Suicide Queen

by SM Reine

  Dana stopped walking. She folded her arms, narrowed her eyes, surveyed Charmaine.

  “You’re fucking with me,” Dana said. The chief looked too tired for that kind of practical joke, but it was a more plausible explanation than Count von Count running around.

  “I’d be laughing if we didn’t have Dickless making dickless vampires all over my city.” Charmaine glanced over her shoulder. Undersecretary Hawke was laughing with a group of his agents near the back wall. No matter how grave the situation, their faerie boss was having a great time. “What’d he have to say to you?”

  “We took a bet to see which of us is better at our job.”

  Charmaine snorted. “I’ll put twenty in the pot.” She leaned over to mutter, “I bet you win. The undersecretary’s a dumbass.” Louder, she asked, “You heading off?”

  “Yep.” Dana opened the front door with her hip, but paused, glancing at Charmaine’s device again. Dracula was leering at both of them cartoonishly. “Is that in the files you sent me?”

  “No. I’m not logging that drawing into official files unless I get a sane, living eye witness to corroborate that he looks like it.”

  “Send it to me.”

  “Why? Worried you’ll mistakenly arrest Count Chocula instead of the right fake vampire?” Charmaine tapped the button. “I’m also going to send you a new-employee packet to look over. Policies, details on benefits—”

  Heat rushed into Dana’s belly. “Just because I made a deal with Cèsar to get out of prison doesn’t mean I’ll be working with him beyond this case!”

  “It’s a new-employee packet for the LVMPD,” Charmaine said.

  “I don’t want to do that either. I’m not working for the government.”

  “The Hunting Club’s been picked up by Undersecretary Hawke. You’re going to end up working for the government one way or another. I asked you to work for me a while back, the offer’s still there, and I’m going to send you all the paperwork before you’re forced to sign an OPA contract. All right?”

  Dana’s phone pinged. She’d gotten the email with the information packet and the Dracula drawing.

  “Thanks,” she said. “But I’m not signing paperwork from you or Cèsar. Period. Ever.”

  “It’s no skin off my bones if you don’t. But remember, the OPA assigns agents wherever it wants. At least the LVMPD would keep you in town.” Charmaine backed away, arms spread wide.

  “Thanks,” Dana said, striding out to the parking lot.

  And she almost meant thanks.

  Almost.

  5

  The first victim’s body had been discovered in an alleyway behind a bar, which was as disgusting as it sounded. Men had been opting to piss on the walls instead of using the toilet, as barbarians were wont to do, and the whole place reeked of drunkards.

  Scene markers were still on each area of interest, and Dana was unsurprised to see nobody had cleaned them away after the cops left. It didn’t look like anyone had cleaned the alley since Genesis. One murder wasn’t gonna make it happen in this part of town.

  “I’m here,” Dana said, two fingers to her earpiece. “Talk me through the conclusions the LVMPD drew from the scene.”

  “They didn’t get much.” It was Penny on the other end of the line. She didn’t have the authority to go into crime scenes, but she had the authority to support from the Lodge. Cèsar fancied himself a generous dictator. “The murder didn’t occur anywhere near the bar. It was dumped there.”

  “So the tire tracks—those are from the people who dumped the body?” The tracks had been marked with a yellow triangle for photographs, but the tread patterns were already fading from sunlight and foot traffic.

  “Yes. They took imprints. Our guy is driving a mid-size sedan.”

  “No footage of him coming or going?” Dana asked.

  “You’re in former Paradisos territory, which means only Paradisos surveillance,” Penny said. “And we can’t get into their servers. They self-destructed somehow.”

  “Nice.” A mid-size sedan. Their killer could have been any of hundreds of vampires in the area. Dana paced the alley, hands on her hips, scanning the setting closely. “It looks like they came through the alley in a rush.” Stuff had been knocked around, trashcans toppled and bags broken open. It must have been the killer; cops were more careful. “Did they strike anything while they were here?”

  “Yes. They found paint on the side of one trash bin. Gray paint.”

  “A gray mid-size sedan. Any vampires with one of those registered?”

  “Three, but their alibis held up,” Penny said. “There are more we can’t find. A lot of Paradisos didn’t bother registering their vehicles, paying for registration, getting insurance…” Meaning that there was no way to figure out who else owned such cars.

  “Too bad I can’t get into the Paradisos computer system again,” Dana said. “I bet they had record of cars the murder possessed. Nissa Royal could have pulled that up in a metaphoric heartbeat.”

  Penny was quiet for a long moment, while Dana kicked trash aside to look for a fresher tire imprint. A pixie blasted out of an overturned bag. It chittered curses at Dana, shaking tiny fists.

  “Yeah, well, back at you and your mom,” Dana said, flipping the middle finger at the pixie.

  It zipped away, buzzing her ear closely enough that its sharp little wings sliced the lobe. She hissed and jerked away.

  “Asshole!” she shouted after it.

  Pink dust farted out of the pixie’s ass as it rounded the corner. It smelled like rotten eggs. Dana gagged.

  “I know Nissa Royal escaped,” Penny said quietly.

  “You do?” Dana asked, alarmed. “Did she contact you?”

  “Charmaine told me an hour ago. I’m disappointed that I had to hear it from her.” Instead of getting the information from you, Penny didn’t say.

  “Should I have told you?” Dana asked.

  “Considering that you seem to have made a conscious decision to keep it to yourself, it comes across as a lie by omission,” Penny said. “You only mentioned Nissa because you wanted her information. Not because you planned to come clean with me.”

  “Oh, come on, Penny. You’re acting like I cheated on you.”

  The orc didn’t seem to hear Dana. “I guess it’s not surprising that you’re thinking about getting in touch with one of your contacts when she might have relevant evidence for the case.”

  “I didn’t say I want to get in touch. In fact, Cèsar says he wants me to stay far away from Nissa.” Dana peered closely at the blood stain left behind the victim. It was small, old, brown. Indistinguishable from other stains.

  “Does it make you angry, having him tell you what to do?” Penny asked.

  “Not with this thing. I agree with him.”

  “You do?”

  “Her sire is the Fremont Slasher. Up until the moment he ashed, she was on his side. She’s fucked in the head. A contact that dangerous isn’t worth it.” Dana straightened, wiping her hands off on her jeans. “I’m going into the bar. The cops did a good job with the evidence back here—don’t think there’s new information to extrapolate.”

  “I’m sure Charmaine will be happy to hear of your approval,” Penny said.

  Dana stepped into the bar. Darkness and the smell of spilled beer washed over her. It was a dive in the truest sense of the word, and she could tell long before her eyes adjusted to the dimness. She would have known how crummy it was by the way the creaking floor stuck to her shoes.

  “I have more information in from the interviews with the victims,” Penny said. Her voice crackled as Dana moved through the tables. “Do you want to hear it?”

  “Gods, yes,” Dana said.

  She sat down at the bar, pointed at one of the taps. A bartender sprayed it into a mug for her as Penny began to read.

  “The man from Grauens is named Mahmoud Mol. He’s a local musician—well, a DJ. Not sure if you’d consider them musicians. He claims he was abducted from
his home while he slept. It was too dark to see the weapons used on him.”

  “The stakes, you mean?” Dana asked. They were the only weapons involved in the murders, since Dickless was castrating men by hand.

  “Right. Mahmoud Mol doesn’t know how long the stakes were, how they were affixed together, where they were set up. He was moved from his home to somewhere dark. He only saw Dracula at the end, right before getting knocked out.”

  “So he’s sticking with the Dracula thing.”

  “Rodgers is too,” Penny said. “He added that he got the impression his attacker had a history of military service. Rodgers used to be a SEAL, so he’d know.”

  Dana set cash on the bar and took a long drink of the beer. It was exactly what she needed after prowling a hot, stinky alleyway. “Rodgers was getting up there in years. Maybe the vampire doesn’t have elite training, but Rodgers still couldn’t fight back, and his pride’s too wounded to admit it.”

  “If his pride is wounded, can you blame him? His world’s turned upside-down. He was assaulted, mutilated, transformed against his will—”

  “So what? I got assaulted, mutilated, and transformed against my will, and look at me. I’m fine,” Dana said. She gestured at her chest, though Penny wasn’t there.

  “That’s funny coming from you.”

  “Implying you think I’m fucked up?”

  “No,” Penny said. “You think I’m fucked up. The way you always treat me, it’s like you think one vampire attack is enough to scar someone for eternity.”

  Dana groaned. “Is this the time to discuss that?”

  “You’re on a short leash held by the undersecretary. It’s not like we’re going to get to a marriage counselor in the next week or two.”

  “Then we should pretend nothing’s wrong for the next week or two. And have lots of sex.”

  “Or you could talk to me like an adult,” Penny said.

  She wanted Dana to be honest and mature? Fine. Dana could be the most honest and mature person ever. “What the Slasher did to you wasn’t one attack, so it’s understandable if you’re still fucked up about it. And I’m sorry for being nice to my wife.”

  “Nice. You think you’re being nice by trying to protect me? I’m going to go. You have things under control at the bar.” The line went silent. Penny didn’t even say goodbye.

  Dana hung out at the bar for a while after Penny hung up. She’d thought she might spot evidence the cops missed if she acted like a patron, but there wasn’t anything to miss. It was a bar. That was the only thing to be said about it. Big room, loud TVs showing sports events, blacked-out windows. Even during daytime there were a couple clusters of people—regulars who took day drinking to the level of a sport.

  “Refill?” the bartender asked again. He’d already gotten Dana through three beers.

  “Sure,” Dana said. “I’ll tip you extra good if you tell me about any patrons you’ve got with military training here. Vampire patrons.”

  Beer slopped over the rim of the mug, splashing to the floor. “Why?” he asked, looking suspicious.

  “I’m Dana McIntyre. Hunting Club. Trying to figure out who—”

  “Il Castrato Senesino,” he said. “You’re looking for Il Castrato Senesino.”

  She leaned over the bar to wrench her mug from his hands. “I’m looking for an ex-military vampire. No specific name.”

  “Lots of ex-military come here, but it’s not a vampire bar,” he said.

  “How would you characterize your patrons, then?”

  “Law enforcement. They’re mostly highway patrol and cops from the fourth precinct,” he said. That wasn’t a part of town that Dana knew well. “A lot of cops are ex-military, you know.”

  “Yeah, but he’s gonna be a vampire. A strong one.” Strong enough to turn other men into his fledglings. “The LVMPD doesn’t employ any vampires, so the guy I’m looking for would have a different profession.”

  The bartender shrugged. “There’s not a lot of vampires around here.”

  Dana took a swig, wiped her mouth dry.

  Until now, nobody had mentioned that this bar was popular with law enforcement. She’d been assuming that the killer dumped the body here because it was a familiar place. Because he’d known he wouldn’t be seen ditching Rodgers.

  What if Dickless had dumped the body here because he’d been hoping the cops would find it?

  “Did you see any new patrons lately? Anyone suspicious?” Dana asked.

  “Nobody new. Truth be told, business is crap right now. Foot traffic has dwindled to zilch. Everyone’s too scared to go out to drink. Even Raymond and his buddies haven’t been by in the last couple of days, and they come by every day.”

  “Is Raymond an LEO?”

  “No, pizza delivery,” he said. “He’s popular with cops, though. Brings pizzas around after closing hours all the time. You know, it’s been so long since I saw him, I got worried and called his boss. The manager at the pizza place on Jackdaw? Raymond hasn’t been there either.”

  Dana frowned. “You file a missing persons report?”

  “I’m his bartender,” he said. “It’s not suspicious to stop being an alcoholic. Especially since the city’s gone to shit. I’m gonna miss that fucker if he’s blown town, though.”

  “So you knew this Raymond guy well.”

  “Sure. Him and his roomies. They all live together in this shitty house, split rent twelve ways, and live off welfare. Whatever money survives after rent and paying for the NFL channel, they spend it here.”

  “What’s Raymond’s address?”

  “I can grab it for you.” He checked his phone, shooting her a look over the top of the screen. “You think Raymond might have done something? Him or one of his friends?”

  Dana thought that regulars who came in to the bar every day would be likelier to have spotted someone strange in the area. Twelve potential witnesses—twelve people who might have been catching a smoke while the car peeled away. “Can’t talk too much about an investigation.”

  “Do you think Il Castrato Senesino got them?”

  “Probably not. Can’t imagine it’s weird to stop going to your pizza-delivery job when the city collapses.”

  “That’s a relief. Never would have pegged Raymond as a bad guy anyway.” The bartender wrote an address down on a napkin. “Maybe you should give me your phone number in case I think of anything else that could help your investigation. And we could talk about it over drinks.”

  She grabbed the napkin. She was so busy trying to mentally locate Raymond’s house on the nearby streets that she took a second to realize he was hitting on her.

  Dana snorted. “No.” She slid off her barstool, headed for the door.

  “But you—”

  “No,” she called back, and she headed to Raymond’s house.

  Dana texted Cèsar, then walked to the house in ten minutes, striding through sun hot enough to make her sweat through her shirt and get her feet squelching in her boots. She didn’t mind. Even the part where it stung faintly on her pale shoulders and nose. It stung, but didn’t burn.

  Because Dana was no longer a vampire.

  She couldn’t forget that.

  So when she walked up to Raymond’s house and saw that it was quiet, she decided to approach carefully. Human-careful, not vampire-careful.

  It was a small, blocky stucco house. Probably two bedrooms, one bath. Built in the 1970s with sorta Mexican styling. Foxtails grew around the foundation. The number on the curb had rubbed off.

  One of the side windows was broken. Dana noticed it when she walked around the front of the yard. The broken window was round, about the size of a fist.

  She touched her earpiece to call into the Hunting Lodge. Not Penny, but Dionne or Lina or whoever else was on shift. “McIntyre here.”

  “What’s up, McIntyre?” That wasn’t Dionne or Lina.

  “Cèsar? What are you doing on the Hunting Lodge line?”

  “I had it forwarded to me,” he s
aid.

  Gods, Dana was growing to hate that faerie pissant. “I’m at the house where the potential suspects live. Signs of a break-in. Looks suspiciously quiet.”

  “I’ll send people to back you up,” he said. “Hold your position for three minutes.”

  She turned off her earpiece.

  Wait for three minutes? Who did he think she was?

  “What’s that noise?” Dana asked, cupping a hand around her ear. There was no sound except for wind blowing through the foxtails. “Gosh, that sounds like someone crying for help! I better get in that house now without waiting for OPA babysitters to hold my hand and wipe my ass.”

  She stomped up the front steps, kicked the door in.

  It was dark inside because the windows had been barricaded with trash. The living room led directly into a kitchenette, creating an open space at the heart of the clutter. Beer cans dribbled onto the brown carpet, mold was growing around the shapes of couches, the TV was tipped over to block the back door.

  Everything must have been rearranged recently, but not because they were cleaning.

  Someone had wanted to make enough room for the spikes.

  “Holy fucking gods above,” Dana breathed.

  Six of Raymond’s eleven housemates had been suspended. Wooden stakes thrust through chests, bellies, assholes, throats. Never the heart. Not directly. Their impaler wanted them to live.

  Or rather, Dickless wanted them to remain undead.

  The six impaled roommates were writhing. Moaning quietly. All those stakes through the bodies, and nobody had died from shock or infection, because they’d been filled with vampire venom.

  The other six housemates were drained and dead, piled against the refrigerator in the kitchen.

  Six fledglings, six feeders.

  “Wow,” Dana said. “Four, five, six new vampires. Bwah-ha-ha!”

  Count von Count was kind of an asshole.