Coyote worked his way around me and pushed his head under my arm to gape. “Vato,” he whispered, “I don’t know whether to take notes or play with myself.”
“Take notes.”
A tiny camera on a telescoping boom rose in front of the stage. While the doctor fit on latex gloves, he recited the lecture bullets superimposed over a giant image of the woman’s open crotch filling the monitor screens. In the morning presentation he would cover the newest trends in cosmetic surgery: vaginal tightening and labial aesthetic reconstruction.
A couple of female doctors sat close to us. One leaned to her colleague. “Geez, men are always bragging about the size of their dicks. So why is a loose pussy the woman’s problem?”
Her friend replied, “And since when are labia ugly? Obviously the doc up there hasn’t taken a good look at his own scrotum.”
I doubted Dr. Niphe was here. As the head surgeon of the hospital, Niphe had more important matters than this peep show. Unless he suddenly jumped up and said, “Here I am,” Coyote and I had to go find him.
I pushed Coyote back and closed the door. We went down the hall away from the hospital entrance. This wing of the hospital was conference rooms or records storage. At the hub of the building complex, a sign by the elevators said: SURGICAL STAFF, 3RD FLOOR.
No mention of Dr. Niphe, but there was a good chance he’d be there.
A security guard greeted us when we got off on the third floor. He gave a polite yet wary smile. “May I help you?”
Coyote stepped close and scratched his armpit. “Where is H.R.? I’m looking for a job, ese.”
While Coyote distracted the guard, I removed my contacts.
“Actually,” I said, “I need to find Dr. Mordecai Niphe.”
The guard’s gaze swiveled to lock with mine. His eyes opened and his aura sizzled like a sparkler.
Coyote found a storage room. I pushed the guard inside and joined him.
I kept my focus deep into the guard’s pupils. “Where is Dr. Niphe’s office?”
“Room three-forty-six.”
“Is Niphe here today?”
“Yes.”
“Where can I find him?”
“I…I…don’t know.”
An interrogation using vampire hypnosis can cause distress if the victim can’t find an answer. Okay. I had enough info to start. To further confuse the guard when he came to, I unbuckled his belt and dropped his pants. Who would he complain to when he found himself like that?
I closed the door and joined Coyote in the hall.
The chattering of men’s voices echoed toward us.
I fumbled to get my contacts out of my pocket. I didn’t have time. I put on my sunglasses.
A group of seven men in green scrubs approached the elevators. They wore hair covers. A couple carried clipboards. They mobbed around us and conversed jovially. The cloth necklaces holding ID badges were tucked into the front of their scrubs. Was one of them Dr. Niphe?
An elevator pinged. The doors opened.
They crowded into the elevator. Just as the doors closed, one of them said, “So, Morty, you still got money on the Cardinals?”
A short man, with a rosy complexion and a thick shadow already on his cheeks and chin, flashed a smile in response. The skin crinkled at the corners of his eyes. His slate blue eyes beamed confidence through the lenses of circular wire-rim glasses. He stood in the center of the group, obviously the man in charge.
Morty.
Where had I seen that name? In the moment that I paused to reflect on where I’d seen that name, the doors started to close. My mind raced back to my visit to Cragnow’s office. He had offered bagels, and in the bottom of the basket was a card with the inscription:
To Crag. Thanks for everything.
Morty
Short for Mordecai?
Dr. Mordecai Niphe. The head surgeon. Roxy Bronze’s former boss and the man who had destroyed her medical career. Why was Dr. Mordecai Niphe thanking porn king Cragnow?
This Morty? Damn good odds.
I raised my sunglasses to zap Niphe and the others, but none made eye contact. Their red auras simmered like a bed of warm, inviting coals. I should’ve yelled to get their attention. But I hesitated, and my hands slapped the doors after they had shut.
The elevator climbed to the fourth floor and halted.
My kundalini noir writhed in frustration. I clenched my fists to maintain composure. I looked in vain for the stairs. Mordecai Niphe had been standing right beside me and I didn’t get him.
CHAPTER 17
The elevator started again, rose to the fifth floor, and stopped.
I rubbed my forehead to settle my thoughts. If my goal was to kill Dr. Niphe and damn the consequences, I could pull the doors open, climb up the elevator shaft, break through the bottom of the elevator, and rip the doctor to pieces. But I needed to get information from him and get it as inconspicuously as possible.
One positive discovery; I had gotten a good look at Mordecai Niphe and his aura, which was as unique and recognizable as his face. I told Coyote about finding Mordecai’s name—as Morty—in Cragnow’s office. What business did Mordecai and Cragnow have together?
Coyote nodded in understanding. “Sí, es mucha mas caca.” Yes, it’s a lot more shit. “So what now, Felix?”
“Niphe was dressed like he was going to surgery. Even if we locate the doc, getting to him will be difficult.” I started following the room numbers. “Let’s see what we can find out about him in his office.”
Room number 340 was the receptionist’s foyer. Niphe’s office was somewhere behind her.
I hypnotized the receptionist while Coyote stood guard. All the offices were empty. I found Dr. Niphe’s. A printout next to a laptop computer on his desk listed today’s schedule. He was in surgery until noon. Then a luncheon with the hospital’s board of directors. Followed by a group consultation. More meetings. Dr. Niphe was a busy man. I wouldn’t have the opportunity to get him alone here in the hospital, not today.
Dr. Niphe’s desk was locked. I touched the keyboard on the laptop and got prompted for a password.
Coyote signaled with a loud cough, and I hustled out of the doctor’s office. Coyote motioned that someone was coming down the hall toward us. I could’ve asked the receptionist for Niphe’s home address but as it was, I barely had time to wake her.
Coyote and I left the foyer and passed a group of men and women in scrubs approaching from the direction of the elevators. Dr. Niphe wasn’t among them.
“Niphe has to leave, no?” Coyote asked.
“Eventually,” I replied. “We’ll stake out the parking lot and get him there.”
We went outside to the staff parking lot. The asphalt was packed with SUVs and expensive cars.
Coyote tilted his cap back and squinted. “Which is his, dude?”
“Easy,” I replied. I walked to the closest parking spot to the entrance. A sign posted to the sidewalk said: RESERVED FOR THE HEAD SURGEON. VIOLATORS WILL BE TOWED IMMEDIATELY.
The car parked in the spot was a long, sleek, black BMW coupe. It looked like a torpedo with wheels.
I cupped my hands and peered into a side window. A red light for the alarm blinked. On the front passenger’s seat rested a yarmulke and a brochure with a Star of David and titled with what seemed like a Hebrew fellowship of some kind. Niphe didn’t sound Jewish, but Mordecai did. Maybe his last name had been Anglicized or his family had converted.
Coyote rubbed his fingertips. “Ese, I could break in and poke around. I’ll bet there’s something useful in the glove box.”
I stood away from the car. There were black globes on the hospital building corners. Inside the globes were security cameras. “Better not chance it.”
A stand of tall, mature trees shaded the northwest corner of the hospital grounds. Up in the branches we’d have a good view of the staff entrance and the parking lot. Even though Niphe’s schedule said that he wouldn’t leave for hours, he might have a change in
plans, and we’d have to follow him.
I scouted for the best vantage and selected an especially lush maple. We ditched the coats and name tags into a trash can. I placed my fingers and toes against the bark and ascended the trunk with the ease of a gecko.
Coyote simply walked up.
I settled on a thick, well-shaded branch. It was still morning and yet I was hot and hungry. Coyote found a branch in the shadows, lay on his back, pulled his cap down over his face, and began to snore.
The stakeout. The least glamorous and yet often the most valuable activity in investigations. To endure the agonizing boredom and forestall restlessness, I slowed my metabolism into near rigor mortis until I was nothing more than a pair of eyeballs fixed on the area around Dr. Niphe’s car.
The sun arced overhead and began its gradual descent over the San Fernando Valley. People came and went. A praying mantis climbed over my face and perched on my nose, where it snagged little bugs trying to fly up my nostrils.
At last the cool veil of night fell upon us. The praying mantis went wherever insects go to sleep. I sped up my metabolism, flexed my cramped joints, and blinked to moisten my eyes. Nine o’clock approached. Still no Dr. Niphe.
I heard slurping from behind. Coyote sat on the fork of two branches and sucked on the neck of what looked like a large headless rat.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
Coyote wiped blood from his mouth. “Es una zarigüeya.” It’s an opossum. “Want some?”
“No thanks.”
“It’s fresh.”
“Not anymore, it’s not.”
I called Katz Meow on my cell. Still nothing but her voice mail. I feared this was all I would ever get from her now.
At a quarter to midnight, Dr. Niphe and a group of other people came out of the hospital. Their glowing red auras bobbed in the darkness. They clustered around his car. A security guard watched from the hospital entrance.
“Coyote, it’s time.”
My initial plan was to intercept the doctor here and zap him. But with all those people around, I’d have to stalk him and pounce somewhere else. That meant following him. In what?
All we had was Coyote’s wreck on wheels.
Keeping in the shadows, Coyote and I shimmied down the tree and snuck back to his truck. The straight six in the old Ford did a good job of wheezing and groaning but little else.
Cursing my luck, I pushed the truck away from its parking spot. When Coyote had the front end pointed north, I held on to the tailgate, ran, and pushed.
Up ahead, Dr. Niphe started his BMW. With a cell phone pressed to his face, he backed up and maneuvered toward the exit. His aura burned hot as a flare. He obviously still had a lot of business on his mind.
Coyote’s truck acted as if it never wanted to get going. “C’mon, you pile of junk,” I said. “If you don’t start, I’m going to turn you into a box of nails.”
Whether or not the old Ford understood my threat, I don’t know, but the engine did crank over. I dashed beside the cab and jumped in. I held back the urge to punch Coyote for putting me through this hassle.
He kept his attention on the truck, as if driving this heap was as difficult and delicate as piloting a nuclear submarine.
Niphe drove his BMW like he intended to flog every horse under the hood. He rolled through stop signs and barreled down the streets. Good luck keeping up with him.
“What’s the itch in his pants?” I asked.
Coyote doubled-clutched and winced when he mashed the gears. He had a bad case of opossum breath. “Algo vergonzoso.” Something scandalous. “Tiene que ser por dinero o una vieja.” Has to be for money or a woman.
Niphe aimed his BMW onto the Glendale Freeway and headed north. Once on the freeway, Niphe zipped around traffic like he was in a fighter jet. In Coyote’s beater we’d lose him for sure.
Fortunately, Los Angeles traffic rescued us. The freeway slowed to a near stop. We joined the other cars bunching around Niphe. Everyone’s aura brightened in agitation, Niphe’s more than anyone else’s.
Traffic crawled forward and separated. We followed the doctor when he merged into the lanes going west on the 210 toward Pasadena.
Something under our truck rattled loose and clanged onto the road. Coyote tipped his head out the window to see what had fallen off. “I hope you’re wearing comfortable shoes, vato.”
Niphe exited and headed uphill on Lincoln Avenue. We followed him through northern Pasadena and then Altadena. The trees and rooftops of the neighborhood were silhouetted by a white glow coming from uphill.
Niphe turned east on Loma Linda Drive, which ran parallel to the steep foothills of the Angeles National Forest.
The glow came from light reflected off a huge white obelisk fixed atop an octagonal plinth. The plinth sat on a truncated pyramid that straddled the intersection of long four-story buildings set at right angles. The predominant architectural theme was acres of glass and chrome siding. Under the glare of dozens of spotlights the building complex looked like a gigantic piece of costume jewelry.
Coyote let his pickup coast to a halt.
His lupine tapetum lucidum reflected a surreal glow. He whispered, “Me voy a pegar ciego.” I’m going to go blind. He rubbed his eyes and blinked as if in disbelief, then put on his sunglasses.
“Whatever you do,” I said, “don’t stop the engine.”
Too late. The six-banger coughed and sputtered. Coyote pumped the gas and slid the choke, but all went quiet. Both Coyote and I hung our heads and sighed.
Niphe’s BMW turned off Loma Linda and onto the wide driveway flanked by a simple Christian cross about ten feet tall. Standing next to the cross was a granite marker the size of a garage door. Engraved on the marker was: WELCOME TO THE HOME OF THE JOURNEY WITH GOD™ MINISTRIES. REVEREND DALE JOURNEY, PASTOR.
I’d seen snippets of Reverend Journey on his television show in between the channels presenting bass fishing and how to get rich selling distressed real estate. Journey bagged souls for Christ and evidently made a handsome living off his finder’s fee.
The driveway led to two terraced parking lots, both of which were gloomy and empty. Niphe paused at the west end. The dim light of a cell phone outlined his face. Who was he talking to? And why was he waiting here?
The growing smell of deceit and conspiracy was enough to drive the needle on my internal stink-o-meter into the red.
We had a megachurch that looked liked it was designed for the fat Elvis. Then there was Dr. Mordecai Niphe, chief inquisitor and author of Freya Krieger’s demise. As far as I could tell, the medical community considered Niphe an upstanding doctor. So why was he—a Jew—driving like a demon in the middle of the night to one of the largest Evangelical ministries in the country? How did that fit into his palling around with the porn mogul Cragnow Vissoom? Did Niphe know Cragnow was a vampire?
Under hypnosis, what would Niphe reveal? From where I sat in Coyote’s truck, the distance to Niphe was about two lengths of a football field. His aura looked fuzzy from the tendrils of anxiety and wariness that writhed about him. Other than the cross and granite marker, there was no cover between the doctor and me. Moving even at vampire speed I doubted that I could cross the openness and surprise him.
Coyote took off his sunglasses and pulled his arms out of his denim jacket.
“What gives?” I asked.
Coyote began unbuttoning his shirt. “He’d be expecting a man.”
“So you’re going to transform into a…”
“They don’t call me Coyote for nothing.”
A coyote would be a surprise but not unusual here along the foothills.
“Good,” I said. “Distract him enough for me to get close.”
“Vato, if he gets out of his car, you’d better bring a shot for rabies.”
Niphe closed his cell phone. His aura’s undulating tendrils calmed. The BMW coupe continued up the driveway, past the upper tier of the parking lot, and disappeared behind the main building.
Who had Niphe come to see? Maybe they had something to do with the death of Roxy Bronze and vampire–human collusion, or maybe they didn’t. There was one way to find out.
I would ask.
Politely.
With my talons around their necks.
CHAPTER 18
Coyote and I stepped out of the truck and trotted toward the church.
Halfway across the lower parking lot, Coyote stopped. He began walking backward toward his truck. “Vato…”
A searchlight from uphill bore upon us. The light hurt my eyes and I brought my hand up to shield them.
A voice yelled through a megaphone. “This is private property. You are trespassing.”
Two red auras moved behind the glare of the spotlight. At our far right, two more red auras sat in a vehicle with the lights dimmed. The vehicle rolled down the driveway on the eastern side of the parking lot. Yellow lights suddenly flashed and rotated on top of both vehicles.
Security guards. Armed perhaps. But no matter, subduing them wasn’t worth the risk of blowing our cover.
The second vehicle hit us with another spotlight. Scissored between the two intersecting shafts of light, Coyote and I skulked back to his truck. To add to the humiliation, his Ford wouldn’t start and I had to push.
A guard taunted us through his megaphone. “Next time get a truck with a motor, you stupid bastards.”
Asshole.
When we rounded the turn and headed down the slope on Lake Avenue, the spotlights went off.
For all my street smarts and vampire cunning, we were driving down the road to nowhere. “What the hell is with this goddamn investigation?”
Coyote shifted gears and the truck lurched forward. “Símon. It’s confusing.”
“More than confusing. What do you think is going on?”
Coyote’s expression became uncharacteristically serious. He tipped his ball cap back. A wispy tuft of hair curled free. “Don’t put me on the spot, ese. I’m not much in the ‘think’ department.”
“Let’s start at the beginning. Interrupt when you have something to add,” I said. “Freya Krieger rats on Dr. Mordecai Niphe for botching an operation and killing the patient. Niphe gets his revenge by destroying Freya’s medical career.”
X-Rated Bloodsuckers Page 11
