A public spectacle of vampire-to-vampire combat was a huge no-no. But the problem was Cragnow Vissoom's. As the leader of the local nidus, his duty was to keep vampire activity hidden from humans. This was his mess to tidy.
"Give me a minute," I shouted to Coyote. I made for the vampire's pockets to search for his wallet and cell phone.
A police car skidded to a halt outside the entrance to the store, throwing a frenetic kaleidoscope of red and blue lights.
Coyote jumped and glided up through the hole.
I had to forget about the vampire. If I lingered another second, the cops would be on me.
Limping from the Jaguar, I stashed my pistol in its holster, took a couple of painful steps to build momentum, and hopped upward to follow Coyote. We scrambled across the roof and to the street, where we stayed in the shadows, moving like phantoms back to my car. I smelled of radiator antifreeze. My trousers and shirt hung in tatters.
Dozens of police cars circled the block behind us, their flashing lights making the streets look like a pinball arcade. Spotlights fixed on the shiny, anxious faces of people streaming from the nightclubs. A helicopter whirled overhead, and the shaft of a searchlight stabbed the rooftops where we had just been.
The speed with which so many cops responded astonished me. As Cragnow's hired gun, Deputy Chief Julius Paxton must have prepared his buddies in Hollywood Station to muster such a force. Some of these cops had to be undead. Meaning they'd use vampire vision to search for auras. The gloom of night wouldn't protect Coyote, or me.
Chapter Twenty-Five
WE SNUCK TO my car. I took Santa Monica Boulevard east
to the Hollywood Freeway and straight to Coyote's home. I checked the mirrors for police. Nada.
My back muscles throbbed from the lacerations. The frustration that overwhelmed me earlier returned and my mind spiraled into a whorl of confusion. The red taillights around me fused into a crimson smear. My thoughts tumbled around the other vampire, as if he and I were locked inside a barrel careening down a hill. What part did this vampire play in Cragnow's plan? Was he a mere lookout, a guard… or an assassin? How much did he know?
I recoiled, startled by the rank odor of rat chorizo and stale mescal. Coyote chugged from his flask.
The stench yanked me back to the present like a whiff of ammonia. The taillights of the car in front of me snapped into sharp focus.
Coyote lowered the flask and munched on something.
"You had another worm in there?" I asked, wondering what he chewed.
He shrugged. "Worm, cockroach, don't know."
Coyote's aura pulsed with anxiety. He hunched forward and screwed and unscrewed the metal cap of the flask.
"What did that vampire tell you, ese?"
"Not much." I remembered my hand rebounding from the vampire's face. My lips curled into a grin. "He said he worked for Cragnow."
"Surprised?"
I paused. No. "Relieved, actually. Means I'm getting close to my answers. He got on the phone too quickly after he saw me. Like it was part of a plan. That confirms what I've suspected."
"What?"
"Cragnow was behind Roxy's murder."
Coyote twisted the cap onto the flask and shoved it back into his jacket. "Don't get ahead of yourself, Felix. It only means Cragnow expected you to visit the alley." Lights from oncoming traffic cast moving shadows across Coyote's withered face.
"You're quick to defend him," I said.
"Chale. I dream to see you do to Cragnow what you did to his matón." His thug. "Think about it, ese. Did that vampire tell you anything about Roxy?"
"I didn't have the chance to ask. But the trail from Roxy's murder leads to Cragnow."
"Don't be too sure."
"I am sure," I replied. "Why else would he plant a lookout on the alley?"
"To catch you, ese. Why are you here in Los Angeles?"
Seemed an obvious question. "To find out who killed Roxy Bronze. And investigate vampire-human collusion, which seems as rampant here as chicken pox in a kindergarten."
Coyote reeled his fingers, as if to draw out my response. "Why does Cragnow want to stop you?"
Another obvious question. "To keep me from finding out who killed Roxy."
Coyote shook his head in rebuttal. "Let's suppose, vato, that Cragnow had nothing to do with her death. In that case, why would he care if you solved her murder or not?"
"Explain this. I ask about Roxy and for my troubles I almost get turned into asphalt pate. Then this goon tonight tried to play bumper tag with his Jag."
"Cragnow fears you," Coyote said. "Why?"
"Because I'm a threat to his vampire—human enterprise."
"Which is not the same as Roxy's murder, is it?" Coyote grinned expectantly, as if waiting for a dim bulb to light in my brain.
"What about Rebecca Dwelling?" I asked. "Why was she knocked off if not to protect Cragnow? And Katz Meow is still missing. Tell me that's not a coincidence. What's the connection?"
Coyote stroked his mustache and massaged his chin. "Good questions." He touched the button on his armrest and retracted the window. Cool air blasted in and cleansed the interior of rat chorizo and mescal stink. Coyote extended his legs to prop his feet out the window. "You're the professional. You tell me."
Tell him what? That the investigation had so far been a knot of clues in a maze of blind corners?
Back at his "palace," and hungry as always, Coyote poured himself a bowl of pork in chile rojo, the rojo coming from type A-positive stirred into the sauce.
I washed and changed clothes. Four aspirins and a bourbon straight up dulled the sting from my wounds. I'd be fine by morning.
Email waited from my Internet hacker. He—or she—was still working on retrieving Katz Meow's telephone records.
And I got confirmation that Roxy Bronze—Freya Krieger—had a sister. Lara Krieger, now Lara Phillips, her married name, though recently divorced. The hacker included Lara's address and a telephone number.
A clue or yet another wrinkle to smooth over?
Tuesday I would have lunch with Roxy's attorney, Andrew Tonic. He wanted to talk, and I felt certain that he would help me find the link between Roxy's murder and Cragnow.
And I needed a chat with Lara Phillips. Nothing in the case pointed to Lara about vampire-human collusion or her sister's murder. A quick visit, a little vampire hypnosis, and that would be the end of my interest with Lara Phillips.
Simple.
Chapter Twenty-Six
THE NEXT MORNING, a Monday, I drove to Glendale and got on La Crescenta Avenue
. I endured the bumper-to-bumper crawl by listening to an extended mix of African world beat music on the radio and sipping from my to-go cup—Costa Rican blend with goat's blood.
My task was straightforward. A talk with Lara Phillips.
Coyote stayed home to fix his truck. I "loaned" him money for a new starter. I didn't anticipate anything dangerous with Lara, so there was no need for Coyote to watch my back. In case of trouble, I had my vampire wits and a Colt .380 automatic.
My cell phone buzzed, the caller ID announcing Veronica's number. I answered.
"Hey, lover boy," Veronica said, her tone playful. "Catch you at a bad time? Just wanted to say I'm still sore from yesterday morning."
"Sore? In what way?" I asked, worried that I might have been too aggressive.
"A very good way." Veronica gave a smoky laugh. "Any chance we could get together this evening for dinner or whatever?"
The "whatever" part clinched the offer. "Maybe," I teased.
She laughed again. "Maybe? Never figured you to be coy."
"I was thinking about you," I replied. "Wouldn't want you to get too sore."
"Ha. When that happens, I'll tell you."
"Six, then? Pick you up at your place?"
"See you there. Ciao." She hung up.
Now I had two women on my agenda. Lara and Veronica.
I followed La Crescenta Avenue
. C
onsidering Lara's almost inconsequential mention—her name was but a note among the reams of papers in Roxy's files—I didn't expect to spend much time interrogating her, as previously mentioned. A quick dazzle with the eyes, a few questions, some answers, and I'd disappear, like a vapor.
Still, she was Roxy's sister. I wasn't as thorough a detective as I thought, considering that I stumbled upon this discovery. My inquiry into Roxy's past told me both her parents died years ago. I hadn't bothered to find out if Roxy had siblings. Or rather, sibling. Lara.
A gap opened in the wall of trees along La Crescenta. I took a left to cross over a large concrete viaduct that separated the neighborhood from the rest of Verdugo City like a moat. The street meandered through nicely tended homes terraced on a hill facing northeast.
Lara Phillips's house was near the top, a cream-colored ranch home with a single-car garage and the ubiquitous red tile roof. A moss-dappled, stone retaining wall held a narrow lawn at hip-height above the front sidewalk.
A small Ford Focus sat in the driveway. Large decals advertising EXPERT MAIDS decorated the car doors.
I parked the big Chrysler in the shade of tall evergreens marking the property line with her neighbor. I removed my contacts and checked the area. For a Monday morning, the neighborhood appeared as it should. Quiet.
I could go to the front door but I preferred to sneak in through the back for greater surprise. I wanted to get in and get out and not leave any impression that I'd been here. Once out of the car, I stayed close to the evergreen trees, my black clothing blending into the shadows.
Peeking over a wooden fence, I saw green umbrellas and patio furniture on the deck. Tall boxwood hedges and honeysuckle along the backyard fence hid me from the neighbors. I hopped the fence and levitated onto the grass as silent as a moth.
I crept across the deck to the rear entrance of the house. The glass door was open. Conversation drifted through the screen door.
A woman spoke, using a peasant's lyrical Spanish from southern Mexico. Unless Lara Phillips had been raised in Chiapas, I doubted this was her. The woman asked about the next house to clean, so I presumed she was a maid.
I listened for someone else. Nothing. Maybe Lara was in a bedroom. Sliding the screen door open, I scooted into the kitchen, which smelled of Comet cleanser.
The maid, a chubby dark woman in a white T-shirt with matching green sweatpants and apron carrying the EXPERT MAIDS logo, stood on the carpet next to a dining room table.
We were alone.
She wound an electric cord around the handle of a vacuum cleaner and talked into a cell phone cradled between her shoulder and jaw. The maid folded the cell phone and dropped it into an apron pocket. She grasped the vacuum cleaner and looked up.
Our gazes met.
I didn't give her time to even look surprised. I zapped her with a high-voltage stare, enough to keep her under for a couple of minutes. She stood frozen next to the vacuum cleaner, surrounded by a swirling red aura.
"¿Carmela?" The female voice came from the hall. "¿Acabaste?" Are you finished? She spoke with a pronounced gringa accent. Was this Lara?
I darted around the kitchen counter and paused at the threshold to the hall.
Someone with a brisk and light feminine stride padded on the carpet.
I jumped out, my vampire glare at full power.
My gaze stopped the young woman in her tracks. With short blond hair, a wide Slavic face, and plump hips, she didn't look anything like Roxy Bronze. Unless Lara liked to wear an EXPERT MAIDS apron for fun, this wasn't her.
I asked, "Where's Lara Phillips?"
The woman's aura bubbled with anxiety. She gurgled open-mouthed, as if the words spun midway between her brain and throat.
I tapped her head like it was a TV with a loose connection.
"Not here," she said.
"Then where?"
Again with the gurgling. I tapped her head.
"Not here," she said.
This could take all morning. The first maid might know.
I left the woman there, returned to the dining room, and asked the other maid. "Where is Lara?"
"The-señora-Mrs.-Phillips-is-at-her-lessons-which-she-goes-to—"
Her Spanish came at me like water from a fire hydrant. I pinched her lips shut. "What lessons?"
The maid mumbled.
I let go of her lips.
"… like-I-was-telling-you-three-times-a-week—"
I pinched again. Sometimes vampire hypnosis was a pain in the ass. The blonde couldn't get one word out without me thonking her head, and the maid jabbered like she was trying for a world speed record.
I started into the maid's eyes to strengthen my control. "Don't say a word." Carefully, I released her lips and she kept quiet.
I didn't see anything in the dining room that could help me. I went to the kitchen, which was outfitted with every culinary gadget and notion, as if Lara had binged at Williams-Sonoma. I'd never seen designer dish detergent before. A wall calendar had names and telephone numbers scribbled over it, but nothing gave a clue where Lara was today. Colorful magnets held coupons and recipes to the refrigerator door. A wipe board listed grocery items, but nothing said: If you're looking for me on Monday morning I'm at…
In the living room I sorted through a wire basket on a console table containing unopened mail: bills and junk. So far I hadn't found anything out of the ordinary, and that was the problem. I sat on the edge of an armchair to decide what to do next.
What kind of lessons would a divorced single mom be taking? Yoga? Gourmet cooking? Or did the maid mean school classes like college? Maybe this was a dead end. Was I wasting my time or should I come back?
Copies of Journey with God magazine sat on the coffee table. The subscription label carried Lara's name. Lara attended Reverend Dale Journey's church? The same church I'd seen Dr. Niphe sneak to?
My stink-o-meter activated again but I couldn't make a connection between Lara, Niphe, and Journey.
I flipped through one issue. The centerfold listed the monthly calendar for the church campus activities. Circled in red ink was a Gospel aerobics class for women only, Jumping for Jesus, offered 9 A.M. Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday.
Was she taking these classes? Could she be there now?
I approached the maid and asked, "Is Lara at Journey's church?"
"Sí-at-la-iglesia-she-teaches-I-should-exercise-too-but-with-work-who-can-find-the-time-I-am-getting-fat-maybe-I-will-start—"
I clamped my fingers on the maid's lips to contemplate this news in silence. Lara Phillips—formerly Lara Krieger, sister to Freya Krieger, a.k.a. Roxy Bronze—taught exercise classes at Journey's church?
Niphe and Journey. Add Lara to the equation.
Did Lara have something to do with her sister's murder? The implication was so crazy that even I, cynical private detective Felix Gomez, had problems wrapping my thoughts around the idea. If she had, why? How?
"Carmela," the blonde whispered from the hall. Her vampire hypnosis had worn off.
I rolled up the magazine and shoved it into my trouser pocket. I had learned enough here. Time to find Lara Phillips and listen to what she had to say.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
ON THE WAY to Altadena, I wondered about this latest tangle. Roxy Bronze's sister, Lara Phillips, taught exercise classes at Journey's church. Was she also a parishioner? Did she have anything to do with Reverend Journey? Or with Dr. Niphe? Their names moved like mathematical variables.
A plus B plus C equals what?
I reached Loma Linda Drive
. Journey's church looked as exaggerated and gaudy in the day as it had at night. The rows of windows, as precisely arranged as facets on a rhinestone, reflected the glare of the California sun against the craggy backdrop of the San Gabriel Mountains.
From my angle as I drove onto the lower parking lot, the mountain peaks towered majestically above the pyramid and obelisk of the extravagant church, the grandeur of the Almighty presiding ove
r the bombastic pretensions of man.
Cars and minivans crowded the upper parking lot. School buses marked with JOURNEY FOR JESUS circled up the driveway and stopped alongside a wide concrete path leading to the church complex. Dozens of children filed out. They linked hands and followed women in frumpy dresses up the path.
For a Monday morning, this campus was a busy place, full of cheery Christians coming to celebrate their brand of love for Jesus. And here I was among them, a vampire detective investigating murder.
I panned the grounds and saw no unusual auras. I masked my eyes with contacts and sunglasses and walked across the parking lot for the church complex. I felt the weight of my pistol and holster against the small of my back.
The glass buildings and asphalt reflected the heat. The morning sun was still climbing, so the day would only get hotter. Sunblock kept my skin from bursting into flames, but the bright light and heat burdened me like a potbellied stove strapped to my back.
Unlike the other visit, when security guards chased away Coyote and me, those who noticed me today acknowledged my presence with friendly smiles. I didn't see any guards, but I did spot black plastic globes tucked among the shrubs. We were all being watched—for our safety, I'm sure.
The concrete path split three ways over a lush grassy incline. The paths left and right led to the wings of the complex. The glass and chrome buildings reflected the blue sky and green lawn in wavy, distorted patterns. The center path curved between tidy flower beds toward the wide steps of the main entrance.
I pushed open a billiard table-size glass door and entered a carpeted vestibule large enough for a game of basketball. An air-conditioned breeze fluttered against me, and I paused for a moment to refresh myself.
On the far wall, announcements in LED lights scrolled across a message board. To my right, a map indicated YOU ARE HERE with an arrow. I knew where I was; I didn't know where Lara Phillips was.
I opened the magazine I'd brought from Lara's home and read the calender. "Jumping for Jesus" exercise class was taught in the Samson Room, which the map indicated was in the adjoining north wing to my left.
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