Danny had a point. Not about the whole new-world-order bullshit, but the fact that the privileged and the elite had access to things that regular people didn’t. She wasn’t naïve about the way the life worked, especially when it came to crime—the one person with the best political connections and the best lawyer, sadly, had the chips stacked in their favor. But when it came to carrier blood and whatever chemical cocktail worked—if there actually was one—so much was still unknown because the whole process had all been driven underground, made illegal. Younger carriers had blood that was “fresher” and, it was believed, more powerful and longer lasting—which was why kids were being abducted in record numbers not only in California but across the country, imprisoned and forced to live out their lives like golden geese.
At least that was the operating theory. No one had ever found or seen one of these mythical “blood farms,” as they had been dubbed by the media, so no one knew for sure if they existed. The blood world in LA consisted of two main factions: Armenian Power X was a cartel that, on the surface, seemed more organized than the second faction, the Mexicans, who seemed to favor draining and dumping carriers.
“The blood I’d want to try,” Danny said, “is Pandora.”
You and everyone else, Ellie thought.
“Bye-bye, wrinkles and belly; hello, smoother and tighter skin, thicker hair, more muscle tone, and less body fat. But wait—there’s more! Order now, and we’ll throw in, free of charge, the most intense orgasms you will ever experience in your entire life.”
“If Pandora actually exists,” Ellie said.
“Blood Unit believes it does.”
“But there’s no proof. No sample has ever been found, and no one has ever been caught using it. For all we know, we could be chasing a unicorn.”
“There you go with we again.” Danny rolled his head to her and cracked a grin. “That’s what all this stop-and-frisk shit is all about, isn’t it? You’re doing a little R & D, hoping to find something, something big, so you can try to secure a spot on that unit.”
Ellie smiled. “Look at you, playing detective. How cute.”
“It’ll never happen.”
“You becoming a detective?”
“You working on the Blood Unit.”
Ellie’s throat clenched. “That’s a real shitty thing to say.”
“I’m just giving you the lay of the land. It’s not about how good or talented you are; it’s who you know and who you blow. You don’t strike me as the type who—”
“Danny, look out!”
The patrol car’s forward-collision warning system sounded. The vehicle automatically decelerated, Ellie’s attention locked on a black Labrador retriever that had darted into the road and, instead of running away, stopped and looked at them, its tail wagging.
Danny swerved to the right. The Lab didn’t move, and Ellie let out a small cry when she heard and felt the front-left corner of the fender hit the dog, the yelp it let out freezing her heart.
Ellie was already out of the car before it came to a stop. She got down on one knee beside the dog and Danny remained behind the wheel, blinking in shock, Ellie knowing he was thinking about his Bernese mountain dog, Mickey. The dog had been the most loving thing during the final months of his marriage—his anchor, he had admitted to her more than once.
“Danny!”
He threw open the door, his gut brushing against the steering wheel as he got out. The dog lay on its side, shaking and panting, its eyes closed against the bright sun. Danny looked like he was going to pass out.
“Didn’t break any bones, as far as I can tell, and I don’t see any cuts,” Ellie told him. The Lab flapped its tail in agreement, then stopped when Ellie started rubbing its soft pink belly. “Probably just whacked Sasha here with the fender.”
Danny let loose the caged breath he’d been holding. “Sasha?”
“Dog’s name, according to the tag on his collar.”
The dog had several tags. Ellie was focused on the one shaped like a red fire hydrant. SASHA was etched on the front, along with a phone number and an address right here in Brentwood.
Ellie held the tag along its side. “Take a look at this,” she said, and flipped the tag over so Danny could see the words someone had written in black marker, beneath a bloody fingerprint:
Help Us.
CHAPTER 2
ELLIE BAGGED THE dog collar just in case this turned into something—and it had to be something; it was too bizarre not to be something. Afterward she placed the dog in the backseat, Sasha wagging her tail, the memory of being hit already forgotten. Ellie slid into the passenger seat, got on the horn to dispatch, and worked the laptop while Danny drove to the address printed on the dog tag.
One twenty-three Bleeker was a lot like the typical Mediterranean-style houses popular in affluent Los Angeles neighborhoods: a low-pitched red-tile roof with stucco siding and arched windows and wrought iron balconies. There was a fountain in the front, and the grounds were meticulously maintained—no doubt thanks to the abundant and cheap migrant labor.
A driveway wrapped around the front of the house. By the time they had pulled in and parked, Ellie had some background info on the home’s current owners. She showed Danny the license pictures on the laptop’s screen.
Louis Vargas was fifty-nine and wore every second of it on his face: dark circles under his eyes; jowly, wrinkled, and saggy skin. Sophia Vargas was fifteen years his junior but could have passed easily for late thirties: perfect complexion, black hair, and lovely dark eyes. No criminal record, either one of them. No traffic tickets or violations or citations. No children. No report of a missing dog.
Danny left the engine running. Before he got out, he cranked the AC up to its highest setting, since the dog would be staying in the back for the time being. Ellie slipped on her sunglasses, a pair of Ray-Ban Caravans, and followed Danny to the front door, a big ornate slab carved from oak. He rang the doorbell.
No one answered the door. He tried the doorbell again, and got the same response. Danny was about to knock when they heard splashing coming from somewhere out back.
“Let’s go check it out,” Danny said, and Ellie nodded.
They discussed the approach as they moved back down the steps. Ellie walked around the left side of the house, Danny around the right.
The fence was a custom job, made of redwood boards with a matching inset gate, the shrubbery incorporated into the fence. In the spaces between the boards, Ellie could see into the backyard. The surface of the swimming pool was still rippling from the person who had been in it: a tanned beanpole of a kid who couldn’t have been any older than sixteen. He had that surfer thing going on, and part of his long blond hair was tied up in a goofy man bun.