"There should be at least three—one with a broken neck, two with gunshot wounds."

"We've got two. And no sign of the kid you were following." So one of the vamps hadn't been killed. She wondered if the woman had rescued him, or whether he'd simply slid away before the cops had arrived. “If you don't believe we were here following Matthew, check with his mother.” She rolled her neck, trying to ease the ache.

"Oh, I did."

She snorted. Why was she not surprised? She and MacEwan might have come to a better understanding of each other during that whole Jasper mess, but that didn't mean friendship had blossomed as a result.

"And?"

"And it's the only reason your ass is not currently parked in a cell."

"For what? Having the audacity to defend myself?"

MacEwan smiled grimly. “Blowing someone's brains out is manslaughter, regardless of whether it's done in self-defense or not."

"I didn't blow anyone's brains out—a fact I think you'll discover once you run prints on the gun." They wouldn't find Jake's prints, either, as he'd been wearing gloves—gloves that were now sitting in her jacket pocket. She'd taken them off him before the cops arrived. MacEwan snorted. “Like I can take that at face value. The gun's registered in Jake's name, isn't it?" It was, but they still had to prove Jake had pulled the trigger. Which would be rather hard, seeing she and the vampires were the only witnesses. “If the case is so clear-cut, why haven't you charged us?"

"Not saying I won't. I was just stating that Mrs. Kincaid backed part of your story, and it's the only reason you're still sitting here."

Great. Now she was going to spend the next twenty-four hours wondering when MacEwan was going to bust her butt and throw her in jail. Just what she needed on top of everything else. She ran a hand through her sweat-heavy hair. “Don't suppose you saw anything in the warehouse that would give us some clue as to where Matthew might have gone?" She hadn't had the chance to look herself. She'd stayed with Jake until the ambulance arrived, and the cops had pretty much followed the paramedics in.

MacEwan blew a smoke ring skyward. “Nothing that I can see on first glance. We do have witness reports of a car speeding down Ocean Road away from here at approximately the time you gave us." She raised an eyebrow. “Don't suppose these witnesses saw how many people were inside?"

"Three. One woman, two men."

"Your witnesses had rather good eyesight, didn't they?" MacEwan gave her a smile that was all teeth and no warmth. “It was a patrol car that spotted them. They gave chase, but the perps managed to lose them."

"Back to driving school for them,” she muttered. “What about the plate number?"

"Wyoming plates. We're checking it out."

She crossed her arms and frowned at MacEwan. He was being just a little too helpful. Usually he only provided information in small dollops—if that. “What are you after?" He crushed his cigarette under his heel and gave her another wintry smile. “Help. Jake told me some time ago about an ability of yours ... physiometry?"

Nikki's smile was tense. “Psychometry. The ability to touch objects and get some sense of the owner." He nodded. “He said you can use it to trace people—that that was how you kept finding Monica Trevgard."

She rubbed her arms. They'd been nowhere near quick enough to save Monica, and she hoped the same wouldn't be said about Matthew. The woman in the warehouse had given her the impression that Matthew's death wasn't a first option, so maybe she had some time to find him yet.

"It's a talent that's a little shaky. It doesn't always work." He shrugged. “At this stage, I'm willing to give anything a try." The edge in his voice suggested this was something personal. Her frown deepened. “What do you want me to do?"

He raked a hand through his dark hair then glanced around. “My niece was abducted three months ago. We've tried everything we can think of to find her—gone through every official channel. There's no sign of her. My sister's going crazy. I thought that maybe...” He shrugged. “You help me, and I'll help you." She frowned. “Why are you so convinced she's still alive?” He'd been a cop long enough to know the chances of that were remote—especially given the fact it obviously wasn't a ransom-induced kidnapping.

"She is alive.” His voice was flat, but there was desperation in his eyes. Clutching at straws. “I can't guarantee anything.” After three months, whatever psychic resonances his niece might have left on her personal items would probably be fading.

"Just try."

She nodded. MacEwan had to be frantic if he was coming to her for help. In the past, he'd been the biggest denouncer of her gifts. Yet he hadn't mocked her months ago when she'd called him for help with Jasper and his zombies, nor had he mocked when she'd mentioned that the bodies in the warehouse were vampires. MacEwan wasn't a man easily figured out, that was for sure. He took a business card from his jacket and handed it to her. On the back was a handwritten address.

"I should be finished here by six,” he said. “You can reach me at home anytime after seven." She nodded and tucked the card in the pocket of her jeans. It looked like she wasn't going to head home and grab that shower after all. She'd barely even have enough time to go see Jake at the hospital.

“I'll need something of your niece's—something she wore all the time." MacEwan frowned. “Like what? Jewelry? Clothes?"

She shrugged. “Jewelry works best—metal seems to hold the resonance of its owner longer. But I can sometimes get quite good readings from a bra."

"I'll talk to Sondra, see what she can come up with.” He half turned away, then stopped, looking back.

“I know you'll want to see Jake once you leave here, but don't screw me around on this." Nikki snorted. As if she would. She knew better than anyone how stupid that would be. Though she'd never felt MacEwan's wrath herself, she'd seen it fall on others. Fair cop or not, he had a mean streak wider than the Mississippi when pushed too far.

"Just don't expect me to perform miracles."

He nodded and reached for another cigarette. “I won't. I just have a feeling time is running out for her. If we don't find her soon, we won't find her alive."

"I'll be there as soon as I check on Jake.” Hopefully, he was fine. Hopefully, the wound wasn't as bad as it had looked. “Don't suppose you could talk to Matthew's mother and see if you can convince her to part with something of Matthew's?"

The chances of Mrs. Kincaid being willing to see her, let alone touch something of Matthew's, weren't likely to be high right now. Hell, they'd be lucky if she even bothered paying them—not that Nikki could really blame her.

MacEwan nodded. “I'll talk to her.” He took a drag on the cigarette, then crushed it under his heel and walked away.

She wondered why he bothered smoking. In all the years she'd known him, she'd never actually seen him finish a cigarette.

She pushed off the crate she'd been sitting on and headed for the street. Jake had given her a spare set of car keys for use in emergencies like this—when he was stuck somewhere and his much-loved Mercedes was parked in a dubious area. He'd kill her if she left it there. The car was parked under a streetlight about a block down from the warehouse. She climbed in and sped over to the hospital.

Mary, Jake's wife of twenty years, was pacing the confines of the hospital's waiting room. Her long gray hair had been pulled back into a tight bun, giving her lined features a severe, almost gaunt, look.

"How is he?” Nikki stopped a couple of feet away from the older woman. Although she'd known them both for a long time now, she still found it easier to talk to Jake rather than Mary. Maybe because Mary always looked so perfect, so polished, and talked about art and literature and other things that went way over Nikki's head. Things that made her aware of her years on the streets and her lack of schooling.

Not that there was anything resembling malice on Mary's part. After all, she'd welcomed a grubby sixteen-year-old into her home some ten years ago and had become, in many ways, a surrogate mother. But she was a mother Nikki couldn't easily talk to.

"He's still in surgery. He's lost a lot of blood. They don't know...” Mary faltered, tears spilling down her cheeks. “...don't know if his heart will take the strain of two major operations so close together." A chill slithered through Nikki. Jake hadn't mentioned anything about heart problems. She hesitated, then stepped forward and drew Mary into her arms, offering the comfort words couldn't. A shudder ran through the older woman's slender frame, and hot tears fell on Nikki's arm.

"This has to stop. He has to stop."

The chill increased. “He'll be fine, Mary.” Yet even as she said it, Nikki tasted the lie. Would this be a case of third time unlucky?

Maybe Mary was right. Maybe it was time for him to stop. To walk away while he still could. Though what she would do—where she would go—if he did was something she didn't want to think about. Mary sniffed and pulled away. “The police told me he was attacked—and that he'd possibly killed his attacker. Do you think they'll charge him?"

"I don't know.” As MacEwan had said, manslaughter was manslaughter, regardless of the circumstances. And the gun was registered to Jake, even if his prints weren't on it. Mary's gaze searched hers. “What happened out there? I thought you were only following a teenager?"

"We were. The people he met with weren't all that happy about our presence. There were at least five of them. We're lucky to be alive.” Lucky the woman had run, rather than attacking a final time. A doctor wearing blue surgical scrubs came into the waiting room. Mary spun around. His gaze briefly met Nikki's, and her stomach clenched. The operation hadn't gone well—she could see it in his eyes.

"We've removed the bullet from his stomach, but the knife punctured his lung. He made it out of surgery okay, but the next twenty-four hours are vital."

Meaning there'd been complications, Nikki thought, and rubbed her arms. Mary went white. Nikki gently cupped the older woman's elbow, ready to catch her should she faint. Mary didn't seem to notice. “But he'll be all right, won't he?" There was a tremulous note to the older woman's voice. The doctor hesitated. “I can't promise anything."

"Can I see him?"

"Not for the next couple of hours. Why don't you go home and get some sleep? We'll call if anything happens."

Mary snorted softly. “Would you do that if it was your wife in there?" The doctor smiled. “No. I don't suppose I would.” He hesitated again. “I'll keep you posted." Mary sank down onto the chair once the doctor left. “He has to live, Nikki. He has to."

"He will.” Jake was tough. If he'd lived through Jasper's attack, surely he could live through this. She glanced at her watch.

Mary caught the movement. “You have to go?"

She nodded. “MacEwan wants to see me."

"Then go.” She reached out, gripping Nikki's arm tightly. “Just don't you go after the madmen who did this. Jake wouldn't want that. He never did believe in revenge." Neither did she. Jasper had taught her the folly of seeking retribution, if nothing else. “I have to find Matthew. He'd want me to do that."

Mary nodded. “Be careful."

"Always am.” She took the car keys and parking ticket out of her pocket. “Tell him his car is safe. It's on level three, to the right of the stairs."

Mary accepted the keys with a nod. “I'll let you know if anything...” Her voice trailed off, and she blinked several times.

"Do that,” Nikki said, her throat restricted and aching. Turning away sharply, she swiped the tears from her eyes and went in search of a cab.

* * * *

MacEwan opened the door at the second knock. He'd obviously just come out of the shower—his hair still dripped, and he wasn't wearing a shirt. Not that it mattered. A thick brown mat covered much of his skin. Nikki smiled slightly. He seemed to have more hair on his chest than he did on his head.

"Come in,” he said. “The living room is the second door on your left. I'll just go get some clothes on." She nodded and headed down the hallway. MacEwan's house was something of a revelation. She expected spartan—white walls and minimal furniture. The reality was rich claret walls, cream ceilings and lots of antiques. The house exuded warmth and friendliness—totally the opposite of the man himself. She entered the living room and stopped. A woman rose from an overstuffed chair, a look of expectancy in her brown eyes. MacEwan's sister, obviously. Nikki hoped he hadn't raised her hopes too much.

"You must be Nikki James,” the woman said, her large hands clasped tightly together, knuckles almost white.

Nikki offered a hand. “Yes, I am. You're Sondra, I gather?" Sondra nodded. Her handshake was firm, her skin slightly clammy. “Thank you for agreeing to help us." She hadn't exactly agreed, but there was no point saying that. “No problem." Sondra perched on the chair again. “What happened to your hand?" Nikki glanced down. The white bandages really stood out against all the claret and browns that filled the living room. “Stabbed myself with a knife. Apples are tougher than they look these days.” Why she lied, she wasn't entirely sure. Maybe because the other woman, despite her size, looked as fragile as glass—and any reminder, no matter how distant, of what might have happened to her daughter might just break her.