TWELVE HOURS LATER I turned my hybrid rental car down a winding gravel driveway. Main roads in pricey suburban Virginia ran alongside fenced and thickly wooded acres. The impression was of farms rather than residences. All the streets had Scottish names. I was leaving Braeburn Glen Lane for a private entry.
Autumn would turn the winding driveway ahead of me into a carnival of falling colored leaves. Now everything was green and lush. The rental car nosed around descending curves until a low, sprawling house came into view.
I parked in the circular driveway before the double-doored entry and got out, smoothing my narrow navy skirt.
A heavy dark cotton suit would make me swelter in Las Vegas this time of year. Here, the summer temperature was lower but humid. I felt the film of a nervous sweat.
I'd bought this vintage suit in Wichita because I loved the 1950s details: white piqu�� collar and matching cuffs, eight brass horse's-head buttons down the jacket front and a singleton at each short cuffed sleeve.
The silver familiar retained its discreet default mode: twin of the so-not-me silver hip chain I bought in the crazy rush of first romance with Ric. I figured the hidden familiar was too too tasteful to clash with my current outfit's brassy touches.
Tough. I'd chosen this suit for this mission, for what its color and cut would unconsciously imply to the people I wanted to see inside this pleasantly expensive house on the groomed and expansive grounds.
I even wore the Suit Era's regulation white, wrist-length gloves and carried a neat navy patent leather envelope-style pocketbook. I took a deep breath before ringing the small round doorbell button with one gloved forefinger. Avon lady calling.
I hoped they answered soon. My heart was beating like I was auditioning for the class play. A knob turned on the right-hand wood door, allowing me to glimpse the occupant as it opened slightly.
A woman. Good. She registered my gender and opened the door further. The handsome blonde looked forty-something but was probably a poster child for the Washington, D.C., "well-preserved" matron set. She eyed me quizzically.
"Is your husband at home as well?" I asked. "I have important news for you both."
My vintage apparel had subtly distracted her, causing a faint frown to materialize on her smooth forehead.
"Yes?"
She eyed my face again, hard, then silently stepped into the shadows behind her, swinging the door wide.
The entry area was paved in black marble, so the heels of my open-toed pumps made a military marching sound over the polished stone.
The living room was carpeted in deep shrimp plush wool, gorgeous and madly expensive to maintain. I almost wanted to step out of my shoes before I walked on it. Couldn't afford to lose one iota of authority, though.
Her husband was reading a thin newspaper in an easy chair, hair thinning on top to match, half-glasses perched on a strong Roman nose. Old-fashioned habits died hard in this house.
He looked up, glanced at her, then eyed me again, rising slowly.
"My name is Street," I said crisply. "I've come from Las Vegas with unwelcome news, but it's not dire."
"Ric," the woman breathed beside me.
The newspaper was flung aside, the man striding toward me.
"Who are you, young woman?"
"Street, Delilah Street. I'm a... professional partner of your... of Ric's."
"Partner?" he echoed dubiously.
"A private investigator. Sometimes we work the same cases."
"And your news?"
"He's under doctor's care but is doing fine."
"Doing fine from what?" the man asked.
I felt a hand on my bare forearm. The woman's fingers were icy. I fought a sudden, rare urge for tears. She loved Ric too.
"Our guest needs to sit down, and so do we, Philip," she told him. " Miss Street said the situation isn't dire. She's come all this way to spare us a shocking phone call. Let's not make an interrogation of this."
She ushered me to a love seat opposite her husband's chair and then paused. "I suppose we should hear the rough scenario first, then I'll get some coffee and we can relax a bit."
"No relaxing here," he grumbled, sitting again to brace sweatered forearms on his thighs and lean forward, eyeing me like a murder suspect.
The woman's sigh was almost inaudible but she sank down beside me.
"Ric was found," I began, "with many superficial wounds and one more severe... stab wound in the neck that wasn't fatal, although he'd lost a lot of blood."
The laundered account came tripping off my tongue with a few hesitations that, I hoped, would be taken for difficulty recounting the hard facts.
What I really had trouble doing was converting a gang vampire torture attack to something human. My instincts told me to go slowly. I had no idea what the Burnsides knew about Ric's consultancy work or even if they believed in the Millennium Revelation and the supernatural beings it had revealed. A lot of people still didn't.
"My God," Mrs. Burnside said.
She had a longer bio on Groggle than even her husband. A respected psychologist, her given name was Helena and her maiden name had been Troy. Luckily, she was beautiful enough to carry off that bit of parental hubris.
Her silky caftan's turquoise-and-purple floral print gleamed jewel-like against the yellow silk-upholstered sofa. Now I knew where Ric had acquired his polish and manners. Not a thing was out of place in this spacious formal room except for the crumpled tent of the tossed-aside Washington Post print edition.
"Which hospital is he in?" Mr. Burnside asked me.
"It's a... private facility, to keep his condition secret. We think... he fell into the hands of drug lords."
"It's his damn obsession with those endless Juarez murders!" Burnside told his wife, his eyes furious over the forgotten half-glasses. "What's the matter with the boy? He could have had a top FBI position here in D.C. He needs to stay out of Mexico."
Her faded blue eyes closed momentarily. "That's the problem, Philip. He needs to pursue old demons there."