Praise for the novels of Rick Mofina
BE MINE
"Rick Mofina is writing a fine series of thrillers: Swiftly paced, entertaining, with authentic details of police procedure." - Dean Koontz, #1 New York Times Bestselling author of The Face and Fear Nothing
BLOOD OF OTHERS
"Tense, realistic, and scary in all the right places." James Patterson, #1 New York Times Bestselling Author
"Another riveting read from one of the leading thriller writers of the day." - Penthouse
COLD FEAR
"A powerful gut wrenching thriller." - The Midwest Book Review
"Bursts with suspense. The action is so intense, the writing so realistic, it's as if we are there during the search. This is a book to cause icy shivers." - RT BookReviews Magazine
IF ANGELS FALL
"If you buy it for the flight, you'll be reading it on the escalator." - National Post
"Guaranteed to keep readers flipping the pages." - The Toronto Sun
THEY DISAPPEARED
"Rick Mofina's tense, taut writing makes every thriller he writes an adrenaline-packed ride." - Tess Gerritsen New York Times bestselling Author
THE BURNING EDGE
"Tight and excruciating suspense...a winner." - Jeff Ayers, RT BookReviews
IN DESPERATION
"A blisteringly paced story that cuts to the bone." - James Rollins, New York Times bestselling author
THE PANIC ZONE
"The Panic Zone is a headlong rush toward Armageddon. It's brisk pace and tight focus remind me of early Michael Crichton." -Dean Koontz #1 New York Times bestselling author
VENGEANCE ROAD
"Vengeance Road is a thriller with no speed limit! It's a great read!" - Michael Connelly, #1 New York Times bestselling author
SIX SECONDS
"Six Seconds moves like a tornado." James Patterson, #1 New York Times bestselling author
Also by Rick Mofina
INTO THE DARK
THEY DISAPPEARED
THE BURNING EDGE
IN DESPERATION
THE PANIC ZONE
VENGEANCE ROAD
SIX SECONDS
A PERFECT GRAVE
EVERY FEAR
THE DYING HOUR
BE MINE
NO WAY BACK
BLOOD OF OTHERS
COLD FEAR
IF ANGELS FALL
THREE TO THE HEART (Anthology)
DANGEROUS WOMEN & DESPERATE MEN (Anthology)
For my father
Pray for me; and what noise so ever yea hear,
come not unto me, for nothing can rescue me.
--The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus (1604) by Christopher Marlowe
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the creation of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Blood of Others
Rick Mofina
Kindle Edition December 2012
Print Edition 2002
Copyright 2012 Rick Mofina
Copyright 2002 Rick Mofina
ISBN 978-1-927114-10-0
This e-book is intended for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be sold or given away to other people. If you’re reading this e-book and did not purchase it, please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
e-Formatting by Carrick Publishing.
TITLE
Praise for Rick Mofina’s books
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
FIFTY-FOUR
FIFTY-FIVE
FIFTY-SIX
FIFTY-SEVEN
FIFTY-EIGHT
FIFTY-NINE
SIXTY
SIXTY-ONE
SIXTY-TWO
SIXTY-THREE
SIXTY-FOUR
Author’s Note and Acknowledgements
About the Author
ONE
Iris Wood studied death every day of her life. Helping people confront it was what she did for a living. But tonight she was facing her own fears head-on. And she was losing.
Driving home after her first night course at San Francisco State University, Iris was adrift in the darkness. She rarely travelled this far south in the city. Her world was limited to the boundaries of her apartment in the Western Addition and her researcher’s job in a downtown office building on Montgomery.
Her decision to attend an introductory astronomy class at SFSU was a brave new personal step. Not because she was interested in the stars, but because she needed to venture beyond her solitary universe, something made painfully clear to her weeks ago at the last office party where the resident busybody cornered her before she could escape.
“You never stay at our parties, Iris. You’re so mousy in your cubicle, most of the time we don’t even know you are here. Have some wine, dear.”
“No, I really should be going. I have someone waiting at home.”
“Like who? You live alone, don’t you?”
“No. I don’t. I’m living with somebody. My boyfriend.”
“You have a boyfriend? Since when, Iris? You never told me.” Miss Busybody grinned as she sipped her wine.
“Well, I --”
“What does he do?”
“Works at home. He’s the quiet type.”
“What’s his name?”
“Jack.”
“Jack? We’d love to meet him. You should --”
“Really, I have to go.”
In the elevator Iris’s face reddened, stinging with the realization of how pathetic she was. That night at home she fought her tears while working on her computer. Jack, the four-legged male in her life, plopped himself in her lap, purring and nudging at Iris to overcome her shyness and wade into the real world.
Now, here she was, lost in it. This was exactly what she had feared. She left the map she had made back in the lecture hall. Her attempt to navigate from memory was futile after a dozen blocks or so. She took the wrong exit from the campus, meandering on Lake Merced, Middlefield, Sloat, and Crestlake. How did this happen? The fog from the Pacific didn’t help. This was silly. Getting back should be a no-brainer. If she could just get back on Nineteenth Avenue, it would take her right to Golden Gate Park, and from there she knew she could find Fulton, then east to her apartment near Alamo Square, in t
ime to curl up and watch Sleepless in Seattle.
Where are you Nineteenth Avenue?
Could ask somebody for directions but the streets seem deserted tonight. Besides, she didn’t really want to approach anybody. She pressed the automatic lock button again before seeing a flashing emergency light in her rear-view mirror. It came out of the shadows. She pulled her car over and was bathed in pulsating red from the dash-mounted police light of the unmarked car that stopped behind her.
Iris had never encountered traffic police before.
“Evening, ma’am,” said the man’s voice from behind the intense flashlight beam.
“Did I do something wrong, Officer?” She squinted.
“Your license and registration, please.”
Iris switched on her dome light, producing the items from her wallet. The officer put them on his small clipboard, then directed his flashlight on them.
“You drove through an intersection, missed the stop sign.”
Stop sign? What stop sign?
“I guess I didn’t see it. Sorry.”
“Happens all the time. Where are you coming from tonight, ma’am?”
“A class at SFSU.”
“You consume any alcohol tonight?”
The flashlight was directed at her face.
She squinted. “No. I don’t drink.”
“Drugs?”
“No.”
“Would you please shut off your ignition and step out of the car.”
“Why?”
“Roadside sobriety check, ma’am.”
Iris saw a pale half-moon peeking through the clouds as she stood before the tall officer. His face was darkened by the night, distorted by the strobing red light of his patrol car. From what she could see amidst the fog, they were situated near a heavily treed park.
“Would you please count aloud backwards from one hundred while walking heel to toe in a straight line for me, ma’am?”
Iris accomplished it without difficulty.
“Thank you, ma’am. I am going to have to cite you for the stop sign. You can wait in your car, or in my cruiser. It won’t take long, but I will require your signature after I run a check on your particulars.”
The area was a little creepy so Iris opted to wait in the police car then get directions home. The officer opened the rear right passenger door.
She thought it odd how the car did not seem to have a police radio crackling or any other police equipment. In fact, it had that new-car smell and a plastic recycle bag from a rental agency. The red emergency dash light was almost blinding. She still couldn’t see the officer’s face as he wrote up her ticket from behind the wheel.
“Ma’am, can I ask you a personal question?”
“I guess so.”
“What exactly do you look for in a man?”
She had heard this question before. But where?
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Yes, you do. Tell me something, Iris. How’s Jack?”
Iris Wood froze. “Excuse me?”
“Jack, the guy you’re living with. Or should I say, cat.”
She was dumbstruck. Paralyzed. How could he possibly know…
“I think I’ll wait in my car.”
“The back doors have child-safety locks. Won’t open from inside.”
Iris swallowed, meeting his eyes in the rear-view mirror.
“You know, Iris, people shouldn’t lie to other people. It always catches up with them in the end.”
Iris could not speak. Her blood was pounding in her ears. The stranger grunted, turning in his seat, gripping a device that looked like an electric razor, suddenly pressing it against her neck, instantly overwhelming her neuromuscular system, disorienting her until she collapsed.
He switched off the red light, then drove away, vanishing into the fog with Iris Wood in his back seat.
TWO
Julie Zegler was talking on her cell phone while disarming the security system at the rear of Forever & Ever, her bridal boutique near Union Square.
“You’re sure it’s finally done, Ronnie?”
“Completely. I stayed until nine last night to finish it.”
Zegler could hear the bells of the cable cars on Powell Street clanging as the control keypad beeped an all-clear. She entered her shop, switched on the lights.
“You know, she’s picking it up this morning. In two hours.”
“I know.”
“Any problems, Ron?”
“The bodice. Her recent augmentation complicated things. Of course, there was her attitude.”
“What? Sorry, I can’t seem to find --”
“Don’t you remember? Her attitude. Rhymes with rich.”
The store phone began ringing. Please. We don’t open for another hour. Zegler rustled through the finished orders. Brannigan, a size-four chiffon mermaid. Dodd, trumpet skirt in a ten tall. Lorenzo, an organza affair, size seven.
No Carruthers.
“Ronnie it’s not --”
“Remember, she invited me to lunch at her favorite French restaurant on Belden two months ago. Never once saying Christoban is in a Malibu detox center. In her phony baby-girl voice she says: ‘Oh, Ronnie I just have to have you! I want the best Veronica Chan ever! Transform me….’ ”
Zegler bit her bottom lip and kept searching. Li, petite princess, size two. Shire, a size-eight readingcoat. Tannenbaum, five, a classic taffeta. Wong, a size four, a bouffant.
No Carruthers.
The phone stopped.
“…she goes, ‘Ronnie, you’re the artist. Create. I just insist on some teeny things.’ Teeny things? She unfolds her three pages of hideous sketches of Christoban knockoffs.”
“Ronnie, where did you put --”
“Nothing to do with my themes. Then the way she kept snapping her fingers at me: ‘Oh Ronnie, make it magical, make it divine.’ Julie, I feel sorry for her dot-commie millionaire beau. You can take the girl out of the trailer park but you can’t --”
“Ronnie! It is not here!”
The phone started again.
“Julie. It’s there. It’s with the others.”
“Well, I can’t find it.”
“I placed it with the others, Brannigan, Dodd. Did you look?”
“Yes! What time did you leave last night?”
“Nine. I told you.”
“What about Clarice?”
“Left at eight. I was the last to leave. Look again.”
“I am telling you it is not here!”
“I am telling you, it is there!”
Zegler rubbed her temple. The security system was properly activated. Nothing was amiss. The store phone continued ringing.
“Ronnie, I cannot find it.”
“What do you want me to do, Julie?”
“Get your butt down here and find the goddamn gown, Veronica!”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s a six-thousand-dollar order! We flew in the satin from Paris, the tiara’s from Italy.”
“Julie, I am on the Golden Gate Bridge, late for an appointment in Marin. I will be back in time.”
Zegler snatched the ringing store phone, slamming down the receiver. An icy silence passed between the cell phones of the two women. Veronica Chan saw San Francisco’s skyline in the rear-view mirror of her sapphire Mercedes 450 SL. She resented Zegler’s tone. She was Zegler’s partner, not her employee. It was Chan’s artistry that attracted the top-end clients, not the cobwebbed reputation of a senile Bay Area seamstress.
Outside the shop a police siren sounded. Loud. Near. Very near.
“What’s that?” Ronnie asked.
Someone began banging on the front door.
“I don’t know, Ronnie. I have to get the door. Something’s going on.”
“You deal with this. I’ll be there within two hours.”
Making her way to the front, Zegler took calming breaths, inhaling the fragrance produced
by the automated aroma machine. It simulated an English country garden, accenting the shop’s elegant European motifs and plush carpet. Was she losing her mind? She was rude to Veronica. Perhaps it was time to consider retiring. She should have answered the store phone. It might have been Clarice. Maybe the order was picked up after closing. Or delivered. But Clarice was dependable, always leaving a clear note at the back. This was not good.
Hurrying by the ornate writing tables and chairs of the Victorian sitting area where brides planned and dreamed, then passing the archway to the change rooms, Zegler massaged her temples, glancing down the darkened corridor to the empty change cubicles, the floor.
She stopped dead.
Is that a shoe?
The front door was now being hammered.
An empty shoe?
Emergency lights were flashing through the four mannequins in the window display. The door thudded, cracked. A large uniformed police officer forced his way into the shop.
“Good Lord.”
“Lady, are you all right?”
“Yes, what is this? I --”
His gun was drawn. He grabbed Zegler’s shoulder pulling her to the street, instantly assessing her, then the shop.
“Are you alone in the store?”
“Yes, but I don’t understand.”
He spoke into his crackling portable radio calmly, saying, “We got a staff member in front. Kick the back entrance.” A female officer was in the patrol car parked in front, talking softly, comforting two people in the backseat, an old man, his arm protectively around an old woman. She was sobbing.
Zegler heard more sirens, glimpsed an ambulance approaching. The noise, confusion, chaos.
“Ma’am, please stand by my car. Please, so my partner can see you.”
“Yes, but, Officer, what’s wrong?”
A small crowd gathering. A bike courier muttering “Jee-zus! That's real!” The officer ordering rubberneckers back.
“Everyone back!” The officer’s face taut. “Over there, ma’am, stand by my car.” His hand on his gun as he stepped into the shop. “Do not talk to anyone, please, ma’am.”
Zegler hearing the old man pleading with the female officer over the old woman’s sobs.
“We were just walking. Can’t they cover it, or take us away? Please. We were just…”
Cover what?
Zegler turning to her storefront, discovering five brides on display, not the usual four. The strobe of police lights staining the gowns. Confused, her mind shocked, gasping, thinking it was a joke, her eyes not believing the Carruthers order, a slipper satin ball gown, floor-length chapel, Venice lace, open sweetheart neckline, illusion veil, the tiara, the entire front saturated in crimson, ruby, scarlet and deep purplish Burgundy against the shiny fabric.