my manager.
I scratched my head. “Come again?”
“Vlad will be replacing Mr. Turnbow. Mr. Rosenthal will be shifting from support staff to finance, and Eldridge”—Dixon gestured to the blond vamp outside––“will be the new head of internal organization.”
“What happened to Mr. Turnbow? And the former head of operations?”
Dixon shrugged dismissively. “It was time for them to move on. We had a cake on Friday.”
Leave it to me to miss the one day that management sprang for cake over blood bags.
“Something wrong, Ms. Lawson?”
“No,” I said, swinging my head, “not at all. Congratulations, Vlad. This is a really great step for you.”
“So you said something about some missed appointments?”
“You know,” I answered, snatching the file from Dixon’s desk, “it’s really not that big a deal.”
Exiting, I shut the door to Dixon’s office and Eldridge looked up at me from behind his magazine, one eyebrow quirked, lip turned up and slightly parted to show off the scissor-fine edge of a fang.
“See you around, Sophie,” he said.
I hopped in the elevator and mashed the UP button. My heart was thudding underneath my Nina-approved button-down blouse; pricks of sweat were breaking out all over.
“Come on, come on,” I whispered to the metal box as it lurched its way up—we’re thirty-six floors down—to the outer world. There was a jaunty ding and the doors split open to sunshine streaming through the front vestibule of the San Francisco Police Department. The squawk and buzz of department radios and telephones littered the air. That was when I smashed—chest to cardboard box—into Alex Grace.
“Hey, Lawson.” Alex grabbed my arms to steady me and I wanted to crawl back against him—sans the box—and sink into those arms.
“Oh, hey, Alex. Sorry, I guess I’m just a little bit distracted.”