The dark liquid inside moved sluggishly.
Garreth's neck and spine tingled. That was no sea water. He worked the cork free and sniffed at the opening.
The scent from it raised goose bumps all over his body. Human blood!
He stared down at the bottle, hunger searing him. Human blood, ready to drink without having to attack anyone. Hurriedly he returned it to the refrigerator and retreated from the kitchen. No. He could not afford to indulge his appetite.
On the second floor none of the rooms but the library had heavy drapes. At the rear of the house the scents of blood and Holle's cologne wafted around the edges of a locked door along with the sound of a sleeper's breathing. The room must be Holle's. The third floor, all bedrooms, had two occupied rooms at the front, neither locked. The sleepers in both smelled of blood. The next room stood empty. The two rear rooms by the service stairs, though, had been turned into an apartment for the housekeeper. The scent of Emeraude filled them, and the housekeeper herself slept soundly in the bedroom.
He climbed the service stairs to the top floor in the attic. The old servants' quarters there had apparently been turned into more guest rooms. The front ones were unoccupied. Two locked doors closed off storage rooms. Sliding through the doors, he found light from the street shining in the dormer windows to light stacked cardboard boxes and a jumble of old chairs, lamps, and some racks of clothing hanging in zippered plastic bags.
Two rooms at the back remained unchecked. He opened one door. Heavy drapes covered the dormer window. Quickly Garreth examined the bed. Earth filled the plastic mattress cover. The delicious relaxation he felt running his hand over it told him that even before the gritty shifting inside did.
Pay dirt. The room could be meant only to accommodate a vampire.
Only one room remained.
As he opened its door, Garreth froze with his hand on the knob. A spicy muskiness lingered in the air, a perfume he remembered only too well. It had curled around him with such inviting sweetness that Thanksgiving night on the island in Baumen's Pioneer Park.
He fought to breathe. No! Impossible. Lane could not have been here! Could she?
But what did he know . . . really? Books with vampire lore could hardly be called authoritative. Beyond that, he had only personal experience and what Lane had told him. How could he trust what she said?
After a few minutes, panic ebbed, and as reason replaced it, it occurred to him that along with everything else Lane had learned from her mentor, Irina, she might also have adopted the other woman's perfume. What he smelled could be traces of Irina, not Lane.
His paralysis dissolved. Swiftly he examined the room. It had the same heavy drapes and earth-filled mattress cover the room next to it did. Both closet and dresser drawers had been cleaned out, but the spicy scent lingering in them, too, told him that they had been used recently. Perhaps as recently as today.
He closed the door and glided downstairs to the next floor, through the door of Holle's room. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Garreth shook the sleeping man's shoulder. "Wake up, Mr. Holle; we have things to talk about."
Holle woke with a start. "What-" He blinked, squinting up at what his darkblind eyes must see as only a vague shadow beside him. "Who are you? How the hell did you get in-"
"I'm Garreth Mikaelian. So you know how I got in."
Holle sat up. "Then take yourself out the same way."
"Not until I know where to find Irina Rodek." Garreth switched on the bedside light. "Mr. Holle, look at me and tell me you don't know where she is."
Holle squeezed his eyes tightly shut. "I don't know."
"Look at me!"
"Sorry." Holle smiled faintly. "You're obviously young in the life. You don't have the power yet to command by voice alone."
"Someone around here has the power, though," Garreth said grimly. "Great power. Last night that someone killed a man named Richard Maruska. Maruska happened to be one of my kind."
Holle's eyelids flickered but remained closed. "Killed him?"
"Broke his neck. At night. How many humans could do that?" Garreth watched Holle lick his lips as the statement sank in, then added, "He was supposed to meet me to tell me how to find Irina."
Sweat beaded Holle's forehead. "Irina couldn't have killed him. She-" He broke off.
"She what?" Garreth prompted. "Tell me about her. And tell me about yourself. How long have you known vampires really exist? Do many humans know?"
But Holle only pressed his lips into a line and turned his head away.
"You're obstructing a murder investigation, Holle."
The man snorted. "Conducted in the middle of the night by an officer without authority who breaks into my house and bedroom? I wonder what Sergeant Takananda would think if he knew about it."
Cold chased down Garreth's spine. He came back, "Who's going to tell him? You? The man with bottles of a very unique and bizarre vintage in his refrigerator and earth mattresses on two of his guest beds? You can't risk close scrutiny any more than I can."
Holle licked his lips again. "Then we have reached an impasse."
"Not really. You say Irina can't be guilty. Fine. Let me talk to her and see for myself."
The stubborn set returned to Holle's jaw. "I told you before, I don't know where she is. She left and didn't say where she was going."
The experience from years of talking to reluctant subjects told Garreth that without more leverage, this was all he would pry out of Holle. He stood, sighing. "Okay. If you happen to remember something and care to confide it, in the interests of justice and public safety, you can reach me through Sergeant Takananda. Though it doesn't really matter. With or without your help, I'll find Irina."
The way to start, he decided on his way downstairs, was with a look at the murder scene. Maybe that would give him a lead. Even if he had free access to the case reports-doubtful under the circumstances-they might not help. For all the crime lab's competence, their examination could have overlooked something that had significance only to a vampire.
Holle's phone directory on the hall table listed a Richard Maruska with a Western Addition address. Not the best of addresses, Garreth noted, but there were worse, and it was close. He would have time to reach it and still be back at Harry's before dawn.
Footsteps whispered overhead.
Garreth froze. They came from the guest room. One of the guests heading for the bathroom to take a leak? No, he realized a moment later. The footsteps, so quiet that human hearing would not have detected them, were coming downstairs. The guest must have heard him!
Making sure he moved soundlessly this time, Garreth raced for the front door and slipped out through it with a sharp wrench. On the street he breathed more easily, but he lost no time breaking into a lope and heading south toward the Western Addition.
5
Between siding overdue for repainting and hallway stairs deeply worn in the center, the house had seen better days. The vertical row of mailboxes just inside the street door gave 301 as Richard Maruska's apartment. But it was the other name on the mailbox that startled Garreth: Count Dracula. A chill slid down his spine. How could the hustler be so- Then it hit him-oh, the roommate-and he remembered stories that officers on Vice told about a homosexual hustler who styled himself a vampire, coming out only at night, always dressing in formal evening clothes and an opera cape, affecting a Bela Lugosi accent. Climbing the worn stairs to the third floor, Garreth reflected that Ricky must have found the arrangement very amusing, a real vampire living with a counterfeit one. Did "Dracula" know or suspect the truth?
The door of 301 had a police seal across it. Fingering the broad strip of yellow tape with inner fire licking at him, Garreth swore softly. The whole place was sealed. That meant the roommate had to be staying somewhere else for the time being and could not invite him in.
He turned away. On the other hand, just talking to the roommate might turn up something, and maybe he could work out something for getting into the apartment. In
the meantime, he decided, glancing at his watch, he had better head home.
6
Dragging himself out of bed into the press of daylight after little more than an hour of sleep was pure agony, but Garreth forced himself up. He had to ask Harry about the hustler's roommate before Girimonte was around to question his curiosity.
Harry looked to be in no condition for casual chitchat, though, when Garreth stumbled into the kitchen. He glanced up, winced in obvious pain, and buried his nose in his coffee cup again with a groan.
Lien set a plate of eggs and hash browns on the table. The smells from it curled up around Garreth. Harry groaned even louder.
Shaking her head, Lien slid the plate to her place. "I think honorable husband has quite a head on him this morning." She somehow managed to look as if she had had a full night's sleep. She smiled at Garreth. "What about you? Can you face food?"
"God, no. I'll just make myself some tea." He filled a cup from the kettle on the stove and dropped in a tea bag out of the canister on the cabinet next to it.
"Be sure to eat at noon."
"Yes, ma'am." The water turned straw colored. Garreth discarded the tea bag.
Lien pushed hash browns around the plate with her fork. "I threw a hexagram for you this morning. It was number sixty-four, Before Completion."
His gut tightened. Her tone indicated a less than favorable hexagram. Leaning against the cabinet, he sipped the tea. "Which is?"
"The text says there is success, but if the little fox gets his tail wet before completing a crossing of the river, nothing furthers. Which means that deliberation and caution are necessary for success."
He gave her a thin smile. "A good reminder for a cop. What did I Ching say about Harry?"
Her eyes danced. "Number twenty-three, Splitting Apart."
Despite the drag of daylight and the knots in his gut, Garreth had to bite his lip to keep from laughing aloud.
Then Lien went sober. "It does not further one to go anywhere. I wish you'd call in sick, Harry."
Harry sighed. "Half the squad will be feeling as bad or worse than I am this morning."
"Then at least be very careful."
He reached out for her hand and kissed it. "I always am."
Maybe now was the time to slip in a question. Garreth said casually, "Earl Faye is one who'll definitely be worse off than you are." He sipped his tea. "He was reaching a point last night when I didn't know whether to believe him or not. He tried to tell me that Maruska's roommate is Count Dracula."
Lien giggled. "Oh really?"
"Really," Harry said. "That's what the guy calls himself. When Faye and Centrello came back from the murder scene, they said there was even a coffin in his bedroom that he sleeps in."
Maybe living with this dude was a clever move on Ricky's part, Garreth mused. Next to the hamming of the counterfeit vampire, the hustler would have seemed normal. "I wonder if we ought to talk to him again, now that it looks like Lane is connected to the killing. It might give what he has to say a different slant."
Harry started to frown in thought, then abandoned the gesture with another wince of pain. "Maybe."
"Is he still at the apartment?"
"No. There's a temporary address for him in Centrello's notes. We'll look it up when we get to Bryant Street."
7
From the doorway of his office, Serruto eyed his inspectors sardonically. "Ah, the cast from Dawn of the Dead, I see. It must have been quite a bash, Takananda. Not without benefits, either. I see our hotshot author hasn't managed to make it in. Let's wish him a long, undisturbed rest while we grab our cups of strong black coffee and go to work." He strolled out to sit down on a desk in the middle of the room and read the list of cases that had come in overnight. In the middle of facts about a cab driver's knifing, he glanced up and broke off with a solicitous, "I'm not keeping you awake, am I, Bennigan?"
The offending detective opened his eyes with a start and dragged himself upright in his chair. "I was just concentrating on what you're saying, sir."
"Good. Then you and Roth can handle this knifing."
After reviewing and assigning the rest of the overnights, Serruto had each team give a brief update on their current cases.
A bright-eyed, rested-looking Girimonte reported for Harry and herself. "No breaks on the liquor store shooting yet, and no ID on the woman in Stow Lake. Which now looks like an accidental drowning. The autopsy found water in her lungs and a high level of alcohol in her blood. The autopsy on our hustler wasn't done until late yesterday afternoon so there's no official report yet, but I stopped by the morgue on my way up this morning and got some preliminary findings from the assistant M.E. who did the post."
Cold shot through Garreth. He had not thought about autopsies on vampires before. What internal differences were there? Any that might generate dangerous curiosity?
He waited tensely while the black woman pulled a notebook from the pocket of her suit jacket and flipped it open. "The victim died of a severed spinal cord. No surprises there. And the reason there wasn't much blood from the slashed throat was because it was cut after death."
"Which fits Barber's MO," Harry said.
Serruto raised a brow. "Not quite. Mossman and Adair died of blood loss, remember? Both the broken necks and cutting their throats and wrists came after death."
"Maruska wasn't bled out like the other victims, either," Girimonte said.
"She had a different reason for killing Maruska . . . self-preservation."
Girimonte sent a glance at Garreth. "We don't know that. There's no evidence definitely linking Barber to the murder."
Harry scowled. "We-"
"This is a briefing, not a debate," Serruto said shortly. "Go on, Inspector."
She glanced back at her notes "There isn't much else. The doc is excited about some internal anomalies, but he says they're unrelated to the cause of death. He found severe pulmonary edema and edema of the throat and nasal passages, which also doesn't appear to be connected to the cause of death but which he can't account for. That's it."
What anomalies? Garreth bit his lip. An unanswerable question at the moment. He had enough to worry about anyway with Girimonte sending suspicious glances at him and Harry frowning at her.
When Serruto dismissed them and returned to his office, Harry turned on Girimonte. "We have evidence that implicates Barber. And if we ask the roommate about red-haired women-"
"Excuse me," a hesitant voice interrupted. "A detective by the door said two of you are the detectives in charge of the case of a woman found in Stow Lake Sunday night?"
They all turned. A young brunette woman in a ski sweater and blue jeans stood twisting the strap of her shoulder bag.
"I'm Sergeant Takananda," Harry said. "This is Inspector Girimonte. Do you know something about the case?"
The young woman drew a deep breath. "I think I know who she is."
Girimonte pulled a chair over by Harry's desk. "Please sit down."
Across the room, the door from the hall opened and Julian Fowler came in. He looked as impeccably dressed and groomed as ever but the writer walked, Garreth noted, like a man carrying a bomb. Or wearing one?
Garreth left Harry and Girimonte with the brunette to meet the writer. "Good morning, Mr. Fowler."
Fowler leaned against a handy desk and closed his eyes. "I think not. Lord. Do American coppers really party like that all the time?"
"Oh, no," Garreth said solemnly. "Sometimes we get wild."
The pale eyes opened to glare at him. "Don't be cheeky. I wonder if your lieutenant would mind if I helped myself to a spot of coffee?"
"He isn't my lieutenant, so go ahead."
Fowler almost dropped the cup, though. Garreth took it away and poured the coffee for him. Harry and Girimonte left the squad room with the brunette, probably taking her to the morgue to identify the body.
They came back a short time later. The brunette had gone pale. Shaking, she sat down again. While Harry fed a report f
orm into his typewriter, Girimonte stalked over to the coffee pot.
"Sometimes I wonder why we bother to protect the public. We ought to just sit back and let natural selection weed the stupidity from the population."
"What happened?" Garreth asked.
She grimaced. "A bunch of grad students from the U of San Francisco were drinking Sunday night. They thought it would be fun to go swimming. No one counted heads before or after, and it took until today, when the professor she works for started bitching because she wasn't there to teach a lab for him and grade some papers, for them to start wondering where she was and remember that there'd been 'something in the paper Monday about a dead woman in a lake.' Christ."
"Yes, but, well, it does clear the case, as you say, doesn't it?"
"Yeah. It clears the case." She carried the coffee back to the brunette.
In another ten minutes the statement was finished and the shaken citizen gone. Harry said, "Let's visit Count Dracula."
Fowler perked up. "I beg your pardon?"
Girimonte smiled thinly. "Our dead hustler's roommate. A weirdo. Perfect for your book."
Harry dug the case folder out of his desk and flipped through the reports in it. "Here's his temporary address: the Bay Vista Hotel."
Girimonte grimaced. "That fleabag."
"I dare say it isn't easy for a vampire to find accommodations," Fowler said.
Snickering, they headed for the door.
They had not been out of the parking lot five minutes, however, when a message came over the radio for Harry to phone Serruto. They stopped at the first public phone.
A grim-faced Harry came back to the car. "Van, forget Count Dracula and head for Holle's place."
A cold trickle of foreboding moved down Garreth's spine. "What's up, Harry?"
"It's what's gone down." Harry slammed the car door closed. "Holle's housekeeper just found him dead in bed . . . his throat slashed and his neck broken."
8
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