Daddy's Money (Part I)

[Quinn Durant]

The moment is pregnant with mystery, even for me. I stand outside the door of Detective Michael Riley's office. The hour is late; he is in his private office in the back, the light down low--I know this without seeing. The good Mr. Riley called me three hours ago to tell me I had to come to his office to have a little talk about some things I might find of interest. There was a note of threat in his voice, and more. I can sense emotions, although I cannot read minds. I am curious as I stand in this cramped and stale hallway. I am also annoyed, and that doesn't bode well for Mr. Riley. I knock lightly on the door to his outer office and open it before he can respond.

"Hello," I say. I do not sound dangerous--I am, after all, supposed to be young. I stand beside the secretary's unhappy desk, imagining that her last few paychecks have been promised to her as "practically in the mail." Mr. Riley is at his desk, inside his office, and stands as he notices me. He has on a rumpled brown sport coat, and in a glance I see the weighty bulge of a revolver beneath his left breast. Mr. Riley thinks I am dangerous, I note, and my curiosity goes up a notch. But I'm not afraid he knows what I really am, or he would not have chosen to meet with me at all, even in broad daylight.

"Quinn Durant?" he says. His tone is uneasy.

"Yes."

He gestures from twenty feet away. "Please come in and have a seat."

I enter his office but do not take the offered chair in front of his desk, but rather, one against the right wall. I want a straight line to him if he tries to pull a gun on me. If he does try, he will die, and maybe painfully.

He looks at me, trying to size me up, and it is difficult for him because I just sit here. He, however, is a montage of many impressions. His coat is not only wrinkled but stained--greasy burgers eaten hastily. I note it all. His eyes are red rimmed, from a drug as much as fatigue. I hypothesize his poison to be speed--medicine to nourish long hours beating the pavement. After me? Surely. There is also a glint of satisfaction in his eyes, a prey finally caught. I smile, privately at the thought, yet a thread of uneasiness enters me as well. The office is stuffy, slightly chilly. I have never liked the cold, although I could survive an Arctic winter night naked to the bone.

"I guess you wonder why I wanted to talk to you so urgently," he says,

I nod. My legs are uncrossed, my white slacks hanging loose. One hand rests in my lap, the other plays with my hair.

"May I call you Quinn?" he asks.

"You may call me what you wish, Mr. Riley."

My voice startles him, just a little, and it is the effect I want. I could have pitched it like any modern twenty something, but I have allowed my past to enter, the power of it. I want to keep Mr. Riley nervous, for nervous people say much that they later regret.

"Call me Mike," he says. "Did you have trouble finding the place?"

"No,"

"Can I get you anything? Coffee? A soda?"

"No."

He glances at a folder on his desk, flips it open. He clears his throat, and again I hear his tiredness, as well as his fear. But is he afraid of me? I am not sure. Besides the gun under his coat, he has another beneath some papers at the other side of his desk. I smell the gunpowder in the bullets, the cold steel. A lot of firepower to meet a teenage girl. I hear a faint scratch of moving metal and plastic. He is taping the conversation.

"First off I should tell you who I am," he says. "As I said on the phone, I am a private detective. My business is my own--I work entirely freelance. People come to me to find loved ones, to research risky investments, to provide protection, when necessary, and to get hard-to-find background information on certain individuals."

I smile. "And to spy."

To be continued

[Quinn Durant]

He blinks. "I do not spy, Miss Durant."


"Really." My smile broadens. I lean forward, the tops of my breasts visible at the open neck of my black silk blouse. "It is late, Mr. Riley. Tell me what you want."


He shakes his head. "You have a lot of confidence for a kid."


"And you have a lot of nerve for a down-on-his-luck private dick."


He doesn't like that. He taps the open folder on his desk. "I have been researching you for the last few months, Miss Durant, even before you moved to Sacramento. You have an intriguing past, as well as many investments. But I'm sure you know that."


"Really."


"Before I begin, may I ask how old you are?"


"You may ask."


"How old are you?"


"It's none of your business."


He smiles. He thinks he has scored a point. He does not realize that I am already considering how he should die, although I still hope to avoid such an extreme measure. Never ask a vampire her age. We don't like that question. It's very impolite. Mr. Riley clears his throat again, and I think that maybe I will strangle him.


"Prior to moving to Sacramento," he says, "you lived in the mid coastal region down south--in Carmel in fact--at Two-Five-Six Grove Street. Your home was a four-thousand-square-foot mansion, with two swimming pools, a tennis court, a sauna, and a small observatory. The property is valued at fourteen-point-five million. To this day you are listed as the sole owner, Miss Durant,"


"It's not a crime to be rich."


"You are not just rich. You are very rich. My research indicates that you own five separate estates scattered across this country. Further research tells me that you probably own as much if not more property in Europe and the Far East. Your stock and bond assets are vast--in the hundreds of millions. But what none of my research has uncovered is how you came across this incredible wealth. There is no record of a family anywhere, and believe me, Miss Durant, I have looked far and wide."


"I believe you. Tell me, whom did you contact to gather this information?"


He enjoys that he has my interest. "My sources are of course confidential."


"Of course." I stare at him. Mr. Riley loses his smile and shifts uneasily. "Why are you researching me?"


"You admit that my facts are accurate?" he asks.


"Do you need my assurances?" I pause, my eyes still on him. Sweat glistens on his forehead. "Why the research?"


He blinks and turns away with effort. He dabs at the perspiration on his head. "Because you fascinate me," he says. "I think to myself, here is one of the wealthiest women in the world, and no one knows who she is. Plus she can't be more than twenty-five years old, and she has no family. It makes me wonder."


"What do you wonder, Mr. Riley?"

To be continued.

[Quinn Durant]

He ventures a swift glance at me; he really does not like to look at me, even though I am very beautiful. "Why do you go to such extremes to remain invisible," he says.


"It also makes you wonder if I would pay to stay invisible," I say.


He acts surprised. "I didn't say that."


"How much do you want?"


My question stuns him, yet pleases him. He does not have to be the first to dirty his hands. What he does not realize is that blood stains deeper than dirt, and that the stains last much longer. Yes, I think again, he may not have that long to live.


"How much are you offering?" he ventures.


I shrug. "It depends."


"On what?"


"On whether you tell me who pointed you in my direction."


He is indignant. "I assure you that I needed no one to point me in your direction. I discovered your interesting qualities all by myself."


He is lying, of that I am positive. I can always tell when a person lies, almost always. Only remarkable people can fool me, and then they have to be lucky. But I do not like to be fooled--so one has to wonder at even their luck.


"Then my offer is nothing," I say.


He straightens. He believes he is ready to pounce. “Then my counteroffer, Miss Durant, is to make what I have discovered public knowledge." He pauses. "What do you think of that?"


"It will never happen."


He smiles. "You don't think so?"


I smile. "You would die before that happened."


He laughs. "You would take a contract out on my life?"


"Something to that effect."


He stops laughing, now deadly serious, now that we are talking, about death. Yet I keep my smile since death amuses me. He points a finger at me.


"You can be sure that if anything happened to me the police would be at your door the same day," he says.


"You have arranged to send my records to someone else," I say. "Just in case something should happen to you?"


"Something to that effect." He is trying to be witty. He is also lying. I slide back farther into my chair. He thinks I am relaxing, but I position myself so that my legs are straight out. If I am to strike, I have decided, it will be with my right foot.


"Mr. Riley," I say. "We should not argue. You want something from me, and I want something from you. I am prepared to pay you a million dollars, to be deposited in whatever account you wish, in whatever part of the world you desire, if you will tell me who made you aware of me."


He looks me straight in the eye, tries to, and surely he feels the heat building up inside me because he flinches before he speaks. His voice comes out uneven and confused. He does not understand why I am suddenly so intimidating.


"No one is interested in you except me," he says.


I sigh. "You are armed, Mr. Riley."


"I am?"


I harden my voice. "You have a gun under your coat. You have a gun on your desk under those papers. You are taping this conversation. Now, one might think these are all standard blackmail precautions, but I don't think so. I am a young woman. I don't look dangerous. But someone has told you that I am more dangerous than I look and that I am to be treated with extreme caution. And you know that that someone is right." I pause. "Who is that someone, Mr. Riley?"


He shakes his head. He is looking at me in a new light, and he doesn't like what he sees. My eyes continue to bore into him. A splinter of fear has entered his mind.


"H-how do you know all these things?" he asks.


"You admit my facts are accurate?" I mimic him.


He shakes his head again.


"Someone has hired you to research me," I say. "I know that for a fact. Please don't deny it again, or you will make me angry. I really am uncontrollable when I am angry. I do things I later regret, and I would regret killing you, Mr. Riley--but not for long." I pause.


"Now, for the last time, tell me who sent you after me, and I will give you a million dollars and let you walk out of here alive." He stares at me incredulously. His eyes see one thing, and his ears hear another, I know. He sees a pretty dark haired girl with startlingly hazel eyes, and he hears the velvety voice of a succubus from hell. It is too much for him. He begins to stammer.




"Miss Durant," he begins. "You misunderstand me. I mean you no harm. I just want to complete a simple business deal with you. No one has to ... get hurt."




"Answer my question," I say simply.


He hesitates, and licks his lips nervously. "Stuart Ramsey." He finally manages to stammer out. I know the name. My sire will know it too by the end of the night, as well as the Invictus of Carmel.


I smile. "Thank you Mike. Send an email to this address and our business is complete. " I pause a moment to stand and hold out my hand. "The tape recorder. Now."


His eyes widen, and without a word he hands me the device. I don't have to threaten him further. He knows that he has met someone unique, something unique was going on, but he would put this discomfort out of his mind and the money was enough that he would never look this way again. Kine rarely dwell on things that truly terrify them. He had put a toe into the hidden world, and he did not like it.


I left him then, and I would busy until after dawn. My old court had a sloppy traitor in their midst. Also, my sire had not taken the final steps to switching his assets into the identity I created for him. It was still under my name. Maybe he thought I would change my mind? It was hard to tell with Abel.

Part 1 Complete