On the drive to Coyote's home, I mulled over the images of the murder scene. They flashed like slides across my brain, and I imagined Roxy's corpse sprawled on the asphalt in the alley with a chalk outline around her body. The trip to Hollywood confirmed the obvious, that I didn't yet have the whole story about her murder.
I got off the freeway. Surprisingly, my Chrysler wasn't the fanciest set of wheels in the neighborhood. The homies were back in their cribs this Sunday morning. Scores of big customized SUVs and pickups made this part of Boyle Heights look like the impound lot of the Drug Enforcement Agency.
I carried my overnight bag and the box with Roxy's files toward Coyote's home. He sat in the shade under a blue tarp stretched from his porch and tied to a pair of crooked aluminum poles. He tossed golfball-size pellets from a greasy paper bag to the snapping jaws of three scrawny dogs.
Coyote blinked his bloodshot eyes. Even for a vampire, despite his makeup and leather skin, he looked pale.
I asked how he was doing.
"Not so good, vato." He shifted in the lawn chair. "It's that rat chorizo. Maybe there's a reason you leave the tails out." Coyote reached into the bag and lobbed a hunk of the malodorous sausage. "What's in the box, ese?"
"Homework."
"How was Veronica?"
"Healthy."
Coyote nodded and went back to feeding the dogs.
Inside the house I set my laptop computer on the kitchen table. I sent an email to my hacker and asked for anything regarding Lara Krieger, possibly the sister of Roxy Bronze.
I reviewed the files. I set aside the photo of Niphe, Rosario, and Journey standing together. Finding information that linked them was my immediate task, though if I wanted to dredge through notes and numbers like this, I would've been an accountant. I sorted the documents, cross-checking information, taking the occasional break for a coffee-and-blood pick-me-up. What I really wanted was a Manhattan and another shot of leg… Veronica's.
The last folder held large manila envelopes. I opened one and pulled out a cheap spiral notebook. Scotch tape held photocopies of news clippings to the pages. Judging by the dates, this information went back more than ten years, long before Project Eleven.
One photo from the Los Angeles Times showed a much slimmer Rosario and a woman in her midthirties, dark hair, oversize glasses, passing one another in a vestibule within the city hall building. The caption identified her as Councilwoman Petale Venin. The accompanying story described the controversy surrounding the rezoning along Loma Alta Drive in Altadena and the use of eminent domain to displace the residents for commercial development.
But what stood there now was Dale Journey's church. What happened to the commercial development?
I read through the clippings in the notebook and learned that the development trust pushing for eminent domain had gone bankrupt. After the homes had been demolished, the vacant land, with its magnificent views of the San Gabriel Valley, lay fallow.
Then what? How did Journey get the land for his ministry? The files didn't mention what happened next.
Had Roxy found something that led to her murder?
Lots of clues. And lots more questions. But nothing definite about her murder, and zilch concerning vampire-human collusion.
My brain felt like I'd been scraping it against a cheese grater. The clock read 10:14 P.M. Time to set the files aside and take another look at the alley where Roxy was gunned down. I closed the box.
I got my .380 automatic, checked that it was loaded, and holstered the pistol to the back of my trousers.
Coyote sat on the edge of his porch. He sipped a concoction with the aroma of yerba buena-mint tea-with lamb's blood, a traditional Mexican vampire's remedy for an upset stomach. He put the cup down. "The next time I mention rat chorizo, please kick me in the ass."
"Can I practice?"
Coyote grabbed his crotch. "On this, cabron."
"You up for a ride? Providing you're not going to puke."
"Don't worry." He tilted his face toward me. His eyeballs looked their normal jaundiced yellow. "Where we going?"
"Hollywood."
Chapter Twenty-three
Once inside the Chrysler, Coyote found the controls and moved his seat all the way back and up. He propped his dirty sneakers through the window. As we drove out of Boyle Heights, Coyote bobbed his head in rhythm to a reggae beat tuned on the satellite radio.
"Vato, know what would make this ride bien suave? Some ganja."
"Fresh out."
Coyote opened his jacket and produced a metal hip flask. "Then mescal will do." He took a swig and belched. He wiped the neck of the flask and offered it to me.
The flask reeked of rat chorizo, which smothered any thirst I might have had. "Thanks, but I don't drink rat and drive."
Coyote shrugged. He upended the flask, and the drink gurgled into his mouth. Suddenly coughing, he folded over and hung his head out the window.
Was this another reaction to the rat chorizo? I pulled against the curb.
Coyote sat straight, panting, and wiped drool from his face. "I forgot about the pinchi worm. Damn near choked me."
"Serves you right for drinking that shit."
Coyote capped the flask and inserted it back into an inner jacket pocket. "It keeps the hair on my balls. You ought to try some."
"Too bad it doesn't do anything for your mustache."
I pulled away from the curb. I described our destination, the alley where Roxy had been found dead. My plan was to get a sense of the place at night.
"You mean a stakeout?" Coyote sat rigid, rolled his shoulders back, and thrust his chin out. He swiveled his head robotically to the left and right.
"Sort of," I replied. "If we get lucky, something important will turn up."
We arrived at Hollywood and Cahuenga at 11 P.M. The corner was as alive and crowded as it had been dormant and lonely earlier that afternoon. Cars lined the streets, and I had to park two blocks away.
Customers stood shoulder to shoulder inside the cafe. People on the sidewalk followed barbecue smoke and queued at the window of the take-out up the street. Men and women milled around open doors of the tiny nightclubs, guarded by bouncers perched on tall stools.
A van was parked in the alley beside the gray building. Men toted amplifiers and guitars from the van to the rear entrance.
Coyote and I walked west on Selma and entered the alley from the south. Both of us checked to make sure no one noticed, then trotted up the wall and onto the roof.
Levitating so we'd move silently over the rooftop, Coyote and I made our way to where we could observe the spot where Roxy Bronze was slain. The flat roof vibrated from music inside the building. This perspective from above rendered us all but invisible. No one bothered to look up.
I removed my contacts and knelt with my elbows on the short wall surrounding the roof. Coyote kept me company, both of us as quiet and absorbed as a couple of anglers watching a pond.
Midnight came. The crowds ebbed and formed again. Some people laughed. Others argued. A few teetered on drunken legs and puked. Pretty lively for a Sunday night.
A Jaguar convertible drove up Cahuenga. The orange aura of the driver announced he was a vampire. I followed his progress along the street. Coyote nudged me and also watched the visitor.
The vampire's large head sat on the broad shoulders of a thick frame. He had sandy hair in a medium-length cut. He slowed and panned the knots of people before continuing to Hollywood Boulevard.
Who, or what, was he looking for?
I whispered, "Coyote, recognize him?"
Coyote shook his head. "Nah."
SUVs with spinner wheels paraded past, disgorging or picking up women in clothes as tight as tamale wrappers.
An orange aura surrounded one of the women. Vampire.
I studied her aura and those of her human companions. The vampire's aura teemed with bright spots and bumps. She advertised the anticipation of feeding on necks later. The humans seemed clueless abo
ut her appetite for them. So they weren't chalices. And she behaved like a vampire out on the prowl. She was your new best girlfriend, inviting oodles of trust and gossip, yet biding her time for the chance to clamp sharp fangs on your throat. Typical undead predatory behavior.
"Know her?" I asked Coyote.
"Wish I did, eye."
"Seems the type that could twist you in knots."
"Like rat chorizo? Vato, I survived that, I could survive her."
The women chatted with the bouncer at the entrance to the nightclub and went inside.
A half hour later, the vampire in the Jaguar convertible returned. He paused by the alley entrance. A human female lay in the narrow backseat. Her tranquil red aura said she was either asleep or passed out. Drunk? Drugged? Under vampire hypnosis?
What was he doing? Trolling for another catch?
To watch him more closely I got careless and poked my head too high above the edge of the building. A human wouldn't have noticed, or a vampire wearing contacts, but my orange aura announced my presence like a Day-Glo banner.
The vampire snapped his gaze upward, his tapetum lucidum reflecting the surrounding neon. His eyes locked on mine. A glow of exhilaration brushed through his aura, as if he'd found a prize. At that instant I knew he was looking for me.
Unfolding a cell phone and accelerating toward Hollywood Boulevard, he tossed one final glance back, as if to confirm what he had seen.
"Who's he calling?" I asked. "How did he know to look here?"
Coyote ducked low and his gaze flitted about like a real coyote searching for an escape route. "Feels like a trap, ese."
The Jaguar turned left on Hollywood Boulevard and headed west.
"Trap or no trap, I'll bet that vampire can answer some questions." My kundalini noir flexed for combat. Talons and fangs extended. I patted the outline of my .380 pistol. "Traffic's heavy, so we can box him in." I motioned to the right. "You follow and come from behind."
Coyote moved to the edge of the wall. "And you, Felix?"
"If this is a trap, it means trouble. Isn't that what we came for?"
Chapter Twenty-four
No time to waste if I wanted to catch the vampire. If I moved diagonally across the block, I'd intercept his Jaguar convertible at the intersection of Hollywood and Wilcox.
I took a running leap and sailed across the alley to the roof of the opposite building. I bounded from rooftop to rooftop and levitated to the sidewalk on Wilcox.
I rounded the corner at a sprint and pushed a couple of pedestrians out of my way. The Jaguar cruised in the oncoming lane of Hollywood Boulevard. I sprang from the sidewalk and headed right for the convertible.
The driver's aura erupted in surprise, then blazed with anger. He veered out of traffic and gunned the engine. The glare of his headlights dazzled me.
I wasn't going to step aside and let him get away. I leapt for the driver. The bumper and grille slid under my legs. My talons scratched across the hood and I smashed into the windshield.
The driver's aura burned incandescent with fury. His Jaguar raced across traffic. Horns blared and tires screeched in a chaotic blur. The Jaguar bounced over the curb and I slapped against the hood but held firm to the wipers. We crashed through the steel barricade locked over a storefront.
Broken metal shutters tore at my back, shredding my clothes. Glass showered the air. Hot steam from the radiator sprayed my ankles and feet. A snarl of pain broke from my throat.
The Jaguar burst through a rack of women's lingerie and slammed to a halt. Two cash registers catapulted past my head and ricocheted off the windshield, smashing the glass.
Dazed, I lay still on the hood. The back of my legs ached where the metal shutters had smacked them. My hands tingled from holding on to the wipers during the crash. Both of my feet were wet from the Jaguar's coolant.
Lacy garments fluttered around us like dizzy birds. Remnants of a splintered counter littered the carpet. Overhead banks of illuminated fluorescent lamps hummed, the only noise in the room. Lights at this time of the morning? Inside a shuttered building?
The quiet and my questions didn't last long.
Naked young women jounced around the room in panic, screeching as if splashing through acid. One dangled in a love swing suspended from the ceiling, wiggling like a snared rabbit. The women stumbled over spilled racks of clothing. Two men with camcorders tripped across electric cables and klieg lights.
They were filming a porn movie? Now? I didn't know the skin business had a graveyard shift.
The girl in the backseat of the Jaguar sat up, her head covered by swirls of tangled hair. As her gaze swiveled across the room, she brushed bits of glass from her shoulders. With no expression of surprise, she slithered out of the backseat and over the side of the car.
The driver used his talons to tear away the air bag draping his face. Looking about, he seemed as confused as I was.
But only for an instant.
Fangs bared, he lunged at me through the broken windshield, his talons splayed like the tines of pitchforks.
I locked my fingers into his and used his momentum to withdraw over the front of the Jaguar. Bracing my knees against the bumper, I gave a mighty pull and yanked him fully through the windshield.
I squeezed his fingers and hands and cracked bone. When he screamed I gave him a head butt to his face. I let go his fingers to grab his hair and brandish my pistol. He flailed uselessly while I hammered his face with the butt of the gun. Vampire blood spritzed against my fingers.
I beat the vampire and kept beating him out of my frustration with this case. Every strike to his head accompanied a question. What's going on? What do you know? What can't I see?
Sparks of pain flashed through the vampire's aura, marking the tempo of my blows. The sparks faded, and the vampire's arms fell limp.
I didn't want to kill him, not yet. When he first saw me on the roof, he called someone to report he'd found me. Why? I brought my face close to his. "Who are you working for? Who did you call?"
His eyes rolled to the left and right and fixed upon me. His aura smoothed for a moment and became tranquil, as if he were grateful for the recess from pain. A flame of bright orange exploded through his aura. He growled, spittle dripping from his long teeth.
"Let me repeat the lesson." I smashed his face into the hood of the Jaguar like I was working a stapler. His fangs left two crooked rows of punctures and red slobber in the dented metal.
"Again. Who are you working for?" I screwed the muzzle of the pistol into his temple. "Answer me, you stupid bastard, before I ventilate your brain."
He gurgled through the pink froth around his swollen lips. "Cragnow."
The name I wanted to hear. "Why?"
"You… you…" The vampire gasped and choked.
"Me what?"
Something pounded on the roof. The lights went out. Panels of acoustical tiles, insulation, and chunks of plaster tumbled to the floor from the ceiling.
The women, who were already screaming at air-raid siren volume, let out a wave of even more deafening shrieks. Their red auras boiled with terror.
I let go of the vampire's hair. His face thumped the hood. I aimed my automatic at the ceiling. More tiles fell and exposed a black hole. An orange aura appeared in the void.
Coyote.
He floated to the floor, yelling, "La jura. "The cops. "They're not wasting time getting here. Vamonos."
I surveyed the damage. The front of the store was demolished. Bystanders peeked through the tangle of twisted metal shutters and their gazes probed the darkness. Several thousands of dollars in lingerie lay about, now useless rags. A totaled Jaguar. One thoroughly battered bloodsucker. I brushed the dust of his dried blood from my fingers.
A public spectacle of vampire-to-vampire combat was a huge no-no. But the problem was Cragnow Vissoom's. As the leader of the local nidus, his duty was to keep vampire activity hidden from humans. This was his mess to tidy.
"Give me a minute," I shouted
to Coyote. I made for the vampire's pockets to search for his wallet and cell phone.
A police car skidded to a halt outside the entrance to the store, throwing a frenetic kaleidoscope of red and blue lights.
Coyote jumped and glided up through the hole.
I had to forget about the vampire. If I lingered another second, the cops would be on me.
Limping from the Jaguar, I stashed my pistol in its holster, took a couple of painful steps to build momentum, and hopped upward to follow Coyote. We scrambled across the roof and to the street, where we stayed in the shadows, moving like phantoms back to my car. I smelled of radiator antifreeze. My trousers and shirt hung in tatters.
Dozens of police cars circled the block behind us, their flashing lights making the streets look like a pinball arcade. Spotlights fixed on the shiny, anxious faces of people streaming from the nightclubs. A helicopter whirled overhead, and the shaft of a searchlight stabbed the rooftops where we had just been.
The speed with which so many cops responded astonished me. As Cragnow's hired gun, Deputy Chief Julius Paxton must have prepared his buddies in Hollywood Station to muster such a force. Some of these cops had to be undead. Meaning they'd use vampire vision to search for auras. The gloom of night wouldn't protect Coyote, or me.
Chapter Twenty-five
We snuck to my car. I took Santa Monica Boulevard east to the Hollywood Freeway and straight to Coyote's home. I checked the mirrors for police. Nada.
My back muscles throbbed from the lacerations. The frustration that overwhelmed me earlier returned and my mind spiraled into a whorl of confusion. The red taillights around me fused into a crimson smear. My thoughts tumbled around the other vampire, as if he and I were locked inside a barrel careening down a hill. What part did this vampire play in Cragnow's plan? Was he a mere lookout, a guard… or an assassin? How much did he know?
I recoiled, startled by the rank odor of rat chorizo and stale mescal. Coyote chugged from his flask.
The stench yanked me back to the present like a whiff of ammonia. The taillights of the car in front of me snapped into sharp focus.
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