Blood Drive

Thursday

It's about midnight when I can't keep my eyes open any longer. I fall asleep, my head on the desk, Frey's furry head on my lap. I'm jerked awake by the blare of a cruise ship horn as it pulls out of the harbor. I sit straight up, heart pounding, eyes blinded by the glare of sun on water. The desk clock reads 6:15.

Frey is gone.

I let my head fall back on the desktop and groan. I just spent the night baby-sitting an overgrown pussycat. I don't know how he got himself to wherever he went. Hopefully, he waited until he had transformed back to human form, but at this moment, I don't much care.

It's time to get Williams and Ryan together and find out who that computer belongs to. With another groan, I hoist my sad butt out of the chair and look around for the wig and glasses. I wonder if Bradley and Donovan have realized yet that I gave them the slip. If they have and they're any kind of detectives at all, they will have checked DMV to see how many cars I have registered in my name. And while the Ford is registered under the name of our company, I'm assuming that, by this time, they'll know that, too.

I reach for the desk phone and call a taxi. I tell them to pick me up in the parking lot in front of Seaport Village on Pacific Coast Highway. I put the wig back on and the glasses and swap my denim jacket for a ratty leather trench coat I leave in the office for just such emergencies. I put the hat in a desk drawer and jot a note to David telling him I'll call him tonight. I optimistically add that I'll have Trish back home by then and will report to work tomorrow morning.

The power of positive thinking.

Now to get out of here without anyone seeing me - just in case anyone is looking. I peer out and around the door. At this time of morning, there's not much traffic on the boardwalk. A few joggers and dog walkers from the condos nearby. But I can't see into the parking lot and I can't exit that way without taking the chance of getting caught. A low wooden railing separates the decks along the waterside offices. I could easily climb over the railings and work my way to the front. The only problem will be if a startled tenant getting an early start on the day mistakes me for a prowler and calls the police.

A chance I'll have to take.

For once, luck is on my side. I get to the end office without incident. I'm just about to venture out onto the boardwalk when a familiar voice brings me up short.

It's Special Agent Bradley and from the proximity of his voice, I take it that he's standing out of sight just around the corner. He must be talking into a cell phone because I only hear one side of the conversation.

"Yes. I know. We just got here. Her car is in the parking lot." Pause. "I don't know if Frey is with her or not." Pause. "If he isn't, we have people at his house, at school." Pause. "Yes, I realize he gave us the slip the same way she did. But we tracked her down, and we'll catch up to him, too. And it's the computer we want, right? Frey is just the excuse we - " Pause. "Yeah. I get it. No, Donovan doesn't suspect. I have to go. He's gone for coffee, but he'll be back. I'll be in touch when I know anything."

I remain hidden until I hear Bradley move back toward the parking lot. He said Donovan had gone for coffee. The only coffee shop open at this time of morning is the one in the Holiday Inn across Pacific Highway. I figure he'll either be looking in that direction or watching for me to come out of the office and head to my car. In any case, it's either make a break for it now or be trapped here until the occupant of this office shows up and starts yelling.

Not much of a choice.

I put my head down and venture around the corner. The Fairlane is parked in front of the Ferry Landing, maybe half a block away. Bradley is leaning against the trunk, looking out at the water. I turn my back and stagger stoop-shouldered toward the bushes that line the pedestrian walkway. If by chance he does glance this way, he'll see an osteoporotic woman, clad in a filthy, torn and patched leather coat, stumbling with intoxicated resolve toward the bushes. A homeless woman. And that will render me invisible to anyone not wanting to risk being touched or asked for a handout.

I've seen it a hundred times.

I make it to the bushes and beyond to the parking lot where my cab sits waiting. The driver, a dark haired, olive hued Hispanic eyes me when he watches me approach. But I pull my purse out from under my coat and flash a couple of twenties at him. The uncertainty vanishes.

"Where to?" he asks in perfect English.

I almost do a double take and ask him to repeat. But I pull myself together and tell him to take me to SDPD Headquarters.

That brings a smile. "Ah. You're undercover."

I snicker. "Something like that."

I relax back onto the seat. I'm rehearsing what I'm going to tell Williams and how I'm going to spin the fact that I've had the computer all this time.

Bradley's phone conversation.

It brings me straight up in the seat.

He mentioned the computer.

How could he know about that?

The question barely crosses my mind before others follow it. What did he mean when he said Frey was just the excuse? And what doesn't Donovan suspect?

The implications make my head swim. By the time we pull up in front of police headquarters, I'm so anxious to run this by Williams that I forget to remove the coat and wig. The sergeant behind the desk actually holds up a warning hand to stop me when I approach.

"Whoa, there, ma'am," he says. "What can I do for you?"

I look at the nametag on his shirt pocket. "Sergeant Harvey, I'm here to see Chief Williams."

He's a good-looking black guy with short clipped hair and wide shoulders, but he's looking at me like he's not sure whether to try to placate me or haul my ass out of the building. "Chief Williams is not here yet, ma'am," he says.

"I know he's here," I snap back. "He comes in every morning at six. Call him. Tell him it's Anna Strong. He'll see me."

Sergeant Harvey hesitates. He's probably thinking he should frisk me before turning away for the brief moment it would take to make a call. I try to make the decision easier for him. I remove the sunglasses and shrug out of the coat. As I do, his hand travels to the gun on his hip, but his eyes never leave my face. He watches carefully as I let the coat drop to the floor. I'm wearing the same outfit from yesterday, jeans and a short-cropped cotton sweater that falls to just below my waist. The sweater is not form fitting, but it's tight enough that if I were carrying a gun, it would certainly show. I raise the cuffs on my jeans. No ankle holsters.

"To go any further," I tell him, "I require a red light and music."

That almost brings a smile. His shoulders relax and he reaches for the phone. But he's watching me, and I have no doubt he'd have his gun out in a heartbeat if I made any quick moves.

I don't.

He speaks quietly into the receiver. I can hear him, though, and it appears Williams has answered the phone himself. Sergeant Harvey starts to give a brief description and I remember the wig. I pull it off and run a finger through my hair. He amends the description. That seems to do it. He replaces the receiver and gives me a code for the elevator.

"The Chief is waiting for you."

I gather up my things, head up, and put a lock on my thoughts. I want to be careful what I reveal. At least at first.

Williams is waiting when the elevator door opens. He's looking at the coat. "You need a better tailor," he says. "That coat almost got you arrested for vagrancy."

He turns and heads for his office. The enticing smell of fresh brewed coffee greets us at the door. He doesn't seem to be probing my head, nor is his manner anything other than mildly curious.

I eye the pot enthusiastically. "Any chance I can have a cup of that?"

He looks at me, a quizzical half-smile playing at the corners of his mouth, and makes a go-ahead motion with his hand. "What did you do?" he asks as I pour a mug. "Spend the night on the streets?"

"Why would you ask that?"

"You have the same outfit on as yesterday."

I take a deep, satisfying pull of the coffee before replying. "You sound like a detective. But no, I didn't spend the night on the streets. Actually, I spent the night in my office. With Frey. You ever see him make the change?"

He shakes his head. "But I've seen similar. Don't see any claw or bite marks, though, so I assume he behaved himself." He settles himself into the chair behind his desk and waits for me to sit, too. "So why did you spend the night at the office? Why not your apartment?"

"Bradley and Donovan. They paid me a visit yesterday afternoon to convince me that Frey was a menace to society. They pulled out all the stops, including threatening to charge me as an accessory. Then they set up surveillance outside my building. Figured I'd run straight to Frey, I suppose, and warn him."

Only maybe that wasn't the reason, at least not for Bradley. I flash back on his phone conversation. He's looking for the computer, not Frey. And he knows I can lead him to it.

How does he know that?

In the second I let those thoughts filter through, Williams is in my head.

What computer?

I tell him. All of it. Then ready myself for what will come because I've withheld important evidence.

Like in the park, though, Williams surprises me. His demeanor is more thoughtful than angry. He inclines his head and says, Predators use computers to lure children into meeting them. They keep their records on them. Getting our hands on it is a good first step.

I nod. Max explained that. The trail left on a hard drive.

Now a flash of aggravation. Max knows about this?

I shake my head. Not specifically. I just asked him some general questions. But what about Bradley saying Frey is just an excuse and that Donovan doesn't suspect? Suspect what, I wonder?

We'll have to ask him the next time we see him. But what we need to do now is get that computer and start a trace. Call Ryan. The sooner we do it the better it is for Trish.

He swivels the phone on his desk toward me and I dial Ryan's number. He picks up, and I ask if he can meet me before school. He agrees.

Williams's voice interposes itself in my head, telling me that he'll send me in a squad car to pick up Ryan. I pass the information on to Ryan and ask, "Will your parents be home?"

"Yeah," he answers. "They don't leave for work until eight or so."

"Good. It will give me a chance to meet them and tell them what's going on. It's time they know."

There's a brief pause, then he says, "Okay. But they're probably going to be pissed."

I can't help smiling. "Probably. I'll try to smooth things over."

There's a pause, then Ryan adds softly, "They don't know what's on the computer. I just told them it has to do with Trish's running away. I couldn't let them see - "

"I understand, Ryan. You've been a good friend to Trish. I'll make sure they know that."

We hang up and Williams again reaches for the phone. He dials a two-digit number and tells dispatch to send a squad car around to the back. He's specific as to which squad car he wants. He's just replaced the receiver when the phone rings. He listens, throws me a half-smile, and says into the phone, "Thanks, Sergeant Harvey. Give me five minutes and send them up."

"Better take the stairs out of here," he says. "Our favorite special agents are on their way up. Probably to complain about you." He glances at his watch. "I'll meet you and Ryan at the Mission Cafe in a half hour."