“He didn’t mention any gambling debts? Drugs?”

  “Nothing of the sort. I hope you find him, Samantha Moon. I really do.”

  And with that, she hangs up.

  Chapter Six

  Feeling down, I head straight home to the comfort of my kids.

  Working as a private eye isn’t all fun and games. Okay, it’s rarely a game, but sometimes it is a little fun. The optimism I felt going into this case is quickly waning. I don’t like giving people bad news. Granted, there are still a few things I can try. I can use my newly acquired psychometry skills. This is something that developed all on its own, as my telepathy eventually phased out with the removal of Elizabeth. The Universe giveth, the Universe taketh. Psychometry is great, but for it to be useful, it needs to be associated with great emotion, be it tragic or excited. Even strong worry can trigger it. Anything strong enough to seep into an object or a place.

  With being lost at sea, there would be no trigger object to focus on.

  But if there was something else shady going on, I might get a hit... if I find the right energy receptacle.

  I’ll think about the object tomorrow. For now, I need some family time. Yes, even an immortal needs a pick-me-up.

  It’s late when I pull up. I park in the garage, exit the side door, and make the short walk to my front door. Knowing I’m feeling a bit down, I force myself to focus on the positive. Hey, at least I have a garage. That counts for something.

  Stupid Danny and his need to save a few bucks.

  Then again, I had inherited a mansion that had like a five-car attached garage. Too much house for little ol’ me, even with three kids now. Of course, the house did come with some resident ghosts, a married couple, in fact. Well, they were Fang’s problem now, since the guy had bought the house from me.

  Yes, at least I have a garage. Better than nothing.

  Oh, and that money Fang paid me with? Nearly a third of it is gone. Gone where? Vacations, setting up my downtown office. College savings accounts. I invested some in some high-yielding IRAs. Big whoop. Won’t they be surprised when I cash them in a hundred years from now?

  Still, I’m sitting on over a million bucks in my bank. I guess I could invest a lot more of it, but so what? It’s not like I’m worried about my future too much, or retirement. I can work forever. Yay. Then again, with proper investments, I could be a multi-trillionaire 10,000 years from now. Then what will I do? Sit in my castle on Mars, doing nothing? Even with all that money, I would still help people, mortal and immortal alike. It’s what I do best, and what I love most. Well, other than my kids.

  Speaking of which, I find all three huddled together on the big couch, watching something called The Last of Us, which, as it turns out, isn’t some reality show, but a show about walking mushroom spores. Yay, I guess I have that to look forward to in the future.

  They make room for me: Anthony on one side and Tammy and Paxton on the other. There’s a half-finished 2-liter bottle of Pepsi on the coffee table, along with an empty pizza box. I open it. There are two crusts inside. I shrug and start nibbling, sinking deep into the couch, surrounded by those I love most. Having Kingsley here would top things off. Maybe next time. For now, my kids are more than enough.

  And with each gasp and giggle and breaking of wind (I’m looking at you, Ant), I feel my troubles melt further and further away.

  Chapter Seven

  It’s early afternoon, and I’m heading to the Newport Beach police impound lot.

  I’ve been given access to Roy’s Jeep Wrangler, though not without some haggling. Sherbet had to intervene on this one. My police ‘consultant’ status didn’t fly for these guys, and so I called in the big guns. Sherbet vouched for me and explained my employment situation. No doubt leaving out the part where I specialized in the creepy and weird. Truth be told, all police departments should keep me on staff. Fullerton isn’t the only department with its share of freaky files.

  Anyway, I’m getting a later start than I wanted, but some things can’t be rushed. God, life was so much easier when I could, you know, control the shit out of people. Hmm. Maybe I still can. After all, Elizabeth didn’t have a monopoly on mind control. As Hollywood would have you believe, all vampires can mind control. That’s just not the case. Of course, controlling mortals goes against my very nature... then again, what is my nature? I certainly don’t condone hurting anyone or using them for anything nefarious. But had I been able to mind control, I would have just shown up at the lot, suggested to the desk clerk to allow me to see the Jeep... and would have kept on suggesting it to anyone who got in the way. Would have saved an hour or two this morning. Maybe not a big deal, but say that to a man lost at sea.

  Telepathy is different. That, I believe, was actively developed by Elizabeth. The telepathy I experience in daily life, nowadays, is via my connection, to Allison. Not only had she been a blood donor of sorts back in the day, we had also been part of the same witchy trifecta down through the ages... and even briefly in this age. That has to be the reason we still have a telepathic connection. My other connections fell by the wayside with the eviction of Elizabeth. That and my general ability to read the minds of those around me.

  But mind control doesn’t need telepathy. It’s just me giving someone a suggestion. Almost like a hypnotist. Granted, this ability seems a little darker than telepathy, because it can obviously be abused like hell. Except I almost never abused it. I use it to aid my investigation, never to get anything I didn’t need, or to control for control’s sake. I don’t get off on making people do things. I don’t have any sick or salacious vices that need to be fed.

  The thing is, blood vamps do kinda have such needs. Perhaps not necessarily as sick and twisted as people make it out to be, but they do need to feed on blood. It is so much easier to command a human to allow themselves to be used as a living soda fountain, and then immediately make them forget the whole ordeal. Much more efficient than attacking and potentially killing. A vampire attack can very much get out of control.

  Yeah, siphoning energy is so much easier and efficient. I seriously can’t complain. I mean, I get why the ability to command humans isn’t necessary for me anymore. But I miss it, especially when I’m in the business of uncovering facts. It’s easy to assume mind control and telepathy go hand in hand... except Tammy never had any mind-control abilities. It had been strictly telepathy.

  The mind control is definitely a blood vamp thing. Kingsley doesn’t have it. I suspect Fang does have it, which is how he’s able to run his blood bar so efficiently. Maybe there is a way to regain the mind control, even if I’m only a psychic vamp. Maybe it’s something that needs to be relearned. After all, it took six or seven years for it to fully develop within me. In fact, I had fought it tooth and nail, believing it would reduce me to a monster. Well, it didn’t. It might sound corny, but I felt I used it for good.

  Maybe, just maybe, it’s still there within me, and just needs to be fanned to life.

  But why would it have disappeared?

  Perhaps Elizabeth’s removal had been so cataclysmic to my system that the fire of mind control had been stomped into ashes. Yet, it’s still there, smoldering in the ashes.

  Funny I should wish so hard for mind control... the very thing I had feared would cause me to lose my humanity. Well, it hadn’t. I had proven that. And sure, telepathy was nice too, but I’m pretty sure that was Elizabeth’s thing. Look no further than my daughter. Her telepathy has been gone baby gone for many years now.

  But mind control is a vampire thing. I’m still technically a vampire, even if I’ve been downgraded (or upgraded?) to psychic vampire. Again, something to look into. Or, simply practice. Kind of like an injured athlete who goes through rehab.

  We’ll see.

  At the police compound, I’m shown the way to Roy’s Jeep Wrangler. Unfortunately, I don’t get any useful psychometric hits—certainly nothing that involves his disappearance. Then again, what I don’t get might be just as important. I don’t get any sense that he’s scared, nervous, or worried. That’s got to count for something. Someone running from, say, a criminal gang might have left a lot of wonky energy behind in his vehicle.

  Since I’m there, I check the vehicle as much as I feel necessary: under the floor mats, in the glove box, behind the visors, the center console, every nook, and cranny I can think, all too aware the police had done the same. I come up empty, thank the officer on duty, and head out.

  In the Momvan, I call my client and ask to meet at Roy’s condo. She agrees, her voice heavy. Poor thing.

  Here’s hoping I can find a trigger object there.

  Or anything else of use.

  Where did you go, Roy?

  Chapter Eight

  Roy’s condo is cuter than I expect.

  It’s also clearly a bachelor pad. The decor is random: couches inexplicably shoved in the corners of the living room. A recliner half in the living room, half in the dining room. A rugged, oversized coffee table that seems better suited for a log cabin, and an old recumbent exercise bike that hasn’t been used in years and now doubles as a catchall for clothing and blankets. Paintings of all shapes, sizes, and subjects haphazardly cover the walls. That said, the condo layout is beautiful, and if you look out the kitchen window, between a jumble of office buildings and more apartment complexes, you can see a glint of water. Technically, he has a water view.

  Better than nothing.

  Pretty good for an ebook cover designer and author of two swimming books. And who knew that many writers needed covers, anyway? Not terribly long ago, Tammy had thought about being a writer. She tried her hand at a blog and grew bored with it. She may not want to admit it, but I think she might actually like being a private eye’s assistant.

  Speaking of blogs, I have a few out there... all written anonymously, of course.

  Moving on...

  “The police were here. Twice, actually. They poked around, even took his laptop into the station to forensically examine it.” Roxy pauses. “They haven’t returned it yet, though they tell me nothing of note was found. I knew there wouldn’t be. I mean, he’s lost at sea. Not a hitman for the mob.”

  A laptop could provide a treasure trove of evidence, if someone was criminally active and careless. That said, perhaps Roy had taken out a loan from a loan shark, and they came looking for a payment. Or he had gambling debts. Do loan sharks send threatening emails? Generally, no. They send guys with guns and brass knuckles. Hmm. Was there another explanation—perhaps outside the law—for how Roy could afford such a sweet little condo near the beach, on a graphic designer’s income?

  “You’re wondering how he could afford all this making book covers?”

  Okay, wow. This gal is good. And she might be a bit witchy, too. “Maybe,” I say. “I figure the royalties from the books must help. And how did you know?”

  “I can see it in your eyes, the way you keep rubbing your neck.”

  Except I wasn’t rubbing my neck. My neck never, ever hurts. She’s fibbing a little because she doesn’t want to give away how she really knows. Some psychics can get a read on me, and I’m beginning to believe Roxy has a whole lot more going on psychically than just being connected to her twin brother. Most likely, she’s a low-level psychic who’s mastered reading the energy of a room and a person. Though creatures like me don’t give off an aura and our thoughts can’t be read by other immortals, the same rules don’t apply to psychics. Meaning, they can pick up our thoughts and read our energy and, quite frankly, just know things. Truth be known, true psychics make me nervous. Lord only knows what they might pick up on.

  “He charges a pretty penny for the covers. Makes three a day at nearly $500 a pop. You do the math.”

  I do, and my eyes bug out. The guy is bringing in tens of thousands a month.

  I’m in the wrong business.

  Then again, I happen to like my business, which just so happens to be looking for a man who is most likely caught in a fishing net at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. I wonder if he was hit with cramps. Or got dizzy and disoriented, and decided to head to shore. If so, where the hell did he go? Of course, a man crawling onto the beach would have been seen. Paramedics would have arrived, reports made. He would have ended up at a hospital. Yes, the police checked. So did I, earlier this morning.

  No, he didn’t drag himself onto shore after having some problem out at sea. We can rule that out.

  The next likely scenario... he swam ashore, someone picked him up, and he’s off starting a new life somewhere. If so, I wish him luck. People who want to disappear generally have their bases covered; tracking them down is next to impossible. With enough planning and money, anyone who wants to start over is as good as gone.

  We know he didn’t reach his usual destination: a buoy three miles away, which he circles and swims back to the beach where he parks his vehicle. Six miles in total. I did the math in my head and there was no way that Roy was swimming six miles in an hour. I estimated that as a triathlon swimmer, he must have been swimming six miles in about two hours. I have unwavering stamina, and swimming six miles in any amount of time sounds like hell. We know he didn’t reach it because a few of his fans further along his route never saw him. Yes, they came forward during the course of the investigation. Also, there were no reports of gunshots, screaming, or altercations of any kind.

  The evidence is clear: after having waved to a fan at around the first mile marker of his swim, he failed to reach the next set of fans at roughly the second mile marker. Somewhere between the first and second mile of his three-mile swim, Roy disappeared.

  Perhaps a friend had waved to him from shore and Roy turned and headed toward the beach to chat. Or maybe he had a cramp and swam to shore to rest. Sure, sounds good, except Roy is nowhere to be found. Plus, no one reported seeing him swim to shore. Surely a friend would have come forward.

  Unless it hadn’t been a friend, but someone with a score to settle. Refer back to the “no altercations of any kind” having been reported.

  The most likely scenario is that poor Roy had a mishap in the ocean, one that led to his demise. A shark, leg cramps, a monster jellyfish, a rip current. Which is why the Coast Guard had dismissed his sister’s insistence he was alive and closed the case.

  With the loss of telepathy, the Universe gave me something else: psychometry. Perhaps it’s less a gift from the Universe and more my natural talents emerging once Elizabeth was good and gone. Either way, I sometimes get feelings, sensations, and sometimes even visions when I touch something owned or associated with my target.

  Standing here now, in his apartment, turning slowly in his living room with his sister sitting at his small kitchen table watching me curiously, I’m getting the first inkling of something. I’m sensing forward movement. Swimming.

  I ask if she minds if I sit at his desk, located in one corner of his living room. The condo isn’t big enough for an official office. The corner desk serves that purpose. It’s messy, but not exorbitantly so. A couple of cans of grape soda, and some Taco Bell wrappers. A half-eaten bag of chips. Most curious is the open notebook with drawings and doodles and notes.

  Roxy, standing in the nearby kitchen, seems emotionally drained and far more despondent than at our last meeting. At my request to sit at his desk, she waves her hand in such a manner as to suggest for me to knock myself out.

  And so I do, easing myself down into a plastic bucket desk chair. For a guy who makes $1,500 a day, surely he could afford a nicer chair. But to each their own, and in his defense, the chair is weirdly comfortable.

  Sitting in it does something to me. Curiously, my teeth start chattering. I’m suddenly cold, then immediately warm. Very, very warm. Next, I see in my mind’s eye the flat ocean spread before me. I can smell salt and a hint of brine. I see bare arms cutting through the water. I hear controlled breathing, mixed with wet exhalations. Sounds a bit like a whale’s blowhole, though far more regular. Roy is a strong swimmer. I sense that in his powerful strokes, breathing, and head position. He’s wearing goggles, which gives him a clear view whenever he dips his head underwater. He wears a fancy dive watch, too. His world is filled with frothing bubbles, water spray, and the plaintive cry of seagulls. Quite a heady mix, and I find myself enchanted, drawn in, and a bit lost in this world. I can almost see why he loves this so much. Almost.

  Just wish there weren’t creatures beneath him with bad intentions.

  He moves swiftly over the water, arms arching in his peripheral vision, fingertips driving into the water. The man can swim like greased lightning. I’m briefly mesmerized by the movements, the sounds, the sensations that seem to wash over my body, too. Rarely have I so completely and totally dropped into someone else’s body via this psychometry business.

  The image of him swimming fades out. This likely had nothing to do with his disappearance. Just a random swimming session associated with his condo, his desk, and perhaps his notepad.

  I get a sense that there’s nothing in here that’s directly associated with his disappearance. But that’s psychometry for you. I need a direct trigger object. Give me a killer’s gun, and I would likely see his face.

  That said, Allison’s particular skill set—distance viewing—needs only a personal object to make a connection.

  I hold up the notepad. “Can I borrow this?”

  “You saw him,” she says.

  “Saw him?” I ask innocently.

  “Swimming in the ocean.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I don’t, really. Just got a flicker of an image in your mind.”

  “You can read minds?”

  “Umm, not really. I just get flashes sometimes. If something is important to someone. This morning, the barista at Starbucks was wondering if she should get a mermaid tattoo on her rump. I’m not always sure these flashes are accurate and sometimes I test them. I held up my cup of coffee and pointed to the mermaid in the Starbucks logo, and said something about loving mermaids, too. Her eyes widened. By wanting validation, I might have unintentionally encouraged a young lady to get a mermaid tattooed on her butt.”