Chapter Twenty-two
The chaos increased when the police showed up. They were as unamused as I to discover their detective had disappeared. They concurred with Dr. Haverough’s assessment.
No blood trail.
I left them to their search and rescue. I wouldn’t be of much help. I didn’t know the city. But I made Mueller promise to call me the instant they found Sullivan—dead or alive.
Nevertheless, I wandered up and down the streets of the French Quarter, hoping I’d find him, but I didn’t. By the time I returned to Rising Moon, dawn wasn’t too far away. The club was still lit from within, though no music spilled out. Inside several stragglers remained.
King glanced up. One look at my face and he ordered, “Everyone out.”
The customers tossed money next to their half-empty glasses and left. I wondered if anyone ever argued, and if they did, what King would do.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Detective Sullivan was injured.”
I didn’t plan on sharing the whole wolf, rabies, throat-torn, blood-everywhere deal. I wasn’t even sure if I was supposed to.
King frowned. “Is he okay?”
“He left the hospital before he was treated, and now they’re combing the city for him. They don’t think he’ll survive the night without help.”
“I didn’t like him,” King said, “but I don’t wish him ill either.”
I wasn’t so sure about that, but I kept my opinion to myself.
“I’ll just clean up and go,” he said.
“You want help?”
“Always.” He winked. “But you head up to bed. You look wrung out.”
I was.
I didn’t even think to ask if John had come back, left again, called, or anything in between, but as I passed the office on my way upstairs, the door opened. The man had ears like a—
I wasn’t sure. Something with really good ears.
“Anne.”
He leaned in the doorway, his shirt buttoned crookedly, the tail untucked, his short hair as mussed as hair that short could get. His slacks were zipped but wrinkled, and his feet were bare—pale and long, as elegant as his hands. The only thing neat about him was his well-trimmed goatee.
How did he keep that so nice anyway? I doubted King took care of it for him, but maybe I was wrong.
“Were you asleep?” I asked.
“No.” He reached for me, and I went into his arms. I really needed a hug. He nuzzled my cheek, his mouth trailing softly to mine. He tasted dark, red, rich.
I pulled away. “Have you been drinking?”
He smiled, the expression both sweet and sexy.
” Un p oco.” His hand fumbled for mine, then found it. “Have a drink with me, chica.”
I wanted to say no, but in the next instant he seemed so sad, as if he’d lost his best friend—did he even have one?—and I couldn’t deny him a moment’s companionship. Especially since, right now, I didn’t want to be alone either.
A bottle sat on the desk. Cabernet. A very expensive one too. I couldn’t imagine Rodolfo drinking anything else.
John pulled a coffee cup out of a drawer and curled his long fingers around the rim before tipping the bottle to pour.
Glug. Glug. Glug.
“That’s good,” I said.
I certainly didn’t need an entire coffee cup full of cabernet. I’d be on my ass before half of it was gone.
Although, considering what I’d seen tonight, maybe getting sloshed wasn’t a bad idea.
John handed me the cup, and I glanced into the depths. The swirling red liquid appeared far too much like blood. I swallowed thickly and set it aside.
“You don’t like it?” he asked.
“I’m not much of a drinker.”
“Me either,” he said, then took a healthy swig.
I tilted my head. “Isn’t red wine at the top of the ‘to be avoided like the plague’ list for migraine sufferers?”
“There’s a list?”
“Of course. Didn’t your doctor—” I recalled his reaction after he’d been mugged to the idea of calling a doctor. “Did you even see a doctor?”