When we stopped at a light, I looked over at him and realized—not for the first time—that I barely knew him. Until tonight, I hadn’t known that his parents were dead or that he was from New York. Hell, I didn’t find out his last name; Kirsten had mentioned it.

What is wrong with me?

Eli didn’t say anything when I dropped him off, just started climbing the stairs to his apartment. His back was straight, his chin up, but there was a sadness to his face that had me pressing down on the button to lower my window and call out to him. I could still fix this. Then I lifted my hand from the controls. What was I going to say? I’m sorry? Let’s go out on a date? I sighed and put the van into reverse, backing away down the alley. Eli deserved someone much more stable than me, and dammit, I deserved someone who didn’t just need me for my weird effect on the supernatural.

As usual, I ignored the little niggling voice that told me Eli had other reasons to want me.

Chapter 22

Miranda wanted results. Jesse forced himself back to Lexington’s La Brea Park file, and managed to make it through about ten pages before he couldn’t stand it any longer. He checked his watch, and decided to give himself ten minutes on the Old World side of the investigation.

When he was sure no one was watching, Jesse went back to the computer and ran a search on Thomas Freedner, the human servant of one of the dead vampires. According to Freedner’s driver’s license photo, the guy was the complete opposite of James Rucker: Freedner was twenty-five, whippet thin, and sported black eyeliner and pierced ears that had been stretched until they were big enough to contain one-inch metal washers. Freedner smirked at the camera, a five-foot-seven, 160-pound kid who seemed bigger because he felt bigger.

Freedner had four arrests, all for smoking or dealing pot. He had served time for the last two incidents and come out of prison with a T-rex tattoo and a massive chip on his shoulder. His last prison sentence—a three-year lockup for dealing pot to an undercover officer—had ended two months ago. Maybe Abraham had hooked up with James Rucker while Freedner was in jail.

The arrest record listed three known associates—two men and one woman. One of the men had been killed in a meth lab explosion two years earlier, and the other was back in prison, serving a ten-year sentence for assault. The woman, Janine Malaka, lived in a West Hollywood apartment. He copied down the address. Glancing around again, he picked up the phone. Scarlett answered on the fourth ring.

“Hey, it’s me,” he said quietly, trying to look businesslike.

“Cruz. I was just about to call you. I’ve got an address for the guy who made the specialty cuffs. Do you want to go see him?”

He looked at his watch: 10:15. The whole floor was bustling with cops, most looking tired or discouraged, a few still focused and intent. There was no way he was going to sneak out of there anytime soon.

“Can we wait until about lunchtime? I can get away for about an hour.”

“An hour?” She sounded skeptical. “You understand that this is Los Angeles, right? It takes an hour to get out of my parking garage.”

“I’ll figure something out. Just give me the address.”

She read him the address, and he did a reverse search on his computer. “Okay, computer says it’s a...bait shop? Are you sure this is right?”

“Look at the map, Cruz. Who would put a bait shop in Van Nuys?”

He MapQuested the area, clicking the little minus button to figure out the context. She was right; the address was miles from the ocean. “Okay. Meet me there at one?”

“Fine.” She abruptly hung up the phone, and Jesse wondered what had gotten her all pissed off.

He made a vending machine run and then dug back into the old reports on his desk—hard. If Miranda looked up from her desk, she would see him with his nose to the grindstone. At noon, he bounded down the stairs to forensics, running on Red Bull—he’d switched to the hard stuff—and adrenaline.

“Glory!” he sang, bursting into the lab.

Four different techs looked up, each one annoyed.

“Whoops,” he said more quietly.

“Sorry about that, guys. He’s like a puppy that won’t heel,” Glory said tiredly, coming up the lab’s main aisle toward the doors. She was usually the night tech, but even forensics was working overtime on this case. Her ash-blonde hair looked wilted, and her makeup did little to hide the dark circles under her eyes. “In my office,” she ordered, and Jesse trailed her toward a side door, feeling embarrassed. Her office was a tiny cube, with metal chairs and a cheap fake-wood desk. There were pictures of her children in a little folding frame near her mouse pad. “Sit,” she said, and he sat. “Now, what is this about?”

“Can you cover for me for, like, two hours?”

Her face went from indignant to skeptical. “Cover for you? Even if I were willing, how would I pull that off?”

“I don’t know. Tell Miranda you need someone to collect more evidence, or that I was down here for the last hour picking your brain and then I went to lunch. Please? You’re my only friend in this precinct.” He batted his eyelashes at her theatrically.

Glory just shook her head, smiling faintly. “Don’t you flirt with me, kid. I’m old enough to be your mother.”

“No, you’re not—” he protested.

She raised a hand. “Enough. Jesse, what is this about? A girl? That girl with the prints?”

“No. Well, yes, kind of. But it’s about the case. I have this lead. I just can’t...tell anyone about it.” He fidgeted with his shirttail. That sounded lame, even to him.