The Blues Brothers are Feds? "No way," I tell Williams. "They can't be."

"Yeah? Tell them that. They're on their way to my office as we speak. And they want to see you. I told them you'd be here, so get in that hot car of yours and come down. Now."

He disconnects and I'm left listening to dead air. This doesn't add up. If they are Feds, what were they doing at Frey's? And why didn't they identify themselves?

Shit.

Since I hadn't had time to put my purse down or take off my jacket, I do an about face and head back to the car. SDPD Headquarters is on Broadway between 13th and 14th. Shouldn't take me longer than fifteen minutes. For once, I'm actually hoping lunch hour traffic will slow me down. I need time to think.

As luck will have it, I hit every green light. There's not a trolley or train crossing to halt my progress, and I find a parking space right in front of the big granite and blue steel building. Since it's located across from City College, that's no mean feat. I deposit the requisite coins in the meter and go inside. The reception area is utilitarian-blue plastic benches not designed for comfort, one cop behind the desk, a line of about ten people ahead of me. I shift restlessly from foot to foot, awaiting my turn with the receptionist. Williams left word that I was expected, and the desk sergeant gives me a code to use on the elevator. Part of building security. No one accesses anything except the reception area without a code of some kind or another.

The elevator whooshes up to the top floor. Another uniformed cop greets me in another reception area. Williams has left orders to usher me right in.

It's the first time I've met Williams on his home turf. He's seated at a big mahogany desk, a manila folder open in front of him. He doesn't look up, and only acknowledges my presence by a wave of a hand toward one of three chairs across from him. He doesn't use vampire wavelengths to project a single thought or emotion. His mind is a closed, black void. I make sure mine is, too.

I take a seat and glance around. His office is impressive - big, lots of windows, with a view over the Coronado Bay Bridge. There are bookcases full of memorabilia from past and present. Lots of cop stuff, like old badges and antique guns. Only another vampire would speculate if he has personally used this stuff in past generations as a lawman. For the first time I wonder if Williams has always been a cop.

I swing my gaze back to him. His bearing is different here, his attitude toward me colder and more professional. In his uniform, he cuts a striking figure. He's tall, over six foot, lean. I expect he must have been the same age as me when he became a vampire, thirty or so, because his skin is smooth, his face unlined except for tiny laugh lines that radiate from the corners of his eyes. He once told me that to pass as a fifty-year-old human he has his dark hair professionally streaked with gray.

I run fingers through my own short-cropped hair. I suppose I'll be doing the same thing before too long.

The way you piss people off, I doubt you'll live long enough to have to worry about that.

His tone is dry. He has raised heavy lidded eyes to peer at me across the desk. You didn't quite tell me everything about your adventures this morning, did you?

Ah. You're talking to me. Good. I thought you'd called me here to impress me with your digs. Or the speed at which you shuffle papers. And, I must say, both are impressive.

Williams folds his hands and leans toward me. In about two minutes, we're going to be joined by two special agents of the FBI. Any idea why they are interested in you?

I can honestly say, I do not. It's true. If they are indeed Feds, I don't have a clue. He looks at me so suspiciously that I can't help myself. I mimic his action, folding my hands and bending towards him. What do you think they want with me?

Irritation radiates out from him like the burst of a solar flare. Damnit Anna. They told the patrol cop that you attacked them outside of Daniel Frey's condo. Is that true?

I shrug. Maybe. But they were breaking into Daniel Frey's house. What kind of special agent does that?

A better question is why were you there?

To ask about Trish.

Not exactly a lie. Williams is looking at me with such intensity it takes every bit of willpower to keep from squirming. And to keep him out of my head. It's a relief when the opening of the office door interrupts us. I turn away from Williams to watch the two men approach the desk.

I was too preoccupied with keeping them away from Trish at the condo to get a good look at their faces. I have the chance now. Both have their eyes locked on me and neither is smiling. One is about five foot ten, one hundred seventy pounds, square bodied, square jawed. He sports a military buzz, his light brown hair almost invisible against his scalp. His suit fits well, though the tailoring isn't quite good enough to hide the bulge of the gun snugged up under his armpit.

His partner is one or two inches taller, fifty pounds heavier. He's the one who went to work on Frey's door with the lock pick before I interrupted. He has dark hair and eyes, a boxer's nose and thick lips. His suit jacket is open and his Glock sits on his hip.

Their suits are almost identical - black, lightweight. Both wear white shirts under their jackets, one with a thin, dark tie, the other, with a red patterned tie that is just this side of fashionable and maybe real silk.

Williams rises when they enter, crosses from behind his desk and holds out his hand. "I'm Warren Williams."

The one with the nice tie returns the handshake. "Special Agent Tom Bradley." He half turns toward his partner. "This is Eric Donovan."

The men shake hands all around. No one acknowledges my presence. I'm about to stand up when the one with the good tie, Bradley, skewers me with a look that can only be described as scathing.

Is he trying to scare me? I ask Williams dryly.

Williams's jaw tightens as he tries to ignore my intrusion into his head and concentrate on what Bradley is saying.

"This is Ms. Strong?" Bradley asks, glowering at me.

Williams nods and makes the introductions. "Anna Strong, Special Agents Donovan and Bradley."

They don't offer to shake hands and neither do I. Instead, they take seats, one on either side of me. Williams returns to his place behind the desk.

Donovan speaks next. "I think we met earlier today, Ms. Strong. At the home of Daniel Frey."

I nod.

"What were you doing there?" he asks.

"I was there to see Mr. Frey. What were you two doing there? Besides trying to break in?"

"And later," Bradley says, ignoring my questions. "We saw you at Carolyn Delaney's apartment."

"I knew Carolyn."

"How did you know Carolyn?" It's Donovan again.

My neck is getting tired from the constant swiveling. I look over at Williams. This tag team stuff is starting to wear thin.

Just answer the damn questions. His tone is a warning.

I direct my gaze to Donovan. "I told Detective Harris the story this morning. I'm sure Chief Williams will let you see the police report."

"We have seen it," Bradley interjects. "We want to hear the story again. From you."

That does it. I don't handle bullying very well and my patience is at an end. I push my chair back and stand up. Williams is shooting daggers at me and trying to interject himself into my head. I shut him out. Donovan and Bradley rise, too, and press closer as if to restrain me if I try to walk out.

"Am I under arrest?" I ask.

The two Feds shake their heads. That they are sorry to have to admit that is stamped on their faces.

"Then I'm going to leave. Unless, of course, you are willing to tell me what you were doing trying to break into Daniel Frey's condo and why you're following me."

Donovan and Bradley exchange a look. I know they're humans but I could swear they're communicating with each other. Most likely they discussed how to handle various scenarios before getting to the station. It's what David and I would have done.

In any case, they finally break their eye deadlock and Donovan says, "Please sit down, Ms. Strong. We'll answer your questions."

This time I push around him and take the seat to the far right. I'm not doing the ping-pong thing again.

They arrange themselves facing me and Bradley begins. "We are agents with a special unit that investigates sex crimes - in particular, sex crimes involving children. We are here because we believe there is a ring operating out of this area that uses children to make pornographic videos that they offer for sale over the Internet."

"Kiddie porn," Donovan interjects, as if maybe I've been living in a cave for the last fifty years.

I nod that I get it.

Donovan continues, "But we've seen a disturbing trend in the last few months. Children are not only abused in these videos, but they're killed."

My stomach lurches. "Why did you go to Daniel Frey's? Do you think he is somehow involved?"

"We don't know," Bradley replies. "But his name came up in an earlier investigation, in Boston. Nothing was proven. No charges were filed. Now he lives here, in San Diego, and we're hearing rumors again about these snuff films."

I can't believe what I'm hearing. If this is true, I turned Trish over to him. I delivered her to a monster. My concern is so overwhelming I forget to shelter my thoughts. Williams is in my head before I can prevent it.

He has Trish?

I don't have to answer. The look on my face must say it all.

Go, he tells me. I'll take care of the Feds.

I don't wait to see how he does it. I don't care. I bolt out the door.