The Hunt

Part 5

THE HUNT

PART FIVE

 “WHY are we here?”

 Blondie glared at the tall, dark building in front of us. I had perched the car of the edge of Edith Street.

 “I thought we’d run a terrorist attack on this street, Blondie,” I replied dryly.

 “Oh, you’re so funny. You should be a comedian,” she replied, stepping ahead of me, toward her father’s office. “Oh,” she added. “I’m not blonde, either!”

 I gritted my teeth together. She sounded just like Elsie, when we were friends. (If that’s what you’d call it.) How was I going to work with her?

 Don’t.

 No, I thought. She knows how to get the information from her father. I need her. It shocked me; I had been alone for three hundred years…

 “Are you coming? Because today would be great.”

  How did she get such confidence? I knew that I needed to teach her who was in charge. I walked up to her and said, “Go in the car and stay there. If you try to get out then I’ll kill your father, you hear me?”

 “But-“

 “No questions about it!”

 “It wasn’t a question.” She grinned.

 A light flickered on above us. We froze. I couldn’t let anyone see Jessica, especially her father.

 Talk of the devil, I thought as I heard his quiet sobs.

 “Dad,” Blondie whispered.

 She stepped closer to the entrance but I grabbed the collar of her shirt.

 “Get. In. The. Car,” I whispered in a threatening tone.

 She looked at me sadly before nodding and walking back to the car with her head down.

 I looked back at the darkened entrance and I looked at the keypad. It read different surnames next to a buzzer. I scrolled down it with my finger.

 ‘Detective Jones.’

 ‘Detective Harris.’

 ‘Detective Perkins.’

 I clicked the buzzer next to the name Perkins and it bleeped. I waited ten seconds, and then I heard a voice on the speaker.

 “Hello?”

 “Detective Perkins?”

 “Speaking,” he replied. His voice was hoarse due to his grieving.

 “Hello, sir. This is Agent Parker speaking, are you busy?” I asked sweetly.

 “No, no. Come on up.”

 The door clicked and I walked through it. I spotted a receptionist, behind a huge modern desk, filing her nails. I walked up to her and she looked at me and smiled.

 “Hello love.” Her accent was thick. “What can I do for you?”

 “I’m here to visit Detective Perkins.”

 “Ah. Bless him, he’s a good man. His daughter was murdered a week ago, how tragic,” she said with sorrow.

 “Oh, was she? I’m very sorry to hear that, but, you see, I’m here for business issues rather than personal.”

 “Oh, of course! Just take the one flight of stairs and his door is the fourth to the right.” She smiled again.

 “Thank you.”