The Isis Collar

I was hoping that once the unit dried out it would work again. Otherwise, I’d have to buy a new one and reinstall my whole phone book. I hate it when that happens—I have a big list of contacts. Plus, I hadn’t pressed the send button on the e-mail I’d just typed. So that was probably gone.



And for the moment, I was down to my house and office phones until I either replaced the cell or it started working again. I’d heard you could put a waterlogged cell phone in a zipper bag with dry rice and the rice would absorb the water.



If only I had some rice. Sigh.



I knew Rizzoli would probably want me to stay nice and safe here at the estate. He hadn’t put any officers on me after the break-in at the office. Since she’d apparently gotten what she wanted—the book about demons—they weren’t worried. So there was no one to make me stay home. Besides, I knew that I’d lose my freaking mind from boredom if I just sat around waiting for the other boot to drop. And while it’s never a good idea to piss off a Federal agent, I really didn’t consider it my life’s work to make Rizzoli happy. There were people I needed to talk to. When I’d used the landline to call in for messages left on my cell phone, I’d gotten an earful from practically everyone in our crowd. But hey—not having the phone was a good excuse for not having to listen to it.



The only messages I was sorry I’d missed were the ones from John. “Hi, Ceil. I’ve got something. Call me.” I saved it and went to message two. This time his voice sounded more unsure. “I’ve tracked the caster, but it has to be a stalking horse.… We should talk. Call me ASAP.” Another save and on to message three. Tension and worry threaded through his words. “Unless something’s gone horribly wrong at your end, you really need to ca—” Then a mechanical female voice: “End of Message. If you’d like to listen to this message again, press five. To save—”



I pressed 5. I listened, then pressed 5 again. There was an odd sound on the recording, right at the end. I couldn’t make it out, even after repeated attempts. I saved the message, just to be safe. Then I pressed the button to return the call. It rang four times and went to voice mail. “John, it’s Celia. Sorry I didn’t call back yesterday. I know you’ll be shocked to hear that things went horribly wrong, but it’s all okay now. Call me and we’ll talk.”



I started to hang up, but no, I needed to try to reach him. If he felt it was important, it probably was. I dialed his office number. I knew he often stayed there, in a bedroom next to his ritual room. Four rings later, I figured he wasn’t there, and I was just about to press the end call button when I heard a voice on the other end. “… help you?” It wasn’t Creede’s voice, but it was kind of familiar.



“Hello? Is John there?”



The smoothly professional male voice responded, “I’m sorry, our office is closed today. I’ll put you through to Mr. Creede’s voice mail.”



“No! Wait. This is Celia Graves. John left me a message and said it was urgent I call him back. I can’t reach him on his cell. Have you heard from him today?”



The man’s tone changed slightly, becoming more friendly, and I suddenly realized I was talking to John’s assistant, whom I’d met at a party to launch a wine John had helped produce. “Oh, I’m sorry, Ms. Graves. This is Andrew. No, I haven’t talked to John yet today. I sort of expected him to be here already. He has his first meeting in a half hour and he’s normally early. I’ll let him know you called, and if you reach him first, would you remind him about the appointment?”



An initial client meeting on a Saturday was pretty common in our business. Most people who require bodyguards work odd hours and expect us to as well. Well, at least I knew where he’d be later. Because Andrew was right. John was always early … for work, that is. For dates, though? He might show up hours late, if at all. I swear the man is as much of a workaholic as me. “Will do. Thanks, Andrew. Bye.”



After the call, I tapped one fingernail on the edge of the screen. I’d thought of asking for John’s home number, but I doubt Andrew would have given it to me. Decent assistants don’t give out that sort of thing. Given what was going on between us, I probably should have John’s home number, but I’ve never asked. It’s probably just how I was raised, but I always thought it sounded sort of … needy to ask for a guy’s home phone number, even though it’s fine for a guy to ask the girl. There’s no rational reason, but there you go.



But that was only part of the problem. And I knew it. I promised myself that I’d discuss it with Gwen at our next appointment. In the meantime, I had other things to discuss—with other people. And I knew just where I wanted to do it. La Cocina is a wonderful little Mexican restaurant in an iffy neighborhood near campus. It’s been the traditional hangout for my friends and me since my first week of college. Rather than repeat myself over and over on the phone I sent a group e-mail on my laptop, asking a few key people to meet me there for lunch.



Unfortunately, a glance up at the clock showed me I was going to have to scramble to make it to La Cocina on time. Sighing, I stomped back into the bedroom to change.



I dressed all in black, which suited my mood, and added only the garnet earrings that had been one of Vicki’s last gifts to me, along with a new necklace that I’d had made to match. The original one had disappeared when I was turned. Slathering on the sunscreen, I started out the door.



I hadn’t made it more than two steps down the stairs when the phone inside rang, which caused me to scramble to get the door open again and reach the nearest phone. “Hello?”



“Is this Celia Graves?” I didn’t recognize the soft-spoken woman’s voice.



“Yes. Who’s calling?”



She breathed a sigh of apparent relief. “Oh, thank goodness. This is Gillian Paige. Did John stay there last night?”



My jaw dropped and I stammered, “Ex . . excuse me? Who is this again?” Her name didn’t ring a bell at all.



Her voice was bright and friendly, except with an edge of worry. “Gillian.”



Another long pause from me because I didn’t know anyone with that name. The silence made her add, “John’s Creede’s sister? I’m sorry. I know we haven’t formally met, but I’ve heard so much about you. I wouldn’t normally call, but I haven’t been able to reach John and I’m hoping … well, maybe that he just forgot our breakfast. Except he’s never forgotten before, and we’ve had breakfast together every Saturday for six years. So … um, oh Lord, now I feel awkward … but have you seen him?”



John’s sister. I didn’t even know he had a sister. Or that he had breakfast with her every Saturday. So that made me wonder if she really was his sister and if this was a digging expedition? “Um, no. Unfortunately, I haven’t. I’ve been trying to reach him, too. I was supposed to get a call from him, but I … lost … my cell. Where else have you already tried?” If this really was his sister, she’d know who she should call first. Like I did.



She sighed, not in frustration for me asking but more that she’d already done everything she could think of. “The office and the winery were my first calls. Andrew said he talked to you and that John never showed up for his conference call. And I talked to Pam at the winery, but he hasn’t been up there for more than a week. No surprise since the vines are barely starting to leaf out. I was just hoping … he normally keeps me in the loop and I know you two have gotten closer lately.”



I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything.



She sounded really odd now. “Um. Well, sorry to bother you. But if you hear from him, could you have him call me? I’ve been worried ever since he had to go to the ER for the food poisoning last month. It just didn’t feel right. You know what I mean? He’s so careful about what he eats and he does have enemies.”



Food poisoning significant enough to go to the hospital? John hadn’t mentioned that. A fluttering started in my chest that made me take in a sharp breath. A powerful practitioner, capable of setting up a stalking horse, whom John was tracking. A talented witch, capable of blowing up a bomb inside a grade school, whom I was tracking. Damn. “Yes, he does. Hey, tell you what. Let me get your number. I’ll look around and see if I can track him down. Then one of us will call you.”



“Oh, could you? That would be wonderful. John was right, you are a doll. Thank you so much. I live far enough away that I can only make it up once a week. But I’ll come if you think I need to.”



“No problem. Happy to do what I can.” I took down her number, because even if nothing came of this, I’d like to meet her. I knew all of Bruno’s family. I’d met most of Dawna’s extended family and had the lowdown on all of Emma’s cousins. So why did I know next-to-nothing about John?



Because I hadn’t let him get close enough.



Because I was scared?



That bugged me. A lot.



I made it down to the car with no further delays. I would be a few minutes late, but only a few, if I hurried.



* * *



“Going a little fast there, weren’t you, ma’am?” I let out a sigh and kept my hands on the steering wheel as the khaki-uniformed officer approached my window.



“I thought I was going the speed limit. Isn’t it thirty-five here?” Okay, I’d been going thirty-eight. But most cops won’t bother you unless you’re six or more over the limit. La Cocina was tantalizingly close—just a block away.



“It is. But you were going nearly fifty. Could I see your license and registration, please?”



“What?! Fifty? No way.” I reached into my purse to retrieve my license and opened the glove box for my registration and insurance card. It wasn’t until I had both of those items in my hand and was passing them out the window that I actually looked at the cop. Gran had taught me to be respectful, keep my eyes averted, and answer questions honestly.