by Lee Killough
Hunger surged in him, searing his throat with memories of the girl in the Corvette. He shoved clenched fists into the pockets of his wind breaker, grimacing. Shit. Here he walked in an area he had always considered one of the most colorful and invigorating and what did he think about? Blood.
Setting his jaw, Garreth tried to block out the blood odors and scan everyone around him. With no clear idea what or who he expected to spot. A few familiar faces emerged: several hookers, a pimp, a pickpocket he jostled in time to spoil the dip’s reach into a tourist’s hip pocket. The bump brought the pickpocket spinning around to scan pedestrians near him and anxiously check his own inside coat pocket.
Smiling, Garreth turned away...and spotted neon across the street spelling: AFTERGLOW. Knight’s piano bar. He dodged across the street toward it. Lane had not killed the man, but someone did, and he could have met his killer there.
Walking into the club felt like stepping back in time to the Thirties. The decor had apparently not changed since Knight’s father opened the club...art deco curves in the walls and ceiling, deco style railings on the three steps down into a pit area and around the edge of the pit, setting it off from an arc of café tables at the perimeter of the club. Curved, well-padded booths lined the pit, with more tables around the piano platform in the center. Waitresses wore a version of a tux: a sleeveless blouse with a pleated front, black bow tie, short black skirt.
One of them appeared beside him almost as soon as he sat down at one of the perimeter tables and laid a menu card in front of him. “Welcome to Afterglow. I’m Leslie. What can I get you?”
He read the menu. In addition to drinks, Afterglow served pricey, liquor-based desserts. “This is quite a list.”
She smiled. “They’re all wonderful, though my personal favorites are the rum eggnog custard and the chocolate bourbon cake.”
Which she must eat sparingly to look that good in her demi-tux.
“Too bad I’m diabetic. I’ll just have a club soda, with plenty of ice.”
Her smile went apologetic and she tapped a notice on the menu. “Without dessert, there’s a two drink minimum. Club soda is ten dollars.”
Hopefully he learned something here worth a twenty. “Not a problem.”
When she brought the drink he pointed toward the piano player. “That’s a different guy than was here last month. What happened to the other— Leslie?”
She had put a hand to her mouth and caught her breath in a stifled sob.
“What’s the matter?” He handed her the napkin under his drink. “Did he get fired?”
“No.” She choked. “He...he...”
“He what? Something happened to him.” Garreth pushed out a chair with his foot. “Sit down.”
She shook her head. “I can’t. I— ”
“Sure you can. You’re upset. If your manager has a problem with it, I’ll deal with him.”
She sat, dabbing at her eyes, making short work of the napkin.
He handed her his handkerchief. “So tell me what happened.”
“Someone...” She swallowed. “Someone killed him. I can’t believe it...and I don’t understand why anyone would do such a thing! David was such a sweet guy. Every girl here adored him. And you wouldn’t believe the women customers. After a few songs they’d send him notes to join him at their table between sets and then offer him their hotel keys.”
Garreth raised his brows. “That must have thrilled the men with them.”
She shook her head. “He might say hello to couples but he only sat down with women who came in alone or with other women. We get quite a few hen groups from women’s conventions, or the wives of men who are here for meetings. Someone told me it’s because the picture on the flier we have at all the hotels shows four women at one of the tables.”
Sending a clever subliminal message welcoming women without men.
Garreth wanted to ask if she remembered any of the women Knight sat down with the night he died, but that sounded too Cop. Instead, he asked casually, “Did he take the keys?”
She sniffed. “Well, yeah. He wasn’t gay, so if it’s being shoved at you, why not.”
“Especially if you have your pick of good looking women.”
“The funny thing is, more times than not, he didn’t pick the beautiful ones.” She toyed with the handkerchief. “He’d choose someone a little older, or plain or really housewifey-looking. One of the other girls asked him about it once and he told her beautiful women expect special treatment and he liked giving pleasure to someone it surprised. And I guess he gave plenty of pleasure, the way they came back for more.”
Gooseflesh rose on Garreth’s neck. That sounded familiar, like Lane. Coincidence? “That happen often?”
She nodded. “For all the good it did them; he just did one night stands. But he never made them feel brushed off. He’d look deep in their eyes and give them a kiss and say something that somehow sent them on their way smiling. Like I said, David was such a sweet guy.” More tears welled in her eyes.
The gooseflesh moved down Garreth’s arms. Maybe not a coincidence.
“Leslie!” a voice snapped. “Are you working here tonight or not?”
She started and jumped up. “Oh! I’m so sorry, Mr. Borgman. I— ”
“It’s my fault, sir.” Garreth stood to bring himself eye level with an accountant-type glaring at Leslie over his glasses. “I asked where the other piano player was and of course it upset her. What a terrible thing to happen. So I urged her to sit down while she regained her composure. You okay now?” he asked her.
She nodded and handed back his handkerchief.
He exchanged it for two twenties and left.
Outside Garreth stood letting his head settle down. What a bombshell. Everything Leslie said about Knight made him sound like a vampire, a male counterpart to Lane. Except maybe not a killer. Knight could be old enough to have opened the club himself, which would explain the decor frozen in time. It let him remain surrounded by the comfortably familiar, like Lane’s attachment to the treasures of her childhood.
He glanced up at the two floors above the club. Knight lived on one. A quick visit ought to prove whether Knight was, in fact, a vampire. If so it definitely meant another vampire killed him. The section of autopsy report he had time to read put time of death before dawn. A human was unlikely to overpower a vampire at night. And certainly not bite him.
Which raised an interesting question. Did vampires bite other vampires? Was there any...benefit to it? Did vampires recognize others of their kind? Maybe the vampire attacked without realizing what Knight was, then killed him out of anger or frustration.
A door set back from the street on the far side of Afterglow’s door looked like an entry for upstairs. He started toward it, only to stop for three women coming out of the club.
“That was disappointing,” one said.
“I don’t think so. The Baba au Rheum was delicious, even though it’s a good thing I’m not trying to drive after that.”
The third woman laughed. “Diane means the guy at the piano wasn’t the one Carole said she had mind-blowing sex with.”
The second woman stared at the first in disbelief. “You mean that’s why we came? You were going ask a gigolo back to the hotel?”
Laughing silently, Garreth waited for them to walk on...only to have them turn so the four of them almost collided.
“Excuse me,” he began.
When a hand grabbed the back of his turtleneck and twisted so violently it cut off his air. Dragging him backwards, the owner of the hand said, “Don’t worry, ladies. This dirtbag won’t bother you a second longer. Inspector Street, Vice.”
The women stared. “But he wasn’t— ”
“Believe me, he was about to...but I’ve got him now. Enjoy the rest of your evening, ladies.”
Garreth turned his head enough to see the speaker and saw not a vice cop but another familiar face from the past, the darkly handsome hustler “Dandy” Dan Maruska. He choked out,
“Take your hands off me or I’ll break your arm!”
Maruska laughed and released Garreth’s shirt, only to slam him backward into the building and pin his shoulders against it. Thumbs dug into Garreth’s collar bones with a force threatening to break them. “Just try.” To several men who slowed to eye them, he said, “Police business. Move on.” He voice lowered to a rasp. “This is my turf, cowboy, and nobody sells jollies on it but me.”
He bared his teeth...showing the tips of fangs. Above them his eyes reflected red.
Surprise at the revelation died in anger, in Lane’s voice snarling in his head — Kill him! Don’t take this from street trash! — and a flood of questions and speculation.
Pain almost paralyzed Garreth’s arms...but not enough to keep him from grabbing the hustler’s crotch and baring his own teeth. “If you want to keep selling those jollies: Take. Your. Hands. Off. Me.” His grip tightened with each word.
The hands released as though blown off.
Garreth let go, and as Maruska reeled backward, expression equal parts anguished and homicidal, said, “I’m a tourist, not interested in your turf! Did you think David Knight was?”
Maruska blinked. “Who the hell’s David Knight?”
“Piano player in Afterglow. He serviced female patrons like the ones you thought I was going to solicit...only without charge. I’d think a thing like that would piss you off.”
“If he doesn’t pick ‘em up on the street, I don’t give a shit.” Maruska bared his teeth again. “And why are you asking about him? You sound like a cop.”
“I’ve been looking to connect with others like us. Is there someplace you...hang out?”
“Hang out?” Maruska snorted. “What fairyland do you live in? Now get off my turf, pilgrim, and stay off. Because if I see you here again, you’re not leaving alive.”
He stalked away.
Garreth stared after him, reflecting that vampire persuasion made soliciting customers a breeze. How could they refuse. Then a face up the block cut off the thought. Julian Fowler.
Shit. He hurriedly faded into cover behind several pedestrians. Of all people to show up. Not that it should be unexpected; every tourist visited North Beach sooner or later. Just his luck Fowler chose tonight.
Had Fowler seen him?
Maybe not. The writer peered toward Kearney, crossed the street, and disappeared up the steps replacing a regular sidewalk on that block.
Garreth hurried to the doorway he guessed was the entry for the upstairs apartments. Unsurprisingly, it was locked. That presented no problem...but suddenly he could not bear the thought of passage through yet another door tonight. Make that two, with the apartment door. What would it accomplish other than prove what he already believed about Knight? Harry and Girimonte presumably had the most useful find, an address book, which might include the names of other vampires...if there were a way to identify them.
Unless none of them socialized but guarded turf as jealously as Maruska did. They were, after all, solitary hunters, and predator/prey ratios must to apply to vampires, too: X number of prey to support Y number of predators. Or in this case, the predators needed to keep their numbers low enough to avoid attracting attention. So Knight might still have been killed to eliminate competition. But...why that way, and why the bite? A mark of contempt: He was no better than the cattle. He should have asked Maruska.
But...no! There had to be something more...congenial going on for Holle to be a friend of vampires and care about their comfort in his home. The language in Irina’s note suggested Holle had multiple contacts with vampires...and even that the “foundation” — presumably Philos — benefitted vampires as much as humans. Or why would Irina want Lane to join?
So...forget the vampires of North Beach. Like Girimonte, he needed another talk with Holle. A private one, however. As a friend of vampires, might he be a night owl, too?
Garreth returned to his car and drove across town to see. And the answer appeared to be no. The house stood dark except for a lighted sconce beside the door in the entryway. He drove on, doubting even a friend of vampires would welcome being waked by one.
He had someone else to visit while he was out here, however, and now seemed an ideal time. He caught 82 south and followed El Camino Real to the cemetery city Colma...and Marti’s grave. Sitting on the earth beside her felt good, but once he tucked a photo of him in his BPD uniform into her flower vase and replacing the vase upside down in the headstone, he hardly knew what to say. The wrenching grief of his last visit had disappeared and while he missed her, he could not regret that she missed Lane’s destruction of his life. So, hoping that somehow she knew all about it already, he sat mostly in silence until dimming of stars in the east warned him to head back to town and catch a nap before facing more daylight.
Chapter Eighteen
“Well you look like death warmed over,” Harry said when Garreth appeared in the kitchen door.
“Not even warmed.” Both collar bones sported bruises from Maruska’s thumbs and the bathroom mirror had shown him eyes — now hidden behind his glasses — sunken as a corpse’s. An hour on his pallet felt like no sleep at all. Could he tolerate daylight two days in a row? At least heavy overcast had rolled in, making it a degree less oppressive.
Harry frowned. “What happened? Has being here given you nightmares about Lane and the morgue?”
The excuse tempted him...but was there any need to lie? Especially if he might be caught because Fowler had seen him and mentioned it. “No nightmares. After all these months working nights, I just couldn’t sleep.” He finished draining the one thermos — fighting to ignore the scent of Harry’s blood coming through those of soap and aftershave — and rinsed it out. “I got in the car and drove around for a while, hoping that might relax me. It ended up being most of the night. I visited Marti. I even took a walk through North Beach.”
The frown deepened at that. “Were you thinking you might spot Lane?”
Garreth pulled the glasses down far enough to meet Harry’s eyes over them, and with complete truth, said, “That never occurred to me.”
A waffle popped up out of the toaster. Harry transferred it to plate and spread on jam. “Good...because Lien called with hexagrams for both of us. Yours is twenty-five, Innocence. It’s supposedly one indicating success but what she quoted to me sounded to me like it’s all about not plunging ahead but waiting for things to happen in their own time.”
Typical. He remembered a similar tone of hexagrams Lien reported when he called back here those initial days in Kansas: wait, do nothing, because if you thrash around on your own you will fall on your face. “What’s yours?”
Harry sighed. “Conflict. I am sincere but being obstructed. In other words, it’s just another day in police work.”
Not initially obstructed, it appeared. They walked into the office to find Girimonte wearing a feline smile.
“We’ve identified our Jane Doe. Vickie Ehling, grad student in English Lit at the University of San Francisco. A friend of hers came to the Richmond station yesterday evening to report her missing. She hadn’t turned up for a lecture she was supposed to give in the afternoon and couldn’t be located anywhere else. Last seen Wednesday evening at a celebration for the thesis acceptance of another friend. After hearing Ehling’s description, the Richmond officers showed her a picture of Jane Doe, which she identified. A brother who lives in Oakland is coming in for an official ID. Otherwise it’s sewn up.”
“What were they doing at Spreckels Lake?” Harry asked.
Girimonte rolled her eyes. “Letting Ehling hurl in the bushes. The seven women were on their way back from Ocean Beach, where they’d spent the evening around a fire drinking wine to celebrate the thesis, when Ehling complained of feeling queasy. The driver didn’t want her just leaning out of the car to upchuck in the gutter and maybe splash the car, so she pulled into the park. After Ehling got out, someone suggested the rest of them walk around the lake. Ehling wasn’t at the car when they returne
d so in their inebriated wisdom they decided she must have taken a bus home rather than wait for them.” She sniffed. “No one thought to call and make sure she actually got there.” Then Girimonte picked up the warrant and affidavit they typed yesterday and Garreth saw Vickie Ehling had become water under the bridge. “Let’s go hit up Judge Kaehler for a signature. You two wait for us.”
Fowler smiled wryly after them. “Now I know how left luggage feels. How shall we entertain ourselves?”
Sleep would be nice. Garreth slid down in Harry’s chair until his head rested against the back, closed his eyes, and tried to imagine the chair shaped from potting soil. The sound of turning pages interfered. “What are you doing?”
“Letting my fingers do some walking, to borrow an expression from the lovely inspector. Ah...here.” He read off an address on eighteenth street. “What’s this neighborhood like?”
Garreth left his eyes closed. “The Castro? Pleasant. Typical mixed business and residential area. Home to a lot of gays. Why? What did your fingers walk to?”
“Mr. Holle’s Philos Foundation. Interesting. I expected an international organization to have a posh suite in an office tower.”
“Maybe they’d rather spend their money on gas for mercy flights than— ”
