If Angels Burn (Darkyn #1)

If Angels Burn (Darkyn #1) Page 20

"He has to be there. It was a huge house, a gorgeous old house." She tried describing what she had seen, and then added, "Did you find his assistant? I gave you her full name, too."

"There's no one by that name residing in New Orleans, either." He gave her a strange look. "As far as this vampire serial killer thing, well, maybe there are some details you forgot to put in your statement?"

"I told you everything." Except that she had operated on Cyprien. She wasn't losing her medical license because some sick bastard wanted to play at being Dracula.

"You know, when I'm under a lot of pressure, I like to get away. Just for a couple days, you know?" He sounded friendly, almost sympathetic now. "You got a boyfriend, don't you?"

She peered at him. "What has Charlie got to do with this?"

"Let's say you met a new guy and decided to shack up with him a few days without telling Charlie."

"I wouldn't do something like that."

"Let's say for the sake of argument that you did. This new guy is hot, but he doesn't work out, or you change your mind. Everybody gets second thoughts, Doc. You come home, but what are you going to tell Charlie?" He spread out his hands.

Heat rose into her face. "First, I wouldn't lie to Charlie. Second, I don't like what you're implying."

"Making up a good story would bail you out, though. Especially if it scares your boyfriend instead of making him pissed at you." The friendly tone grew chilly. "You could even do some stuff to make it look real."

"I was found knocked out, with half of my blood missing, in an airport bathroom." She stared hard at his hand for a moment—the ring he wore looked so familiar—and then looked into his eyes. "Would you do that to cover a lie you told your girlfriend?"

He shook his head. "But I'm not a doctor."

Alex thought of something else. "I promised Cyprien that I wouldn't tell anyone about this." Now that she had, would he come back and finish the job? She hadn't thought of that before.

"Sometimes, Doc, it's just better to tell the truth." He stood up and pocketed his notebook. "Until you can do that, there's nothing we can do for you. I'd look into getting some professional help."

"Wait." Her mind raced as she followed him to the door. "What about the briefcase?"

He stopped. "What briefcase?"

Alex hadn't told the police about the money, either. The briefcase and the money Cyprien had left were sitting in the back of her bedroom closet. Four million dollars would prove she was telling the truth.

Her gaze was drawn to the dark ring he wore. It wasn't a signet ring, but a square-cut black cameo with a white profile carving, but it was of a man, not the usual woman. The man faced to the left instead of the right, too. She wouldn't have noticed it if Audra Keller hadn't collected cameos.

Alex realized why the cameo looked so familiar. She had seen a nurse in the hospital wearing earrings just like it.

It's just a stupid coincidence. Common sense grabbed her by the throat before she said another word. Show him the money, and he'll want to know why Cyprien left it. Then you'll have to explain operating against your will on a man who heals spontaneously, which you're not even sure was real. The cop has a nice, fast car. Won't take him that long to run your crazy ass over to the nearest psych ward.

"Ah, didn't I see you carry a briefcase in here?" Alex asked, making a stupid show of looking around the floor.

"No, ma'am." He frowned. "Check into talking to someone, please. It will help."

When he left, Alex went back to the bedroom and pulled out the suitcase. The money, all neatly stacked and bound, was real. Which meant that Michael Cyprien was real. She had four million dollars for fixing the face of a killer—or for believing she had.

But no one would cover an illicit affair with four million dollars, so why would Cyprien use it to reinforce a drugged fantasy? She must have done it, and the only way that could have happened was that he did heal instantly.

Her stomach clenched. What if he is everything he said he is?

She looked up at the window. Vampire or crazy man, he might be watching her house. She wasn't safe here, and if she didn't move fast, she might find out exactly what Cyprien was. Her hands started shaking again as she slammed the briefcase shut and lugged it out of the bedroom, stopping only for her car keys.

Chapter Nine

Alexandra's office was deserted but for Grace Cho, who was working behind the desk copying medical charts. She greeted John but didn't stop working.

"Sorry, but I promised the boss I'd get these done today," the office manager explained. "She's referring all her patients out to other surgeons until further notice."

"Is something wrong?"

"Beats me, Father. She called here yesterday, snapped out orders, and hung up on me." Grace sniffed, and then her expression softened. "She's having a tough time of it. I guess I'd be paranoid, too, if I'd been kidnapped." The desk phone rang. "Excuse me, that's probably Dr. Haggerty."

Grace picked up the phone and answered. "Hey, Doc, where are you?" She listened. "Okay, but—" She halted and listened again, then scribbled down a note. "Got it. All right, no problem. Do you want to talk to your brother? But he's standing right—" She sighed and replaced the receiver. "She was in a hurry again, sorry."

John looked over at the phone, but there was no caller ID display. "Did she tell you where she was?"

"No, Father. Although I'm pretty sure she called on her car phone. I could hear horns beeping."

After John returned to Brazil, Alexandra had run away from boarding school twice. Once she had gotten all the way to their foster parents' home before the police caught up with her. In her tearful, angry letters, she had blamed him for her behavior, stating that she wouldn't have done it if he had stayed with her. But a lot had happened since Alexandra was fifteen, and she had made her feelings about him very clear that day at the hospital.

Why is she running away this time? "What did she say to you, exactly?" he asked Grace.

"Not much. She asked about the patient charts and whether we had some sample kits. Oh, and she told me to leave the alarm off in the office tonight." Her narrow dark eyes rolled. "She never remembers the disarm code."

He thanked the office manager, and left the building. Instead of going to the car he had borrowed from Mrs. Murphy, he went across the street to a small diner, where he asked to be seated where he could watch the building, and then ordered coffee.

"There ya go, Father." The waitress, a hefty older woman with silver, cotton-candy-fine hair lacquered into a helmet, brought the pot to the table to fill a dishwasher-rack-scarred mug. The movement made the loose roll of fat hanging from her upper arm waggle.

"Cream, sugar?" When he shook his head, she peered at him as if he had grown another head. "Something to eat? Get something in your belly, make you feel better." She bent over to add in a whisper, "Just not the beef stew, okay?"

He looked into her eyes, saw kindness ringed by flakes of shed mascara and crookedly applied eyeliner. "That bad?"

"I think it's killed a couple people." She winked and went to refill the cups for a couple of truckers sitting hunched over the remains of the breakfast they'd had for dinner.

The sky had turned black and John was on his fifth refill and second slice of banana cream pie when Alexandra's Jeep turned in the medical complex parking lot. He waited until he saw her get out and enter the building before he paid his tab and crossed the street.

To his annoyance, he found the entrance doors locked, and pressed the call button.

"Yes?" a tinny, strained version of his sister's voice asked through the small metal speaker.

"Alexandra, it's John. Let me in."

Silence.

"I'm not leaving until I see you."

An electronic buzz unlocked the door.

John took the elevator up to the fourth floor, where Alexandra's office was located. She opened the door before he could reach for the knob.

He had never seen her look so untidy before—deeply wrinkled clothes, hair falling in a confused tangle around her face—and her eyes looked almost wild.

"What?" she demanded.

"I've left messages for you for two days," he reminded her. "May I come in?"

"Sure." She stepped back, but she also looked around his shoulder, checking out the hallway behind him.

"Are you expecting someone?"

"No." She locked the door after him and led him back to her office. "Do you want something to drink? I think I've got some juice or something in the fridge."

"I just had five cups of coffee at the diner across the street."

"You're brave." She went around her desk, sat, and began shuffling charts.

He waited until she glanced up at him before he asked, "How have you been?"

"Not counting the terrors of abduction, amnesia, and near exsanguination? Wonderful, thanks. You?"

When did she become so hostile toward me? Unable to remember exactly when it had started shamed him. He groped for a neutral topic. "You've lost some weight."

"Six pounds, according to the scale I climbed on at the grocery store. Extreme blood loss combined with a mild case of stomach flu." She began delicately biting along the edge of her thumbnail. "Anything else?"

Tension caused pain to bloom behind his eyes, and John clenched his hand to keep from rubbing his fingers across his forehead. "Alexandra, if you're in some sort of trouble, I'd like to help."

"From Rome?" She inspected her thumb where she'd been gnawing and nipped off a sliver of nail. "The long-distance bills will bankrupt you."

So she had read the note he'd left in her room. "I am leaving, tomorrow morning."