Blood Night

by Heather Graham

  Andre introduced himself and then Cheyenne, and then jumped right into the reason for their visit. “We understand that you knew the last victim, Sheila Lynsey,” he stated.

  Turner’s face took on a pained and dark look. “Sheila was…well, we were casual, but we might have been more. I’ll never know now. I was devastated to hear…what happened to her.”

  “I imagine you’ll be doing a show on this in the future,” Cheyenne said.

  Benjamin shook his head. “Too close,” he said softly. “So, tea, coffee, soft drinks, water? May I get you anything?”

  “No, no, we’re fine, thank you.”

  “Then please have a seat here in the green room—my parlor—and we’ll talk.”

  He led them to their seats on the sofa. He chose an armchair facing them, his hands folded before him as he leaned toward them anxiously. “I know about you. You’re good,” he told them, nodding gravely.

  “Through Special Agent Angela Hawkins? She made this appointment for us,” Andre said.

  “Oh, I knew about you before that. I follow cases, you know. I was thrilled when she said members of the Krewe of Hunters wanted to see me. Well, I mean, I wasn’t happy about the circumstances, but…I’m honored to meet you.”

  “That’s very kind,” Cheyenne said. “What more can you tell us about Sheila? Do you have any idea who she might have met? Any clue whatsoever as to what might have happened to her between visiting two elderly women and winding up, drained of blood, on a doorstep?”

  “The banker,” he said softly.

  “Mark Bower?” Andre asked.

  Cheyenne gave him a warning look. Nope, he hadn’t liked Bower one bit. But he was aware that, sometimes, the nicest person could prove to be a killer while a jerk was…just a jerk.

  “She stopped seeing him, you know. She said when she met him that he was a nice man, polite, caring, concerned. But she was never head-over-heels in love with him. She said things suddenly changed after they’d been going out for a bit,” Turner told them.

  “Changed how?” Cheyenne asked.

  “He…he wanted her to do things.”

  “Like what?” Andre prompted.

  Turner looked uncomfortable and fidgeted a bit before sighing. “He wanted her to dress up like a French maid. No big deal, I suppose. I have a friend who has a wife who likes him to dress like the pool man. He does, and they have great sex. Sorry, I mean…so, the French maid bit wasn’t anything too weird, but then he wanted to tie her up and pretend to be a rapist.”

  “And that didn’t work for Sheila?”

  He shook his head. “It took me the longest time to get her to talk about…what went on. And it only started because we ran into Mark Bower when we were out at an Italian restaurant one night. We were waiting for a table when he walked in. I believe he had a date with him, but the young lady never made it through the door. He burst in and headed for the hostess like he was the king of the world or some such thing, and then he saw Sheila. He turned and almost knocked her over in his haste to get out. I was about to accost him, I mean, not start a fistfight or anything, just tell him he was rude. But Sheila begged me to just let him go. She told me they’d had a bad break-up, and then over pasta parmigiana, she told me things had gotten more than weird. In truth, she didn’t use the word weird. She was too sweet for that. She said he was into practices that didn’t appeal to her. That made me happy. I’m a straight shooter, and I don’t need any props to be pleased, and I sure as hell don’t need them to please someone else.” He stopped speaking as if realizing that his words sounded almost like an endorsement for his virility.

  He turned a dark shade of red and quickly added, “Oh, wow. That was awful. I just meant…Well, forgive me, I’m not judging or anything, I just meant that I…that Bower’s way is not…not, oh, man, please, like I said, I’m not judging. Whatever it is, if you have consenting adults, it’s cool. It’s just that Sheila didn’t want to be a consenting adult in…and…wow, sorry!”

  He broke off, looking awkwardly at Cheyenne. Andre lowered his head, smiling. Turner needn’t have worried. Long before she had so recently become part of the Krewe, Cheyenne Donegal had been an agent. One who studied criminology and crime in all its guises. She’d pretty much seen and heard it all.

  “It’s okay,” she told Turner, and Andre knew she was slightly amused by Turner’s declaration regarding his own sexuality. “Really, it’s okay. I’ve heard far worse, and I understand what you’re trying to tell us.”

  “Uh, yes. Thank you.”

  “Did you tell the detectives on the case about this?” Cheyenne asked.

  “I did.”

  “And?” Andre asked.

  “Apparently, Mark Bower had an alibi for the night Sheila disappeared.” He stopped speaking and frowned. “Weird.”

  “What?” Cheyenne asked.

  Turner stood suddenly, going for a notebook that lay open on a coffee table across the room by his entertainment center.

  “Weird,” he repeated.

  “So you said. How so?” Cheyenne asked.

  “Well, Sheila was taken…she left her friends’ place at the new apartments at about nine at night. And she was found on the doorstep at about seven the following morning.”

  “Right,” Andre said, studying their host. “I know what you’re probably wondering about. The other victims were reported missing several days before their bodies were found.”

  “Exactly. But Sheila disappeared at night, and was found the following morning,” Turner said. He looked at them. “Does that mean anything?”

  “It might,” Andre said.

  Turner stared at him as if he didn’t want to hear someone echo his own thought. “Two killers? Draining bodies of blood?”

  “Maybe, but unlikely. Sheila, like the other two women, was found drained of blood, with no pools or even droplets of it anywhere near her. The killer is holding his victims somewhere,” Andre said, and then hesitated before adding, “torturing them emotionally through fear, at the very least, before draining them of their blood. In every case, from the crime scene reports and medical examiner statements we’ve been able to read, it seems they are quickly exsanguinated once the process begins. The puncture wounds, made to appear like the fanged bite of a vampire, are directly in the carotid, and…” He hesitated again. For all the creepy gore Benjamin Turner made use of in his Internet show, he was looking a little nauseous.

  The red that had filled his face after his sex talk was now gone, replaced by a pasty white color.

  “I believe he’s hanging them up like animals in a slaughterhouse, draining the blood that way,” Andre said. “I’m sorry.”

  Turner sat again, his notebook still in his hand. “They haven’t said,” he told them glumly. “Were they…sexually assaulted?”

  “No,” Andre told him.

  Benjamin Turner looked away for a moment. “Well, I don’t know what that means. I still think that prim and proper banker, Mark Bower, the one who turns kinky and becomes a weirdo by the light of the full moon, might be your man. I just hope—”

  “Yes?” Cheyenne asked softly.

  “There’s another girl missing. I hope that…”

  “So do we,” Andre said, rising. Cheyenne came to her feet, as well, thanking Turner for his time.

  “Mr. Turner, may we call on you again?” Cheyenne rummaged in her purse. “We’ll give you our numbers. Feel free to call either of us.”

  She offered him her card, and Andre did the same.

  “I’m going to put these right into my speed-dial,” Benjamin Turner assured them. “And, thank you. I will. Please, I don’t know what else I could say or do, but…call me anytime.”

  “We’ll do that,” Andre promised, and they left at last.

  * * * *

  Andre put through another call to their home office when they left. When he finished, he was frowning.

  “You don’t mind me doing the talking to the home office, do you?”

  She smi
led at him. “Andre, we’ve both been FBI. But I’m brand new to the Krewe of Hunters. Yes, I am fine with you doing the talking. Anything?”

  “Well, let’s see. We have the cops thinking Eric wanted to get rid of Sheila. But in the meantime, we have this lovely Inspector Birmingham running around telling people that they shouldn’t be talking to us. Luckily, two of those people have their own agendas and talked to us anyway. Then, there could still be a random killer not on anyone’s radar out there. I don’t like Mark Bower. I do like both our Benjamin Turner and Clark Brighton—even if Brighton is a little bit flaky. Doesn’t mean a damned thing, as we’ve said. We need to get information on the other victims, see if anything matches up. And I want to meet Inspector Birmingham.”

  “I meant from Angela. Did you get anything from Angela?” Cheyenne asked him.

  “Just that she tried to reach Birmingham for me. And he’s conveniently out of the office today, which Angela should understand since he has a lot to investigate.”

  “You’re just angry that he wants to solve the case himself.”

  “I don’t want to solve the damned thing for him. I want to help so it can be solved,” Andre said. He glanced at his watch again. “Let’s head in. I’d like to see the street, the strip club, and everything else before we head in to watch for action tonight. It’s also getting late, and that coffee we had, and even Eric’s English breakfast is fading…food would be good.”

  “I’m going to check in with Emily. Make sure they have their cameras up and running. I‘m worried about them, Andre.”

  “If they lock up and stay vigilant, they’ll be fine.”

  Cheyenne thought about their house on the high end of Swain’s Lane. Near the ultra-modern apartments and businesses but close to Highgate Cemetery, too. By night, that area was dark. And on either side of the lane, the trees and foliage grew lushly, shadows reigned, and the tombs of the dead could hide many a sin.

  Andre was heading to the car, focused and determined.

  She smiled and followed, calling her cousin as she slid into the passenger seat and buckled her belt.

  Emily was fine.

  Eric was thrilled with the cameras and system they had bought. He was happily playing with his computer and making sure all angles of the house were covered.

  “Everything okay?” Andre asked her when she ended the call.

  “Yep. They’re good. So, driving here is okay, huh?” she asked.

  He cast her a glance and smiled. “Still don’t trust me on this side of the road?”

  “No, I always trust you.”

  His smile deepened, but he kept his eyes on the road.

  “And I trust you. With everything. I was going to say ‘my life,’ but you are my life, you know.”

  She laughed. “There you go with that wicked tongue again.”

  “Sorry, I’m driving, or I’d show you.”

  “Ha, ha.” She was silent for a minute. “I know—we all know—we have a tendency to trust ourselves and the Krewe more than others. But, logically, we know those outside of the Krewe are excellent investigators and detectives, too. So, if these men are the main suspects as gathered by the inspectors here, they are probably legitimate persons of interest. But there could still be a random killer out there. All we can know—almost for sure—is that there’s an underground lair somewhere. And those women are crying out before they’re killed. And, Andre, a woman is still missing.”

  “One who might yet be saved.”

  “And we’re…”

  “Heading to a strip club. All right, if we can’t get to Birmingham, we’ll call Inspector Adair and suggest that he get all the volunteers needed to search, at the very least, all the catacombs and tunnels associated with the cemetery.”

  “He may balk. He takes his orders from Birmingham.”

  “Then maybe he can get to Birmingham.”

  They reached the Piccadilly part of the city, found parking, and walked casually, exploring the area. It was teeming with life, popular with locals and tourists alike. Neon lights advertised plays and local venues.

  They stopped for fast food in the busy thoroughfare by the tinier side street that led to Pussycats and Toms.

  By then, it seemed the time was right for the day workers to be off and ready for their night’s pleasure.

  The entrance of the club was painted a navy blue, while the outer walls were covered with pictures of the entertainment to be found within.

  Missy was a blonde. Candy was a redhead. Darla was a brunette.

  Andre opened the door for Cheyenne.

  Inside, the club was very dark. Tables were strewn around a stage with an extension. As they entered, a scantily clad hostess greeted them and led them to her podium to choose a seating section, not seeming at all surprised that Andre had arrived with a woman. Cheyenne noted there were a few other women in the room, one standing and laughing with a man at the bar to the left of the entrance.

  She didn’t see Mark Bower. But they were purposely early, and the night might be long.

  While the hostess asked about their table preference, Cheyenne watched the couple at the bar. The man seemed familiar.

  Andre’s phone buzzed, and he looked down at it.

  As Cheyenne’s eyes adjusted to the dark, she realized that she recognized something about the man.

  When he turned, she knew why.

  It was Monte Bolton, dressed now in a tweed suit.

  He saw her standing there with Andre.

  He quickly lowered his head, set his drink down, and moved toward the exit, leaving his companion in mid-sentence.

  “Andre,” Cheyenne said.

  She didn’t expect his response. Andre turned, saw the man, and moved after him. Monte got out the door—just barely.

  Suddenly, Andre was on him, tackling Monte down to the street and straddling him before Cheyenne could reach them.

  “Andre!” she said, shocked at the scene.

  “Get off me!” Bolton raged.

  “Sure, as soon as you admit your name isn’t Monte Bolton, and you’re really Inspector Birmingham!” Andre said.

  Cheyenne saw Andre’s phone where it lay on the ground, showing a picture Angela had just sent through. It was a photo of Inspector Claude Birmingham in full uniform.

  Inspector Birmingham, who was Monte Bolton.

  “Yes, damn you, I’m Birmingham!” the man on the ground raged. He struggled, still held fiercely in Andre’s grasp. “And get the hell off me before I bring you in for assault and have you jailed in England for the rest of your life!”

  Chapter 9

  He shouldn’t have lost his temper, and Andre knew it. But he felt he’d been horribly jerked around by the man, and when the picture came up on his phone just as he saw the inspector trying to slink out of the club, Andre knew he had to stop him.

  For a guy who had played them so terribly, Birmingham was taking Andre’s actions better than expected.

  At least, now that he was standing up.

  Birmingham stared at Andre, and Andre demanded, “Why?”

  “I needed to know what you were about. I didn’t need more crazy people running around the city, saying a vampire had arisen from Highgate!” Birmingham said. He took a breath and added, “They say you’re called in for the unexplainable or the weird or…well, I’m sorry. I don’t think a sixteenth or seventeenth-century count has been awakened. And I believe if there was an active cult of Satanists running around in the city, we would have noticed that by now.”

  “We go in to explain the unexplainable,” Andre said. “Not to turn it into more legend.”

  “I had to know that,” Birmingham said.

  “Inspector, what are you doing here tonight?” Cheyenne cut in. “If you’re looking for Mark Bower, I would say he will recognize you when he sees you.”

  “The good inspector might just be out for the night, Cheyenne,” Andre said, still studying Birmingham. He wanted to trust the man, but hell, he had made fools of them.


  “Watching. Just watching,” Birmingham said.

  “The strippers?” Andre asked.

  Birmingham sighed. “People.” He suddenly smiled, more like his persona of Monte Bolton. “Some of the strippers aren’t bad. Sorry, but…well, I’ve been trying to form something of a relationship with Bower. He is still high on my list of possible killers. And I have a feeling…a gut feeling…that this place is somehow involved.”

  “Why?”

  Birmingham shook his head. “No logic. The others are just…damn it, Sheila is the only one I can draw on. In investigating her, I found Mark Bower. Investigating him…” He paused to shrug. “All right, going back. Vanessa Lark spent the last several years of her life on the Continent, traveling around with money inherited from her family—all buried at Highgate. She came just to visit the cemetery. She was reported missing when the hotel where she’d been staying called it in. They couldn’t find her to pay her bill, and the maid said the room hadn’t been entered in a few days. Then we found her. Olivia Wordsworth had a similar story. She was down from York, split from a relationship about six months ago, and was here on holiday. Her ex-boyfriend had an ironclad alibi. The only trail we could possibly follow was that of Sheila Lynsey. Yes, we could be looking at an opportunistic killer preying on whoever he finds, but…”

  “What about Edith Greenbriar?” Cheyenne asked. “She’s still missing. Still out there, and the clock is ticking for her.”

  “Don’t you think I bloody well know that?” Birmingham demanded. “I’ve questioned, I’ve talked, I’ve walked Swain’s Lane. I’ve sent my men up and down the street, undercover, to check on the few possible suspects I have. Don’t you think I’m aware what we’re up against?” he finished in a whisper.

  “Get your men out again,” Andre said.

  “What?”

  “We believe the women are being held somewhere underground,” Cheyenne said.

  “Oh, right. You’ve been to see a few of my gifted friends,” Birmingham said dryly. “The ground is crying. Right. Now, see, that’s the very thing—”