by Mel Odom
The grappling hook sped true, penetrating the vampire’s back nearly six inches below his heart, which was the intended target.
Angel set himself with one foot on the roof’s edge. The gleam of light on metal in front of the vampire told Angel the grappling hook had gone all the way through the vampire’s body.
Setting himself, Angel leaned back and took up slack, holding the chain tightly. The vampire hit the end of the chain, coming to a sudden stop against the grappling hook less than ten feet from the building on the other side of the street. Gravity took over and the vampire fell.
Angel kept the chain taut, bracing himself as the vampire swung back against the apartment building.
“Repeat, this is the Los Angeles Police Department. Down on your face with your hands behind your head, or we will be forced to take action.”
The vampire smashed into the side of the building three stories down with enough force to seriously injure anything human. But the vampire only snarled, reaching for the chain and starting to haul himself up the links.
Angel released the chain, sending the vampire plunging down nearly five feet. Then Angel tightened his grip on the chain again and pulled up as hard as he could.
At the end of the chain the grappling hook pulled up against the force of gravity that drew the vampire down. Between the slack and the sudden whip-crack motion Angel triggered, the grappling hook ripped through the vampire’s flesh, cleaving the heart with the wooden stake jammed into it. With a final growl of rage and fear, the vampire turned into dust.
Angel hauled the chain up and glanced at the helicopter hovering above the rooftop. He slitted his eyes against the fierce intensity of the spotlight. He barely made out the man with the assault rifle clinging to the helicopter’s side.
“Last chance, buddy,” the PA blared. Bullets drilled the rooftop, sending gravel flying, but the spotlight lifted.
Angel ran in the opposite direction than the vampire had chosen. He leaped the distance between buildings and kept going across the rooftops.
Doyle flipped through the pages Cordelia had printed out for him concerning Tobin Calhoun’s murder. He sighed and sipped the weak coffee, lamenting the taste as well as the watery complexion.
“Find anything?” Cordelia asked.
“No.” Doyle dropped the papers on the floor and ran his fingers through his hair. He checked the time. “Angel’s been gone awhile.”
“He’s okay.” Cordelia continued tapping the keyboard.
“How do you know that?”
“Because you’d know if something happened to him.”
Doyle remained quiet.
Cordelia stopped tapping the keyboard and looked at him. “You would, right?”
“I don’t know.”
“You were drawn to him, Doyle. That psychic thingy that brought you to him. That’s some kind of bond. You’d know.”
“Not really. The Powers That Be didn’t exactly give me an owner’s manual when they equipped me.”
“You wouldn’t know if something happened to Angel?”
Doyle shrugged, feeling guilty because it seemed as if he was letting Cordelia down in some way. Of course, it didn’t help that she sounded really accusing. He decided he should be more confident. Even a woman like Cordelia should respond to confidence in a man. He squared his shoulders. “I’m really sure that I don’t know if I would know if something happened to Angel. But I think I would.”
Cordelia blinked.
“At least, you know” — Doyle turned a palm up — “it stands to reason I’d know.” He paused. “Don’t you think?” He stood. “Maybe we could go have a peek.”
“He’d call.” Cordelia turned her attention back to the monitor.
Doyle felt torn. On one hand he thought maybe they should go look for Angel, but on the other that definitely didn’t sound safe.
Abruptly the desk phone rang.
Cordelia punched the speaker function automatically. She waited till the answering machine kicked in. “Angel?”
“Actually I was hoping to speak with someone at Angel Investigations.” The man’s voice sounded hesitant. “My name is Gunnar Schend. I’m the producer on Dark Midnight. It’s a television show. Maybe I’ve got the wrong number.”
“Wait,” Cordelia pleaded as she punched the speaker phone function. “You’ve got the right number. This is Angel Investigations.”
“It’s not too late?” Schend asked.
“We never sleep,” Cordelia assured him. “At least, the dark, brooding part of us never sleeps.”
CHAPTER SIX
“There you are, man. I was starting to get seriously worried.” Doyle appeared relieved.
Stepping up from the sewer tunnel entrance to his private rooms below the offices, Angel looked at Doyle, who stood on the stairs. “About the vampires?”
“Not that. Figured you could handle yourself there.” Doyle shrugged. “At least, you said you could.”
Angel closed the sewer hatch. “Is something wrong?”
Quickly Doyle summed up the vision he’d had, letting Angel know the present interest in Whitney Tyler was something the Powers That Be wanted him to look into as well as part of his own redemption.
At the end of Doyle’s report Angel felt vaguely uneasy. The memory of the swordswoman on Handsome Jack was more acute than most he had of those times. It had to mean something.
“And to top that off,” Doyle said, “Gunnar Schend, Whitney Tyler’s producer, is upstairs in the office with Cordelia.”
Angel took the news in stride. The evening had started out in left field, so it was no surprise to see that things remained twisted and out of his control. “Is Schend alone?”
“You mean, is the woman with him?”
“Yeah, I guess I mean that.”
“No. He’s come alone.”
“Let’s go,” Angel suggested, taking the lead up the stairs to the offices.
Gunnar Schend was twenty-something and wore dark sunglasses even though it was night. Dressed in Levi’s, a white T-shirt, square-toed boots, and a black leather Harley-Davidson motorcycle jacket, he also wasn’t quite the image of Hollywood that Angel expected. The dark tan was pure fake-bake. His hair was bleached the color of old ivory, moussed till it stood as at attention as a Buckingham Palace guard, carefully matching the French tickler on his chin.
The television producer moved restlessly, pacing back and forth in front of the desk. Cordelia sat on one corner of the desk, obviously poised to look suave and debonair.
“Mr. Schend.” Angel crossed the small office. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I had to —” He looked at Cordelia for help, realizing she’d probably given Schend some excuse.
“I explained to Mr. Schend that you were taking the cappuccino machine to the repair shop,” Cordelia explained, “and that was why we got stuck with this miserable loaner.” She jerked her head in disgust at the coffeepot.
“Okay.”
Standing behind Schend, Doyle rolled his eyes.
“Your name is Angel,” Schend said. “Angel what? Or is Angel a surname?”
“It’s just Angel.”
Schend smiled a little, but the nervousness he obviously felt took a lot of the enthusiasm out of it. “A private eye with one name kind of fits into this town, doesn’t it?”
“I guess so. What can I do for you, Mr. Schend?”
“Call me Gunnar. Everybody does.”
“Sure.”
“Detective Kate Lockley at the Los Angeles Police Department seems to hold you in high regard,” Schend said. “She recommended that I come see you.”
“I’ll have to thank her for that.” Angel watched as Cordelia quietly turned the monitor around so that Schend could see it more easily. “Maybe we could talk in my office.”
“Sure.”
“Hey,” Cordelia said, “I took the liberty of sending out for Starbucks.”
Angel led the way to the back office and walked behind the desk, waiting for Sche
nd to take his seat.
The television producer gazed around the room in surprise. “Wow, you really go all out when you want to make an impression.”
Angel sat as Schend did, not knowing exactly how to take the statement.
“When Detective Lockley told me you’d located your business here, I was really surprised,” Schend admitted. “Then when Ms. Chase explained that you were cultivating the seedy Hollywood detective image on purpose, it made sense.”
“It did?” Angel asked, trying to find the chain of logic in there somewhere.
“Yeah. I totally understand. It’s this town. Everybody’s gotta have an angle, make them rise above the rest of the crowd. For you, it’s portraying the no-holds-barred kind of detective Humphrey Bogart made famous as Sam Spade and Philip Marlowe.”
Angel took that in without saying anything.
“See? Tight-lipped, earnest. I like that approach.” Schend glanced around again, then touched the pile of old books beside the phone on the desk. “Everybody’s getting their information online, listening to books on CD, or not bothering to read at all, and you’re giving the impression you’re still researching by hand. That’s another good touch.” He picked up the top book and read the title outloud. “The Pathology and Provocation of Demons. Now, there’s a title you don’t see a lot of.”
“I have some eclectic tastes when it comes to reading material,” Angel explained.
Schend put the book back on the stack. “Demon-hunting?”
“It’s a study of the origins of demons up to, at the time of writing, the witch hunts that took place in Europe and the United States.”
Schend stroked the patch of whiskers on his chin. “A period piece with killer costumes would be an eye-opener. What about the Inquisition? That was going on around then, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Now, there’s a set of villains for you. Guys could be as memorable as the stormtroopers in Star Wars.”
“Knock, knock.” Cordelia entered the room with a carryout tray from Starbucks.
Schend accepted the cup she offered, and asked, “How much do you believe in the supernatural, Angel?”
Angel paused, wondering about the television producer’s angle. “Maybe a little more than most.”
Cordelia sat on one corner of the desk, ignoring the small look of irritation Angel sent her way.
“Most people believe in angels,” Schend said. “Do you?”
Angel nodded.
“What about vampires?” Schend asked. “Do you believe in them?”
“They’re part of the tapestry of myth.”
“So you believe in them?”
“As much as I can.”
Schend sipped his cappuccino. “Do you believe Whitney is a vampire?”
An image of the television star filled Angel’s mind, but the memory of the young swordswoman intertwined. “No.”
“There are a few who do.”
Cordelia crossed her arms over her breasts. “Well, that’s just stupid. Anyone can see that she’s not a vampire.”
“Really?” Schend asked. “How?”
“I mean they can see it,” Cordelia replied. “Take the show that was on tonight. I counted four separate occasions that Whitney Tyler — as Honor Blaze, radio shock jock — checked her appearance in mirrors and glass windows.”
“Well,” Schend said defensively, “we didn’t want our viewers to forget that first and foremost Honor is a woman.”
Ouch, Angel thought, then realized Cordelia would probably agree with the logic.
“Trust me,” Doyle said, lounging in the office doorway, “with a bod like that, none of your male audience is going to forget.”
“We put the little touches like the makeup and hair checks in there for the female audience,” Schend said. “We’re drawing heavy numbers from both camps. Demographics are a huge thing when you start hunting sponsors for a show.”
“The thing is,” Cordelia said, “everyone knows a vampire doesn’t cast a reflection in a mirror, or a glass pane.”
“We decided to disregard that for the show,” Schend said, “after the pilot had been shot and we didn’t think about all the times Whitney appeared reflected in windows, a swimming pool, bottles. It would have meant a lot of reshooting.”
“Mr. Schend,” Angel said.
“Gunnar.”
Angel nodded. “Gunnar. Why did you ask if I believed Whitney is a vampire?”
“As I said, there are a lot of people out there who do,” the television executive answered. “But some of them are trying to kill her.”
“You mean, they really believe her character is a vampire?”
Angel saw amazement and disbelief in Cordelia’s face.
“No. I mean they believe Whitney is actually a vampire working in Hollywood.” Schend grinned and shook his head. “If things weren’t so screwed up, I don’t think I could have been happier. Dark Midnight has gone international in its first season. Sure, other shows have done that, but we think we’re really going to set new records here. Bootleg copies of episodes are creeping across the Canadian and Mexican borders, and even jumping off from there to the European and Asian markets. I’ve heard everybody has got some kind of rip-off scheduled to come out for the fall season, but all that’s doing is whetting the appetite for the original.”
Angel listened quietly, knowing from experience that despite the confident air Schend had, the man was more nervous than he wanted to let on.
“There are hundreds,” Schend went on, “maybe thousands of fans out there who are walking around living the vampire lifestyle because of Whitney’s character. Staying in during the day and living their lives at night. But the problem here is that some of the viewers who believe Whitney really is a vampire have also tried to stake her.”
“Why?” Angel asked.
“Because a stake through the heart is supposed to kill a vampire.”
“No, I mean why would they want to kill her?”
“Personally, I think it’s because she’s become such a celebrity. The guy who shot Lennon is going to live forever. But there are others who think that Whitney represents some kind of vampire conspiracy out to take over Hollywood, then the rest of the world.”
“What else has happened?” Angel asked.
“Another guy tried to kill Whitney tonight,” Schend responded. He told them about the highway attempt that had happened only hours ago.
“The guy who attacked her is still alive?” Doyle asked.
Schend nodded. “It’s a totally whacked-out situation. According to the cop who took this guy down, the guy was like a machine, inhuman.”
“Has this guy made any kind of statement?” Angel asked.
“No,” Schend replied.
“Where is Whitney now?” Angel asked.
“Safe,” Schend said. “She’s got an apartment here in L.A. that no one knows about.”
“It’s not the same one where Tobin Calhoun was killed, is it?” Doyle asked.
“No. We took her out of there that day.”
Angel looked a question at Doyle, who quickly explained the Calhoun connection. “No one ever found out anything about Calhoun’s death?” Angel asked when Doyle finished his summation.
Schend shook his head. “The police investigated. I think Detective Lockley was involved in that. No one knew if Calhoun was actually the intended victim. With the craziness going on around Whitney now, the detectives working the case are starting to wonder if there was some kind of tie to her.”
“Why?” Angel asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s just a new way of looking at things.”
Angel let the silence settle between them for a moment as he gathered his thoughts. His own instincts about the situation warned him away from the case. Whatever was involved, he knew it wasn’t going to be easy. But redemption wasn’t easy; that was the whole nature of the thing. Redemption cost.
“We’ve scheduled Whitney for day interviews,” Schend s
aid. “But no one seems to care. These people believe what they want to believe. The letters we’ve gotten at the studio suggested that the daylight appearances were manipulated by computer graphics, or that the person wasn’t Whitney at all. Some of the more dedicated followers of the show even objected, saying that seeing Whitney in the daylight made it harder to believe in her on the show. Looking back on it, I think maybe we made a mistake in the beginning.”
“What mistake?” Angel asked.
“In the beginning we thought it would be a cool idea if Whitney made it a habit of only agreeing to interviews at night. Kind of add to the mystery of the show and her. Leno and Letterman agreed to shoot special interview spots for their shows that made it obvious they were filmed at night. So did Conan, Entertainment Tonight, and MTV. Even CNN did coverage on the show with a nighttime shoot.”
“But it just lent to the madness,” Doyle said.
“Exactly. Whitney’s got a lot of fans in city hall and the legislature. The Wolfram and Hart law firm has even represented us in shooting-site acquisitions and handled overseas licensing in some tricky negotiations.”
Wolfram & Hart, Angel knew from experience and past dealings, was one of — if not the — most high-powered law firms in L.A. However, the firm was also involved in some of the most illegal and evil dealings in the city. It stood to reason that maybe they handled legitimate business as well. But the name still increased the vague unease Angel felt.
“The police weren’t able to help you?” Angel asked.
“They’re convinced that the loony tunes crawling out of the woodwork with nothing more on their little brains than staking Whitney as a vampire were solitary instances. No overall conspiracy theory.”
“But you feel differently?”
“Angel, let’s get something straight. Mano-tomano.” Schend sighed. “Whitney is not only my friend, but she’s the biggest cash cow I’ve ever had my hands on. I don’t want to see her hurt. So far the police have found no connection between the first two guys they busted for attacking Whitney. They tell me they’re not exactly hopeful on this third guy. He’s something of a cipher. No name. Fingerprints aren’t on file.”
