“Buffalo.” Alex leaned back against the wall and looked stupidly unaware of the fact that I was about to lay down my life for him, right here between the men’s room and the utility closet. “Stakeout. I’ll be gone for a couple of weeks. It’s starting to look like the trail of the guy I was after a few years ago is fresh again, and they’re shampooing the rugs here so I have to get everything out, anyway. Good timing, huh? Hey, Lawson, are you okay?”
My heart was lodged securely in my throat. Images of bloodshed, of bullets firing, of Alex’s lifeless body roared through my head.
“I swear to God, I’m going to kill you Alex Grace.”
Alex cocked his head. “Aw, Lawson, I’m going to miss you, too.”
I let a beat pass and my annoyance die down. “You’re going on a stakeout? I thought you were—you were ...”
Alex’s eyebrow arched as a hearty officer sauntered into the men’s room across the hall, newspaper tucked under his arm, dark eyes intent on us.
“You were saying?”
“Have a nice trip.” I could feel the scowl weighting down my lips.
Alex blew out an exasperated sigh, rolling his eyes. “Now what?” he wanted to know.
“Nothing.”
Alex crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Out with it. You can’t be that pissed off about Buffalo. What is it that’s making you look like someone kicked your puppy? Come on, you can’t hide it. I am an angel, you know.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t your only angelic powers wolfing down a pizza in one bite—”
“And the occasional mind reading.” Alex grinned salaciously and I wanted to crawl under the table. He never said it outright, but I had the overwhelming suspicion that Alex had done the occasional mind dip when my mind was ... indisposed. Like imagining Alex Grace greased up with coconut oil and reclining on a beach—that kind of indisposed.
Why couldn’t I fall in love with an inmate, like a normal woman?
I worked to avoid the blush that I knew was creeping over my cheeks. And here’s the thing about blushing: on chestnut brunettes a bashful crimson makes a pretty glow; ditto on those sun-kissed blondes. But when you’re redheaded (my Red Hot hair color only served to slightly mask my natural Crayola orange ’do) and have the kind of skin that people politely refer to as “porcelain” (meaning glow-in-the-dark white), a “hint of blush” equates to looking exactly like an overcooked lobster in a white button-down shirt.
“Can I go to Buffalo with you? I’m good on a stakeout. I come with my own donuts.”
“Why?”
“We’re having another shake-up at UDA.”
Alex rifled through a box and handed me a Styrofoam cup; then he filled it from the office water jug. “Big deal. You’ve been through that before.”
I took a gulp of water. “Yeah, but this time Vlad is my boss.”
He did something between a guffaw and a choke, and water dribbled down his chin.
I narrowed my eyes. “You deserve that,” I said, pointing to his wet shirt.
“Vlad? Your boss? That’s priceless.”
“It’s not just that. In the last month alone, Dixon has replaced every higher-up with a vampire. He said a couple of people retired, but I’m not sure I believe that.”
“Why? Wasn’t there cake?”
“And then there’s this.” I handed him the file folder and he squinted at it.
“Mrs. Henderson?”
“She didn’t show up for her appointment today. She never misses an appointment. And another couple of my clients were no-shows, too. Isn’t that weird?”
Alex finished the water in one final gulp and handed the file back to me. “Not really. Why don’t you just call her?”
I bit my bottom lip. “I think I’ll do one better. Thanks, Alex.” I spun on my heel and was halfway into the hall when I felt his hand on my shoulder.
“What are you doing?” he wanted to know.
I shrugged. “Just going to make a pit stop.”
“Don’t get involved, Lawson.”
“Who’s getting involved?” I snaked the check out of Mrs. Henderson’s folder. “I’m just doing a friend a friendly favor.”
Mrs. Henderson and her two obnoxious teenagers lived in a gorgeous Old Hollywood–style house in a quiet neighborhood off Nineteenth Avenue. I was pleasantly surprised when I found it on my first try. I had been there numerous times for Mrs. Henderson’s Christmas parties, but generally there was an eight-foot winking Santa to guide me down the tree-lined streets.
The house, usually resplendent with an impeccably manicured lawn and showy dusting of baby pink impatiens, was hardly recognizable. The lawn was overgrown and the impatiens were leggy and capped with drooping brown blooms. I continued up the stone walk and stooped on the porch to gather up at least a week’s worth of Chronicle newspapers and local circulars advertising great prices on everything from fertilized duck eggs to tripe.