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PROLOGUE
Three months ago, the first corpse was found up north in the outskirts of Fresno. Slashes at the wrists and missing blood made everyone raise their brows. Since then, six more bodies have been discovered; all female, all exsanguinated. Three more girls were found in or around Fresno, two turned up just outside of Bakersfield, and the last was found right here in good ol' Los Angeles, making it body number seven and a ‘vampire’ in my backyard.
To no surprise, the media glommed onto the tragedy dubbing it the Vampire Massacres. These murders have had the biggest West Coast media coverage since that football player slaughtered his wife and some waiter. Oh, sorry, ‘allegedly’! I make my living as a journalist, mostly freelance, but since the media has freaked over these recent murders that slightly resemble a ‘vampire attack’, I’ve decided to do some digging into the case and write my first true crime novel.
Seeing as though these murders have yet to be solved and the case come to a non-climactic end, I obviously have very little basis for a best seller, but I've got to start somewhere. The way I see it, the cops are all sitting around with their thumbs in their asses waiting for clues to fall into their ever expanding laps. My plan is to have a little chat with some local vampire kids. I figure I’ll get more insight into the world the media has so easily clung to as the culprit of these crimes, in one night than all of the counties upstanding police force have in three months. Or, I'll just be bombarded with a bunch of dip shits in black lipstick and plastic teeth who read way too much Anne Rice and don't know squat. Either way, I have a premise for a book. I'm thinking either “When Vampires Attack” or “Vamp Kids: Kill 'em All!” A best seller either way.
As long as I can keep my head on straight and my blood where it belongs I’ll be alright.
Let’s face it, naked dead bitches are turning up missing blood, there’s no way this’ll end pretty
.
CHAPTER 1
A well paid source let it slip during a very early morning phone call that a garbage man had stumbled upon the naked corpse of a young female in an alley near Bonita Terrace this morning. This would be the seventh and latest victim of the so-called Vampire Massacres. According to the many flapping jaws, the latest dead girl was a stripper that worked at a seedy little joint in the badlands of West Hollywood called Le Pussy Cat. If putting the “Le” in the title was supposed to make it classy, it wasn’t working. After a thorough check of the morning news, I was certain this tidbit of information hadn’t made its way to the masses just yet.
In hopes that my favorite homicide detective will be there just dying to let me know all the dirty little details, I’m hauling my chunky ass to that crime scene and pronto. Okay, so I usually have to beg, steal, and borrow to get anything out of him, but in the long run, it's usually a win-win.
Squeezing into a pair of jeans and worn-in Converse, I whipped my dark, wild hair up into a ponytail and called it a day. I figure, if in the event my detective isn't investigating this particular crime scene, I'd better not look like part of the swarming vultures waiting with pens and microphones in hand. I’ve discovered in the last four years as a professional journalist, only witless, toothless, I-didn't-really-see-nothin'-but-I-wanna-be-famous-yokels, actually talk to the media. On the other hand, people love to talk to each other. They enjoy revealing what they know and what they saw to others in their community. Trust me, it’s damn near pointless to interrupt the hard working police from their standing-around-doing-nothing-duty to ask a few questions.
I grabbed my purse, which is really just a big pocket for my money, keys, and phone. As I did, I caught a glimpse of the scattered mail on the table by my front door. On the very top was my most delinquent bill, open and screaming at me to pay it. College isn’t cheap and now, three years after graduation, I’m faced with the repayment of over twenty thousand dollars’ worth of student loans. I groaned at the thought of extreme debt and shoved the damn thing in my purse. At that, I threw my shades on and I was out the door.
My piece of shit door has been busted since the day I moved in so it takes me a while to get it locked up. I have to pull on the knob while I turn the deadbolt over. It’s such a pain in the ass, but after a full minute, and a few choice words; success! Now, down a flight of quite treacherous stairs, past one barking dog, and under a very low tree branch just over the last step, which I have complained about twelve times now to no avail, I emerge onto the city street.
Damn you sun. Vampires in Sunny California? My ass.
It's May, so it's not quite sweltering yet but the seats in my Geo Metro were close to scalding. Living in a tiny quad-plex provides very little parking, so nine times out of ten, I have to park on the street, which provides no shade. I turned the key and the engine fired right up. Trusty old piece of crap, I'll give it that much. The A/C, on the other hand, not so much. I cranked the dial over to “blasting” and waited while the air flowing from the vents slowly moved from broiling, to tepid, to bearable. Five minutes later, I was finally pulling away from the curb near my apartment on my way to see a man about a dead girl.
The air in my car was finally cooling my skin as I found an empty spot of curb on Hillcrest Avenue to lean my two door hatchback against. I was about a block down from all the action, but I could clearly see the crowd. I got out of the car and let my soft soled shoes meander across the cracked pavement towards the horde of people corralled on the safe side of the yellow tape.
When I finally got close enough to see the real action, I was thwarted by some crazy insanely tall people, although being only five-foot four, most people are taller than me. I had to wriggle my way between concerned neighbors and your usual gawkers. Once I got close enough to touch the police line, I scanned the scene for my friend on the force. I use the word friend loosely. A more accurate statement would be just friends. At least, that’s what we’ve been shooting for anyway. Alright, that’s what I’ve been shooting for.
As per usual, there were a handful of newbie officers guarding the perimeter trying to look very official. Behind them were a couple of people looking behind a blue dumpster covered in graffiti and dried sludge. They wore surgical gloves, and black shirts with “FORENSICS” in bright yellow on the back; no badges, just laminates. There was no naked dead girl to be seen, so I assumed they’d already hauled her away.
The surprisingly overweight officer standing slightly to my left finally moved revealing a police cruiser about forty feet away where two men wearing shirts and ties were talking and smiling: obviously detectives. One of the men was short and round, kind of like Santa. His hair cut so short against his head, I could see the red of a sunburn showing through on his scalp and his nonexistent chin disappeared into a high white collar. Not my guy. The other was tall and largely shaped, like a football player not like a fat guy. With perfectly cut and expertly combed medium brown hair. I watched him talk and smile. I liked his smile; it made the corners of his beautiful aquamarine eyes crinkle up just a little. This was Detective Michael Petersen. My only trustworthy and usually generous inside-man. Who also just so happens to have seen me naked on more than one occasion. It was a thing.
Waving your hands about and yelling, ‘Hey Mik
e’, is not the way to go about this one Dylan. Think of something else. I call myself by name when I talk in my own head. I also give excellent advice. Usually.
I stood there for a moment, purposely looking confused and scared. It didn't take long before I had an officer hovering over me. The damsel in distress act works every time.
“Is there something the matter, Miss?” Flapped the overweight officer who’d been blocking my view only moments ago.
“Um...yes. It's just that...I saw that woman last night. I'm not sure what kind of information I can provide, but do you think I should speak to a detective?” I gave him my best doe-eyed look.
“Wait right here for just a sec', alright?” He looked panicked, not sure who to go to about this.
Lucked out with a newbie. Score.
I nodded once before he spun around on his heel and headed off toward my detective. I watched as he explained what he had just heard. I watched as both detectives looked over and around the large uniform to find me. Then I watched as Mike, Detective Petersen, realized who I was, rolled his eyes, and gave the “I'll handle this” nod to the others standing around him. He briskly walked my way, giving me the stink eye the entire time.
Oh, this is going to be so much fun.
“What?” he asked abruptly, trying to intimidate me with his six-foot three bulky build.
“Such hostility, Mike. Did we not get our Wheaties this morning?”
“Cut the bitch act, Dylan, I’m in no mood to banter with you today.” He was serious.
Cut the shit or lose out, idiot.
“You know why I'm here. What can you give me?” I looked at him as sincerely as I possibly could for a second, then finished it up with a crooked smile.
“I dunno...what can you give me?” He smiled too, adding a dirty little wink at the end. It drives me nuts when he acts as though I might actually sleep with him at this point, but desperate is as desperate does.
“Nothing, right now. It's hot and your friends are watching,” I said, nodding toward our own personal audience. He glanced behind him to see the other detective and the uniform staring at us from their spot at the cruiser. “I just want to know if she’s girl number seven...can you tell me that?” He paused and stared, the muscles in his jaw moved letting me know he really wasn’t in the mood for me and my shit. “Look, off the record. I’m not even working on a story. Just getting my facts together. Swear.” Sort of.
Relenting, he finally sighed and let it spill. “A body turned up behind that dumpster early this morning. We are almost certain she lived in these apartments. There was a small cut on her neck and inner thigh. Apparently her clothing was only partially removed” This was shocking, not only because of her career choice, but because she was the only one left that way.
“Is she 'The Counts' latest victim?” I asked with a light chuckle.
“You really have no heart do you?” I opened my mouth to rebut, but he continued before I could answer that. “We can't be sure until we get the M.E.’s report back. We didn't find any obvious traces of blood in the area, but we need to know if she has any left or not to be sure.”
“You think maybe they were interrupted? That would explain why she still had some clothes on. Although, I’d always assumed the clothes were removed ante mortem. It’d make sense that the clothes need to be taken off in order to...perform...the blood draining,” I said indifferently.
“We'll know more once all of the evidence is processed. As of right now, we can’t officially say that this girl was the seventh victim. But, Dylan, off the record, watch your neck. There are vampires roaming the streets of Los Angeles.” He flashed a halfhearted smirk, turned, and walked away.
I stood for a minute more watching the police do their work, listening to the murmuring speculation of the crowd behind me. It was starting to get really hot standing out in the open sun. Sweat began to drip down the backs of my legs.
Ugh, fuck jeans.
I had gotten what I came for. It was hot, and all these people were making me nervous. I turned slowly, so as not to slam into the nosy person standing directly behind me. I had to push my way back out of the herd of people pressed in around me. After a few elbows and snide remarks, I was out of the thick of it and headed back to the sanctuary of my car. I opened the door and waited for a second to let the hot air trapped inside waft out. I plopped down into the seat, instantly regretting it as the heat soaked through my jeans and burned my skin. I quickly turned the car on and waited for the A/C to kick in. Once the air was cool enough, I shut my door and headed back home.
On the way home I began processing the events that had just transpired. I thought of the blue dumpster, the alley it was parked in, and what Mike had said about the girl being partially dressed. Ugh stupid Mike, “Oh watch your neck there's vampires in L.A.”.
Whatever. There’s no such thing as vampires.
CHAPTER 2
I made the climb up the stairs to my apartment. The sun had moved across the sky and hid itself behind the trees, thank God. I yelled at my door for sticking and pushed it open. The air conditioning had been on all day and it was wonderfully cold in my apartment. I flopped down onto the couch, the only new thing I owned, and closed my eyes. I could only relax for a few minutes before I had to go take a shower. I was sticky and smelly and had a meeting in about three hours.
At the insistence of my best friend and tabloid extraordinaire, I’m meeting with a ‘vampire’ by the name of Philippe. I've been wondering if he came up with that name all by himself or if he had help from his vampy buds. Of course, when he answered the ad I placed on Craigslist asking for anyone who could shed some light on local ‘vampire’ activity, he was very adamant about meeting only after dark. Hence the late night rendezvous.
Digging through my closet, I came to the dramatic realization that I thoroughly suck. I’m only twenty-five but ninety percent of the time I have to dress like the First Lady. The Mayor’s not likely to give an exclusive to a twenty-something in a slutty little number wearing three-inch heels, or maybe he would, I don't know. The point is I have hardly anything but slacks, blouses, jeans, and wife-beaters. None of which is a proper choice for tonight's appointment.
After nearly a half an hour of trying things on, I had finally made my choice. Jeans and a black shirt with buttons up the center. A little makeup and the right shoes and it’d be perfect. Eh, who am I kidding? It was the best I was going to get and my best wasn't good enough. I stood in the mirror for a few minutes, really dissecting the outfit I’d put together. I let out a frustrated sigh and unbuttoned a few top buttons to let the girls free a little. I’m chunky all over but accentuating the twins helps to distract people from my gigantic ass. That helped a little, but I was going to need a lot of make-up and some stripper shoes just to not look like a damn soccer mom gone wild.
It was already a quarter to eight and I still had to find the place I was to meet Philippe. I just love saying that name, Philippe. I straightened my hair at lightning speed, threw on some black liner and mascara, and began the search for the perfect shoes. Just like my wardrobe, all of my shoes are either business or casual, no option three disco shoes. I had two choices, either a pair of black leather knee high boots with heels I could kill myself in or a pair of simple black two-inch pumps. Style or comfort? This decision has haunted women since the dawn of man, seeing as though they are the only reason we wear this shit in the first place. I went with comfort. The pumps were actually pretty cute and fairly comfortable to wear. In other words, I wasn't going to eat shit at some point.
I shot one last check in the mirror, determined not to have another incident like last year. I was forced to purchase a full length mirror last year when I went to an awards show with my dress tucked into the back of my panties. I hated my own reflection, but my boobs looked killer. Thank God for small miracles. I grabbed my purse and remembered one last thing, my .38. The J-frame is smaller than my Beretta so it fits in my purse, plus it has a pink grip. I’d never heard of th
e club where I was to meet Philippe, so I figured better safe than sorry.
Mike, Detective Petersen, forced me to get my concealed permit last year when I was attacked and nearly raped while trying to take pictures of an old crime scene in Valencia. Then he forbid me from hitting up shitty parts of town alone. Well, he tried.
I repeated the same mundane ritual as I do every time I need to leave the house. Fucked up door, stupid dog, tree branch of death, not quite so hot car. I had about thirty-five minutes to make the drive from my place in the Yucca Corridor to the secret meeting spot in Mission Junction.
Who in their right mind would put a night club there? I fucking hate Mission Junction.
I turned the key and my piece of shit fired right up as usual. I sat for a minute letting the car warm up. Okay, so I was actually preparing myself for the idiocy I was certain I would encounter tonight. But I'm sure letting the engine prepare itself couldn't hurt either. I finally pulled away from the curb and headed off toward the freeway.
It was only a quarter to nine when I pulled up in front of the decrepit brick building on Baker Street. I was glad I had brought the gun. The windows were boarded up, there was graffiti adorning the huge steal front door. Above it MIDNIGHT’S DREAM flashed on a small red neon sign.
Oh, that's original.
I had to use all of my girly strength to pull open the industrial sized door. My bitch meter was beginning to slide toward overload. A stiff drink was calling my name.
Once inside, I walked directly to the ramshackle bar and ordered a whiskey and Coke. The place was actually kind of packed for being such a dive. The place where all the rejects go I guess. Inside, it just looked like a bar. It even had the pool table and beer signs to prove it.
Dark, dank, and full of losers, yup, just a bar.
I found an empty table and plopped down on a nondescript wooden stool. I was pretty early but I figured I might as well keep a look out for my newest informant. I began scanning the crowd when I saw an extremely tall and comically pale, man, boy, whatever, walking toward me. I scoffed to myself at his appearance. Not that he didn’t blend nicely with the other vlad-clad winners crowded in the tiny, stinky, room.
The Scene (Dylan Hart Odyssey of the Occult Series) Page 1
