“The ruling is ‘Pending,’” Brodie told her. “Which means the case requires additional investigation. Robbery Homicide has it.” Barrie knew that already. Brodie continued. “I didn’t ask for Mayo’s case—I didn’t know it was going to turn out to be Other-related. But I’ve told Captain Riley that it has to be handled with kid gloves.” Brodie’s captain, Edwin Riley, was one of the few humans trusted by L.A.’s Other community, being the son of a practicing Wiccan high priestess. The community depended on him to steer investigations away from sensitive issues as long as secrecy would not compromise a case.
“It’s a good thing no one has seen the connection,” Barrie said. “Can you imagine the heat the community would be taking if Mayo hadn’t kept his predilection for Others under wraps?”
They all knew a sudden drawing back of the curtain on the Others’ existence would create havoc in both the mortal and Other worlds; Barrie often had nightmarish visions of a mass psychotic break. There was even a word for it in the Otherworld community: the Shattering.
“It’s bad enough that Mayo was so powerful that some Others broke the Code and let him in. And fraternized with him,” Rhiannon said.
“‘Fraternize’ is putting it mildly,” Barrie muttered.
“And it’s a textbook example of why we shouldn’t,” Sailor said vehemently.
Barrie could have talked shop all night, but she could see Brodie and Rhiannon eyeing each other in That Way, so she thanked her cousins for keeping her company, waved good-night to everyone with the rolled-up poster and headed across the patio for her own house.
In her room, just before she got into bed, she tacked the poster up above her bureau and stood looking at the trio of stars.
“Well, boys...talk to me,” she said, and turned out the light.
Chapter 7
She is in the movie, in Otherworld, wearing some sparkling gold fantasy of a dress, walking through the arches of the balcony of the round oceanfront ballroom, with the shimmering waves crashing below.
Someone is following her, stepping in and out of the arches just behind her, staying tantalizingly out of sight, but she can feel his presence as an aching longing in her entire body....
She wakes suddenly, with flickering candlelight all around her, to find herself in a huge canopy bed. She gasps as someone steps from the shadows...a gorgeous, haunted figure...
Robbie Anderson, as preternaturally stunning as he appeared in the film. He moves to her and bends to kiss her, running his fingers down her arms with a touch like fire, then suddenly lifting her hands to pin her wrists above her head, and stares down into her eyes. He is no longer a teenager, but older, more demanding, though every bit as beautiful. He moves on top of her, opening her mouth under his, opening her legs with his hips to rock against her, rubbing the ramrod bulge of him against her, slow and teasing, as his right hand caresses her breasts until moans are coming out of her throat as the feel of him excites her into madness, and she arches her back, urging him inside her.... “Please...”
She opens her eyes to look up into his golden gaze...
And then suddenly the face above hers is not Robbie’s but the Elven face of Johnny Love.
* * *
Barrie gasped awake, for real this time. Her heart was pounding, and she felt...well, disturbed. Her phone was vibrating on her night table.
She had every intention of ignoring it, but then she remembered Brodie had promised to check into the case files on Johnny Love’s death.
She grabbed for the phone.
“Brodie?” she mumbled.
There was a slight pause. “Brodie?” a man asked roughly on the other end.
A familiar voice. She couldn’t place it at first yet, oddly, found herself blushing. And then she realized who it was.
“Townsend?” she said, and sat up, pulling the covers around her as if he could see her. “What are you... What do you want?”
There was nothing but silence on the other end. Mick—or whoever the caller was—had hung up.
She set her phone down and leaned back on her pillows, looking across the room at the poster of the three Otherworld actors on her wall. And she shivered, hugging herself, remembering her dream.
* * *
It was already late afternoon when Barrie hit the freeway, crawling with the rest of the traffic toward downtown.
There was no sign of Mick Townsend at the newspaper office. A blessing; she wouldn’t have to avoid him. She still felt off balance after her dream, and she didn’t want to face his keen scrutiny. And if he had been the one to call and wake her? What did that mean? How had he even gotten her number?
She checked in with her editor, and then dashed out of the newsroom and headed straight for the coroner’s office. Brandt had not been picking up his phone, and she was impatient to get the coroner’s report on Johnny Love; she was sure that Tony would pull it for her.
But in his office, Brandt just shook his head at her request. “I can’t get you the L.A. coroner’s report on Johnny Love because there isn’t one.”
She stared at him. “It was stolen?”
“There never was one. There’s no evidence whatsoever that Johnny Love died in Los Angeles. I just got finished telling Brodie the same thing—he said he was checking into it for you.”
“But...Johnny died at the— I mean, everyone says he died at the Chateau Marmont,” she said.
“That’ll teach you not to believe what you read on the Net,” he said, sounding annoyingly like her father for a moment.
“Where did he die, then?” she demanded.
“I don’t know.” After a long beat, he added, “I’d be happy to look into it, but it’s a big country. That is, if he even died in this country. It would help if I had some idea where to start.”
“I’m on it,” Barrie told him. “Thanks, Tony.”
She left him, feeling in a state of shock.
* * *
Back in her car, Barrie reached for her phone to call Alessande, but she knew that at Alessande’s age—over a hundred years now—she wasn’t big on phones, and when the call went straight to voice mail Barrie decided to drive up into the canyon to see her in person.
Alessande Salisbury was Elven and almost a neighbor, the way such things were measured in L.A. She lived in Laurel Canyon, maybe two miles from the House of the Rising Sun, in a rustic dwelling that looked like a cabin from the outside but was actually a rather luxurious and sophisticated setup inside, with arching bay windows, solar panels and a state-of-the-art kitchen. Alessande was a bit of a recluse but had become a good friend of all three of the Keeper cousins, since she’d saved Sailor’s life, or helped to, when Sailor had recently come under attack by a shape-shifter who had been infecting Elven actresses with an ancient disease.
Barrie parked in the drive outside the cabin, and when no one responded to her knock at the front door, she circled the house toward the garden in the back. A witch’s dream, it was stocked with spiky, feathery, fragrant herbs that could cure or curse any mortal or Other with whatever remedy or malady you would care to name. The sun was setting over the hills, and a whispery wind rustled through the old-growth trees, wind chimes tinkled from somewhere in the garden, and it was all so private it could have been unsettling, if Barrie weren’t so well acquainted with the house and its owner by now.
As she wound her way through the lush growth, she spotted Alessande on her knees and digging, attacking what looked like a stubborn and unnervingly human-looking bit of root. As occupied as she seemed to be, she threw the trowel down, brushed off her hands and stood to face Barrie before Barrie could say a word in greeting. Being Elven, Alessande was typically stunning, and she towered over Barrie: six feet tall with white-blond hair and green eyes, and a knockout figure, both voluptuous and athletic. And she didn’t look a day over thirty, much less the hundred and six Sailor claimed she was. Barrie wondered sometimes how anyone could possibly mistake her for human, even with beauty being as commonplace as it was in L.A.
She gave Barrie a warm hug—awkward as that was given their height difference: nearly a foot between them. As she pulled back, she looked serenely unsurprised to see Barrie, had probably sensed her as soon as Barrie had the thought to drive up to see her. The Ancients were in possession of a psychic sensitivity more characteristic of witches than Others.
And even as Barrie thought it, Alessande gave her a probing look. “You’re looking rather radiant today. Is there something new in your life?”
Barrie was about to answer an automatic “no” when Alessande added, “Or someone, maybe?”
Barrie felt herself blushing to the roots of her hair. “No,” she lied. “I don’t know wh-what you mean.”
Alessande raised her eyebrows, but to Barrie’s relief, she dropped the subject. “You’re late,” she said instead, lifting her hair from her neck. “I’ve been wrestling with that mandrake for an hour. Let’s sit and have some tea.”
Barrie followed her onto the semi-enclosed patio with a sweeping view of the sinking sun. A frosty glass pitcher of iced tea was already waiting on a mosaic-topped table with two glasses and a plate of decadent-looking cakes. Barrie reached for one and sniffed it suspiciously; she was sure there were all kinds of herbs in them.
Alessande smiled her cat smile. “Oh, go ahead, you’ll like them.”
Barrie bit into an explosion of chocolate and berry deliciousness. Whatever its healing properties, the cake was also loaded with sugar, more proof that Alessande had seen her coming.
Alessande sat and poured them both tall glasses of rosily glowing tea. She pushed one glass toward Barrie and got straight down to business. “Sailor told me you’re looking for information on the death of Johnny Love, and I’ve been looking into it.”
“You’re an angel,” Barrie said, meaning it. “Thank you.”
Alessande nodded distractedly. “You’re very welcome, but there’s actually a troubling dearth of knowledge about this incident, given that it’s one of the most notorious celebrity deaths of the end of the century.” She had a way of talking that made history sound long and vibrant—not surprising, considering her age and relationship to time. She continued, serenely and seriously.
“No Elven I spoke with seems to know anything about what happened to him. There was no Elven Keeper I can track who had anything to do with the investigation into the death or the autopsy.” Pale as she was, her lovely face was shadowed. “It is extremely troubling. It’s almost as if...wherever Johnny died, there were no other Elven in the vicinity at all.”
“That is strange,” Barrie murmured, and reached for another cake. There was nothing about the case that wasn’t strange.
“I can only think that very powerful Others were involved in this cover-up. They would have to be, to circumvent the Elven Council so completely.”
Barrie frowned, frustrated. That was no help in narrowing suspects down. In Hollywood, power was the coin of the realm.
“What do I do, Alessande?” she asked.
“I think any paperwork you’ll be able to find on the case will be completely false,” the beautiful Elven said soberly. “You must find direct witnesses. People who knew Johnny. People or Others who were actually there at the time, who can tell you their story.”
Barrie nodded, feeling a rush of excitement. She knew exactly where to start.
“I’m thinking Declan Wainwright,” she said aloud.
Alessande smiled. “I’m thinking you’re right.”
* * *
Sailor’s fiancé owned two clubs on Sunset, which in that zip code pretty much constituted a dynasty. One club was completely “out” and legit, a popular hangout for the mainstream mortal population of Los Angeles and a popular destination for tourists wanting a taste of the “real” L.A. The other club was grungy and edgy, showcasing up-and-coming underground bands and sometimes popular bands who wanted to get back to their down and dirty roots. And after after hours...that club opened by invitation only, to Others only.
At least technically speaking.
The truth was, though, that there was a certain segment of the human population of L.A. that just knew about the Others.
Artists are a different breed from ordinary mortals. They push the boundaries of society and civilization. It was not an accident that for centuries actors had not been allowed to be buried in hallowed ground.
Just as in the segregated past white patrons had sought out the jazz clubs of Harlem, just as people from all walks of life had risked arrest to have the speakeasy experience in the Roaring Twenties, there was today a small slice of humanity that sensed the presence of Others and sought to learn more about them.
The denizens of L.A. were especially apt to seek out the edgy, the bizarre, the occult, the outré, and artists had a long history of possessing a heightened sense of non-rational forces. And there was no earthly secret more outré and non-rational and exciting than the Otherworld. So, for as long as there had been artists and Others, they had been commingling. And those humans who knew of the Others, while not bound by any official Code of Silence, were surprisingly good at keeping the Others’ existence secret, much as members of the film and music communities were surprisingly discreet about keeping the non-mainstream sexual preferences of film stars and other celebrities private. There were lots of open secrets in Hollywood, secrets that by mutual understanding stayed in Hollywood.
The existence of the Others was a more closely guarded secret even than sexuality, and through the years humans who had tried to break the silence had been silenced themselves, through blackmail, threats and sometimes even death.
So, the edgy and hidden nature of the Others-only clubs was a powerful draw for humans who were aware of the Others. Declan’s underground club made a fortune in admissions from humans in the know who were willing to pay top dollar for the Other experience.
It occurred to Barrie that Mayo would have been one of them, and she made a mental note to ask Declan about him as she stormed the club after a stop at home to change into a VLBD (very little black dress) and her tallest heels, the outfit accented by a complicated necklace, an industrial-looking metal chain assemblage of copper and steel and glass, for edge.
* * *
The doorman, one of L.A.’s supertall leprechauns, knew her and lifted the velvet rope, waving her past the line. Inside the black box of a club she braced herself against the assault of sound and started to wend her way across the crowded, atmospherically misty floor in the direction of the bar. The manager’s office was behind a spiral stairway, which led upstairs to a green room.
Barrie was an avid dancer and loved dance clubs in any form, but it always did her heart good to see Others mixing so happily and in such numbers. Now, as she looked out over the floor she saw vampires dancing with Elven, weres dancing with shifters, everyone having a great time, just as it should be. Beats the hell out of interspecies war, that’s for sure, she thought.
As she moved to the pulse of the music and assessed the crowd, she got her share of appreciative looks from the males of every species, which she casually ignored. But then she caught sight of a tall Elven—well, okay, “tall Elven” was redundant—watching her from the sidelines with an intense enough look that she paused mid-stride before she looked away. She knew never to lock eyes with an Elven. They could read minds if they held your gaze. In a solid eye lock, you could read theirs as well, a disturbingly intimate thing. Barrie kept moving, but it was surprisingly hard not to look back at him. She didn’t generally go for Elven; they were too uniformly gorgeous and...blond for her liking. But there was something about the quiet intensity of the one who had been watching her that made her think for a moment of Johnny Love and her disturbing—and disturbingly erotic—dream last night.
She shook her head almost violently to rid herself of the thought and was thankful to spot Declan casually leaning across the bar to speak to one of the bartenders.
He turned as she approached, as if sensing her presence. He was a striking Engli
shman of forty, with gorgeous cheekbones and raven-black hair, a taut swimmer’s body and an impatient energy that often read as arrogance. Barrie would never have called him that, but he didn’t suffer fools gladly.
“Cousin,” Declan greeted her, and kissed her English-style, on both cheeks. “Sailor said you might be storming the gates tonight.”
“I need to know about the Pack,” she told him, without any further pleasantries. Declan was a shifter Keeper; she didn’t need to pussyfoot around. He nodded and put his hand to her elbow to steer her into the office behind the bar, shutting the door behind them. The music still throbbed through the walls, but now they didn’t have to shout—or risk being overheard. Barrie got right to it. “Did you know them?”
Declan looked conflicted. “I knew them about as much as anyone was allowed to get to know them at the time, which, truly, was not much. I’ve been in the business a long time, and I’ll tell you, love, I’ve never seen anyone quite like those three. One by one they were charismatic, to be sure, but together? It was a whole other level of star power. And they knew it. And they used it.”
Barrie picked up on his ambiguous tone. “Used it...and pissed people off, you mean?”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
Barrie felt cold. “Enough to kill them? Or one of them, anyway?”
Declan smiled wryly. “Ah, we’re back to that, are we? ‘Who Killed Johnny Love?’” he asked with ironic emphasis. “Who killed Kurt, who killed Jim, who killed Janis, Jimi... There’s always a conspiracy when stars die young.”
“You don’t believe it, then.”
Declan spread his hands. “I believe that Johnny had enough destruction in him to finish himself off all on his own.”
She looked at him thoughtfully. She trusted him, and his steady skepticism gave her pause. Best not to go off half-cocked, after all.
“He didn’t die in L.A., you know,” she said, and she saw a brief jolt of surprise—or something—in his eyes.
Keeper of the Shadows (The Keepers: L.A.) Page 7