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  “For what?”

  “For a studio.” Zack stops in front of a large canvas spread in the middle of the floor. “The northern exposure means the space is bright, but the light is even. Not shining directly onto the canvas or in the artist’s eyes.”

  “So you know a little about art, huh?”

  “This must be the last project she worked on.” He squats down for a closer look.

  I join him. All I see is an explosion of red in a pattern that resembles poppies, intertwined with blotches of bright blue, orange, and dribbles of yellow.

  “It’s beautiful,” Zack says. “Primitive and alive. Soulful.”

  “Yeah. Just what I was thinking.” I stand back and let Zack continue his rapt study of the canvas. I move around the room looking for anything that might give us a clue as to what became of Amy. I stop in front of a credenza covered in plastic and topped with cans, bottles, and tubes of paint. There are brushes soaking in jars of some kind of oil. Others are standing upright in an old ceramic vase. A couple have been left to dry on the top of the workspace.

  I pick one up. The bristles are stiff with red paint. The other one on the credenza is caked with orange.

  Zack has come up behind me. He takes the brush from my hand. “Remember when I asked what kind of woman would go on a trip without her makeup and toothbrush?”

  “Yeah.”

  He turns the brush slowly in his hand. “Well, what kind of artist walks out of her studio and leaves an expensive brush to dry without cleaning it first?”

  “I’m guessing the answer’s the same.”

  He returns to the painting. The canvas is stretched out on the floor, a taut plastic tarp underneath, anchored on the four corners with tacks. There’s a heavy blotch of bright red paint that bleeds from the corners of the canvas onto the tarp as if in her exuberance, Amy overshot her target. It’s at these places that Zack focuses his attention. I remember what Haskell said about those short, intense brushstrokes. What Zack said about Amy being controlled and deliberate.

  He looks up at me. “I’m going to call Forensics. I think there might be more than paint here.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Zack and I are seated on an outside patio in a restaurant not far from Amy’s condo. Our forensics team is busy inside, and since we just seemed to be in the way, Zack and I left to grab lunch while we await their findings.

  “You really think there might be blood on the floor?” I ask to break the silence that’s fallen.

  Zack takes a pull of his iced tea. “I think it’s worth looking into. Call it a hunch.”

  Or a Were sensibility. Could it be Zack was able to smell two-week-old blood through the paint? If so, neat trick.

  Silence descends once more. We’ve exhausted the subject of the case. My choices are small talk or the topic we’ve been avoiding all day. I suck at small talk. So I drag in a deep breath and go for the second. “It’s lunchtime. Time for that awkward conversation you and I need to have.”

  It’s hot. Zack and I have both shed our jackets. Our food has been in front of us for all of two minutes. He’s gone for a double portion of slaw with his pulled pork sandwich. I’ve picked the corn on the cob and the onion rings. Admittedly the corn was a mistake. The kernels are shriveled like raisins from sitting in water for too long.

  Zack makes a face. “I was hoping you’d forgotten.” He scrunches his napkin into a ball and tosses it on the table. “Looks like it’ll be an early dinner tonight. Next time, I pick the place.”

  “Don’t change the subject. What are you doing here?”

  “I’d say enjoying barbecue, but that would be a bald-faced lie.” He pushes his plate back, then combs his fingers through his hair. I notice it looks a little lighter in the full sun.

  I lean back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest. “You know what I mean.”

  He sighs. “You’re pissed.”

  “You thought I wouldn’t be?”

  He takes a bite of his sandwich and chews. Since he’s so eloquently expressed his opinion of the food, I know he’s stalling. I’m not one of those people who feel the need to fill gaps of silence with needless chatter, so I just wait.

  Finally he answers, “I guess I hoped you wouldn’t be.” He leans forward, forearms on the table. “I remember what you said about not being able to afford anything complicated. I’ve played by your rules. No cards. No flowers.” There’s a long pause and then he asks, “I suppose it’s too much to hope for that you’re pissed because I didn’t send flowers?”

  “Way too much to hope for. At the airport we agreed there wouldn’t be any calls, any emails . . .”

  He nods. “And there haven’t been. Look, I didn’t come here with the expectation that we’d pick up where we left off in Charleston. You made your feelings perfectly clear.”

  I’m not sure I believe him, but I desperately want to. “Then why are you here?”

  Zack wears a ring on his right hand. It’s gold and reminiscent of a wedding band, engraved with a pattern resembling a tangle of thorns. He taps it three times on the table. Then the explanation comes out in a rush. “Let’s just say I’ve been struggling with my career path.”

  Not the answer I was expecting. It brings a rush of relief right along with a not so surprising flash of disappointment.

  “Go on,” I say.

  “After the case we worked in Charleston, there was a lot of pressure for me to join the hostage rescue team. It was like at the Academy, only worse.”

  “I don’t understand. What happened at the Academy?”

  He shrugs. “My marksmanship scores were perfect. They recommended me for sniper training. Wanted me on the HRT then. It’s not what I wanted.”

  “Because?”

  “I have my reasons. Can we just leave it at that?”

  I nod. “For now.” The guys in HRT are a tight-knit group. It’d be tough to hide going furry three nights a month in that environment. That’s reason enough for him to avoid the assignment. But I’m somehow left with the impression it’s more than that.

  There’s a moment of silence. I can tell he’s searching for the right words.

  “I’ve been struggling to find my place. Then I bumped into your boss at Quantico a few months ago. We had a couple beers. I asked about you. He mentioned your partner was leaving. I think my place is here. You’re the best field agent I’ve ever met. I want to work with you again, Emma.”

  “There are plenty of good agents.” I lean forward and lower my voice. “Ones you haven’t slept with.”

  He looks away briefly before responding. “You might find this hard to believe, but I don’t generally have trouble finding sexual companionship. Finding a partner that makes me better than I am alone? That’s far more difficult.”

  He says the word partner as though it means something special. Having worked alongside him, I don’t doubt it does.

  “That month in Charleston,” he continues, “we were good together. Damned good. No one has closed as many cases in as little time as you. You’ve got one of the best clearance records in the Bureau.”

  I brush off the compliment. “I’ve had some terrific partners. I’ve been lucky.”

  “Luck doesn’t have anything to do with it. I’ve seen you in action. The way you handled the Mason interrogation? It was magic.”

  He’s not wrong. It was magic. In part. After all, a Siren is a Siren. Every once in a while I step over the line, help things along, insinuate myself into the mind of someone in order to extract truth or exert influence. I did it with the case I worked with Zack. It was a kidnapping. We had a suspect, Mason. We were sure he was involved. Zack and I had been tag-teaming him and coming up empty. He’d been taking a hard line with the suspect. I suggested he give me a few minutes alone to play the sympathy card. Then I did what I had to do. I unleashed my gift and discovered the truth, the location of the missing child.

  Risky? Yes. I never know when Demeter might be watching. She frowns on any use of my gift that
might draw attention to an Immortal on Earth. Having power is a burden. Not using it, a constant struggle. Though each use of my magic risks Demeter’s wrath, finding one of the missing, saving them, tips the scales in my direction. A justified risk for the greater good. Necessary so that I can continue with the mission, so that I can bring another victim home, so that maybe, someday, I can go home.

  “Yes, you’ve discovered my deep, dark secret, Zack.” When they get too close, tell the truth. It’s too absurd for anyone, even a werewolf, to believe. “I’m really a goddess with special powers. You may now throw away your lucky rabbit’s foot. Stick with me and your next promotion is most certainly right around the corner.” I punctuate my special brand of sarcasm with a very noisy slurp of tea.

  Zack’s not deterred in the least. “I’m not looking to get promoted, Emma. I belong in the field. I want to stay in the field.”

  “Seriously?”

  He nods solemnly. “Seriously.”

  Strange as it might seem to some, I understand that. Promotion is the furthest thing from my mind. Since joining the Bureau as Emma Monroe, I’ve been fortunate enough to be paired with ambitious partners. Unlike them, I haven’t wanted to move up. My clearance record has benefited all of them as they climbed the Bureau ladder.

  Zack may have alpha in him, but there’s something else there, too. He’s ambitious and driven, but not for power or control. For what? I have no idea. Zack Armstrong is one complicated man.

  I take another slurp of tea. “So, how recently did you break up with your ex?”

  I can’t tell if it’s the fact that I changed the subject or the question itself that’s surprised him. Just as I reach the conclusion he’s going to tell me to mind my own business, he comes out with her name.

  “Sarah. Her name is Sarah. Referring to her as an ex makes . . . whatever we had . . . seem more significant than it was. It was a thing. It was casual. It’s over. End of story.”

  End of Zack’s version. If she followed him from South Carolina, it couldn’t have been that casual.

  “Okay. You want to work with me, find yourself a girlfriend.” I gather up my plate and Zack’s, stroll over to a nearby trash can, and toss it all in.

  Zack’s risen from his chair. “Girlfriend? I haven’t had one of those since I was seventeen.”

  Somehow I find that hard to believe. “It’s a condition.”

  He frowns. “It’s a stupid condition.”

  I respond with a show of my hands, palms up to the universe in a take-it-or-leave-it gesture.

  “So, have I found myself a partner?” He slides on his sports coat. “We good?”

  “We’re good.”

  For now.

  • • •

  I make a quick stop in the break room and pour myself a cup of coffee. When I return to my desk, I find Zack looking happier than a kid on Christmas morning.

  “Check this out. They delivered everything on the supply list I sent.” He is brandishing a pack of red gel pens in one hand and a pack of black in the other. There’s a pile of various-colored Post-its in front of him.

  I slide into the chair at the desk across from his. “Pens. Post-its. Very exciting.”

  “You think that’s exciting? Look at this.”

  Zack’s fingers fly across the keyboard, and his computer comes alive. “I’m all hooked up.”

  I leave Zack fiddling with his computer and settle in to review the printout of Amy’s appointment calendar. From the way it’s laid out, Amy spent most days doing what she loved, painting. From time to time she’d have a personal appointment in the afternoon. On occasion she’d spend an hour or two meeting with someone at the gallery. Thanks to Haskell’s meticulous notes, we have not only a record of who Amy met with, but a summary of the meeting and what, if any, follow-up was needed. Haskell also added an addendum if a commission was accepted that specified details of the contract such as price to be paid, deadlines, and when that contract was filed.

  I whistle softly.

  Zack looks up. “What?”

  “You should see what Amy gets paid for some of her paintings. Twenty, twenty-five thousand. Apiece.”

  “Told you she was good,” Zack says. “And she’s just getting started.”

  I meet Zack’s eyes. “I just remembered something. A case I read about a few years back. An up-and-coming artist was murdered. The killer did it to increase the value of his own collection.”

  “Can’t rule anything out. I’m thinking if that was the motive, though, we’d have found a body.” He turns back to his computer. “The PD stored copies of Patterson’s hard drives. I’ve got her emails, browsing history, years’ worth of documents.” He strikes a few more keys. “And here are the financials on Amy, Haskell, and the gallery.”

  “That was fast.”

  He talks as he scrolls. “The gallery looks to be turning a nice profit. No red flags. Taxes collected and paid. Amy paid cash for her condo and a bundle to have the second unit converted for the studio. Otherwise, she lives pretty simply. There are some statements for a few personal investments, an IRA with a very nice balance, a smaller rainy-day savings account. Nothing unusual or out of proportion to what she’s bringing in from her artwork. Haskell’s accounts are healthy, but again, not out of proportion to what she earns. “

  “What about email? Browsing history?”

  “There’s been a series of recent email discussions with Haskell about the New York exhibit. There’s a lot here to go through.”

  “Send me the link. You take the documents. I’ll take the emails and browsing history.”

  He nods. Fueled with caffeine, I go to work. The job is tedious. I spend two hours scanning emails, then another reviewing a long list of Web sites. I finally land on hers. There’s a link to her official Facebook page. There are hundreds of posts from worried “friends.”

  By the time I look up, most of the other agents have left for the day. “I’ve gone back a full month. There’s nothing remarkable in her emails or her browsing history.”

  “I have no idea why I wanted to work with you,” Zack says, stretching his arms over his head. “Clearly, you suck.”

  I wad up a scrap of paper that’s on my desk and chuck it at him. He doesn’t bother ducking. He just casually reaches up and plucks it out of the air. With Were reflexes, he probably could have done it with his eyes closed.

  “So, what have you got, hotshot?”

  “Nothing concrete so far. I’m going to put in a request for her cell records.”

  I nod. “Good idea. I’ll dig deeper into her calendar, put together a more comprehensive background check tonight.”

  “So, how often do cases like this end up on your desk? People disappearing with no overt signs of foul play, no enemies, no ransom request, no apparent motive . . . ?”

  “You know the drill. It’s not a crime to go missing. There are fewer than two hundred reports filed in San Diego County each month. Seventy percent of those resolve with little to no effort within seventy-two hours. Run-of-the-mill cases barely get investigated by SDPD, never mind our unit.”

  “So practically never?”

  “Practically never.”

  Zack climbs to his feet. “Well, I have to start someplace. Let’s hope this Amy Patterson doesn’t show up in two days with a hangover and a new husband.”

  “And the blood in her apartment?”

  He pauses. “Might not be a waste of time. . . .” He grabs up his mug. “Time for another cup of coffee. Want one?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Zack heads for the break room. I go back to perusing Amy’s Facebook page. It’s after six. I pull up the photo tab and stare at an image of Patterson’s smiling face. “Where are you?” I ask, wishing I could compel the all-knowing Internet to reveal the answer.

  • • •

  I live in a converted carriage house in one of the oldest sections of town. I use the term house loosely. At less than four hundred and fifty square feet, the tiny structure i
s smaller than the hotel room Liz and I stayed in when we went to Dana Point on her last birthday for a spa weekend. Over the years I’ve lived in many apartments this size in buildings that came with noisy and nosy neighbors.

  The carriage house is in back of a larger estate in Mission Hills. The owners alternate between their homes in San Diego, Santa Fe, and Honolulu. When they’re absent, which is most of the time, I pick up their mail and water their plants. They love the idea that I’m a federal agent. It makes them feel as though they have personal security on the grounds. I put on a show of walking the perimeter once a day, checking the inside when they’re absent. They let me occupy the carriage house for free.

  No neighbors, noisy or nosy.

  It’s a sweet deal.

  The first thing I do when I get home is fire up my laptop, which is currently on the dining room table. I have no designated workspace. I work anywhere and everywhere. The dining room, which is approximately ten by ten, is a stone’s throw to the kitchen, which is smaller. I make a beeline for the fridge, where there’s a cold bottle of chardonnay waiting. After pouring myself a glass, I call Expressly Gourmet. They’re a local delivery service that will pick up from more than a dozen restaurants. I have them on speed dial. Tonight Hector is taking orders. He recognizes my voice.

  “Emma! What’s up?”

  “Not much. What’s the wait time for China Express?”

  “We can pick up in twenty, have it to you ten minutes after that. Things are slow tonight. Hey, did you hear about that artist who’s missing? Are you working the case?”

  Hector started as a delivery boy a couple of years ago, fresh out of high school. His first day on the job, I answered the door with my gun still clipped to my belt and made the mistake of explaining what I did for a living. I don’t have to watch or read the news to keep up with the local crime scene. I just have to check in with Hector.

  “Yes.”

  “Really?” His voice goes up a notch. It occurs to me he always asks me if I’m involved in the story of the day and it’s the first time I’ve said yes. “That pendejo on Fox is saying it’s all probably some scam to make money. I guess artists fake their own death all the time so that the demand for their stuff skyrockets. What do you think?”