by Rawlyns, Nya
“You mean Julie?” He nodded yes. “Charges, what kind of charges?”
He stared at the ceiling, letting me connect the dots.
Finally I had to ask, “Did you… hit her?” Given his upbringing he’d been a prime candidate for history repeating itself. God knew, I was the poster child for acting out.
Tom set the mug on the coffee table, leaned over, elbows on his knees, head braced with palms gouging his eyes, rubbing for all he was worth.
“Christ, I wanted to, Micah. It was all I had not to slap the bitch into next week, after the things she accused me of…”
I listened, letting him get it all out, all the perversions, all the sick crap that even on my worst day I’d never be guilty of. I had to know where that was coming from.
“She said someone left a padded envelope. Dates, times, some photos. Enough to make even me believe the lies.”
“I’m no Einstein, but that smacks of a set-up.”
“You think?”
“Did you explain it to the captain? I know he’s new to the department but fuck, he can’t possibly believe you’d be involved in shit like that.” Then it occurred to me to wonder about Julie and who might have gotten to her.
“Your captain isn’t stupid, Tom. What did Julie show him to prove you’d done what she said?”
He blanched, an uh-oh moment for me.
“I, uh… I might have lost my temper. Threw some stuff. She took a pic with the phone. It looked bad.” He fixed me with a resolute stare and said, “But I never touched her, I swear on my mother’s grave, Micah, I never touched her.”
Grunting, “I know,” might put his mind at ease but mine flew into overdrive.
I got up and went to the counter to look over the stack of folders. Something niggled at the back of my brain—all the co-incidences, persons of interest, evidence that couldn’t possibly exist in the real, or even the imagined, world.
“Are you working any other cases… other than the hookers?”
“No, it was jacked to Priority-One with the fifth victim. Why?”
Waving him over, I spread the timeline I’d drawn and the supporting documents along the length of the counter. Rehashing what I knew took a half hour. He poured more coffee for both of us, paying careful attention, but there was little more he could add. I did give him an abbreviated recap of my encounter with Ivan the Terrible and confirmed the suspicion we’d all picked up tails.
That reminded me, “You said you were out chasing a lead. What was that about?”
“The last one, in the park… well, a witness came forth, said he saw an odd-looking woman leaving that area around two in the morning. Older man, retired, said he couldn’t sleep. No reason to doubt him.”
“So did you get a description?”
Tom swiveled his neck from side-to-side, working out the kinks as he went into his mind’s eye, capturing the details. When he did that, it was like instant replay.
“Tall, nearly six foot, dressed in black leather… pants, lots of belly showing, maybe a piercing but he couldn’t be sure. Black hair, straight, shoulder length. Pale like she’d been sick a long time. Odd eyes and mouth.”
“Odd. How so?”
“Well, he thought maybe she’d been hit, her mouth was puffy and bleeding.” Tom picked up a pencil and drew a quick map of the end of the park where we’d found the body, x-ing in the overhead lights spaced at irregular intervals along the walk. He pointed to a position about fifty yards east of the benches. “He was here, on the down side of the lights, partially in shadow. The woman came from the trees,” he tapped the eraser end at the top of the picture, “heading south.”
“What about her eyes?”
“Oh yeah, that was the really weird part. He said they glowed in the dark, red, like a demon or a devil.”
Bingo. That described the mystery Goth chick who’d sucked me into my own private Idaho Saturday night, kick-starting a trip down memory lane that got more bizarre with each passing second.
Tom looked at me suspiciously. “Why, do you know her?”
The answer to that was yes, and the logical conclusion had to be she was the one responsible for all the murders, both here and down in the Big Easy. Find her, and this serial murder case would be all sorted.
However, I also knew in my gut that wasn’t the whole story. Feeding on me had been a pleasure for her, for both of us. The act had been ritualistic, sensuous, corrupting and addictive. It’d been a… reminder.
The other drainings, they’d been feedings pure and simple—mindless, vicious, serving no purpose other than sating a need and sending a message. Finding the perp would bring us no closer to finding the instigator. That was why Maxwell wanted me to dig deeper, trace the chain of command, and find out what or who was rotten in his little corporate empire.
Restless, Tom pressed for an answer, “Micah? Do you know her?”
“Uh, yeah, sorry. I was trying to remember. It’s been a long day.” Sketching quickly, I drew a likeness in my notebook and spun it around for him to look at. “She was at Haven, I’m sure of it.”
“Did you speak with her at all?”
“No, not a word. All I know is she was there. But then I left to go home. I was too wasted by that time to notice much of anything.”
Thank God he never pressed me for details, like how I managed to get home in that condition, or how I ended up in Spanish Harlem in the early morning hours.
He wanted to believe me, because that’s what friends were for. Unfortunately O’Hearn, the cop, said otherwise.
To get his attention off me, I asked about Chen’s findings.
“Nothing we didn’t already know. But in answer to your question about some kind of device being used to drain them? Non-starter. Chen didn’t know of anything short of medical equipment, which isn’t something you carry around in a fanny pack. And the bruising was consistent with the kind of pressure exerted from a mouth.” Looking rueful he said, “She called it a hickey.”
I snorted, having had more than my fair share complements of Trina and some of my later trysts with the freakazoids at Haven and the other clubs.
While restacking the piles, a thought occurred.
“Listen, my flight leaves at two-fifteen from Newark tomorrow. I’ll be gone three, four days, maybe longer. Stay here if you like.”
He made the usual noises about not imposing, but I waved them off. “I’ll call Annie in the morning. She can restock the larder for you. But I need for you to do something for me.”
“What do you need?” Relief etched his face.
I pulled the sheaf of papers out of the envelope Maxwell’d given me and made a few notes, then handed the papers to Tom.
“I need for you to find out everything you can about these four people. I want name, rank and serial number, their genealogy back three generations, what they eat for breakfast, who they fuck and how often. Financials would be nice. Overseas accounts, that kind of thing. Use my laptop, you know the password or can figure it out.”
“Jesus, you don’t want much.” Running a finger down the list, he frowned then looked up with a puzzled expression. “Coupla these look familiar, but I’m not sure why.”
“Same here. They’re one of the reasons I’m flying down there, but I need to go in knowing a hell of a lot more than I do right now, and I’m too beat to try and do it tonight.”
“There’s more to this than just the hookers, am I right?”
Yawning, I didn’t bother to reply but turned my attention to restacking the piles and mumbling about needing sleep. Tom’s eyes were already at half-mast, so I got no argument from him. He pushed away from the counter and walked relatively steadily to the bathroom to get ready to crash.
The folded sheets sat on the floor next to the chair. I made up the couch and flopped down, convinced I’d be up most of what remained of the night working through the molasses clogging my brain. As soon as my head hit the pillow, I was out like a light.
I woke up, once, for no par
ticular reason, imaging a sound, a smell, someone breathing close to my ear. The kind of phantom sensations you get when dreams invade conscious thought like cinema vérité. A few yards away, Tom snored loudly, the sound bouncing around the short hall. After a while, it wasn’t enough to keep me awake.
We slept in late enough to make me anxious about having time to pack and catch the bus from the Port Authority Terminal over to Newark Liberty International. Since I couldn’t take the Sig with me, I entrusted it to Tom’s care. He offered to drive me, but I already had the bus ticket and besides, I needed that information as soon as possible so I could hit the ground running when I landed. Driving me there and getting back to my place would eat up much of what was left of the day.
When I checked in at the airport, I found out I’d been bumped to first class. My friend Talon and his cronies at the paper were too cheap to swing for that. I silently thanked Maxwell for the thoughtfulness. Or perhaps it had been Madeline…
An attendant with pert boobs and a winning smile got me settled, drink in hand. I had room to stretch my long legs, an empty seat next to me, and a wallet full of cash. On the down side, I had no clear plan for how to proceed, but hopefully O’Hearn would dig up enough dirt for me to get a start.
There was no denying I had a certain amount of squeamishness about heading back to New Orleans. The one and only time I’d been there was when I’d lost Trina, sixteen years before. In fact, in a month or so, the ticker would slide over to seventeen. Me, my memories, and my secret cravings would be another year older and no closer to resolution.
On one level I’d given up on her, allowing myself the excuse that I could handle the lifestyle all on my own. So I’d popped in and out of it, and with every fix convincing myself that I was in control. That night at Haven, the Goth girl and the vamp, that had all revealed the big lie I’d wrapped around myself, so tight it fit like a second skin.
Maxwell had recognized it for what it was, and for what I was… an assassin for hire with a price too high for anyone to pay.
I can give you that which you seek, Micah.
Can you, Damien Maxwell, can you really?
Bumping along the tarmac, the plane spun in a lazy circle, preparing for takeoff. Looking out the window I idly watched the terminals skim past, organizing my thoughts.
Naturally the airline and a cold front had other plans for my day’s entertainment.
****
We touched down at Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport, located in Jefferson Parish, about ten miles from downtown. Like the airport in Amsterdam, to which I’d flown several times, both in a military and a civilian capacity, this one floated barely above sea level.
I knew these things because, to occupy my mind, I listened as the car rental agent explained in excruciating detail to the young professional male ahead of me factoids of absolutely no interest. I was tired, cranky, hungry, and pissed at all the long delays, endless circling and nausea-inducing turbulence.
When I finally made my way to the counter, I added surly to my logbook of charms. The clock on the wall read nine-thirty-two. No one, including me, had given any thought to a hotel reservation. And the prospect of driving around a strange city, at night, even with GPS, was not appealing.
The lady at the counter, with true Southern hospitality, made a few calls and lined me up with accommodations at the Comfort Suites off Interstate 10. She handed me a map, keys and a ‘have a good evenin’ y’all’ and sent me on my way.
I’d have preferred a crotch rocket for getting around, but given the weather, the heat and my propensity for speeding tickets, the mid-size sedan was as good an option as any.
After chirping the Ford open I threw my carry-on into the back seat, saddled up the steed and wound my way through the maze to the interstate. A few minutes later, I parked, unloaded and trudged—that was the only word that could have described how I was moving at that point—into the reception area.
The bar was off to the right, cool, dark and fairly quiet on a Tuesday night.
“Are they still serving food, do you know?”
The reservation gal said something about sandwiches, which sounded fine this late at night. Mostly I just wanted a cold beer, and then another.
Tucking the room card in my wallet, I headed into the blessed womb of clinking glasses and soft buzzing conversation. Sliding onto a bench seat, I settled the luggage under the table and folded my hands, deep in thought.
There were flat screens spaced around the cozy bar, some with tennis matches, and others with pre-season football. The Saints were playing at home come Thursday night.
On one level my brain processed all the sensory input, registering the position of everyone and everything in the bar. Who was doing what—the bartender swiping at the counter, a waitress moving off just at the edge of my peripheral vision. She’d acknowledged me with a slight nod.
My belly growled, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.
For some reason, I’d expected it to be Madeline. I don’t know why, but it seemed logical, especially after the taunting and blunt force promise of sexual favors if I actually delivered the goods.
What eased onto the seat opposite me was my best and my worst nightmare.
“Micah,” she husked, her voice as deep as I remembered, poking me to wonder about her sexual orientation. Was the she a he under the tight leather and piercings?
The next time I will know you… all of you. Look at me.
Soft blonde curls rested on my chest… arms, legs loosening, slipping down and away leaving a moist trail of lust. She puddled at my feet, a toy broken and discarded.
I didn’t give her a second’s thought as the lust flamed, reignited under the vamp’s unrelenting stare.
Wake up, wake up, wake up.
It is not yet your time. Leave. Now.
Please.
Don’t wake up…
My mouth swallowed down the how, what and whys, leaving me with a near panic attack. Damien Maxwell promised me he could give me what I sought. What he might not realize was that it wasn’t the only thing I lusted after.
The waitress appeared and the tall vamp said, “He’ll have a Po’ boy, shugah, and cold beer, whatever’s on tap.” She smiled just enough to reveal the tips.
Of all the questions racing around my head, the one I needed an answer to came out low and fast, “Did you do it?”
She gripped my wrist, turning my hand palm up and traced the prominent vein engorged with pulsing hot liquid with a sharp, wicked talon. A prick and a dribble of dark fluid coated her finger. I clenched and unclenched my fist, forcing her to watch, the only measure of control I had.
She licked the blood and sighed, “As good as I remembered, maybe better. I like how you taste when you’re afraid.”
Terrified, bitch, terrified.
“And to answer your question… no, I was there only for you.”
“Who are you and who are you working for?”
“Let’s just say I’m a friend of a friend.”
“And does that friend have a name?”
“All in good time.”
She released my hand and turned toward the waitress bringing my sandwich and a tall glass of beer. Whatever appetite I’d had vanished, replaced by a knot of fear and desire.
The woman slid out of the seat and towered over me. I hadn’t been mistaken, she was at least six feet tall in bare feet. The shitkickers gave her two or three inches over that. She handed me a card and a paper bag. I peered inside, curious. It was a Glock 17 with a spare magazine.
I nodded my thanks, but I wasn’t adding her to my Christmas card list, not until I had answers to questions I hadn’t even thought of yet.
I blinked and she was gone, just like that, and despite the physicality of the gun telling me otherwise, I wondered if I’d imagined the whole encounter.
Throwing some bills on the table, I made my way to the room, found my toothbrush and toothpaste, then said the hell with it, kicked off
my boots and fell face down on the king-sized bed, fully dressed.
I recognized the Glock for what it was—another retainer. I had one official client, as well as three more, all qualifying as ‘interested parties’, and a nagging suspicion that they all did it. Whatever ‘it’ was.
I fell asleep dreaming I was Hercule Poirot on the Orient Express, except he got to live at the end. My fate was less clear.
I was well and truly trapped in a web of my own making. If there ever was a theme for my sorry excuse for a life it might be… Be careful what you wish for.
The last thing I ever expected was that the real client in this insanely tangled web of murder and corruption was… me.
BOOK TWO
DAMIEN
Gotham’s rules of engagement are simple: no contact with humans … ever. Rules more honored in the breach than the observance, with consequences that threaten the fabric of their very existence. Damien is the pride of the Vampire Council, a bad boy given to thumbing his nose at authority, indulged and coddled, until one day he oversteps and is forced into exile with his long suffering offspring.
Not a bad fate when a world of corruption and opportunity beckons, yet when boredom sets in, Damien acquires a new pet, one he pays for with his honor and his future. Her name is Catrina. She is Roma … and so much more.
Recalled to the home of his birthright, Damien assumes command of the Havens in New Orleans, ruling with ruthless disregard and an eye to profit, backed by his enforcer, Magda. When the full Council descends on Damien’s city with an offer he can’t refuse, his dirty little secret comes under the scrutiny of men who can make or break him and his organization.
In the hidden world of the vampire subculture, not everyone toes the party line. Many disagree with the Council, flaunting the ‘no contact’ rule, stirring up trouble. When Damien goes missing it’s a race against time to avoid a very public bloodbath and an outing none can afford.