I rose from the chair, debating whether to tell her the truth. My kundalini noir turned upon itself in indecision.
Once I—as the Japanese say—opened my kimono, then what? Suppose Veronica rejected me as a lover and saw me as a monster? At that point there was no chance of her serving as a chalice; I’d have to convert her into a vampire or kill her.
Veronica garnished the Cape Codders with lime wedges and clasped the glasses with napkins.
I couldn’t decide what to do so I kept my head down as she came close. She hummed a merengue. Veronica bent over to set the glasses on tile coasters on the coffee table.
Her scent was a banquet of sumptuous aromas: the spicy tang of pheromones; the saltiness of perspiration; and the lacing of the perfumes in her shampoo, soap, and deodorant. The heat from her body was like a warm loaf of honey bread waiting to be devoured.
“You’re quiet,” Veronica said.
I couldn’t reveal myself as a vampire. Not yet. Not now. The kimono stayed closed. For her sake, I’d pretend to be a mortal.
I grasped her wrists and pulled her upright.
Veronica’s eyes swiveled to meet mine.
My hypnotic hold was less a stare than a caress. Even so, she wouldn’t remember my vampire nature.
The irises of her brown eyes dilated slowly like two dark flowers blossoming. Her aura notched brighter instead of the usual fiery surge.
She leaned into me, and we kissed. I asked her to remove her jewelry and she dropped the silver pieces on the coffee table.
I nuzzled her throat. My fangs hunted for the choicest spot to feed.
Her warm blood jetted over my tongue and I guzzled it with delight. My palate was overcome with layered tastes: pheromones; iron; copper; the traces of vegetables, grains, and spices; and nicotine from her gum. I lapped the puncture wounds to share my narcotic enzymes.
My head swooned in delirious pleasure. I pulled away to pace my feeding.
Veronica rubbed her neck against my chin. “More,” she whispered. Her aura sizzled with lust.
I fed again and she fumbled with my belt buckle. Soon we were naked and engaged in a furious bout of jungle love on the cigar chair. We stopped once to slurp the Cape Codders and went back at it with renewed vigor.
By 1 A.M. she was spent and I close to it. We lay naked on the carpet of the living room floor. The cigar chair rested on its back, and the coffee table was upside down with one leg broken.
A beach towel covered Veronica’s sleeping from. Her aura radiated a soft sheen of contentment. I traced my hand over her side.
I wanted Veronica more than ever—and not just for sex.
But I was a vampire. I wasn’t supposed to have these feelings.
CHAPTER 32
Veronica and I were in my Chrysler, stuck in morning traffic. She sipped coffee from a paper cup and nibbled on an apricot muffin.
“After last night,” she said, “I figured you’d be famished. Can’t believe you don’t want at least a hot cup of java.”
Only if it’s got blood. “I’ll manage.”
She relaxed contentedly against her seat. “This was a repeat of the first time you stayed with me.”
“I was hoping it would be better.”
She chuckled. “It was. But I mean the fading in and out. I didn’t drink that much, did I?”
“If you were a camel, no.”
She bopped my cheek with a big muffin crumb. “If that was true, I should have a hangover worse than this traffic.”
“I don’t know what kind of hangovers you get. We barely know each other.”
She hit me with another crumb. “Liar. You know me well enough to play me like a piano.”
“That’s a compliment, considering I’ve never had lessons.”
Veronica swigged coffee to hide a smile. “Maybe not, but you’ve done your homework somewhere.”
She tugged at the scarf around her neck. “What’s with you and these hickies? We’re not in high school.”
“You complaining?”
“But the scarf makes it obvious what I’m hiding.”
“You complaining?”
Veronica took my hand. Her fingers stroked my wrist. “Of course not. If I complain about anything, it’s that we haven’t spent enough time together.”
True.
And now we were about to be apart again. This worried me. Suppose someone threatened Veronica and I wasn’t around to protect her? I had to warn her in case of trouble.
“Yesterday we talked about why no one has come after you,” I said.
Veronica raised one eyebrow. “Why are you bringing that up?”
“Because you might be in danger. Three of the people I’ve gone to see in this investigation are either missing or dead.”
Veronica’s eyebrow flattened, and she pulled her hand from me. “And you’ve waited until now to tell me? Who were these people?”
“I don’t want to say too much. Trust me on this.”
“And you told me this, why? What am I supposed to do?”
“Stay alert. At the first sign of anything suspicious, anything, call me. Protect yourself. Lock your doors. If you’re caught in the open, hide. You own a gun?”
“Yeah, I got an arsenal under my bed.” She drilled me with the sarcasm. “Of course not. Do the police know this?”
“They do. The problem is I’m certain that rogue cops are in on it. If you call 911, chances could be that the wrong boys in blue show up.”
Veronica looked out her window. “Felix, two minutes ago I was on a cloud. How am I supposed to feel now? What am I supposed to do?”
I hadn’t thought about this.
Veronica turned in her seat and gave a stare hot as a branding iron. “Answer me. What am I supposed to do?”
“You could stay with me.”
“I have a life,” she replied. “I have a job. Why don’t you stay with me?” She put a sarcastic zing in the question.
She knew I had to work on the case. “What would you prefer? That I not tell you? Roxy is dead. And people close to her are turning up dead. I don’t want you to be among them.”
“So you’re telling me, that after you drop me off, it’ll be up to me to keep my ass out of the grave?”
“I just want you to be careful.”
“And that’s why you asked if I had a gun? To be careful?”
We stopped in front of her apartment.
“Veronica, I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“That makes two of us.” Veronica pulled the door handle.
“I want to see you again,” I said. “To continue what we started last night.”
Veronica blinked those gorgeous brown eyes. I couldn’t read anything in them except anger.
She said finally, “Felix, there’s so much about you I don’t understand. And now I’m at risk for what reason?”
“I don’t…”
She put a finger in front of my mouth to shush me. “When you find out, then maybe we’ll see what can happen.”
Veronica scooted across the leather seat and closed the door.
The sun was too bright and cheery for the mood that settled on me. I needed storm clouds and cold rain. If I wanted this chilly heartache, I would’ve found a woman in Seattle.
But I was in sunny Los Angeles, and my investigation waited.
CHAPTER 33
At noon I had an appointment with Andrew Tonic, Roxy’s lawyer. I had time before the meeting, so I drove to Rosemead and inspected what was left of Fred Daniels’s home.
Piles of furniture, interior accessories, and clothing littered the front grass. Black smudges ringed the windows and doors. Most of the roof had caved in.
For all his guff about protecting “family business,” Henry wasn’t around to defend his brother’s house from thieves or my snooping. As I poked through the discarded belongings, I discovered why. Everything was scorched, stained, and reeked of smoke. A blackened filing cabinet rested across a sofa. I tried one drawer and
it opened, dumping a soggy mush of charred paper.
The house wasn’t in much better condition. The interior looked like it had been decorated by a suicide bomber. If anything important survived the fire, I’d never find it.
My watch said it was time to go if I wanted to make my appointment with Tonic. I drove to Trixie’s Bistro on Wilshire Boulevard, east of a palisade of marble and glass high-rises.
I had much hope in this meeting with Andrew Tonic. Did he know who murdered Roxy? I doubted that. But Tonic knew something useful about the players in this drama. Useful in what way? Could be that these players—including Cragnow Vissoom, Lucky Rosario, Mordecai Niphe, and Petale Venin—had private agendas they didn’t want known? And if the right individual—meaning me—knew these agendas, then the conspiracy behind Roxy’s murder would unravel.
And still nothing new about the real reason I was in Los Angeles: to unmask vampire–human collusion.
I paused beside a newspaper vending machine on the opposite corner from Trixie’s. The bistro was set back from the sidewalk to allow generous seating under the front awning. A white fence bounded the al fresco area. Customers entered between two trellises thick with roses.
Sliding my sunglasses down my nose, I read auras. Specifically, I searched for a vampire’s orange blur. There weren’t any. None of the red human auras betrayed a threat. When humans schemed violence, no matter how well they cemented a poker face, their auras advertised their emotionals like movie posters.
It was six minutes past noon. I folded my sunglasses into a shirt pocket, put in my contacts, and cut across the intersection.
The maître d’, an anorexic brunette sporting a crispy tan she must have gotten in a rotisserie, welcomed me. I said I had a reservation with Andrew Tonic. She traced a finger across her seating chart, waved to a server, and asked that I follow him. We snaked around crowded tables and were engulfed by the din of conversations and rattling dishes.
The server stopped beside a table on the left alongside the white fence. A balding man in a dark tailored suit put down his cocktail glass and stood to greet me.
I recognized Andrew Tonic from photos on the Internet. Tonic at an award’s banquet. Tonic in tennis whites from a country club newsletter. A young and hairy Tonic graduating from the Columbia School of Law.
He had an egg-shaped head, wide at the top and tapering to a dimpled chin. A series of horizontal wrinkles creased his brow, as if the weight of his legal career had caused his skull to sag. Strands of thinning hair covered his smooth pate. I gave him points for this. In L.A., the land of make-believe and cosmetic anything, Tonic chose to forego the vanity of a rug or hair plugs.
Tonic motioned to the chair opposite his. The server pulled it out for me, and I thanked him. Tonic and I sat.
“How’s the vodka and tonic?” I asked, knowing how particular Tonic was about the ingredients he used to season his liver.
He smacked his lips dramatically. “Every sip is like Christmas.” An alcoholic haze dulled the shine of his gray eyes. He was on seconds, maybe thirds. Tonic rested his elbows on the table. He wore a thick wedding band and gold cuff links.
I scanned the menu. Why did I agree to meet for lunch if I couldn’t drench my food with blood? Should I try raw beef? I set the menu aside. “Andrew, I hope you are as eager to talk today as you sounded last week.”
“Even more so.”
“I’m curious about your motives. What do you have to gain by sharing information with me?”
“Felix, like any lawyer, the skin around my ego is this thick.” Tonic pinched a thumb and index finger. “I don’t like what happened to Freya Krieger and how that made me look. It’s one thing to lose a case, quite another to watch my client get tied to a rack and pulled apart.”
“Why didn’t you appeal?”
Tonic rubbed the stem of his cocktail glass and stared at his drink. “Freya gave up. The process broke her. Spiritually and financially.” He cupped the glass and sipped. “I’ve got to give her credit, though. After resurrecting herself as Roxy Bronze, she walked into my office and handed me a check to square the outstanding balance of my fees.”
“And now she’s dead.”
Tonic nodded and took a sip.
“You can’t undo that,” I said. “And you didn’t answer my question. Why are you talking to me?”
“Vicarious petty revenge.” Tonic set the glass down.
“Against whom?” I asked.
“For starters, Dr. Mordecai Niphe.”
“You believe he was involved with her murder?”
Tonic looked up and opened his hands, as if pleading to the heavens. “Please, God, what I wouldn’t give to see Niphe do the perp walk while singing ‘Folsom Prison Blues.’” Tonic folded his hands and turned his eyes back to me. “But the answer is no.”
“What do you have against him?” I asked.
“Plenty. He’s the hatchet man for the California chapter of the AMA. Niphe has a take-no-prisoners reputation for protecting his fellow members against the state board.”
“Isn’t that your specialty?” I asked. “Defending doctors before the board?”
“Yes. But in Roxy’s case, it was the unusual situation of Niphe siding with the board to attack her. After the board issued its judgment, exonerating Niphe of course, and dumping on Freya, Niphe made sure the AMA publicity machine painted me as her overreaching and inept counsel. The implicit message, Don’t screw with Dr. Mordecai Niphe.”
The waiter stopped by. Tonic ordered a grilled salmon spinach salad. I asked for a steak so rare it mooed. Tonic picked at the basket of bread, tore loose a piece of ciabatta crust, and buttered it.
I asked, “What do you know about the Reverend Dale Journey?”
Tonic brought the bread to his mouth and paused. “What’s he got to do with Freya or Niphe?”
“I’m getting to that. How about if I tell you that Niphe might have been a silent investor for Journey.”
Tonic put the bread down. “If Niphe’s portfolio has anything to do with Journey’s church, it’s in deep doo-doo. Journey’s ministry is in debt up to here.” Tonic slashed his fingers across his chin.
“How do you know?”
“Back nine conversation on the golf course between lawyers. Journey’s fending off foreclosure.”
“How can Journey go broke? He must have tithes delivered to him by the truckload. Plus the federal government sends him blank checks.”
Tonic gave a lawyer’s barracuda smile. “Greed disguised as mismanagement. The gross comingling of funds and the stink of embezzlement. Fleets of luxury cars. A corporate jet. Junkets to five-star accommodations. Seems the only thing the good reverend can’t afford is an honest accountant.”
“What do you make of this?” I asked. “I followed Niphe when he detoured in the middle of the night to Journey’s church.”
“Why would he go there?”
“I was hoping you could fill in the blanks. Later I visit Journey at his church. Guess who he’s got on the payroll as an aerobics instructor?”
Tonic motioned with his hands for me to tell him.
“Roxy’s little sister,” I said.
Tonic reacted like an experienced legal brawler. His expression remained stonelike. Then one corner of his mouth twitched upward. “I didn’t know Roxy—Freya—had a sister. What’s her name?”
“Lara Phillips.”
“Phillips?”
“Married name,” I said. “She’s divorced.”
“Any indications she might be more than an instructor?”
“You mean, are she and Journey screwing? Like minks, I’m sure.”
Tonic laughed. “If he can keep it up, then hurray for the randy old bastard. Is there the possibility of hanky-panky between them that led to the breakup of her marriage?”
“Haven’t checked into that,” I said.
“Was this something Roxy discovered?” Tonic asked with glee.
“I have no idea,” I answered. “Suppose La
ra and Journey were hiding the salami while she was married, so what?”
Tonic chewed the bread and washed it down with a swallow of his drink. “It would mean a collapse of faith in Journey as a pastor. His evangelical flock might forgive him for robbing them blind, but they won’t take it kindly if he’s playing looseygoosey with his dick. He’d lose his church. Everything.”
“Then keeping the affair a secret might be worth murder,” I replied.
“It might. Why are Dr. Mordecai Niphe, the Reverend Dale Journey, and Roxy’s sister, Lara Phillips, sneaking around?” Tonic’s hands pulled apart, as if stretching an imaginary length of string. “What ties them together? Roxy’s murder?”
“It gets more complicated when you add Lucky Rosario, Cragnow Vissoom, and Councilwoman Petale Venin.”
“Venin?” Tonic repeated. “Damn Felix, you’re cutting a wide swath. And you expect to bring them all down?”
“Depends on what I find.”
“I hope you find a lot.” Tonic looked around and snapped his fingers to get the waiter’s attention. “As soon as I get another drink, I’ll toast your future success.”
A ruby red glow sparkled on my silverware. I glanced and saw a red dot the size of a pea flicker on my left shoulder.
The red dot of an aiming laser.
CHAPTER 34
The dot hovered on my shoulder.
I bolted from my chair and darted to the right.
A bullet ripped through the tablecloth and sent the bread basket flying. A second bullet drilled Tonic through the middle of his necktie. He gasped and fell face first into his vodka and tonic. The cocktail glass tipped over and rolled off the table to shatter against the floor.
Sitting at a table along the fence, I had been in a perfect spot for a drive-by and I hadn’t noticed. I stayed crouched, out of the line of fire.
For the next few seconds it was as if God had turned off the volume and everyone in the restaurant pantomimed their reactions in slow motion.
A tight-faced, middle-aged woman at the next table noticed blood flecked on the sleeve of her white silk blouse. She turned her blond head to frown at me, looked back at her sleeve, and glared at Tonic’s slumped form. Blood dripped from a red stain on the tablecloth.
X-Rated Bloodsuckers Page 19
