Will the women return to their former middle-aged dowdy selves when the effects wear off? Are there more sinister side effects? Could the three who developed a taste for blood be reacting to a withdrawal symptom? Maybe the craving is brought on by the cream losing its potency. Is that why they were killed? Will more bodies show up?
Christ, Burke, what have you done?
The intercom crackles on, alerting me that we are beginning our descent into Denver’s Centennial Airport. I’d been through Denver once before on a job with David. We’d landed at Denver International, not Centennial. Maybe this is closer to where I’m headed. I seem to remember DIA being forty minutes or so from the city.
If it gets me to Burke quicker, I don’t care where we land.
CHAPTER 40
THE JET CRUISES TO A STOP IN FRONT OF A LARGE hangar with the logo XJet. There’s a limo parked to the side of the hangar, and a man stands beside it watching our approach. I assume this is Williams’ friend.
When the engines have shut down, Shelby comes back to open the airstair door. “I see you have a car waiting.”
I precede him down the short set of steps. We’re being buffeted by a cold wind blowing, I presume, off the white-capped mountains to the west.
To the west. Even the mountains are in the wrong place here.
At the bottom, an XJet employee in jeans, a long-sleeved blue shirt and a Windbreaker welcomes me to Denver. He addresses me by name and with a deference I’m not used to. Avery must have paid well for that obsequiousness.
Shelby hands me a card. “Tom and I have rooms at the Clarion right down the street. Here is my cell number. When you ’re ready to leave, call. We’ll make sure the jet is ready whenever you are.”
At the same time he’s telling me this, I hear the limo engine crank up.
A private jet and a limo waiting at the airstrip—maybe I’ve been too hasty in refusing every perk of Avery’s inheritance.
The limo pulls alongside the jet. The back door opens and the guy I saw watching a moment before steps out. He ’s handsome, young and, as Williams mentioned, vampire. Which means although he looks twenty-five, he could be hundreds of years old. Lawson has joined Shelby at the foot of the stairs and the guy greets them in a way that makes it obvious he ’s met them before. It also puts me on alert that if he was a friend of Avery’s he may not be a friend of mine.
When the social niceties have been observed, he turns his attention to me. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Strong. I’m Joshua Turnbull.”
With his slight southern accent, the name fits. He is making no attempt to probe my thoughts, allowing me to be frank in my appraisal. He is just under six feet, a little thicker through the middle than most vampires I’ve met. He has blond hair and blue eyes. He’s dressed in jeans, a long-sleeved cotton shirt and a denim jacket. He’s wearing well-worn boots with a stacked heel and a leather belt with a silver belt buckle. He looks like a cowboy. All that’s missing is a pair of six-shooters on his hip.
Since I figure he’s sizing me up, too, I let a moment go by before motioning to the car. “Shall we go?”
His smile is neither overly friendly nor solicitous. Still don’t know if he’s friend or foe. Doesn’t matter. I need him for only one thing.
We get into the car. On the backseat there’s a tan Stetson. Turnbull picks it up and places it on the seat opposite us, sliding in beside me. The hat adds to the impression that he’s a cowboy, though I’ve never spent any time in Denver. Maybe everybody here wears cowboy hats.
We don’t speak until the car has left the airport. “The driver has the address?” I ask then, itchy to get on with it.
“Yes. The address is in Cherry Hills. Very upscale. We might have trouble getting past security.”
I look away, suppress a smile. We might have trouble getting past security? I don’t intend to have any trouble at all.
Turnbull snatches the thought out of the air. He smiles, too. Williams said you were a bit of a hothead.
I turn back to Turnbull and frown. Good old Williams. Instead of the Williams -can-blow-himself reply I’d like to make, I say instead, I’m not a hothead. What I am is determined. You’d know that if he told you why I’m here.
He nods. I understand you have a personal stake in finding this woman.
Not as personal as my friend who is near death because of her. And she’s not a woman. She’s a witch. It’s important you don’t forget that.
He’s projecting a smug cockiness that feels a lot like male chauvinism. He’s making a big mistake if he thinks he can control the situation.
I have only one reason for being here. Find out everything I can from Sophie Deveraux. As far as I’m concerned, Turnbull’s only function is as a vampire GPS system. That’s it.
Turnbull is watching me, sifting through the thoughts I’ve purposefully left unguarded. After a moment, he looks away. He’s not happy to be here.
So why is he?
To repay a debt to Williams? Or to keep an eye on me?
TURNBULL WAS NOT EXAGGERATING WHEN HE SAID Cherry Hills was upscale. There is a ten-foot stone wall stretching as far as I can see with a guardhouse at the entrance. Over the top of the fence peek the rooflines of two huge homes.
Turnbull raises an eyebrow. I hope you have a plan B.
We pull up to the gate. Before the driver can answer the guard’s “May I help you,” I’ve launched into the story—the story about just having arrived in town with my uncle Bull here from Georgia and how we’re meeting a Realtor for a look at a property. Only we’re late and she’s going to be waiting for us at—I look at Uncle Bull—what was that address again?
Turnbull stammers Sophie Deveraux’s address.
The guard smiles and makes small talk while he jots down the driver ’s name and license number and the limo’s license plate. Then he waves us through.
“You’ve done this before,” Turnbull comments dryly when the gate swings open. His tone is more grudging than laudatory. “What would you have done if he decided to call the Deveraux house for confirmation?”
David and I have used the ruse more than once to get into high-security communities. Usually I’m the Realtor and David is the client. Left my supply of bogus realty cards at home, though, so I had to improvise.
To Turnbull, I reply, “Place like this isn’t going to post for sale signs on the lawns. Most deals are made quietly. He’d have no reason to question us.”
Turnbull is eyeing me. He thinks, Tricky bitch, then slips into silence, dropping the curtain on his thoughts.
Why do I get the impression he was hoping we would be denied admittance? Once again, I remind myself to be on the alert. He may owe Williams, but he’s no friend of mine.
The exact address turns out to be a rambling, brick mansion surrounded by an iron fence. Behind the house are paddocks and a stable.
There’s no guardhouse here but a buzzer and a security camera located to the left of the gate.
When the driver rings, there is a moment’s delay before a female voice with a Hispanic accent asks, “Yes?”
I lean forward to be able to answer. “I’m looking for Sophie Deveraux.”
“May I tell her who’s calling?”
“Anna Strong.”
“And your business with Ms. Deveraux?”
“Private.”
The intercom clicks off. I settle back in the seat. The camera rotates to get a clear view of the car. The tinted windows will prevent whoever is watching from seeing in the back.