Her flight this morning would get her into Minneapolis just after noon. She could go directly to the gallery, talk to the owner if he was available, or his staff if he wasn’t around. Three hours later, she’d be on her return flight, arriving in plenty of time to do some bloody clubbing with vampires.
* * * *
Kathryn stared at the sign in the art gallery window in disbelief. Closed for lunch? Who the hell closed for lunch? And for two hours? She looked around the busy Minneapolisstreet to verify that she was indeed in a big American city and not somewhere in Europe where the two-hour, everything-shuts-down-for-lunch break was the norm.
She checked her watch. There was one hour left before the gallery would reopen. A gust of wind blew down the wide street, and she shivered, pulling her jacket closer as she searched the surrounding area for a way to kill an hour. Her gaze fell on the huge Mall of America in the distance, and she groaned inwardly. She hated shopping. But according to Lucas, she needed something appropriate to wear tonight, and a warmer jacket would be useful, too. She sighed and headed for her car with dragging steps.
An hour later on the dot, she was back, sliding her rental sedan into a parking space on the street which opened up just as she cruised past. Taking that as a good sign, she was feeling optimistic when she pulled open the heavy glass door on the gallery. It was fairly typical inside, with pale walls and track lighting which could be maneuvered to accommodate the varying shows over time. Floating walls hung blankly in midair, and Kathryn wondered if they were in the process of transitioning to a new showing.
The sharp click of high heels sounded on the hardwood floor, and Kathryn turned to find an intensely fashionable woman bearing down on her. She was older than Kathryn by at least ten years, with straight black hair parted in the middle and brushing her shoulders. Her makeup was perfect, her skin so pale Kathryn would have thought her one of Lucas’s gang, if not for the bright sunlight beaming outside the UV protected windows. Contact lenses changed what Kathryn thought were probably brown eyes into a brilliant turquoise that nature had never produced in the human eye.
A tight pencil skirt forced the woman to walk with mincingly short steps as she approached Kathryn. “Good afternoon,” she said in a pleasant but sophisticatedly cool voice. “And welcome to the Carmichael. How can I help you?”
Kathryn smiled back and produced her FBI identification. “Special Agent Kathryn Hunter. Is Mister Carmichael around?”
The woman studied the badge carefully before switching her gaze to Kathryn and saying, “I’m sorry, Mister Carmichael isn’t here.”
“When do you expect him?”
“I’m afraid I don’t. Mister Carmichael isn’t in town this evening.”
“I understand he has a gallery besides this one?”
“Yes, his main base of operations is the gallery in Chicago.”
“He’s in Chicago then?”
“I can’t say for certain. Mister Carmichael doesn’t need to clear his schedule with me.”
“But if you wanted to get in touch with him, that’s where you’d start?”
“If I wanted to reach Mister Carmichael, Agent, I’d call his cell phone,” the woman drawled, as if explaining the marvels of modern technology to an idiot.
Kathryn studied the other woman silently. Long enough that she finally reached up with nervous fingers to straighten her already perfect hair. “Was there something else?” the woman asked.
“I’m sorry,” Kathryn said. “I didn’t get your name.”
“Francoise.”
“Francoise? That’s it? Like Cher?”
Francoise pursed her lips unhappily, which wasn’t kind to her perfect makeup, revealing a starburst of unattractive creases around her lips that made Kathryn up her estimate of the woman’s age by another ten years.
“Francoise Reyos,” she said grudgingly.
“I notice you’ve recently taken down a collection, Francoise.”
“Yes, a series of photographs by Daniel Hunter,” she said, her expression suddenly animated. “A talented photographer and very popular with our clients. Not to mention a handsome and charming man.”
“You know him well, then?”
“Oh, yes. Not as well as Alex knows him, of course, but we’re very friendly.”
“Alex?” Kathryn repeated, trying to keep her voice from giving away the fact that the name meant anything special to her, that this was the name of the vampire who Daniel had been seen leaving with.
“I meant Mister Carmichael, of course. Alex Carmichael.”
Kathryn froze. Her research had listed the owner as George A. Carmichael, but both Magda and Lucas had been careful to call him only by his last name. Lucas had known she was looking for an Alex, and he wasn’t stupid. He had to know Alex Carmichael would immediately jump to the top of her list. So, why hadn’t he mentioned it?