“I think we’ll be okay,” she said, smiling sweetly. “See you in the morning.” Nina and Vlad noiselessly disappeared out the front door and I tumbled the lock behind them.
I would have liked to be polished and put together to head down to UDA (especially since it would very likely only be me, Mr. Sampson, and the dim glow from the safety lights). But it was late and wanton comfort won over wanton sexy, so I compromised: a pair of slim black yoga pants and a clean University of San Francisco sweatshirt. Impressive, right? I raked a brush through my mass of red curls and then coaxed them into a bouncy ponytail, then hastily swiped on a bit of mascara and let cherry ChapStick stand in for gloss.
I headed to the elevator and realized that I’d never been more thankful to have underground parking than I was on this night, which seemed darker and colder than most city nights.
Within minutes I was in the SFPD parking lot. There was a half-rusted Chevette in my usual parking space, and it seemed as if the majority of the city was spending its Wednesday night at the police station. The lot was nearly full, and squad cars kept coming and going, uniformed officers guiding cuffed suspects through the glassed-in side door. I circled the station once and had to park nearly a block away, wedging my little car between a behemoth SUV and a station wagon packed to the ceiling with newspapers and soda cans.
I shimmied out of the car and wedged my house keys through my fingers like claws, then walked with purpose (and terror) toward the police station. When I got there, I found myself doing a quick scan for Detective Hayes’s white SUV and then scolding myself for hoping he was there. First of all: he might be attractively hot with those piercing blue eyes and that sexy, playful half smile, but he was obnoxious, with those beady blue eyes and that smug, cocky half smile. Second of all: I looked like a cross between a redheaded troll doll and college dropout Barbie—not exactly hot-obnoxious-man-impressing material. I slipped into the elevators and headed down to UDA.
When the doors opened on the UDA foyer, the place was deserted. Pale yellow emergency lights hummed from the back corners, but everything else remained completely blanketed in the stiff darkness. I picked my way through the waiting room chairs and vacant desks and hurried down the hallway, my sneakers squeaking on the linoleum. Empty in the shadows, the UDA offices looked far more frightening than they did in broad daylight, dotted with warlocks, vampires, and general demon folk. I shuddered.
I flicked on the light in my little front office and paused when I felt the grit under my tennis shoe. I looked down and my pulse quickened. There was a scattering of broken glass on the floor. I kicked aside the little shards and hugged my elbows, a cold wave of fear washing over me.
“Hello?” My voice came out hollow and tinny in the empty room. “Pete? It’s me, Sophie.” I picked my way through the pieces of glass and sucked in a breath when I saw five ragged tears in the fainting couch fabric. I fit my fingers over them. “Claw marks,” I whispered, my blood running cold.
There was a huge gash on the side of my desk, and my chair had been tossed across the room, shattering a cheery painting of the Golden Gate Bridge. I stepped over the cracked pot of my spider plant and swallowed hard, seeing the splinters along the door frame. Mr. Sampson’s office door was hanging by one hinge; the gold letters that used to spell out PETE SAMPSON, PRESIDENT on the door were scratched and shattered. I pushed the door aside and stepped into his office. The room was dark except for the ominous green glow from the bank light on his desk; its little gold ball bobbed on the end of its pull chain.
“Pete?” I asked again.
There was no answer, and the entire room was still as I edged my way behind Sampson’s big desk, pushing his chair aside and examining the wall chains.
“Oh no.” I sucked in a breath, my fingers running over one open shackle, the metal distorted, folded over itself. I followed the ankle chain to the eyebolt lying on the ground in a shower of powdery cement crumbs, the place in the wall where the eyebolt was held was now puckered and cracked.
“Oh, Mr. Sampson,” I whispered. “What happened here?”
I dropped the shackle and headed for the elevator, digging in my shoulder bag for the business card Detective Hayes had given me and flipping open my cell phone. I punched in his number and transferred my weight from foot to foot, counting each ring.
“Parker?” I asked the second I heard the phone connect. “Detective?”
Detective Hayes’s voice was sleep-heavy and gruff. “Parker is fine, Lawson.”
“Wow,” I said, pushing the button on the elevator. “You knew it was me. You are a good detective.”
“Good enough to have caller ID. Did your new houseguest take a bite out of you or is there another reason for this?” I heard him pause; then I heard the groan of a mattress, “One A.M. phone call?”