by Lee Killough
She scowled down at him. “You’re that mick detective. What — ” Then, as though her mind woke belatedly, her face smoothed. He watched her annoyance disappear behind a facade of politeness. “How may I help you, Inspector?”
Why did she bother to swallow justifiable irritation? Did police make her that nervous? Perhaps it was to observe this very reaction, to see what she might tolerate to avoid hassles, that he had persisted on the bell.
“I’m sorry to wake you,” he lied. “I have a couple of important questions to ask.”
She squinted at him from under the sunshade of her hand, then stepped back. “Come in.”
Moving with the heaviness of someone fighting a body reluctant to wake up, she led the way to the living room. Dark drapes left the room in artificial night. She switched on one lamp and waved him into its pool of light. She herself, however, sat in a chair beyond it, in shadow. A deliberate maneuver on her part?
“This couldn’t wait until I got to the club?” Irritation leaked through the careful modulation of her voice.
“I’ll be off duty by that time. I try not to work nights if I can help it; the police budget can’t stand too much overtime.”
“I see. Well, then, ask away, Inspector.”
With her face only a pale blur, Garreth found himself listening closely to her voice, to read her through it…and discovered with surprise that she did not sound like he felt she should. Inexplicably, the voice discorded with the rest of her.
“Can you remember what you and Mossman talked about Tuesday night?”
She paused before answering. “Not really. We flirted and made small talk. I’m afraid I paid little attention to most of it even while we were talking. Surely it isn’t important.”
“We’re hoping that something he said can give us a clue to where he went after leaving the Barbary Now. Did he happen to mention any friends in the city?”
“He was far too busy arguing why we should become friends.”
Suddenly Garreth realized why her voice seemed at odds with the rest of her. She did not talk like someone in her twenties. Where was the slang everyone else used? Just listening to her, she sounded more like his mother. What was that she had called him at the door? A mick. Who called Irishmen micks these days?
Garreth looked around, trying to learn more about her from the apartment, but could see little beyond the circle of lamplight. The illumination reached only to a Danish-style couch which matched his chair and a small desk with a letter lying on it.
He said, “Did he tell you he was married?”
“He wore a wedding ring.”
“Of course.” Garreth stood up and moved toward the door. “Well, it was a slim chance he’d say anything useful, I suppose. I’m sorry to have bothered you.” On the way, he detoured by the desk to read the address on the letter. Knowing someone she wrote to might be useful.
“It’s a price I pay for my unusual working hours.” She stood and crossed to the lamp. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help.”
Garreth had just time enough to read the ornately written address before the light went out, leaving the room in darkness.
On the steps outside, after her door closed behind him, he reread the address in memory. The letter had to be incoming; it had this address. However, it had been addressed not to Lane Barber, but to Madelaine Bieber. The similarity of the two names struck him. Lane Barber could well be a stage name, “prettied up” from Madelaine Bieber.
He eyed the garage under the house as he came down the steps to the sidewalk. Did she drive or did she not?
He tried the door. Locked. However, by shining a flashlight from his car through the windows, he made out the shape of a car inside and illuminated the license plate. He wrote down the number.
Motion above him brought his attention up in time to see the drape fall back into place in the window over the garage. Lane, of course, watching him, but…out of curiosity or fear? Maybe the license number would provide an answer to that.
Back at the Hall, he ran Madelaine Bieber’s name through Records and asked for a registration check on the license number.
“The car is registered to an Alexandra Pfeifer,” the clerk told him. The address was Lane’s.
“Give me a license check on that name.”
The picture from DMV in Sacramento looked exactly like Lane Barber. Miss Pfeifer was described as five ten, 130 pounds, red hair, green eyes, born July 10, 1956. Which would make her twenty-seven.
Then Records came back with a make on Madelaine Bieber. “One prior, an arrest for assault and battery. No conviction. The charges were dropped. Nothing since. She’s probably mellowed with age.”
Garreth raised a brow. “Mellowed with age?”
“Yeah,” the Records clerk said. “The arrest was in 1942.”
Garreth had the case file pulled for him. Madelaine Bieber, he read, had been singing in a club in North Beach called the Red Onion. A fight started with a female patron over a man, and when the woman nearly had her ear bitten off, she preferred charges against the singer. Miss Bieber, aka Mala Babra, was described as five ten, 130 pounds, red hair, green eyes, claiming a birth date of July 10, 1916. The mug shot looked exactly like Lane Barber in a forties hairstyle.
Garreth stared at the file. If Lane were born in 1916, she was now sixty-seven years old. No amount of facelifting would ever make her look twenty-one. This Bieber must be a relative, perhaps Lane’s mother, which would explain the likeness and similar choice in professions. But why was Lane receiving her mother’s mail? Perhaps the mother was a patient in a nursing home and the mail went to her daughter. It was something to check out. Another question remained: Why have a false driver’s license and a car registered to that false license name?
Mystique? Lane generated nothing but, it seemed. The lady definitely deserved further attention.
9
At eight o’clock, when Lane came out through the curtains for her first song, Garreth sat at a table talking to a barmaid while he ordered a drink. “How long has she been singing here?”
The barmaid, whose name tag read Samantha, shrugged. “She was here already when I came last year.”
“What do you think of her?”
Samantha sighed. “I wish I had her way with men. They fall all over themselves for her.”
Lane worked her way through the club as she sang. On one turn, she saw Garreth. For a moment, her step faltered and a musical note wavered, then she smiled at him and moved on.
After the last song of the set, she came over to his table. “We meet again. I thought you weren’t going to work overtime tonight.”
He smiled. “I’m not. I’m here for pleasure. I’d also like to apologize again for disturbing you this afternoon.”
She smiled back. “That isn’t necessary; I realize you were only doing your job.”
“Then may I buy you a drink?”
“Later, perhaps. Right now I’ve already promised to join some other gentlemen.”
Samantha, passing the table, said, “Don’t waste your time; you’re not her type.”
Garreth watched Lane sit down with three men in flashy evening jackets. “What is her type?”
“Older guys in their thirties and forties. Guys with bread to throw around. And her man of the evening is always a tourist, an out-of-towner. She only likes one-night stands.”
Garreth recorded it all in his head. He asked casually, “Man of the evening? She lets herself be picked up often?”
“Almost every night, only she does the picking up. The suckers just think they picked her up.”
“Really?” Be an audience. Keep her going, Garreth, my man.
“Really. She chooses one, see, and tells him to leave but that she’ll meet him later. She never goes out the door with one of them.”
“Then how do you know that’s what happens?” He kept his voice teasing.
“Because…” Samantha lowered her voice. “…I’ve overheard her giving them instructions. She tells the
guy that the boss is her boyfriend, see, and that he’s very jealous, but then she tells the sucker he’s turned her on so much, she’s just got to see him. He leaves thinking he’s really a superstud. Every night she tells a different guy the same thing.”
“Always a different guy? No one ever repeats?”
Samantha shook her head. “Sometimes they try. She’s polite, but she never goes with them again.” She sighed. “She must do something they really dig. I wonder if I should try the tigress bit, too.”
“Tigress bit?” You’re doing great, honey; don’t stop.
“Yeah. If they come back for another try, the guys she’s gone with always have this huge hickey on their necks. I’ve never — ”
The whole world screamed to a halt for Garreth. He felt electricity lift the hair all over his body.
“Hickey?” he asked breathlessly. “About this size and located here?” He demonstrated with a circle of thumb and finger.
The barmaid nodded.
She’s dirty! But for a moment Garreth could not be sure whether he felt satisfaction or disappointment at proof of her involvement. Perhaps both. Wanted or unwanted, this gave him a legitimate excuse to ask all the questions of her he liked.
He gave Samantha a five-dollar bill. “For you, honey. Thanks.”
He made his way to the table where Lane sat. Nodding to the three men with her, he said, “Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen, but I need to speak with the lady for a minute.”
Lane smiled. “I said, later, perhaps.”
“It can’t wait.”
One of the men frowned. “The lady said later. Bug off.”
Ignoring him, Garreth leaned down to Lane’s ear. “I can use my badge and make it official.”
She glanced up sharply at him. Her eyes flared red in the candlelight again.
Why did her eyes reflect when most people’s did not?
Lane stood, smiling at the men, cool and gracious. “He’s right; it can’t wait. I won’t be a minute.” As they walked away from the table, though, the tone of her voice became chiding. “So you’re on duty after all. You lied, Inspector.”
“So did you. You said you didn’t see Mossman after he left the club on Tuesday, but we found him with a bruise on his neck just like the ones the girls here tell me you put on all your men.”
She glanced around. “May we talk outside?”
They left the club. Outside, the street stretched away from them in both directions, glittering with the lights of signs and car headlights, smelling of exhaust fumes and the warmth of massed humanity. Like accents and grace notes, whiffs of perfume and male cologne reached them, too. Voices and cars blended into a vibrant roar. My city, Garreth thought.
Lane breathed deeply. “I do so love the vitality of this place.”
Garreth nodded agreement. “Now, about Mossman…”
“Yes, I saw him.” She strolled down the street with him following. “What else could I do? He would have waked all the neighbors, pounding on my door that way. He got the address from the phone book.”
“So you invited him in?”
She nodded. “Then…well, he was a charming man so…we ended up in bed. He left about three, alive, I swear. But he insisted on walking, even though I warned him not to and offered to call a cab.”
Garreth counted two possible flaws in the story. Three o’clock lay on the edge of the limits given by the ME for Mossman’s time of death. He would have had to die very soon after leaving Lane’s apartment. And would a man careful enough to leave his keys and extra money and credit cards hidden in his hotel room ignore the offer of a cab and walk down a street alone in the middle of the night?
They turned the corner. Once around it, the traffic thinned and the noise level dropped dramatically.
Garreth asked, “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
She sighed sheepishly. “The usual reason: I didn’t want to be involved.”
“The autopsy found puncture wounds in the middle of the bruise on Mossman’s neck. How did they get there?”
“Punctures?” She stared down at him. “I don’t have the slightest idea. They weren’t there when he left me.”
Garreth said nothing in response to that. Instead, he waited, curious to see what more she might say. But unlike most people, who felt uncomfortable with silence and would say anything, often incriminating things, to fill the void, she did not rise to the bait. She said nothing as they turned another corner.
Now almost no traffic passed. Garreth found himself preternaturally conscious of the near empty street. Here on the back side of the block, they seemed a hundred miles from the crowds and lights.
He asked, “Did you ever meet a man named Cleveland Adair?”
Her stride never faltered. “Who?”
“Cleveland Adair, an Atlanta businessman. We found him dead two years ago with a bruise and punctures just like Mossman’s. A woman matching your description was seen in the lobby of his hotel shortly before his estimated time of death.”
He expected denial, either vehement or indignant. He was even prepared for her to try running away. Instead, she stopped and turned to look him directly in the eyes. “How many deaths are you investigating?”
Her eyes looked bottomless and glowed like a cat’s. Garreth stared into them, fascinated. “Two. After all, it looks like the same person killed them both.”
“I suppose it does. Inspector,” she said quietly, “please back up into this alley.”
Like hell I will, he thought, but found he could not say it aloud. Nor could he act on the thought. Her eyes held his and his will seemed paralyzed. Step by step, as commanded, he moved backward, until he came up short against a wall.
“You’re here alone.” Her hands came up to his neck, loosening his tie and unbuttoning the collar of his shirt. Her hands felt cool against his skin. “Have you told anyone where you are or about my little love bites?”
Yes, he thought, but he spoke the truth. “No.” Should he have admitted that? He could not find concern in him; all he cared about at the moment was staring into the glowing depths of her eyes and listening to her voice.
“Good boy,” she crooned, and kissed him gently on the mouth. She had to bend down to do it. “That’s a very good boy.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t think you should ever tell.”
He barely heard her. Her voice reached him from a great distance, like all sensation at the moment: the rough brick of the wall at his back, the chill of the evening, the increasing rate of her breathing. Somewhere deep inside, uneasiness stirred, but listening to it seemed too much trouble. He found it easier to just stand passive and let her tip his head back against the wall.
Her lips felt cool on his mouth and cheek, and her fingers on his neck as she probed to one side of his windpipe. His pulse throbbed against the pressure.
“That’s a nice vein,” she whispered in approval. Her breath tickled as she spoke between kisses. “You’ll like this. You’ll feel no pain. You won’t mind a bit that you’re dying.” She kissed him harder and he felt the nip of her teeth. Her mouth moved down over his jaw to his neck. “You’re a bit short for me so this will be awkward unless you stand very still. Whatever happens, don’t move.”
“No.” It emerged in a sigh.
“I love you, Inspector. I love all men of power.” Her teeth nipped harder, moving toward the spot where his pulse beat against her fingers. “You don’t have money or position like the others, but you have knowledge…knowledge I can’t afford to have spread around, so that gives you more power than most of my lovers. Still, I have more. I have the power to take yours. I love doing that. I am become Death.”
She bit harder. A distant sensation told him her teeth had broken his skin, but he felt no pain, only a slight pressure as she sucked.
“What — ” he began.
Her finger brushed across his lips, commanding him to silence. He obeyed. All desire to talk had left anyway. A wave of mixed warmth and cold moved outward thr
ough his body from where her mouth touched him. He shivered in pleasure and moved just a little, straining toward her mouth. Yes. Nice. Go on. Don’t stop.
Presently, though, he wondered if maybe she should. He felt very weak. He needed to sit down before he collapsed. His knees buckled, but her hands caught him under the arms and held him against the wall. She must be very strong, came a languid thought…certainly stronger than she looked, to be holding up someone of his weight so easily. The maiden was powerful, just like I Ching said.
But with that thought lassitude disappeared. Fear rose up through him like a jet of ice water. Two men the singer knew had died of blood loss. Now she kissed his neck in the very spot where the other men had punctures and bruises and he felt himself weakening, too! With a profound shock of horror and revulsion, he realized why. Lane Barber was sucking his blood!
He shuddered and tried to pull loose, pushing at her shoulders with his hands. His body obeyed only sluggishly, however, and when she noticed his effort, her body pressed harder against his, pinning him to the wall.
Use your gun, you dumb flatfoot.
But her hand easily kept him from reaching it.
Abandoning pride in favor of self-preservation, he opened his mouth to yell for help. Her hand clamped across his mouth, silencing him.
Garreth’s breath caught in fear. He no longer had the strength to fight her. Only her weight against him held him upright. She was killing him, as she had killed Adair and Mossman — were human teeth really sharp enough to bite through skin into veins? Where had she learned such depravity? Do something, man! Fight her! Stay alive!
In desperation, he bit at her hand to make her let go of his mouth. He sank his teeth in deep, using all his fading strength. Skin gave way. Her blood filled his mouth, burning like fire. Convulsively, he swallowed, and his throat burned, too…but with the fire came a surge of new strength.