I nodded. “You’re right. I did.” And the hunter wanted me to know, too, needed me to know. Impalement through the skull, removal of the heart, fire: all good and traditional ways to kill a vampyre. Except Thomas had not been a vampyre.
“Have you anything to say?” he wondered.
“That poor boy, Anthony, he didn’t deserve to die like that.”
“And DeWitte did?”
“No, of course not. No one deserves to die that way. But Thomas lived on the edge. He enjoyed all the darkest corners Hollywood had to offer, delighted in pain and suffering—mainly his own—and more than once placed himself in situations that were dangerous, to say the least. Put it this way: it’s rather like the three-hundred-pound man dropping dead of a heart attack: we’re shocked when it happens, but not completely surprised.”
I turned and walked out of the room before he could ask me any more questions about what I knew. I didn’t want to lie to him and I couldn’t tell the truth.
“Have you nothing else to say?” he called after me.
“I’d ask God to have mercy on his soul,” I said, “if I thought he had one.” And if I believed in God.
Chapter Twenty-Two
BEL AIR
7:40 A.M.
I couldn’t figure her out and I was beginning to mistrust my judgment. Twelve hours ago I was imagining what she might be like in bed, thinking I’d like to spend some time with her and find out. I was even starting to worry about her, feeling more protective than even my normal cop mode. And getting some response…I thought. Her hand lingering a little too long on mine, standing a fraction too close, her eyes saying something more than her words. Oh yes, a definite connection. I didn’t need to be a detective to know that Ovsanna Moore was interested in me.
This morning she was an ice princess, barely reacting to the death of her business partner. Normally I get a pretty strong conviction about someone’s innocence or lack thereof when I tell them a murder’s taken place. For all the reaction she gave me, she could have known DeWitte was dead when I told her. There had been the briefest moment of surprise, which certainly looked genuine, but I would have expected more, much more, when I described in unnecessary detail the method of his death. All she’d said was that she was sorry about the bodyguard. The fucking bodyguard! No word about her business partner, who also happened to be the guy who’d burst into this very room and threatened her with his gun-wielding bodyguard a couple of hours earlier.
And now both had turned up dead.
Moore was definitely in control, I’ll give her that. Seven thirty in the morning and she was dressed for a publicity shoot. Tight black leather pants over black snakeskin spike-heeled boots with a deep burgundy cashmere sweater cut just low enough to be distracting without being disrespectful to the dead. I’d given instructions that none of the deceaseds’ names were to be released to the press—hell, we still didn’t know who some of them were—but murder is big business in Hollywood; the bigger the name, the bigger the price an ambulance driver, a CSI tech, a doctor or nurse, even a cop, could command from the bloodthirsty press. DeWitte was an executive, which put him on the lower end of the scale, but his name was still worth a few grand of some editor’s money. I was sure the press was gathering for a feeding frenzy, and Ovsanna Moore looked like she was ready for them.
The evidence was mounting that she was somehow connected to the Cinema Slayer killings. As I followed her out into the hall, I started wondering if I had enough cause to get a search warrant for the house and her offices.
“Our conversation isn’t over, Ms. Moore. I’d prefer it if you didn’t walk away.”
“And I’d prefer it if you called me Ovsanna and stopped speaking to me as though I’m a suspect. I’ve done nothing wrong, Peter.” She’d stopped on the stairs and was posed like Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard. I couldn’t tell where the woman left off and the actress began.
“I am conducting a murder investigation, Ms. Moore. I have questions that need answers. And I know you have some.”
“I have no answers for you.”
“Last night I told you the killings were coming closer. First it was actors you worked with, then it was one of your staff, and now it’s your business partner. Who’s next, Ovsanna? Who’s next?”
She fixed me with a stare that could freeze water. “Is that a question or an accusation? Are you going to arrest me, Detective?”
I hesitated just long enough for her to continue.
“If so, you can ask your questions through my lawyer.” She turned and continued up the stairs.
She was either guilty or she was frightened. I didn’t want her to be guilty, unbiased detective that I am, so I went with option two and played my last card. “I don’t want to have to make a statement to the press,” I said quietly, just before she disappeared at the end of the landing. I watched her slow, and knew she was listening. I turned my back on her, leaned against the banister, and folded my arms. It wasn’t until that moment that I realized how many antique weapons she had displayed on her walls. They all looked genuine…and lethal. I wondered if they were a personal choice or some Hollywood interior designer’s idea of chic. “I wanted to keep DeWitte’s name quiet until I’d spoken to you, but I’d guess by now it’s public knowledge. The press will be all over this. And all over you. You were his business partner. You were ex-lovers. I would imagine when I drive out your front gate, there’ll be thirty reporters clamoring for sound bites. I’m going to have to make a statement. And that can go one of two ways. Either I’ve come here to bring you the sad news of your business partner’s death…or I’ve come here to inform you that you’re currently under investigation.”
“But I’m not.”
I jumped. She’d moved right behind me and I hadn’t heard her come down the stairs. I turned. She was standing on the second step, which meant that her eyes were level with mine. I’d never realized it before, but her eyes were so dark they were almost black, her pupils indistinguishable from their surrounds. “Not at the moment. But a police investigation and a press investigation are two entirely different things. If the press think you’re involved, they’ll shine a spotlight on you so bright, nothing will be secret. You think Michael Jackson had press for his trial? Wait till they get the details about the scene at Rough Trade. Bobby Blake and O.J. pale in comparison. Think Anna Nicole. You won’t be able to turn on the TV without seeing yourself: E! News, Access Hollywood, Extra!, The View, the morning shows—you name it. And not just CNN and FOX, every news station nationwide—worldwide—will be running clips and looking for a comment. You won’t be able to move without being hounded and photographed.” Even as I was speaking, a helicopter clattered overhead, right on cue. I nodded my chin upward. “Sounds too light to be a police chopper; that’s probably the news.”
A door slammed upstairs and Maral McKenzie came running down the hallway. “Turn on Channel Five,” she shouted.
Without a word, Ovsanna turned and strode back into the library. She hit a button and a section of the bookcase slid aside to reveal a 60-inch flat plasma screen suspended on the wall behind it. Fishing a large remote control out from behind a cushion, she fiddled with the buttons.
“Let me,” Maral said slightly breathlessly, hurrying into the room, taking the square box from Ovsanna’s hands. It had more buttons than my TV has channels. She flicked past FOX and CNN to the local high-def news channel, where an older man with unnaturally red hair was staring somberly into the camera and intoning gravely.
“Another savage killing rocks Hollywood. The Cinema Slayer strikes again. More after this break.”
We stood in silence as the commercial rolled and a doctor detailed the gravity of restless legs syndrome while a vacuous blonde enumerated all that could go wrong if you took the medication they were selling without advice from your doctor. Tuberculosis, lymphoma. The list of side effects from the drug was longer than the ad copy extolling its benefits.
Rather than coming back to the studio af
ter the commercial break, the screen showed an overhead view of a sprawling hacienda-style house.
“That’s us,” Maral whispered.
“These pictures coming to you live this morning from our news chopper. This is the Bel-Air home of legendary Scream Queen and horror meister Ovsanna Moore.” Ovsanna’s picture—looking improbably glamorous—flickered up on the top left-hand corner of the screen. “Last night her business partner, Thomas DeWitte, became the latest victim of the brutal killer dubbed the Cinema Slayer.” DeWitte’s picture, looking considerably more handsome than he had been in real life, appeared on the right of the screen, and then the images cut away to show a series of bodies being stretchered out of Rough Trade. “Thomas DeWitte was killed in an upscale private club in West Hollywood. The specific details of the murder are being withheld by the police at the moment, but we do know this is a multiple murder scene. Thus far, police are refusing to speculate about the identity of the killer, but sources say the crime scene bore similarities to earlier Cinema Slayer murders.” A slightly fuzzy image of me appeared, trailing the last of the bodies out of the club. I brushed past reporters and climbed into the Jag. “The detective in charge of the case, decorated BHPD hero Peter King, drove to the home of Miss Moore this morning to personally bring her the news of the tragedy. We are awaiting a comment from Detective King, and we’ll bring that to you live as it happens. Now, in other news—”
I took the control from Maral’s hand and turned off the TV. In the silence that followed, the thumping of the helicopter overhead seemed very loud.
“You’ve made your point, Detective.”
“So what do I tell the press?”
Ovsanna’s smile was cool. “Whatever you have to. Just get them away from this house.” She reached out and touched my arm. “Then if you want to talk, we’ll talk.”
I stared into her black eyes, unable to read what was behind them. Maybe I was being played, but there was only one way to find out. “Let me go make a statement. I’ll tell them you’re devastated and going away for a few days. That should pull them away from the house.”
Ovsanna nodded. “Then come back and have some breakfast. We’ll talk. I’ll tell you all that I know.”
I didn’t believe her.
Ovsanna Moore was a woman with a lot of secrets.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“He’s good on television,” Maral admitted grudgingly.
“Very good,” I agreed.
Peter King was confident and self-assured; he looked directly into the camera when he answered, made sure he used the reporter’s name, and didn’t dodge any questions. He considered each question and answered it as frankly as possible—with one lie after another. He was one of the most convincing liars I’d ever come across. It was worth remembering that.
“We have no evidence at this time that Mr. DeWitte’s murder is connected to the Cinema Slayer killings,” he began. “His was just one of several bodies we took out of the club on Santa Monica. At the moment this has all the hallmarks of a drug-related crime.”
“Why are you involved, Detective?”
“This is a West Hollywood Division case. I was called in as a courtesy because one of the victims was connected with the entertainment industry.”
“So are you saying this is not related to the other crimes?”
“I didn’t say that. This murder is a few hours old. We are pursuing several definite lines of inquiry.”
“Why did you bring the news of DeWitte’s murder to Ovsanna Moore yourself, Detective?”
“It was just a courtesy. I thought it would be better if she heard it from the police, rather than any other source. I also wanted to assure her that we are doing everything in our power to apprehend the murderer of her business partner. She asked the same questions you did, and let me reiterate, I have no evidence at this time that this murder is related to the murders that have been dubbed the Cinema Slayer killings. This is a multiple murder—the other killings were all single slayings. Mr. DeWitte was not a movie star—the other victims were. I think Mr. DeWitte was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“How did Ovsanna take the news?”
“She was obviously upset. Mr. DeWitte has been a junior partner in her studio for a number of years.”
“Does she have a statement for the press?”
“No. Ms. Moore was just about to leave town for the holidays, and I have encouraged her to do that. There is no reason for her to stay here.”
“What about the death at Anticipation Studios yesterday? That’s two people working for Anticipation. You’re saying there’s no connection?”
“Yesterday’s killing was a crime of passion,” King said firmly. “We have a suspect in custody.”
I looked at Maral. She shook her head, obviously as surprised as I was. King had said nothing about having a suspect in custody. Maral’s cell phone warbled “Werewolves of London,” which suddenly didn’t seem so funny anymore. “I’ll change the ring tone,” she muttered, glancing at the screen. “No caller ID. Hello?” Then she handed me the phone. “Solgar,” she whispered, lips curling in distaste.
Solgar’s voice sounded even more inhuman than usual on the phone. Again he spoke in the archaic Armenian of my youth, which ensured privacy; we were probably the only two people on the planet who still spoke it.
“You are watching the news?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know how that pervert DeWitte was slain?”
“Spike through the skull, heart ripped out, body burned,” I said tightly.
“An unsubtle message.”
“It seems likely I’m next, Ernst.”
“Do not be so sure, Chatelaine. This Hunter is making a point. Displaying the kill, revealing his familiarity with the traditional ways. I believe if this Hunter wanted you dead, then you would be dead.”
Something ancient and savage must have shown on my face, because Maral involuntarily took a step away from me. “I’m not that easy to kill.”
Solgar ignored me. “No, but you’re easy to destroy. This latest death brings far too much attention to you.” There was a long pause and I could almost hear the Obour Vampyre collect his thoughts. “I understand the Vampyres of Hollywood called on you yesterday. A singular honor indeed.”
“They gave me a week to sort out the mess.”
Solgar coughed, a peculiar sucking sound. “Yesterday they gave you a week. This latest killing changes things. They’ve asked me to inform you they want a resolution within forty-eight hours.”
I watched King’s press conference come to an end. As he turned and walked back toward the house Maral pressed a button on the remote control and the gates swung closed behind him. The camera lingered on his retreating form and then cut back to the news anchor for a wrap-up. I motioned to Maral to turn the TV off.
“Do you hear me, Chatelaine?”
Solgar’s rasp brought me back to him. “I hear you, Solgar. Forty-eight hours. Then what happens?”
“Your clan will be destroyed and you will be asked to move on for a century or two.”
“And if I don’t want to move on?”
“You know what the Vampyres of Hollywood are capable of. It would be a mistake to fight them.”
“Whose side are you on?” I asked.
“The Clan Obour do not take sides,” he said immediately. “We are merely messengers, observers, bystanders.”
“Yes, I know. Like the Swiss. Would you truly stand by and watch my clan destroyed, see me killed?” I really was curious what his answer would be.
“There is a way to avoid this,” Solgar said.
Ah, he sidestepped me. Ever the lawyer. “How?” I demanded, but even as I was asking the question, I knew the answer.
“Find the hunter. Stop the killings.”
Maral had gone back to my office and I was waiting for Peter alone when he stepped inside the door. “You didn’t tell me you have someone for Eva’s murder.”
“We don’
t,” he said mildly.
“But you just said you have someone in custody,” I said, confused.
“A bone to throw to the media dogs,” King admitted with a shrug. “We’re holding someone but he’s not the killer.”
“Very clever. Who’s the unfortunate suspect?”
“Eva’s sometime boyfriend. A part-time preacher, goes by the name of Biblical Benny. I had him picked up this morning when I realized DeWitte was dead. I knew we couldn’t afford to have Eva’s killing and DeWitte’s murder both chalked up to the Cinema Slayer. All hell would break out.”
I turned and walked back into the library. King followed me. “So you initiated a cover-up.” I was unable to keep the disgust out of my voice. Somehow I’d imagined something a little better from King.
“We bought ourselves a little time, that’s all. If people start believing the Cinema Slayer has killed twice more in the past twenty-four hours, this town will go crazier than it already is. We pulled in Benny for questioning on the Casale murder and right now we’re stating that the Rough Trade hits are unrelated.”
“But you believe they are related.”
King suddenly looked very tired. “Eva Casale’s murder definitely…DeWitte’s I’m not so sure of.” He slumped into a chair. “There were multiple murders, which is not the Slayer’s M.O., but they were as gruesome in their execution as your three actor friends and your effects artist. It could be unrelated or not,” he added, trying—and failing—to keep the fatigue out of his voice.
“And how long will it take the press to ferret out the details and make the connection?”
“A day, maybe two.”
So Peter King and I both had a forty-eight-hour deadline. Mine was slightly more serious and deadly than his, however. “What happens then?”
Vampyres of Hollywood Page 16