"Thanks!” He tucked away the tip and picked up the box, handing it over to her.
"Sure.” She was already wondering what new horror Raphael was depositing on her doorstep. Walking over to the kitchen, she slid the carton onto the counter, then using her kitchen shears—which had never been used to shear anything tougher than paper—she sliced the tape on the top of the box.
The first thing she saw was an envelope with her name written on it in a flowing, archaic hand. Her heart skipped a couple of beats and she licked her lips nervously. The envelope proved to contain several documents, every one of which pertained to the late Scott Judkins. There was a copy of his life insurance policy, along with a check for the full benefit; a copy of his employment contract, with the death provisions highlighted, and another check in an amount large enough to make her eyes widen. The final document was Scott Judkins’ instructions for disposal of his remains in the event of his death. Cynthia skimmed it quickly, a sick feeling growing in her stomach the more she read. When she finished, she set the document carefully on the counter and lifted the cardboard packing square sitting inside.
"Shit! That goddamned, bloodsucking, motherfucking..."
Nestled inside the carton, tucked neatly into its own little niche, was a simple bronze urn. The cremains of Scott Judkins.
Apparently, guards in Raphael's employ agreed that in the event of their untimely deaths, their bodies would be transported immediately to the appropriate funeral home and disposed of accordingly. No doubt the vision of vampires feasting on their dead flesh played into their willingness for expeditious disposal, but Cynthia had to wonder how Mrs. Judkins was going to take the news that not only was her husband dead, but he had already been cremated, and, oh by the way, here he is. Fucking Raphael was probably laughing in his undead sleep.
Chapter Twenty-four
The Judkins place turned out to be one of those cookie-cutter houses that had cropped up by the thousands on the formerly bare hillsides east of L.A. They stood one next to the other, exactly alike except for minor design variations that repeated themselves every four houses or so. There were no yards to speak of, and if you and your neighbor didn't use window blinds scrupulously, you were treated to the intimate details of each other's lives. The great American dream of home ownership.
The neighborhood was empty when Cyn parked her Land Rover out front. It was still early enough that kids were in school, and in most of these families, both parents probably worked. A stay at home mom was a luxury they couldn't afford. Not and keep the house. Emily Judkins was apparently one of the exceptions. She answered the door when Cynthia rang, an average woman, with blond hair and tired eyes. Probably worried about her husband. Cyn sighed.
"Mrs. Judkins? Emily Judkins?"
"Yes.” The word came out a little shaky. She'd taken one look at Cynthia in her black, hand-tailored Armani and the Land Rover parked out front and figured Cyn wasn't from the local Homeowners Association.
Cynthia held out her hand. “My name is Cynthia Leighton, Mrs. Judkins. I work for ... Raphael Enterprises.” She came up with the name the driver had used this morning. “Could I come in for a moment?"
The tired eyes filled with tears as Mrs. Judkins shook Cynthia's hand, holding on a little tighter and a little longer than absolutely polite. “Scott's dead, isn't he?” she whispered.
"If we could go inside,” Cynthia prompted.
"Please tell me! Is my husband dead?"
Cynthia regarded the woman solemnly. What difference did it make, after all, where she heard the news? “I'm sorry, Mrs. Judkins. Truly sorry."
Emily covered her face, her shoulders shaking in silent sobs. When she turned away and wandered back into her house, Cynthia followed, closing the door. Cyn was not someone who easily or willingly hugged perfect strangers, or even people she knew only slightly. She was uncomfortable with excessive emotion of almost any kind, especially in front of others, having been raised in a virtual emotional vacuum herself. Still, she knew the expected forms and she really did feel sorry for Scott Judkins’ and his family. It wasn't that she didn't have feelings; she just wasn't comfortable expressing them.
Cyn put an awkward arm around the smaller woman and guided her to the couch, then found the kitchen and got a glass of water. She wasn't sure what the water was supposed to do, but everyone seemed to need a glass of water in a crisis of this sort. A box of Kleenex sat on the kitchen counter, so she snagged that on her way back.
Putting the water on the table, she held out the box. Judkins grabbed a couple of tissues in between sobs, which made Cynthia feel she'd done the right thing in bringing them. She patted the woman's shoulder tentatively, and felt even more awkward, so settled for a quick comforting rub before reclaiming her hand and perching on the chair next to the couch. “Is there anyone I can call, Mrs. Judkins? Someone you'd like here with you?” She knew that much from her police training.
"No,” Judkins murmured. “No, I'll be fine. I'm sorry.” She used a few more tissues and took a sip of water. “I'm sorry,” she repeated. “I guess I've always known it would come to this."
Cynthia searched for something to say. “How did your husband come to work for, um, the company, Mrs. Judkins?"
"It's all right,” she said with a watery smile. “I know what they were, what they are. Scott and I talked about it, whether it was the right thing to work for a vampire.” She blushed slightly. “I feel foolish even saying it. So many people don't believe they're real, or pretend not to."
"It's not exactly a secret."
"No, but it's not talked about either, is it? I suppose they want it that way.” She looked away, suddenly sad once again. “So, what happens now? I know Scott had...” Her lip trembled and she took another sip of water. “Do you know? That is. Do you know how he..."
"There was an attack on the estate. The attackers were well-armed and several guards were killed before anyone understood what was happening. The motivation is somewhat unclear at this point, although we are investigating.” A sudden thought occurred to Cyn. “We have reason to believe there may be some connection to organized crime. I don't know how much Scott told you about what he did."
"He hardly ever talked about it,” Emily said with a melancholy smile. “He said this was his refuge. This house, our daughter ... me. But things slipped occasionally, you know how it is.” She looked at Cynthia. “You're married, Ms. Leighton?"
"Uh, no. But I understand,” she lied. “Did he have any friends he talked to? Maybe even someone he worked with?"
"Not really. We lived so far away. Most of the others lived closer to the estate, so it was difficult. Lately, he'd been spending a lot of time with someone my cousin's husband introduced him to. Barry something. I heard them talking a few times, but I never met him myself."
"You said your cousin introduced them?"
"My cousin's husband,” she corrected. “Ronnie. This Barry worked with him. Ronnie's a truck driver. That used to be a good job, you know. Until they started recruiting over in Mexico. Now they bring in people who live ten to a room and work for half the price. So guys like Ronnie are out of luck. Anyway, he got this job at some warehouse over in East L.A., and it's worked out really well for him. When he found out where Scott worked, he introduced him to this guy Barry. I guess Barry was looking for a security job. My husband never really talked to me about it.” She frowned thoughtfully, glancing at Cyn and away as if trying to decide whether to go on.