I moved silently through the room, touching nothing. Molly’s suitcase was on a foldable stand to the side of the closet, the case open. A black cocktail dress and two pairs of dark slacks were hanging in the closet beside two jackets, one a knit sweater, but short-waisted—like a bolero, one a traditional business suit jacket that matched a pair of slacks. Two T-shirts and a pair of jeans. One pair of pumps and a pair of running shoes were on the floor of the closet. I had seen Molly pack for trips before. This was her standard weekend-off attire. Still in the suitcase were two nightgowns, Molly’s underclothes, slippers, and a robe. On the counter beside the bed was a bouquet of very wilted daisies, in a clear glass vase.
In the bathroom, her toiletry bag was on the cabinet, zipped open, toothbrush and paste, comb, bar soap, and dried-out face cloth beside it. On the top I saw something strange—well, strange for Molly. With one finger I pushed the small bag open and discovered a long, thin plastic case. Knowing what I was seeing, but not believing it, I flipped the lid open. To see birth control pills.
Molly was on birth control.
I stared at the pack, stunned. Last I heard, Molly and Big Evan were trying for more kids. Lots more kids. Either something had changed or they were waiting or they were having marital problems and Molly was protecting herself or . . . Molly was having an affair and trying to keep from getting pregnant? Or I was out of the loop. Yeah. That. And none of my business, unless I discovered something about her disappearance that might be tied to the pills.
But Molly had been out of the room overnight. If Mol was on birth control pills and she was planning to be gone several days, she’d have taken them with her. So she planned on coming back when she went out. Or was carried out. Which meant that however she had left home, she was now gone unexpectedly. This was not good. I slid the pills back into place and closed the lid. I moved back into the room proper.
It looked as though Molly had arrived in New Orleans, taken a short rest, and started to unpack, which sorta eliminated the idea of vamps following her to her room and then using vamp speed to get in. But what say Molly had been going for ice or something and the vamps had followed her in? It was possible. So Molly had come to New Orleans and checked into a hotel. And then been abducted? I closed my eyes again and breathed through my open mouth, searching for even the slightest scent signature. The fear I had detected when I entered the room was still strong on the air. Panic pheromones. Though without any trace of blood. Nothing to suggest she had been injured. But she was gone and her things were still here, which was suggestive of her leaving under duress. Eyes still closed, I tried to envision Molly walking in to the hotel, her suitcase handle extended, the bag rolling on two wheels. Walking down the hall from the elevator, wearing a coat against the weather. The coat was brown, and looked good with Mol’s reddish hair. In my imagination, her pocketbook was hung on one shoulder, a pocketbook that was as big as a shopping bag, to carry all her kids’ stuff and her paperback novel and her phone and her electronic tablet. I opened my eyes, searching for the coat and bag.
Neither was in sight. I walked around the room, looking. Gone. Could Molly have grabbed up her coat and left willingly? Not been kidnapped? Not . . . Frustration zinged through me like a bell ringing, leaving my nerve endings tingling with worry. No. That wasn’t right. There was nothing willing about the smells here, but they were so old, and buried under the air-conditioning and air fresheners and carpet cleaners and detergent.
Human stinks, Beast murmured. I sucked air in through my mouth, across the roof and tongue with a scree of sound. Letting Beast smell. Fear. Purpose. Anger. Annoyance. But I/we do not smell panic, she thought. Smells on air say she was afraid but not lose-bowels-in-death afraid.
She went with them willingly, but also against her will. As if she stomped out, slinging her coat. But as if she had no choice, I thought back, understanding what Beast was trying to say.
Molly went with the vamps. That meant I needed to call Leo. Either he knew what had happened here, or he sanctioned what had happened, or he could find out about it. Unless someone was in revolt against him. It had happened before.
I left the room, and stood outside the door as I punched in Leo’s number, trying to decide what I wanted to say. The call went to voice mail, and I spoke softly into the cell, my words as formal as I knew how to make them. “Leo, Primo. My friend Molly came to New Orleans. Three unknown Mithrans took her from her hotel room about thirty-six hours ago. She went unwillingly. She hasn’t been back. Please contact me and tell me what, if anything, you know about her situation.” I ended the call.
Feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the hotel’s air-conditioning system, I forced myself back to work and studied the security cameras on the way out. There was one stationary camera pointed at the elevators and fire stairs, which I avoided by keeping my head down and walking near the wall. Provided there were no problems with the system, hotel security should have footage of the vamps who came to take Molly, and the four of them as they left.
If I had known all this stuff when I went to see Leo earlier, I might have gotten some info from him. And certainly more help. Now I’d be asking the Kid to commit another crime by hacking into the security system. I was going to hell. Yeah.
• • •
Standing in front of the hotel, I texted a note to the Kid. Can u safely access hotel security cameras on 3 flr frm time Molly checked in to 12 hrs after? I hit SEND and got a text back while I was waiting on the return of Bitsa.
Can do. Erase text.
“Yeah,” I said softly to myself, following orders and erasing the texts. “So your brother doesn’t flay me alive for leading you to the dark side and putting your parole in jeopardy. Which, to him, would be just as bad as blowing up the planet Alderaan with the Death Star. And I’ve been living with the Kid too long if I know that geeky bit of trivia.”
“Sweet bike,” the valet said, pushing Bitsa back to me. “One of a kind?” he asked, his smile wide in a dark-skinned face. Approachable. Nice. Helpful maybe.
I patted the leather seat affectionately and used his intro. “Yeah. You know bikes?”
“I ride with a group, all black guys and sometimes a couple a’ chicks. We volunteer with the community and the local po-po. Dress up like Santas on wheels for Christmas, and take gifts to families in financial trouble. I ride a Hog, the 2013 Street Bob, but I always wanted an older model.”
I nearly gulped. A Street Bob started at thirteen thousand bucks. Being a valet made more money than I would have thought. All those cash tips, maybe. But I didn’t say any of that. “A Harley Zen master put Bitsa together from parts of two old bikes I found.”
“You ever want to sell her, you let me know.” He handed me a card, and I replaced it with a five.
“Not gonna happen,” I said. “Bitsa’s like family.”
“I can see why.”
“Hey,” I said, figuring it was now or never, “were you on night before last when three vamps left with a redheaded human woman?”
Some of the light left his eyes, to be replaced with a cagey uncertainty. “Yeah, I was. I didn’t have the keys, but I saw them leave.”
I handed him another bill, this one a ten. “Was the human upright and acting normal?”