After downing a suitably strong cup of coffee and indulging in one of the housekeeper's sinful muffins, she reprogrammed the magnetic lock on the lower door. Even if Holly had somehow managed to make a copy of Cyn's key card, it would no longer work. She made a couple of new cards for herself, tucking one in her wallet and the other in her bedside table right next to her spare Glock .9 mm.
That done, she made some calls to her old department. From what Judkins had been able to tell her, she was pretty sure this Kolinsky guy was Russian Mafia. L.A. had a large East European emigre community and since the collapse of communism in the old Soviet Union, the mob presence had grown exponentially. Cyn had a couple of friends in the department. Casual friends, work-type friends. The kind she could tap for information. Like Benita Carballo who worked mostly Latin and Black gangs, but might have heard something around the office. They'd gone to the Academy together and had been pretty close for awhile. Until Cyn left LAPD. Then they'd drifted apart, exchanging phone calls two or three times a year. Benita was one of those petite Latinas who was constantly trying to prove she was every bit as tough as the guys.
Then there was Dean Eckhoff. He'd been her training officer during her rookie year and had made detective right after that, eventually assigned to Homicide. Dean had twenty years in the department, and he was probably her best bet for information on a possible Kolinsky mob connection.
A phone call to Benita got a receptionist who took a message, but would give no further information. That meant her friend was on assignment, possibly undercover, and it could be anywhere from an hour to a month before Cyn heard back from her. On the other hand, Eckhoff was in his office when she called and told her to come on by.
Before stepping into the shower, she called Raphael. She didn't want him going off on his own before she'd tapped her sources who were sure to be more discreet and less extreme than his. Thankful for the impersonal greeting on his voice mail, she waited for the beep. “Raphael, this is Cynthia Leighton. I'm checking with some people I know about Kolinsky, and I'd really appreciate it if you didn't make any moves until you hear back from me. I'll call you as soon as I have something. Probably later tonight. Um, okay. Talk to you later."
What a lame ass message, Cynthia. Professional? No. Clever? Not. Christ, you sound like a fifteen-year-old. She sighed and hung up. Apparently the vampire's system didn't have the option of deleting embarrassing messages. Too bad.
She had stripped off her clothes and turned on the water when her door bell rang. Her door bell. On the front door. It took her a moment to figure out what the noise was. No one ever used the front door. Most people didn't even think there was a front door, since it was on the second level and around the side of her building. And besides, the door through the garage was so much more convenient. But she'd closed the garage door, hadn't she? Damn. Well, with the sun in the sky, at least she knew it wasn't a vampire.
Cyn threw on some sweats, then edged quietly onto her balcony and peered around the side of the building. She didn't have a camera on the front door; that's how little it was used. It was a sturdy, solid wood door with a deadbolt on a reinforced frame, and it was tied into the alarm system, but that was it. A local delivery guy stood on the small landing, looking bored and clearly wondering if anyone was home. She slipped silently back into her house, then hurried downstairs to pull open the door. He brightened immediately.
"I have a delivery for Cynthia Leighton?"
All sorts of snappy comebacks came to mind, but, hell, the guy was only trying to do his job. “I'm Cynthia. What is it?"
He indicated a brown, sixteen inch square carton sitting at his feet, then handed her one of those handheld computers for her signature. Cyn eyed the carton uncertainly. “Who's it from?"
The driver took his computer back and pushed a couple of buttons. “Raphael Enterprises? Right here in Malibu. Call came in, wow, way early this morning!"
"Really."
He gave her a cheerful nod.
Cynthia sighed. “Okay.” She took the proffered device and signed her name, then dug into her sweats for the twenty bucks she kept in a zippered pocket for when she went jogging. Poor guy deserved a tip. He probably had no idea he'd ventured into a bloodsucker's nest this morning. And she didn't even want to think what might be in that innocent looking carton.
"Thanks!” He tucked away the tip and picked up the box, handing it over to her.
"Sure.” She was already wondering what new horror Raphael was depositing on her doorstep. Walking over to the kitchen, she slid the carton onto the counter, then using her kitchen shears—which had never been used to shear anything tougher than paper—she sliced the tape on the top of the box.
The first thing she saw was an envelope with her name written on it in a flowing, archaic hand. Her heart skipped a couple of beats and she licked her lips nervously. The envelope proved to contain several documents, every one of which pertained to the late Scott Judkins. There was a copy of his life insurance policy, along with a check for the full benefit; a copy of his employment contract, with the death provisions highlighted, and another check in an amount large enough to make her eyes widen. The final document was Scott Judkins’ instructions for disposal of his remains in the event of his death. Cynthia skimmed it quickly, a sick feeling growing in her stomach the more she read. When she finished, she set the document carefully on the counter and lifted the cardboard packing square sitting inside.
"Shit! That goddamned, bloodsucking, motherfucking..."
Nestled inside the carton, tucked neatly into its own little niche, was a simple bronze urn. The cremains of Scott Judkins.
Apparently, guards in Raphael's employ agreed that in the event of their untimely deaths, their bodies would be transported immediately to the appropriate funeral home and disposed of accordingly. No doubt the vision of vampires feasting on their dead flesh played into their willingness for expeditious disposal, but Cynthia had to wonder how Mrs. Judkins was going to take the news that not only was her husband dead, but he had already been cremated, and, oh by the way, here he is. Fucking Raphael was probably laughing in his undead sleep.
Chapter Twenty-four
The Judkins place turned out to be one of those cookie-cutter houses that had cropped up by the thousands on the formerly bare hillsides east of L.A. They stood one next to the other, exactly alike except for minor design variations that repeated themselves every four houses or so. There were no yards to speak of, and if you and your neighbor didn't use window blinds scrupulously, you were treated to the intimate details of each other's lives. The great American dream of home ownership.
The neighborhood was empty when Cyn parked her Land Rover out front. It was still early enough that kids were in school, and in most of these families, both parents probably worked. A stay at home mom was a luxury they couldn't afford. Not and keep the house. Emily Judkins was apparently one of the exceptions. She answered the door when Cynthia rang, an average woman, with blond hair and tired eyes. Probably worried about her husband. Cyn sighed.
"Mrs. Judkins? Emily Judkins?"
"Yes.” The word came out a little shaky. She'd taken one look at Cynthia in her black, hand-tailored Armani and the Land Rover parked out front and figured Cyn wasn't from the local Homeowners Association.
Cynthia held out her hand. “My name is Cynthia Leighton, Mrs. Judkins. I work for ... Raphael Enterprises.” She came up with the name the driver had used this morning. “Could I come in for a moment?"
The tired eyes filled with tears as Mrs. Judkins shook Cynthia's hand, holding on a little tighter and a little longer than absolutely polite. “Scott's dead, isn't he?” she whispered.
"If we could go inside,” Cynthia prompted.
"Please tell me! Is my husband dead?"
Cynthia regarded the woman solemnly. What difference did it make, after all, where she heard the news? “I'm sorry, Mrs. Judkins. Truly sorry."
Emily covered her face, her shoulders shaking in silent sobs. When she turned away and wandered back into her house, Cynthia followed, closing the door. Cyn was not someone who easily or willingly hugged perfect strangers, or even people she knew only slightly. She was uncomfortable with excessive emotion of almost any kind, especially in front of others, having been raised in a virtual emotional vacuum herself. Still, she knew the expected forms and she really did feel sorry for Scott Judkins’ and his family. It wasn't that she didn't have feelings; she just wasn't comfortable expressing them.
Cyn put an awkward arm around the smaller woman and guided her to the couch, then found the kitchen and got a glass of water. She wasn't sure what the water was supposed to do, but everyone seemed to need a glass of water in a crisis of this sort. A box of Kleenex sat on the kitchen counter, so she snagged that on her way back.
Putting the water on the table, she held out the box. Judkins grabbed a couple of tissues in between sobs, which made Cynthia feel she'd done the right thing in bringing them. She patted the woman's shoulder tentatively, and felt even more awkward, so settled for a quick comforting rub before reclaiming her hand and perching on the chair next to the couch. “Is there anyone I can call, Mrs. Judkins? Someone you'd like here with you?” She knew that much from her police training.
"No,” Judkins murmured. “No, I'll be fine. I'm sorry.” She used a few more tissues and took a sip of water. “I'm sorry,” she repeated. “I guess I've always known it would come to this."
Cynthia searched for something to say. “How did your husband come to work for, um, the company, Mrs. Judkins?"
"It's all right,” she said with a watery smile. “I know what they were, what they are. Scott and I talked about it, whether it was the right thing to work for a vampire.” She blushed slightly. “I feel foolish even saying it. So many people don't believe they're real, or pretend not to."
"It's not exactly a secret."