The Thief
Sola sniffled hard and then marched off to a napkin dispenser, snapping a bunch free and cleaning herself up.
When she felt like she could continue, she turned back around. “I was twelve years old, walking twenty-five miles on my own with more money than I had ever seen in my life. My grandmother regularly went hungry to make sure I had food—and yet there was all that cash in the fucking walls of that fucking house! And it was for him!” She blew her nose again. “I made the trip. I gave the money over. My father got out—and as we were leaving the jail, I remember him stopping and staring at me.”
Sola closed her eyes. “I can still see us, clear as day, standing there together, in the hot sun. I was thinking he was going to break down in front of me and apologize for being what he was. And stupid me, I was ready to forgive him. I was ready to tell him, Papa, I love you. I don’t care what you are. You are my papa.”
The scene played out in her mind. And all she could do was shake her head. “You know what he said?”
“Tell me,” came Assail’s rough reply.
“He said he could use me if I wanted to earn some money. You know, to take care of my grandmother.” Sola popped open her lids, got another napkin or two, and pressed them into her eyes so hard, her sockets hurt. “Like that wasn’t his job. Like that woman who had stood by him all her life was my problem if I wanted her to be. And if I didn’t man up, and she starved or got ill as she aged? Then that was an oh-well.”
“I am so sorry,” Assail said softly. “I am…so sorry.”
Eventually, she let her arms fall to her sides and pivoted to face him. “I decided to become the very best thief I could be. ’Cuz that’s what twelve-year-olds who are scared and alone and need someone, anyone, to help them in the world do. I learned how to steal and break and enter. How to lie and cajole. How to evade the authorities and get jobs done. It was a hell of an education—and I guess I should be grateful that he never tried to sell me as a prostitute—”
The growl that percolated up out of Assail’s chest was such a sound of warning, it pulled her out of her emotions for a moment.
“Forgive me,” he said as he lowered his head once more. “I cannot help but be protective. It is my nature.”
She stared across at him for the longest time. “And that’s why I want to hurt you. You were…another everything to me. You were my world, up and walking around on two feet. But it was a lie. It was all…a lie. So here I am again, reeling from a truth that is too ugly to understand or accept. The only difference is that I’m not twelve, and I’m done with trying to contort myself into someone else’s reality. I refuse to do that ever again.”
“I understand.” Assail nodded his head. “I accept all responsibility, and I will not implore you for a forgiveness you should never have to give.”
As a profound silence ushered out all sound in the room, she wished he would fight with her. Argue with her. Give her something to rail against.
This stoic sadness of his was so much harder to handle.
Because it suggested, as much as she wanted to feel to the contrary…that this man—no, vampire—might actually truly, deeply…
…love her.
FIFTY-FIVE
The following morning, Vitoria was sitting across from Detective de la Cruz down at Caldwell police headquarters when her burner phone went off in her purse.
“Would you like to answer that?” he asked her.
“Oh, no, Detective. This is all so much more important. It’s probably just gallery business.”
He nodded and put a folder on the table between them. “So you understand that you are not a suspect in any of this. You are not even a person of interest.”
“That is correct. That is what you’ve told me.”
The man pointed up to the corner of the shallow, utterly unadorned room. “And this is all being videotaped.”
She made a show of looking up to the camera and then nodded. “Yes, that’s what you told me was going to happen.”
“And you have declined to have a lawyer present.”
“Why would I need one? My car was stolen. I am a victim.”
Detective de la Cruz opened the folder, which turned out to only have a pad of white lined paper in it. “So I’d like to go over a couple of things again, if you don’t mind.”
As he paused to collect his thoughts—or perhaps to pretend he was—she glanced around the room. It was in dismal shape, the egg-carton soundproofing worn away where the back of his chair hit the wall, the brown carpet pitted and stained, the ceiling tiles yellowed with age. Even the wood top of the table was fake, the grain pattern repeating over and over across its surface.
It was vaguely insulting to think that people who worked in this environment were armed with laws that could send her to jail. If she were going to be threatened like that, it would have been more apt for the police to be housed in a military installation with bulletproof windows, tactical vests, and flamethrowers.
But no, these folks were more like data processors in a company that was about to go under.
“Have you found my car?” she prompted.
“The Bentley was your brother’s, wasn’t it?” He looked up. “Correct?”
In her head, she cursed the man in Spanish. And then said calmly, “Yes, of course. It was Ricardo’s. Forgive me.”
“I totally understand.” The detective smiled. “So last evening, around what time did you come out and discover that the Bentley was gone?”
“It was right when I called you. Nine o’clock, perhaps? Ten?”
“And you stated the key was in the vehicle.”
“I’m afraid I’m a little forgetful. Women drivers. You know.”
“Actually, my wife is a better driver than I am. So is my daughter. But that’s neither here nor there.” He lifted up the pad. “So we did locate the vehicle. Unfortunately, it was involved in a hit-and-run down on Twentieth Street. A police cruiser found it and towed it in.”
He took out two color photos, both of which provided different angles of the beautiful car smashed grille-first into a concrete median that went around some sort of road repair work.
“Oh…dear,” she murmured.
“At this time, we have no suspects in the theft.”
“No?”
“But we’re concerned the vehicle might have been used in the commission of a crime.”
Vitoria made a point of lifting her eyebrows in alarm. “What kind of crime?”
“Do you recall mentioning a man by the name of Michael Streeter?”
She nodded. “Of course. You and I spoke of him. He was the security guard I met after I arrived here in Caldwell.”
“He was found dead at dawn.”
At this point, Vitoria slowed everything down and made sure she chose her response and words well. The detective, she noted, was giving away no details in an attempt to trip her up.
“Where? What happened to him?” She leaned in. “Do you think he might have taken my brother’s car?”
“Why would he do that?”
Vitoria shrugged. “I don’t know. He just seemed…well, as I told you, he made me very uncomfortable and I wasn’t the only one. Margot Fortescue also found him worrisome.”
“Well, the car is being carefully dusted for prints. The CSI team is going over it with a fine-tooth comb.”
“CSI. Like the old TV show.”
“Exactly.” The detective sat back. “I imagine we’ll find lots of prints of yours.”
“Yes, you will.” She fanned her hands out. “I drove it for an entire day. Perhaps two.”
“I don’t blame you. It’s a work of art on wheels—or was.” There was a long pause. “Do you have any reason to think somebody would want Streeter dead?”
“I am not familiar with him at all. So I can’t really say.”
“We spoke to his girlfriend. She told us that he dabbled in drug dealing.”
“Well, there you go.”
“Mmm.” The detective sat forward. “You know, I’ve been either a policeman or a homicide detective for a lot of years. I mean, we’re talking decades. And I’ve developed a sense about things.”