A quarter past seven. Trie window was as bright as it would get. The worst of the deadly rays had abated and the threat passed.

I left the back room to fetch my overnight bag. Veronica remained silent in her room, evidently fast asleep. The kitchen and dining area were lit with sunshine flooding past the curtains. Though I was safe, I felt a tinge of fear, like standing close to a river of hot lava.

I went into the bathroom and covered with makeup-sunblock as much skin as I expected to show. I sat in the kitchen, my wet hair slicked back, my fangs squeaky clean and minty fresh. I wore a T-shirt and shorts, and propped my bare feet on the cool tiles along the edge of the counter. My contacts were in, to keep from scrambling for them once Veronica got up.

After brewing coffee, I mixed half of another bag of blood into my cup of Java. The rest of the blood I dumped into a bowl and sopped it up with a warmed cranberry scone.

The third folder from the box rested on my lap. The folder contained a jumble of loose papers, printouts of emails, and Web blogs.

I found a small greeting card. A soft-focus photo of a coffee setting decorated the cover. Tucked inside the card was a restaurant credit card receipt made to Freya Krieger. Time of purchase: 1:12 P.M. The date? Three weeks before the death of Roxy Bronze.

The note in the card was neatly penned in blue:

Sis, Great to see you.

Lara

Who was Lara? Sis?

Did Roxy Bronze-Freya Krieger-have a sister named Lara?

They had gotten together for lunch, and because of the card, I gathered the two didn't see each other often. Was Lara visiting, or did she live in L.A.? If the latter case, why the card? Was there an estrangement between the two?

Veronica stirred in the bedroom.

I put the file aside. With the last piece of scone I blotted the remaining globs of blood. I poured plain Java into a cup to let it cool, then swished the coffee in my mouth to have the proper breakfast breath. As I washed the dishes and cleared away all evidence of my blood meal, the door to the bathroom closed.

When Veronica came into the kitchen I was arranging the files in the box. She cinched the belt of a white terry cloth robe. Strands of wet hair curled beside her freshly scrubbed face. Even though she smelled of bayberry soap, her eyes still carried the wilted look of overdoing it the night before.

With her hands thrust into the pockets of the robe, Veronica leaned against the doorway from the hall into the kitchen. "Thanks for being a gentleman."

Me? A gentleman? Give me a chance to change that opinion. I filled a cup with coffee. "Cream? Sugar?"

She took the cup in both hands. "Black is fine." Eyes closed, she slurped several times. Every swallow brought more life to her expression. A finger uncurled from the cup and pointed to the box. "Any progress?"

"Some. There's a lot of info. I'll have to take the files to study them."

Veronica rested her hip against the edge of the sink counter.

Her brown eyes, shiny as gemstones, stared over the rim of her coffee cup. "What a hot Latina babe I turned out to be."

"Not to worry. My interests are strictly professional." I'm a practiced liar.

An amused smile played across her lips. She glanced to the wall clock by the refrigerator. "I've got brunch with the girls from Barrios Unidos. Wanna come with?"

The girls from Barrios Unidos? Plus Veronica. Could make for an interesting, if tangled, way to pass an otherwise boring Sunday.

"Thanks"-I tapped the box containing the files-"but I should get started."

Veronica looked at the box, then to the clock, and finally to me. She put her cup in the sink. That amused smile returned. "Yes, it's time you got started." She undid her belt and let the robe slip to the floor. "Let's make up for last night."

Naked, Veronica was spectacular.

Veronica and I rushed down the stairs from her apartment, her flip-flops smacking as we ran through the breezeway to the parking spaces in the back.

"Ay Dios," Veronica said. "I hate this. I'm the one getting after the girls at Barrios Unidos to watch the clock. Now look at me."

She ran to the driver's side of a Nissan sedan and aimed a key remote. The door locks clicked. I opened the rear door on the passenger's side and put the box with Roxy's files and my overnight bag on the seat. I sat up front next to Veronica.

She jammed the key into the ignition and started the car. With one hand on the gearshift she whispered to herself, "Wild Oats. Coffee. Bakery. Fruit."

It was half past ten. Her brunch was at eleven. No way she'd make it.

I, on the other hand, congratulated myself. Veronica surprised me with her expectations for a morning quickie in the kitchen, followed by an encore on the dinette table. The challenge had been to keep Veronica hypnotized enough to remember some but not all of what happened. I wanted her to recall that sex with me was very good, great, outstanding, the best ever, but not that I was a vampire.

When I removed my clothes she would've noticed the pale, translucent skin not covered by makeup. To use hypnosis, my contacts had to go. I had no choice but to use my vampire powers, not to seduce her, but to keep my secrets safe.

I gave her the occasional stare and a measured application of fangs to keep her in a modulated state between conscious and completely whacked out. Her silver jewelry needed to come off to keep from burning my skin when she stroked and clutched in passion.

Vampire hypnosis or not, Veronica showed remarkable initiative when demonstrating her many carnal skills.

She flicked down the sun visor and examined her neck in the vanity mirror. "The hickies you left are barely noticeable, gracias a Dios." She wiped at the corner of her mouth to tidy a smear of lip gloss. She spread her fingers. "Don't remember taking off my rings. How do you do it, Felix? One minute I'm with you. The next I'm fogged over. You're not slipping me something? Roofies?"

"All you're getting is Felix Gomez." And Trojans.

"Besides that, I mean." She put the Nissan into reverse and backed into the street.

I told Veronica that a friend had dropped me off at her place and I needed a ride to the closest car rental. The place was on Beverly Boulevard not far from her apartment and on the way to her morning shopping.

Veronica stopped in the rental lot. We kissed good-bye. She drove off in typical L. A. fashion, foot flat on the gas and a cell phone pressed against one ear.

I slung my overnight bag over one shoulder and carried the box of files into the rental office.

An older woman-blue hair, skinny legs with varicose veins, high-water pants covered with an upchuck of colors-stood against the counter. The woman glared at the tense young man in a baggy dress shirt whose attention was directed at a computer monitor. The little wiry dog in the woman's arms saw me, growled, and started a yapping fit.

The surveillance camera on the wall peered through two mirrors, each at a different angle, so that this single camera could cover a wide area. A thrifty arrangement and one that worked in my favor. I could be captured on video but not if my image was reflected through a mirror.

The rental clerk raised his head and scowled. "In a minute, sir."

The elderly crone wrinkled her face in disdain, as if I were a booger with legs.

These two needed an attitude adjustment. "If you please," I said and removed my contacts.

Their auras gave nice bursts of crimson. They stared zombielike. The dog kept yapping.