Drew D'Amato:Bloodlines:02

by Drew D'Amato

  Her father’s words pumped adrenaline and nervousness through her. She sat up in her bed and flashed on her TV, which was already on the local channel, and the story was being played again. She watched it in disbelief. She went to her cell phone on the nightstand to call Vlad when she then heard from the reporter, “…the truck was rented under the name of a Raoul Wellington. His identification was also found in the car. Neither have come forth and the police assume both drowned in the Thames, though no bodies have been found.”

  Jasmine did not freeze. She went to her phone. There were no text messages, no missed calls. She was about to dial Vlad’s number but something told her to stop. She could not take hearing his voicemail pick up. That would confirm it for her, and she did not want it to be confirmed. Still she had to call, then her mind sold her on an idea that helped her justify her inaction. Whether he is alive or dead, his phone was ruined falling into the water. Calling him will not do anything. In fact that is probably why he hasn’t called you yet. That logic helped her put the phone down. She decided to listen to as much of the story as she can and try to find some chance that her love was still alive.

  “Jasmine, you seem really upset. I know you really liked Father Pacami, but I didn’t think you would take it this hard.”

  “It’s not Father Pacami. Yes, I am sorry for him, but it’s not just him. It’s Vlad.”

  “Vlad, what’s his connection in all of this?” her father asked confused.

  “Daddy, Vlad is Raoul Wellington.”

  “What, he lied to us?”

  “No, that is his real name. He uses the alias Raoul Wellington.”

  “Why would any man need to use an alias?”

  “It’s a long story, but he is not a criminal or anything.”

  “Is he a spy or something?”

  Jasmine stopped listening to her father. Everything was just too much for her. She fell into her father’s arms and started bawl.

  Her father though still concerned with who this Vlad might really, knew that this was not the time to interrogate his daughter. It was the time to just hold her as she cried in his arms.

  4

  Jasmine spent some time just crying. Her father tried to comfort her and told her they might still be alive. Her father and her watched the news together, but no new information came from England. Wellington and Pacami did not come forward, and no bodies had been found. Her grief was still in limbo. Her mother woke up and made them breakfast. They just told her Pacami died, and hid Vlad from her mother. Her mother took death in general pretty bad. In fact, shortly after breakfast she got dressed and made her way to Divine Saviour to talk to Father Montes. When she left Jasmine was able to gather herself.

  She dried her eyes, and told her father the whole European story about Malachi, his child, and why Vlad had to use aliases. Once he learned her story, he was a little at ease. Vlad was not a bad guy.

  After he heard the whole story and saw the sorrow still painted on her face he decided to give her a little bit of hope. “Why don’t you go talk to Malachi, his cousin?”

  A little bit of hope splashed on Jasmine’s face. Her father noticed it and continued. “Maybe this had something to do with the men who were hunting Malachi and Vlad. He might know something we don’t. At the very least, you should tell him about Vlad.”

  That perked up Jasmine, even if it was just a subtle rise. She now had something to do, and something to hope for. She nodded yes.

  “I’ll drive ya,” her father said.

  “Dad, I don’t need—”

  “Yes, you do.”

  And like that, within twenty minutes her father set out to drive her to Sinai. It was now past nine in the morning. The overcast in the beginning had turned into full on showers. The rain appeared to fall through the car and into Jasmine’s heart. She felt like it looked outside, dismal. There may have been some sun but she couldn’t see any of it. The tears came almost as often as the rain did, but her father would reach over and put an arm on her shoulder and rub it. That helped her out. His daughter was strong, but he knew even in all of this she had not yet had her big cry yet. That would happen once all her fears were confirmed, and once she accepted it.

  They both noticed police cars as they pulled in, but neither thought much about it. It was a hospital after all and these two kids—police and medical attention—often played together. When she got inside, there were some cops in the lobby, and there were also two men in their plainclothes suits, that were so cheap they stressed the word plain. She deduced they were detectives. One of them black, one white. She did not have much curiosity in regards to them as people normally have when they see police on the scene. She went right to the information desk and after struggling to remember Malachi’s alias, asked to see him.

  The nurse told her one minute and then walked over to one of the detectives and he nodded at his partner. The two approached Jasmine, and her father closed in on her defensively.

  “I’m Detective Cordy, and this is Detective Lindell,” the black one said. “And you are?”

  “Jasmine O’Reilly, and I am her father Alec,” her father said stepping in for her. “Why is my daughter of any concern to you?”

  “That is what we are trying to ascertain,” Lindell said. “You asked to visit a George Patterson. This same George Patterson disappeared this morning right out of his hospital room. His heart monitor went to zero, and when the hospital staff went in to check on him they found the door locked. When the door was opened, no one was inside, and the window was open. Four floors down to the mezzanea, but not a scratch of blood found anywhere. This same Patterson was here because he was beaten up badly outside the Staples Center a few days ago. He was beaten so badly that he suffered acute renal failure, and was barely conscious this morning, when Dr. Hmong last checked in on him. So I hope you feel our curiosity is justified. Can you please explain to us what you know of this George Patterson.”

  “I don’t know much,” Jasmine said. Well, I won’t tell you much. “He was a cousin to my boyfriend Raoul Wellington. When Raoul learned of the attack I was with him so I came along with him. Personally I never met George myself.”

  “Really, how long have you known Raoul?” Cordy asked.

  “A few weeks.”

  “We met this Mr. Wellington. We asked him if he knew anyone who might attack his cousin. He told us no, but he seemed funny. Did he reveal anything to you about who might attack his cousin?” Lindell said taking the subtle role of nice cop.

  “No, he knew nothing.”

  “And so now you come here, to the hospital without your boyfriend, to meet his cousin that you never met before, why? This news hasn’t even been given to the press yet,” Lindell said laying out his cards. Although Jasmine was beautiful—and both he and his partner would admit it later to each other—they didn’t trust her. They were cops and everyone lied to them; everyone was a suspect.

  “My daughter knew nothing about this Patterson’s disappearance. She came here because Raoul went missing last night in London when his car fell off London Bridge. She wanted to tell his cousin about it.” Her father was wise to the doubt they had about his daughter and he felt insulted. “That was on the news.”

  “The car that fell off London bridge, no bodies were discovered were they?” Cordy asked growing more in awe of this enigma before him.

  “Detectives, if my daughter was in on anything that you might be thinking of, wouldn’t she be wise enough not to come here with the assumption that there is a good chance of some police presence here that she’d have to explain herself too?”

  “Mr. O’Reilly, we do not at all believe you daughter is in on anything, especially if she just met this man. However, that does not mean the other parties involved are not. We both met Raoul and our instincts told us something was odd. Now he is dead, but no body was found, and then his cousin disappears. We are just hoping in her time spent with Raoul she may have noticed something that would explain what the hell is going on,” Lindell sa
id. “There were also silver bullets found at the scene when Patterson and Jack Bearfield were attacked. This same Jack Bearfield’s body was cremated and Raoul took the cremains, planning to bury them in Europe.”

  “So there you go, now he is dead in Europe, and my daughter is distraught.” Ironically it was when she heard her own father say he is dead, that struck her the hardest and she fought to keep back the tears.

  “Mr. O’Reilly, nothing in this case seems to be what it is. Patterson was on the brink of death and then he disappears.”

  “So you think it was somekind of miraculous recovery?”

  “No, maybe some elaborate kidnapping. A man came to visit him just before he disappeared. He also said he was a cousin of Patterson. Dr. Hmong spoke to him, let him in the room, and within minutes, his heartbeat stopped and the door was locked,” Cordy said.

  “Well it seems, although you don’t know how he pulled this elaborate magic trick, you do know the culprit. He had to have signed in. I suggest you pursue that lead and allow me to take my daughter home. This has all been too much for her.”

  “That’s just it, we don’t have a lead. The name he used was a Joseph Patrick. The address given was that of a real Joseph Patrick, but he is not our man. Dr. Hmong said the man had dark hair and dark eyes. This Joseph Patrick is a ginger, red hair and freckles—my partner explained this term to me—and he has been home all morning with his family. He is a reporter for the Los Angeles Times. He has no idea what is going on. We told the cops on the scene to bring him in for questioning but this is pretty much just a formality, nothing more. So again Mr. O’Reilly nothing is as it seems.”

  5

  Alec was proud that his daughter said as little to the cops as she did. From all that he gathered between Jasmine’s story of Malachi, the aliases, and what the cops knew, or didn’t know, he concluded Vlad, whoever the hell he was, was in fact up to something behind the scenes. He might also have had no problem believing like the cops did that Vlad faked his death, if he didn’t have a problem explaining Pacami? He had his conclusion and explained it to his daughter.

  “This all goes back to his cousin, killing that priest, and that powerful family. That was probably who that man was that visited Malachi this morning. I have no idea how he got that body out, but he did. It was probably the same people who inially attacked his cousins to begin with.”

  “Vlad said it wasn’t them, that it was just muggers.” Jasmine looked out the passenger window at the grey world outside. It had stopped raining. She didn’t look as bad as she did driving to the hospital, her father thought.

  “They might have made it look like that, but it could have still been them. And that silver bullet connection, what the hell do these silver bullets even mean?” Jasmine didn’t have an answer, or even a response. Alec tried to say something to make her feel better. “I’m glad you told the cops nothing about that dead priest.”

  “Why?”

  “Because then we would have spent hours and days being asked questions about something you know nothing about, and your lack of answers would only make them grow more suspicious. Now they just think you were an innocent girl intertwined with a shady man, and that you know nothing more. They will leave you alone.”

  “They said they want me to report if Vlad contacts me.”

  “Yes, but he won’t, he’s dead.”

  “The police don’t think that. They think he faked his death. Maybe he did to avoid these men looking for him. Maybe he did know that attack was by these men, but he didn’t want to tell me. Maybe he intended the whole time to fake his death in Europe, but he didn’t want to involve me.”

  “Then if he was going to do something as tricky as that, why involve Father Pacami? No, Jasmine, they are dead. Father Pacami’s absence proves all of that. It was probably that powerful family behind it to make it look like an accident. That is what makes the most sense.”

  And it did logically, but it didn’t mean Jasmine’s gut believed it. Dark hair, dark eyes, though they weren’t characteristics only attributed to Vlad in the world, they were his characteristics. Her mind had no reason to think like this, but yet she felt it and she couldn’t fight it. No matter all the evidence before her, she still felt it everytime she thought about Vlad.

  Hope.

  6

  Vlad had felt for a few years now that Joseph Patrick was getting a little too big for his britches. Instead of thanking Vlad for the information he gave him, he started to ask for more of it. He started to try to manipulate Vlad into giving him more information. Vlad wanted to put fear in him, but he didn’t want to present himself to a news reporter as a vampire. Instead, he used the idea that he was part of some secret branch of the government, and it worked for a while, but it appeared Patrick no longer feared Vlad would do anything to him. In fact, if he got some juicy info—juicy enough that writing about it would cut off Vlad as a source forever—he would still use it.

  So Vlad knew he had to make Patrick understand upsetting him would not result in just not being able get anymore information from Vlad, but that it would also cost Patrick his life. Years ago he had gotten an ID made using Patrick’s information. It was his ace up his sleeve and he decided this morning to play it. He wanted to send Patrick the message to shut the fuck up, we know where you live.

  This fear was evident in Patrick back at the station when Cordy and Lindell got to interview him. They made it clear early on they didn’t make him for their man, but he was still nervous. Cordy asked him why.

  “Someone attempted to frame me, is it wrong to be concerned?”

  “No, and you are right they did frame you. Just using your name we wouldn’t think much of it, but the address was exact. So we are curious, who would want to frame you? Any enemies, any sources—you are a reporter?”

  “I’m sure there are some liberals out there with disdain for me, but nothing to this magnitude. I’ve gotten no death threats.”

  “What about any unseedy sources?” Cordy asked.

  “I’m not about to name my sources.”

  “Even if these sources are not concerned with your well-being?”

  Patrick’s silence to this question told Cordy, Yes.

  “Okay,” Cordy continued. “We will give you some names involved and see if there is any connection? George Patterson was the man missing. Any contact with him?”

  Patrick nodded no.

  “Jasmine O’Reilly.”

  “Who is she?”

  “The girlfriend of Patterson’s cousin. A Raoul Wellington.”

  Patrick eyes betrayed him. He couldn’t hide his response.

  “Who is Raoul, Mr. Patrick?” Cordy asked.

  “I don’t really know. I don’t know any of these names.”

  “Mr. Patrick we can subpoena you, if we feel it is necessary,” Lindell said.

  “It is also for your safety,” Cordy added. “Raoul Wellington is presumed dead in London. His car ran off a bridge, but no body has been found. I suggest you tell us what you know.”

  Fake death. Raoul was sending him a message, using his name for the ID. That message rang loud and clear in Patrick’s head. It screamed: SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH.

  “I have no idea who he is,” Patrick said.

  “That name had some meaning to you. You responded to it. Tell us why.”

  Patrick smirked. “I thought you said Raoul Duke.”

  “Who the hell is that?”

  “An alias for Hunter S. Thompson. An idol of mine when I was starting out as a reporter.”

  “The Fear and Loathing Guy?” Lindell asked. Cordy was clueless.

  “Yes, amongst other things. Look that’s why I reacted. I really don’t know anything, but I am scared shitless. Why would I not try to help you?”

  “You look scared shitless because you know exactly who this might be,” Cordy said.

  “If you’re not involved at all, then how come they used your address?” Lindell asked. “We can protect you, Mr. Patrick.”

&
nbsp; “I don’t know anything. Maybe my address came up because that is just the way this fake ID was made. They took a real licence—mine—with address and all and then just photoshopped their picture on it.”

  Cordy and Lindell both nodded that this was possible, but they didn’t believe it was that simple. They didn’t trust Patrick.

  “They still chose you out of the millions of Californians to choose from.” Lindell said.

  Patrick decided to pull an ace.

  “Look detectives I am a member of the press, do you really want to drill me on something I am innocent and ignorant of. Do you really want another scathing article about the treatment of the Los Angeles Police Department toward their tax-paying citizens? This is a dumb coincidence, that’s all. I don’t think you want this to go any further and require me to involve a lawyer to maintain my right to protect my sources?”

  Lindell and Cordy looked at each other. They were both men who knew how to play politics. That was how they both got their gold shield earlier than the normal age. Pursuing down this road would lead to a chastising from the mayor and the police commissioner. This case was not meant to be solved, this riddle not meant to be answered. Cordy nodded in approval to Lindell.

  “You’re free to go,” Lindell said, and Patrick walked out of the room.

  “Fuck this Raoul,” Cordy said. “What do you want to do?”

  “Nothing, whatever happened, happened. But if these men are still alive they are not going to stick around. I’m willing to bet my shield they have left our fine city. That was why Raoul was in a rush to get to Europe when we met him. Let’s keep our heads in the sand and move onto the next case. I have a feeling this case has forces we can’t possible bring down, but crushing us would be nothing to them.”

  “I got a kid going to college in three years. I don’t need to ruin my career over this. Something is dirty—”