Wanted: Undead or Alive

My Best Friend, The Cop

Chantelle rapped on my door at 5:45 p.m.. I'd finally fallen asleep around 2:00. Groaning, I rolled off the lumpy sofa and padded to the door in my bare feet.

"You look sick," she said when she saw me. "Are you contagious?" Her right hand rested on the butt of her gun. It had taken a long time for me to get used to that particular accessory.

I scrubbed a hand over my face, trying to pull sleep's cobwebs away. "No. I am not freaking contagious. Come in."

She gave me a skeptical glare, but when I turned around and pointed myself in the general direction of my Mr. Coffee machine, she followed. It wasn't far to go. The whole place was maybe four hundred square feet—just one open room with a partitioned off bedroom and a bathroom the size of a closet. Since I'd furnished it mostly with my grandparents' cast-offs, it had a hardcore 1970s vibe. Lots of brown floral patterns on everything.

"Tell me why you sent me this plate."

I filled the glass carafe with tap water and poured it into the machine, added two big scoops of crappy store-brand French vanilla grounds. It was the last of what I had. Dang it, it was exhausting not knowing if I could afford tomorrow's coffee. Then I remembered the cash I'd gotten and my spirits lifted a little. I flipped the power switch to the on position before joining Chantelle at the kitchen table. "Did you find anything?"

With her arms folded over her ample bosom, she looked exactly as her mother had when she'd caught us up to no good and lying about it.

"What?" I asked.

"Swear on your mother's grave you're not romantically involved with this guy."

Well, damn. That piqued my interest. "Why? What's wrong with him?"

"Swear it."

"My mother's not dead," I pointed out. She was a lying, cheating, absentee deadbeat, but last time I knew she was still very much alive.

"Swear."

I wasn't sure why I was resisting. My romantic interest in Drew Freeman equaled my romantic interest in the elephant I recently saw on a trip to the zoo. "I swear I am not, nor will I ever be, romantically involved with this guy. I just want to know who he is."

"Why?"

"Chantelle!"

"Olivia!" She took a deep, calming breath. "Look, I bent the rules for you today, and I'd like to know why."

How much should I tell her? After having most of the day to think about it, I'd decided that I did believe the agent and whomever he worked for were capable of erasing memories as well as people. I didn't want either of those things to happen to Chantelle. She had a husband who thought she was a goddess and the cutest fat little toddler I'd ever seen.

"He came into the hotel last night."

"Uh-huh."

"I got some weird vibes."

"Girl, you got half the drug dealers in the state running through that rathole. You must get weird vibes on an hourly basis."

"Geez, it's not that bad." It only seemed right to defend the place that paid my rent, such as it was.

She arched a brow at me.

"Different kind of weird," I finally said. The coffee pot wasn't even a quarter of the way done yet. Why was it so slow? "Actually, it was this other guy that was weird. This guy came in after the creep and he said he's a bounty hunter."

"True," she said.

"Well, if you know that, why the big fuss? He's practically a cop like you."

She held her hands out in front of her for me to stop. "Oh, no, sis. He ain't nothing like me. Bounty hunters and police play by entirely different rules." She uncrossed her arms to gesticulate, emphasizing her point. "Furthermore this Drew Freeman has a fugitive apprehension license that checks out as valid. The car is registered in his name, but that's it."