The belt didn’t respond right away. ‘You’re the only person who has worn me and not judged me for sacrificing myself to this life. Whether or not you turn, I’ve considered this time together an honor.’
It was my turn to go quiet. It was hard to reply to that.
Of course the belt had to ruin the moment. ‘And if I was corporeal again, you’d be the first person I’d come to so I could get laid.’
Gee, thanks.
‘I don’t suppose you’d consider—’
Don’t even think about it. It’s creepy enough that you read my thoughts and memories. There’s no freaking way you’re going to be around my waist while I do that.
It made a harrumphing sound in the back of my skull. ‘Fine,’ it sulked. ‘Can’t tell you how awful it is being stuck without a body and with no way to find release. That kiss you gave the vampire was the closest thing I’ve had to action in centuries.’
Oh, my God, do not talk to me about this!
“We’re here.”
Blinking the haze of worry and guilt away, I focused on my surroundings. Chaz’s brownstone, identical to all the others on the row, was dark and, as far as I could see from the outside, empty. There were no marked cars parked outside, so unless someone was pulling undercover surveillance, the cops weren’t still looking for him here.
Patrick got out first, speaking over his shoulder in a gruff tone that made me wonder if he was just itching to get away from me or if he really wanted the duty. “I’m going to take a quick stroll to make sure there aren’t any plainclothes watching the place. Wait here.”
We did. The silence was neither awkward nor comfortable. Patrick walked slowly up the sidewalk, looking at the houses, then at the cars, then back to the houses. He crossed the street and did the same on the other side, doing a fairly convincing job of looking like he was lost and a bit slow in the head, unable to figure out where he was going.
Maybe that wasn’t so far from the truth.
The belt laughed at the thought, then indicated it was time to pay more heed to my surroundings as Patrick waved to get our attention and signal that it was all clear. Jack, Bo, and I got out of the car and headed over.
There were some kids playing down the street, and there were sounds of TVs, chatter, and the clatter of pots and pans as the people in the surrounding homes prepared or cleaned up after their dinners. It was a peaceful place, lined with trees that made it smell more like autumn than the heart of Queens, beautiful despite the row houses crushed against each other. Chaz’s row all sported a similar faded brick facade, the doors a lovely stained maple inset with frosted glass panels. There was a business card with a police badge prominent on it tucked into one of those panels on Chaz’s door, so he couldn’t fail to see it should he return.
We all crowded onto the tiny porch. Patrick tried the handle and found the door locked. He lifted his elbow like he was about to bust the glass, so I grabbed his arm. He snarled something at me, and I held up a hand for him to wait. The men watched as I reached over to the array of plants lining the porch (And just who is watering those? asked a cynical voice in the back of my head) and tilted up the heavy base of a potted tree. The extra key was still there, tucked into the irrigation hole at the bottom of the pot.
Bo and Jack pointedly didn’t meet my eyes. Patrick sneered, and I returned his look in kind as I unlocked the door and stepped inside.
Chapter 14
We stepped directly into the living room. It was empty of furniture except for some weights, a single, small couch to one side, and a flat-screen TV bolted against the opposite wall. Spartan, thy name is Chaz.
The men spread out, searching the tiny house. I stayed by the entrance, taking in the details. Though the reek of Were habitation permeated the place, laced with old pizza and gym socks, it wasn’t as overpowering as it would have been if he’d been spending time here recently. His indoor plants were still alive. We weren’t tripping over stacks of mail on our way in. There was a glass on the windowsill—very out of place and unlike him. Someone else had been stopping by to take care of his things.
I checked the kitchen next. It was only slightly more homey than his living room, since he had a blender and a juicer along with some cooking utensils, a spice rack, and a huge jar of protein powder on the otherwise empty counters. There was a small stack of mail on top of the breakfast nook table. I flipped through the envelopes briefly. Bill. Bill. Spam. Bill. Credit card offer. Penthouse magazine. Yeah, not helpful.
Patrick started to reach for the mag. I took great pleasure in smacking the back of his hand. “Don’t touch anything. You’re not wearing gloves. You want to leave fingerprints for the cops to find so they can book you on a B&E charge?”
Rubbing the back of his hand, he gave me a sheepish glare, a touch of red showing high on his cheeks. “Yes, Mom.” His reply was sarcastic, but hopefully he wouldn’t be so painfully stupid again as to leave evidence behind.
Bo grinned and rolled his eyes at me. Good to know he couldn’t stay pissed at me for long. Shaking my head, I stalked out of the kitchen and worked my way over to the stairwell leading to Chaz’s bedroom. Jack was examining some picture frames on the wall. Having seen Chaz’s credentials any number of times, I wasn’t particularly interested, and doubted the hunter would find anything he could use among them, either.
Taking the stairs two at a time, I pushed the door to his bedroom open, half expecting to find somebody inside.
Nothing. His bed was made, nothing but a couple of magazines and a wilting fern on top of his dresser. All that told me was that Chaz wasn’t the one who was coming here to see to his mail and his plants downstairs. Most likely he’d forbidden whoever it was to come up here to fiddle with his more personal effects in his absence.
The computer I’d urged him to get was off, a few DVDs stacked next to it. The last movie we had watched while in his bed had been on that cheap piece of crap. He’d gotten rid of the TV up here as soon as he figured out how to play movies on his computer. It had taken me a few months to cajole him into trying paperless bills, too. I knew some of his passwords—I’d been the one to set up the online accounts for some of those bills. He also apparently had learned how to take the pictures off the digital camera I’d bought him for Christmas last year to save them on that flash drive so I wouldn’t find anything on the computer.
Fucking bastard.
It took me a few counts to ten before I was calm enough to sit down at his desk and turn the computer on. The log-in password, as I’d figured, remained unchanged. When I opened his e-mail program, it didn’t prompt for a password, just downloaded a series of new items.
Most of it wasn’t of interest. Billing notices. A couple of updates from a physical fitness magazine. A whole lot of offers for Cialis, Viagra, porn, winning notices from the Swiss lotto, requests to act as the recipient of some dead or dying official’s millions, and enough viruses to set his scanning program to light up with alarms. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say Chaz had posted his e-mail address somewhere public online. Also, he hadn’t checked this account in almost two months, so there were a formidable number of messages to wade through.
Once the virus scanner settled down, I skimmed through the downloads until I spotted the latest e-mail from his bank. Crud. They’d switched to viewing the statement on the Web only. When I clicked the link, of course half a dozen pop-ups opened with his browser. Grumbling under my breath, I ignored them and tapped in his social security number and the same password he’d asked me to set up for his computer log-on.