Keeper of the Night (The Keepers: L.A.)

by Heather Graham

  “I think,” Brodie told him, “that the killer is involved with the play somehow. I think that he might have gotten to know some of the people on that list to find out who might not be missed for a long time. If we can go through the list and find out who’s missing, I might be able to find out who the victims are, and if I can find out who they are I might have a chance of finding out who’s killing them and stopping the violence before it escalates.”

  Adam nodded. “Any order? Alphabetical?”

  “Start with the top page—the group that made the callbacks. The people who made the final cut had a greater chance of getting to know each other.”

  Adam nodded again. “I’m on it.”

  As Brodie headed back to his desk in Homicide he noticed that Bryce Edwards, an old werewolf working in vice now, was leading in a guest. A guest—not a detainee, since she was walking without benefit of handcuffs.

  It was Rhiannon Gryffald. Visiting Edwards. Well, he should have suspected that she would find a way to circumvent him. Then again, maybe he hadn’t gone about things in the right way or the right order. Maybe he felt more bitterness than he’d realized that all this was happening just when Piers Gryffald had gone off to join the World Council.

  He watched as she went into Edwards’s office. The old wolf was a lieutenant now. She sat in front of his desk in a tailored dress suit and appropriate heels, looking to all the world like some kind of a completely competent businesswoman.

  Pain-in-the-ass Keeper!

  As he watched, one of Edwards’s men rushed in, staring at her with puppy-dog eyes. Brodie gathered that the man was asking if he could bring her something to drink, and Rhiannon, with one of her alluring smiles, was assuring him that she was just fine.

  Should he walk on over? he asked himself. Or let her ask a vice detective what he knew about a string of murders?

  Without giving himself time to question his decision, he walked into the office to join them. “Good morning.”

  “Hey, Brodie!” Edwards said, greeting him. “Come on in. You two should meet, if you haven’t already. This is Rhiannon Gryffald, Piers Gryffald’s daughter. Rhiannon, this is Brodie McKay, homicide.”

  Rhiannon stared at him. “Good to see you, Detective,” she said.

  “Good to see you, Miss Gryffald.” He turned to Edwards. “We’ve met,” he explained.

  “This is the man you need to talk to,” Edwards said. “Come on in, Brodie, come on in—and close the door.” He kept speaking as Brodie complied. “We’ve had a long history of working together, you know,” he began. “The police—and the Keepers. We need to maintain that tradition.”

  “I know,” Brodie said. “And I think that Rhiannon and I are ready to continue that tradition now. At least, I hope so.”

  Rhiannon looked at him and nodded. “Thank you. I’d just come by to see Uncle Bryce, but I’m glad you’re here.”

  Uncle Bryce? Yes, Brodie supposed, that was...kind of right. Bryce had been instrumental years ago in helping out an old magician, the same magician who had built the House of the Rising Sun and befriended Rhiannon’s grandparents.

  “Perhaps we should discuss where we are with the case at the moment?” Brodie said.

  “I’d like that,” Rhiannon told him.

  Brodie stood and opened the door for her, and they both looked back at Bryce Edwards, who had a fatherly grin on his weathered face.

  “Thanks,” Brodie and Rhiannon said at the same time.

  He ushered her out. “Let me grab my coat,” he said. “We should go somewhere where we can really talk. The office is too hectic—and even though there are a fair number of Others on the force, it’s just easier to talk out of the office.”

  “I know where we can go,” she told him. “My place.” She smiled and winked. “I’ll drive.”

  “Let me get my files,” he said.

  Five minutes later they were out on the road, heading to her home in the Canyon. He’d known the old Keepers, but he’d never been out to the estate. He was curious; there were fantastic rumors about the place, which was supposedly still filled with all kinds of magical paraphernalia. It was well guarded—against human interference, at least. Despite the famous internal alarm system and the wall that surrounded the property, it was easily accessible to most Others. Despite that, as far as he knew, no one had ever tried to breach the walls.

  But that, he thought now, was because of the extraordinary strength of the Keepers who had once lived there.

  Rhiannon—who maneuvered the tricky California freeways like a native—broke into his thoughts as they reached the compound and she pushed the button that opened the gate. “You look worried,” she said.

  “I was just thinking,” he said.

  “Thinking that...?”

  “That this should be a very safe place to live.”

  “That it should be—but isn’t?” she asked. “And of course you’re also thinking that the Canyon is due to erupt into violence—because my cousins and I are just girls, and weak.”

  He shook his head. “No, I’m thinking that evil exists no matter what, and that there is an evil element out there that will put you to the test just because you’re new.”

  She smiled as they drove onto the property. “That one is mine,” she said, pointing. “Pandora’s Box.”

  “Very nice.”

  “It’s the original guesthouse. Gwydion’s Cave, where Barrie lives, is across the pool, and of course the main house is impossible to miss. Sailor lives there. She has since she was a child.”

  Rhiannon parked, and they exited the car. She walked to her house and he was glad to see that she had locked the door, even though this was a gated compound. She opened it, and he entered her inner sanctum.

  The old magician’s legacy was immediately obvious in the three fortune-teller machines in the living room. The first was an old Gypsy, the second a magician, and the third an ethereal ghost dressed all in white.

  Statuettes and curios filled the shelves that lined the walls, along with countless books. He glanced at the spines and saw that most were on pagan religions, Druids, witchcraft and the occult. Others were magicians’ manuals, and the collection was rounded out by an eclectic mix of world history, modern mysteries and fantasy.

  He noted a number of guitar stands, each one holding one of her precious instruments. There was also a beautiful old grand piano in the center of the room. His gut told him that the piano had been there long before she took over the house, and that the guitars were her own property, brought with her when she made the permanent move to L.A.

  “So...stuffy? Creepy?” she asked him, aware that he was assessing the place.

  “Cool. Very cool,” he told her.

  “I like it very much. I’ve put up a few pictures, but honestly, I haven’t been here long enough to really put my stamp on the place. But it really is nice. The three of us might have struggled just to afford a lousy apartment in a so-so part of town, but instead we have beautiful homes of our own,” she said. “So sit. The sofa is comfortable, and there’s the big coffee table there for the files.”

  “Sure. Thanks.” He sat down and spread out the folders he had brought.

  She sat down next to him, and he started to talk.

  “Victim one, victim two, victim three. I didn’t know anything about the first murders—it went to a good cop, a guy on night shift. But when the second body was discovered, my captain brought both cases to me. He saw the link to the theater, so I took the part in the play to see if I could find out anything. And then the last victim was found just behind the theater, which pretty much clinched it—especially when I realized I’d seen him in the audience one night.”

  The crime scene photos were horrible, but she didn’t flinch. And after what she had said last night, he was certain she’d been to the morgue.

  “The killer is taking the fingers,” she said.

  He nodded. “Usually you take fingertips because you’re trying to hide the victim’s ID, and i
t’s certainly feasible that this killer took the fingers for that reason. But he didn’t destroy the teeth, not that that’s helped us any. So far there’s been no way to get a viable sample of the killer’s DNA, because the bodies have been too degraded by the time they were discovered.” And I gather you’ve seen Anthony Brandt down at the morgue, so you probably already know that the victims were drowned while they were being sucked dry of blood, or maybe right after they’d pretty much been drained.”

  She nodded, staring down at the files. “So they’re all still unidentified.”

  “Like I said, I saw number three at the theater, watching the show.”

  “And he was killed in the lake behind the theater,” she said.

  He nodded, watching her face. She looked so serious, biting her lower lip as she carefully studied the crime scene photos. The Gryffalds really did have beautiful eyes. They were like prisms, catching the light in all kinds of fantastic patterns. At first he’d found her annoying...irritating....

  And now... Now he couldn’t stop thinking about her. The Elven were blessed with charm and the ability to use it to get what they wanted. But with it came a heightened sexuality. They loved the carnal pleasures, and he suddenly felt as if her allure was almost overwhelming.

  It was easy for Elven to satisfy their sexual urges, thanks to their charm, but at least they accomplished it with respect for morality. It was an unwritten Elven rule that only those who wished to be seduced were charmed into relationships, whether for a night or for a longer time.

  But Rhiannon was a Keeper, and Keepers were all but taboo. They weren’t to be treated lightly.

  People were being murdered, he reminded himself harshly. He needed to keep his mind on the case.

  And still the subtle scent of her perfume was seducing him almost to the point where resistance would be futile.

  He stood and walked over to one of the fortune-telling machines. She barely seemed to realize that he had walked away, which was more than a little disappointing.

  “I had a talk with Darius Simonides yesterday, after you left,” she said. “You know, of course, that he’s a vampire.”

  “A vampire who lives by the rules. He wants to be a Hollywood success story far more than he wants to be a vampire,” Brodie said.

  “I wasn’t accusing Darius of anything,” she said. “I just felt that he might know something, that he might have heard something. And what about Hunter Jackson? And Declan Wainwright?”

  “What about them? A human and a Keeper, a shapeshifter Keeper,” he said. “Both well-known and respected.”

  “And both involved in the play,” she reminded him. “So, what’s happening with your investigation? Where have you gone with it?”

  “Right now I have someone working on the audition sheets, tracking down everyone who tried out for the show and didn’t make it.”

  “You think a disgruntled actor is doing this?” Rhiannon asked, and laughed suddenly.

  Her smile, he realized, was radiant. His eyes had wandered down to her curves, and he forced them back to hers.

  “I’d like to think it’s an actor,” she told him, still laughing. “They suddenly seem to be the bane of my existence.”

  “I’m sorry we ruined your night at the café,” he told her.

  She shrugged. “This is far more important. Of course, when I told Hugh Hammond that I wasn’t coming in last night... Honestly! One minute he thinks I’m a total disaster as a Keeper, but the next, when I’m trying to do what a Keeper should do, he gives me a lecture about my obligation to my job and how I need it to survive in the real world.”

  “He’s old guard. He’ll come around. Maybe he’s disappointed that he wasn’t asked to be on the council while all three of the Gryffald men were,” Brodie suggested.

  Rhiannon shrugged. “Maybe. But I still have to make a living, and that means I still have to work with him,” she said. “So—tell me about the victims. Do they have anything in common?”

  He nodded. “All three of them were around thirty years old, the prime age to audition for the show. If I’m right that they were all among those who auditioned, then we know for a fact that the killer is somehow involved with the play.”

  “What about the cast?” she asked him.

  He nodded, taking a seat again, this time a few feet away from her.

  Not far enough. The soft, subtly sexual scent of her perfume still reached him.

  “Here’s what I think,” he told her. “Joe Carrie’s a vampire and thrilled to have his show being produced. Hunter Jackson’s human, and I admit it, I think he’s willing to do a hell of a lot to make Vampire Rampage a part of horror history, but I can’t see a human as being physically capable of these murders. Lena Ashbury’s another human, and as far as I’ve been able to ascertain, she’s just a struggling actress who’s delighted to have gotten the part. Then we have the two maids. Kate Delaney is human, and I can’t find anything suspicious about her. Audrey Fleur is a vampire, and, she knows I’m Elven, of course, but again, there’s nothing to cast suspicion on her.”

  He stopped and took a breath, then went on. “I’ve dismissed the old couple at the inn, the cousins and the backup dancers and singers. They’re all human, so it’s doubtful that they’re involved. There are techs and seamstresses, stage managers...but I haven’t discovered a single thing that would lead me to believe that any of them is the killer, either.”

  Rhiannon nodded. “What about Hunter Jackson? I know you don’t think a human could have done it, but if he’s willing to do anything to make this show the biggest thing since The Beatles, would he resort to murder just to show that vampires might be out there?”

  “I have thought of that. I’ve searched his dressing room, and I’ve followed him, and I haven’t seen him do a single thing that would suggest he’s capable of murder,” Brodie told her. “If we could pinpoint the time of the murders, I’d be able to trace people’s movements and know if they had alibis. But with the bodies left in the water to accelerate decomp, it’s impossible for Tony to determine time of death, so it’s also impossible to eliminate anyone.”

  Rhiannon sighed. “And it could just be...a vampire on the rampage. Taking advantage of the fact that my father is gone, and that...and that the Canyon vampires may now have free rein.”

  The idea had occurred to Brodie a number of times, but now he wanted to deny the possibility.

  Now he wanted to defend her.

  “I don’t think so. I really don’t. Whatever’s behind this, it has something to do with the play. I’m certain of it.”

  “All right, so we need to follow everyone—except the humans—who has anything to do with Vampire Rampage,” Rhiannon said. “That’s not going to be easy.”

  “Maybe you can find us some help,” he told her.

  “How?”

  “Make the announcement to the vampire community that the police are actively seeking a killer who’s draining his victims of blood. Your constituents—most of them, anyway—will be outraged and more than happy to keep an eye out.” He was quiet for a moment, shaking his head. “I know that in a lot of cities the Others all have meetings together. In L.A., maybe because of the sheer sizes of the different populations and the physical size of the city, every race has its own council meetings. Obviously, Barrie and I can ask for help from the Elven community, and Hugh Hammond and Anthony Brandt can speak with the werewolves. And your cousin Sailor can help out with the shapeshifters.”

  “Maybe Barrie can get the press involved, too,” Rhiannon suggested.

  Brodie was thoughtful for a minute. “Let’s hold off on that a bit.”

  “But one of the problems recognizing that a serial killer was at work was the fact that no one seemed to care about the victims,” Rhiannon said. “If there’s a big splash—”

  “Let’s just see what we can find out about our victims right now and follow the leads as we get them,” Brodie suggested.

  Rhiannon nodded grudgingly. “I’m going to h
ave to go to work soon,” she said, and grimaced. “I only work Monday through Thursday at the café. If I don’t show up at all—”

  “The Mystic Café is a good place for you to be,” he told her. “You don’t know what you might hear there. It’s a favorite hangout for Others as well as human beings, so do your best to get to know the customers. And Hugh may be a pain in the ass to work for, but he’s been a Keeper for a very long time, so he knows damn near everything. You can learn a lot from him.”

  She nodded again. “Should I meet you after the show tonight, so we can compare notes?”

  “I’ll pick you up from the café after the play. A lot of the cast and crew head to the Snake Pit after a performance. We can head over and show the world that we’re an item, and you can also take a good look at where you’ll be working on Friday.”

  “All right,” she said. “And Declan is involved, too, in a way. They’re going to film some scenes at the club, and he was at the play last night, too. What’s weird is that he didn’t tell me he was going to be there, even though I said I would be.” She frowned. “Brodie, if any of the powerhouse guys—like Declan or Darius—is involved, you could be in real danger. They know what you are, right? That you’re a cop, I mean.”

  “Yes, they do. But that’s the point. I am a cop, Rhiannon.”

  “Yes, and you’re Elven. But you’re not...well, werewolves can rip a person to shreds, and shapeshifters—”

  “Shapeshifters aren’t really a threat. They can become anything, but they use up their strength to be it, though I admit Declan will bear watching. But please, don’t go underestimating the Elven,” he said.

  He walked over to her, hunkering down so that he was almost kneeling in front of her. He took her hand, ignoring the electric jolt that ripped through him as he touched her. “Thank you for worrying, but I’m going to be fine. But we’ll watch each other’s backs, all right? Because, you know, I’m pretty worried about you, too.”

  She flushed. “I’m a Keeper.”