Violets Are Blue

buddy
?
    “It’s important that you call. That’s the message,” Nana said. She was baking two cherry pies. Reminding me how good it was to be home.
    It was one o’clock in California. I called Tim Bradley at his office. He picked up right away. “Bradley.”
    “It’s Detective Alex Cross.”
    “Hi. I hoped you’d call. I’m a friend of Jamilla Hughes.”
    I knew that much already. I interrupted. “Is she okay?”
    “Why do you ask that, Detective? She went to Santa Cruz yesterday. Did you know about that?”
    “She mentioned she might go. Did somebody go with her?” I asked. “I suggested she bring company.”
    His answer was curt and defensive. “No. Like Jamilla always says, she’s a big girl. And she carries a big gun.”
    I frowned and shook my head. “So what’s going on? Has something happened? Is something the matter?”
    “No, not necessarily. She’s usually careful, precise. I just haven’t heard from her, and she promised to call.
Last
night. Now it’s been another four hours since I called you. I’m a little concerned. It’s probably nothing. But I thought you would know best . . . about this particular case.”
    “Does she do things like this often?” I asked.
    “Investigate a case on her day off? Yes. That’s Jam. But she would definitely call me if she promised to.”
    I didn’t want to upset him any more than he was, but I was worried now. I thought of my last two partners. Both had died, and neither of the murders had been solved. The Mastermind claimed to have killed Betsey Cavalierre. And also Detective Maureen Cooke in New Orleans. So what about Inspector Jamilla Hughes?
    “I’m going to call the local police in Santa Cruz. She gave me a name and a number. I think it was Conover. I have it written down in my notes. I’m going to call him right now.”
    “All right. Thank you, Detective. Will you let me know?” Tim the reporter asked. “I’d appreciate it.”
    I said that I would, then tried to reach Lieutenant Conover at police headquarters in Santa Cruz. He wasn’t working, but I made a fuss and dropped Kyle Craig’s name. The sergeant reluctantly gave me Conover’s home number.
    Someone picked up at the number, and I heard loud music that I vaguely recognized as U2. “We’re having a party at the pool. C’mon over. Or call back on Monday,” said a male voice. “Bye-bye for now.”
    The line went dead.
    I redialed and said, “Lieutenant Conover, please. It’s an emergency. This is Detective Alex Cross. It’s about Inspector Jamilla Hughes of the San Francisco PD.”
    “Aww, shit,” I heard, then — “This is Conover. Who is this again?”
    I explained who I was and my involvement in the case in as few words as possible. I had the feeling that Conover was drunk, or close to it. It
was
his day off, but Jesus — it wasn’t even two in the afternoon his time.
    “She went up in the hills, looking for new wave vampires,” he said, and laughed derisively. “There are no vampires in Santa Cruz, Detective. Trust me on that. I’m sure she’s just fine. She probably headed back to San Francisco.”
    “There have been at least
two dozen
vampire-style murders so far.” I tried to sober Conover up, at least to get through to him. “They hang their victims and then drain the blood.”
    “I told you what I know, Detective,” he said. “I guess I could call out some patrol cars,” he added.
    “You do that. And while you do, I’m going to call the FBI.
They
believe in vampire murders. When was the last time you saw Inspector Hughes?”
    He hesitated. “Who knows? Let me see, must be close to twenty-four hours.”
    I hung up on Conover. I didn’t like him at all.
    Then I sat and thought about everything that had happened since I’d first met Jamilla Hughes. The case made my head spin. Everything about it was over the edge, completely new territory. Having the Mastermind around made it even worse.
    I phoned Kyle Craig and then American Airlines. I called Tim Bradley back and told him I was on my way to California.
    Santa Cruz.
    The vampire capital.
    Jamilla was in trouble out there. I could feel it in my blood.

Chapter 84

    ON THE long flight out to California, I realized that I hadn’t been tormented by the Mastermind in two days. That was unusual, and I wondered if he was traveling too.
Que pasa, Mastermind? Maybe he was on the plane to San Francisco with me
? I remembered a tired old joke about paranoia. A man tells his psychiatrist that