Strike two. Still nothing on the killer. “Lucky, have you met a vampire?”
Again, the answer took a long minute to arrive. “No.”
Strike three. Rosario knew nothing of vampire–human collusion. I dropped my head and exhaled in frustration.
Vampire hypnosis wasn’t getting me any traction. In this situation, fanging him wasn’t worth the trouble, especially if I had to put my mouth against the wattles of that fat neck. Better that I quit wasting time and try my luck gleaning information from the office surroundings and then his conscious mind.
I released his hands. They plopped into his lap.
“Close your eyes.”
I turned Rosario’s chair against the desk and set his forearms on the desktop. He wore a fancy gold wedding ring. Around his left wrist he had a gold watch with diamonds on the crown, a band of thick links, and the U.S. Marine Corps insignia enameled on the watch face. On his right hand he had a pinkie ring with a ruby, no doubt a poseur memento of imagined goombah roots.
One wall was decorated with permits and certificates as well as his undergraduate degree in accounting from UCLA. The southern wall had business plaques and photos of Rosario with celebrities and politicians. There were none of him with Roxy or Cragnow. A cabinet of cherrywood spanned the northern wall. The shelves held awards and various photos of Rosario with a nice-looking, young brunette and two children, both preadolescent girls. Above a middle shelf hung a portrait of a stern-faced and much slimmer version of Rosario in a Marine Corps uniform before a U.S. flag.
Lucius “Lucky” Rosario: accomplished business leader; family man; military veteran; amigo to the famous. A real civic peach. Nothing in the room alluded to graft or cavorting with porn stars.
I pulled out my contacts case and put the contacts on. I opened the office door a crack and stood, as if I’d just crossed the threshold.
“Okay, Lucky, wake up.”
Rosario’s breath quickened. He blinked. His head reeled back, as if he had suddenly lost his balance. His arms jerked across the desktop, scattering the pieces of his disassembled gun. A couple of cartridges rolled off the desk and thumped against the carpet.
Rosario sat upright and shook his head, the slabs of his swarthy jowls quivering. His gaze swung dizzily across the desk and then onto me. His bushy eyebrows arched in astonishment.
Rosario wouldn’t remember anything from the instant before I zapped him.
He stared at me, to the door, then back to me. “How’d you get in here?”
“Your receptionist let me in.” I closed the door and approached the leather chair in front of his desk. “Mind if I take a seat?”
He looked past me again, his face darkening with annoyance. He rose from his chair. “Who the hell are you?”
“My name is Felix Gomez. I’m here to talk about Roxy Bronze.”
“Felix who?” He halted midway up from his chair. The capillaries on his cheeks turned crimson. His eyebrows tightened low on his brow. “Why are you asking about Roxy?”
“I’m an acquaintance of Katz’s.”
“Katz Meow?” Rosario’s glare mellowed. He eased back into his chair. “What kind of an aquaintance?”
“A professional one.” I took Rosario’s softening attitude as an invitation to sit. What about her had this tranquilizing affect on him? “Katz hired me to find out who killed Roxy Bronze.”
Rosario lifted his chin, and his walruslike eyes appraised me. “Hired? As in what?”
“A private investigator,” I replied. “Katz told me you could help. As a favor to her.”
Rosario paused. His gaze darted from me to his desk, as if deciding what to do. “For Katz, huh? What do you want?”
“She told me Roxy had plenty of enemies.”
“A few.” Rosario collected pieces of the military issue .45.
“What’s with the pistol?” I asked.
“Why? You some kinda gun-control liberal?”
“Not hardly.”
“Then it’s none of your business.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “So tell me about Roxy Bronze.”
“Her? There was a line of folks that wanted Roxy out of the way.”
“Out of what way?”
“Come on, Felix, don’t play dumb ass.” Rosario fit pieces of the gun together. “You’ve done your homework. If you haven’t, then you aren’t worth shit as a PI.”
Rosario worked the slide onto the pistol grip assembly. He fit the slide pin into its hole in the receiver but had the pin backward. He struggled to make the pin align correctly. He bit his lower lip and squinted. Sweat dotted his forehead and nose. I debated helping him but decided against it.
Rosario’s hand tightened on the grip of the gun, the whiteness of his knuckles a gauge of his frustration. The pin fell out. He grabbed the pin and forced it in.
A smile of self-congratulation creased his pulpy cheeks. He wiped his brow and looked at me as if expecting an applause.
“Katz told me you financed porn movies,” I said. “With whom?”
“You’re asking me like you don’t know. Cragnow Vissoom, of course,” he replied.
How strong a tie did Rosario and Cragnow have? “You friends with him?”
“He’s got money; he doesn’t need friends.”
“Did you have the hots for Roxy?”
Rosario pushed the recoil plug over the spring under the barrel of the pistol. The plug popped free and ricocheted off his forehead. He blinked in surprise. His free hand chased the plug rolling on his desk. “You ever meet Ms. Bronze?”
“Never heard of her until after she was dead.”
“Choice piece of tail, that one. If Helen of Troy had half the snatch on her that Roxy did, then the Trojan War would’ve been worth the slaughter.” Carefully, he replaced the plug.
“What about Project Eleven?”
Rosario’s gaze cut to me.
I would’ve liked to read his aura. But if I didn’t hypnotize him again, he’d remember my eyes and that I wasn’t human.
“I understand her involvement against Project Eleven cost you money.”
“Cost me my goddamn ass. I lost out on my share of three hundred million.”
“Over or under the table?”
Rosario’s lips curled in scorn. “What’s it to you?”
“Maybe it had to do with Roxy’s interest in Project Eleven.”
“You’d have to ask her, but you can’t, can you?” he replied. “Roxy had another side to her besides being primo trim. She fancied herself a crusader. She joined up with that meddlesome bitch, Veronica Torres, and the two of them undermined Project Eleven.”
Veronica Torres was the activist who spearheaded the neighborhood attacks against Project Eleven, claiming it was nothing but a piggy bank for the well connected.
“And this crusading is what got Roxy killed?”
“Wouldn’t know ’cause I had nothing to do with it.”
“You don’t buy that she was the victim of a robbery gone bad?”
Rosario hesitated. He lay the pistol down. His nostrils widened and contracted like bellows as his gaze flitted about the room. He set his elbows on the desk and folded his hands together in front of his chin. His eyes swiveled back to me and he gave a subdued, “No.”
“Why?” I asked.
Rosario cocked a thumb toward the picture window behind him. “I didn’t get this view being an idiot.” The bluster returned to his voice. “The police report was the biggest piece of fiction since the president’s last State of the Union address.”
“Why?”
“You mean why did I vote for the Ivy League bastard?”
“No,” I replied, “‘the biggest piece of fiction’ part.”
Rosario said, “Rumors.”
“What kind?”
“The cops lost the investigation files. Blamed it on a computer glitch. What’s been reported is based on conjecture. Bullshit guesswork, in other words.”
“What about the original repo
rts? Evidence? The bullet, for example?”
“You’ll have to ask the police,” Rosario replied.
“Who exactly?” I asked.
“Deputy Chief Julius Paxton of the LAPD. Good luck talking to him.”
“Are you and Paxton good chums?”
“Good enough,” Rosario said. “I’m a generous contributor to the police benevolent fund.”
I tucked Paxton’s name into my memory.
Rosario added, “Didn’t help speculation that Roxy’s death was convenient for a lot of people.”
“You included?”
“I got some satisfaction reading that she got whacked.” Rosario panned a quizzical look across his desk, then to the floor. He struggled to lean to one side to retrieve the two bullets that had fallen.
“Then why are you talking to me? I mention Katz Meow’s name and you unfold like a dinner napkin. Why?”
“Because I’m getting the willies.” Rosario collected all the bullets into his hand and began feeding them into the pistol magazine. “Someone’s going through a lot of trouble hiding the truth about Roxy’s murder.”
“That’s got you worried?”
“Of course, Sherlock. I don’t know who killed Roxy. Or the reason. Now you come with the kind of questions I’ve been asking myself and I realize that I’m not nuts for sleeping with a forty-five under my pillow.”
First Cragnow. Now Rosario. What could make these two crap their pants?
Rosario inserted the magazine into the butt of the pistol. He had a loaded gun in his hand, but I wasn’t worried. Rosario hadn’t assembled the pistol correctly, and the only way he could hurt me was to throw it.
“What’s your impression of Cragnow?” I asked.
“You’ve met him?”
“Briefly.”
“Watch him when he gets shit-faced, which is often,” Rosario said. “He starts ranting about taking over Southern California. Not in a business way. But about lifting humanity to a new partnership with the unseen realm. About the next step in social evolution. His crazy talk, not mine.”
My fingertips tingled and my legs tensed. Though he didn’t realize it, Rosario referred to Cragnow’s alleged plan for vampire–human collusion.
“Then why do business with him?”
“You kidding? Ain’t you got a dick between your legs? The pussy at Gomorrah is like free bonbons.”
“When was the last time you saw Katz?”
“Two weeks ago.” Rosario wiped the pistol with the rag. “Maybe three.”
“How close were you?”
“You mean, did we screw? Once. I doubt she’ll ever forget me.” Rosario racked back the slide of the .45. The barrel jutted out like a small metal penis.
“Then you haven’t seen her lately?”
Rosario raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like you haven’t either. Is she missing? And you’re wondering why I’m looking over my shoulder.” He propped his right elbow on the desk and pointed the pistol straight up. “You packing heat?”
It was none of his business that I was. “No.”
“Then start.” Rosario released a catch. The slide snapped forward, then tumbled loose and clattered against the desk.
“What did you do in the marines?” I deadpanned. “Force Recon?”
“I was a stenographer.” Rosario tugged at his necktie. Wet spots blossomed from his armpits. He wrapped the pistol and the slide in the rag, which he dumped into a desk drawer. “Give me your card, Felix.”
I gave him a business card, curious about his desire to cooperate. “We talk again, what do you get out of it?”
“Peace of mind.”
Good idea. At least I could handle a gun.
Rosario palmed a cell phone. “If that’s all, I’ve got business waiting.”
I thought about zapping him again and decided against it. Rosario didn’t act as if he had lied. Plus he had shared a lot, and I had to sort through that information first. I rose from the chair and left. His receptionist sat at her place and rubbed her neck. She gave me a perplexed “Where did you come from?” look as I went past.
Down in the garage, I started my car and drove out into the sunlit pavement. I didn’t have a single answer to show for my work so far. As of now, conspiracy outfoxed vampire prowess.
I pulled onto the street when my door locks clicked. The front passenger door jerked open. A scruffy, slender man jumped in, moving too quickly for any human.
Vampire.
My kundalini noir buzzed like the tail of a rattler. I turned toward him, fangs and talons extended.
He raised a scrawny hand in a gesture of appeasement. “Calmate ese, relax.”
I grabbed the front of his worn denim jacket and pushed him against the seat. “Who are you?”
He made no effort to resist and tipped a stained ball cap back from his face. A wispy mustache and soul patch above his chin accented his brown, leathery skin.
“Felix, I’m the one who sent for you.” He offered his hand. “I’m Coyote.”
CHAPTER 8
Coyote. The one Katz Meow mentioned when she had come by my office in Denver. The one who had summoned me.
Coyote held up his empty hands, his thin wrists extending through the frayed cuffs of the threadbare denim jacket. He smelled like he’d been sleeping in an onion shed. “Well? Aren’t you going to ask me questions?” He tapped his temple. “Or are you a mind reader, ese?”
I let go of his jacket and eased the sedan against the curb. I removed my sunglasses and contacts. Coyote’s aura surrounded him like a calm orange penumbra.
“How’d you unlock the doors?”
“I’ve been around.” His eyes reflected a lupine shine. He spoke with a thick Chicano barrio accent. “Gave me time to learn some tricks.”
Since Coyote pronounced his name as if it were in Spanish, I did the same.
“Coyote, how do you know me?”
“I’ve heard about you, Felix Gomez.” He drawled my name. “Vampire detective. Military veteran. Killer.” Grinning, Coyote narrowed his eyes. “The only one chingon enough to handle this.”
Chingon, that meant I was a bad mo-fo. “You said I could handle this. Which is?”
Coyote swept a hand across the urban landscape and the dark shadows cast by rows of old buildings with rusty fire escapes. “This. Los Angeles.”
“Meaning?”
“First we go, vato.” Coyote flicked his hand to the front, motioning that we move back into traffic. His fingernails were greasy like a backyard mechanic’s.
“No. Answer my questions, then we go.”
“Vamos a comer.” He rubbed his belly and smacked his lips. “If you’re not hungry, then you can watch me. We’ll talk then.” His fangs extended, meaning a blood meal.
Coyote directed me south on San Pedro through the Jewelry District, which despite the name was a shabby place populated with cheap stores whose signs alternated between Spanish and Chinese.
“You’ve seen him, no?” Tentacles snaked from Coyote’s aura.
“Who?”
“Cragnow.” The end of each of the tentacles on Coyote’s aura sprouted spikes. The spikes curled onto themselves like fingers making fists. “He’s a scary dude.”
“I gathered that.”
“Be careful. You’re not the first to have come here.”
“Are you talking about the agents from the Araneum?”
“Símon. They didn’t last long.” Coyote extended a thumb and pressed it against his sternum. He then drew a finger across his throat. Meaning, they were impaled and decapitated. His aura tentacles stiffened and trembled.
“How many agents?” I asked. “When?”
Coyote shrugged. His aura tentacles formed question marks. “Quien sabe. Four. Maybe five since last year.”
“How do you make your aura do that?” I asked.
“You like, huh? It takes practice.”
“I’m sure. Why did you send for me? Are you from the Araneum?”
Coyote laughe
d, a guffawing that turned into a series of howls. His dirty sneakers beat against the floor as his aura pulsed in tempo to his hearty convulsions. He stopped laughing and wiped his eyes. “That’s a good one, vato.”
“I didn’t realize I was a comedian. What’s the joke?”
“The Araneum won’t have anything to do with me. We don’t see ojo a ojo.” Coyote used his fingers to spread his eyelids. “They think I’m crazy.”
We drove under the concrete tangle of the freeway exchange.
“Really?” I nudged him away and wondered if the Araneum was right. “Why did you send for me?”
“Because Cragnow is messing with catastrophe. He and humans have made a pact.”
Vampire–human collusion. The real reason for my mission. My kundalini noir buzzed with anticipation for the fight before me. “Describe this pact.”
“There are humans close to Cragnow. Humans who are not chalices. He doesn’t bother to hide his true nature from them, and they don’t fear him.”
I remembered Rachel, the receptionist at Gomorrah Video. She knew about family, meaning us vampires.
Rosario’s conversation came back to me. …taking over Southern California…lifting humanity to a new partnership with the unseen realm…the next step in social evolution…
My kundalini noir coiled tightly, as if to protect itself against a chill.
“Felix. What’s up, bro?” Coyote’s gaze traced around me as he read the state of my aura.
“Coyote, why do you care what Cragnow does? Has he wronged you? Is this about vengeance?”
“I want to get back at Cragnow, I’ll put a dead catfish inside the hood of his Hummer.” Coyote’s aura made undulating stink lines. He held his nose and waved away an imagined odor.
“Then explain your motive.”
“Because, vato, I’ve seen what humans can do. We can’t underestimate their viciousness and ingenuity. Cragnow may think he controls them—I don’t know what bargain he’s made—but it is a marriage with doom.”
“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”
“Too much experience.” The points of Coyote’s aura trembled like reeds before a wind. His expression melted into a somber mask. “Our best defense is not supernatural powers but remaining unseen. Cragnow has compromised that. Our hope, my hope, is that you and I can stop the damage. Porque, sí no”—because, if not—“we vampires are destined for extinction.”
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