Blood Crimes: Book One

by Dave Zeltserman

“Here’s the deal,” Jim said once they were outside and alone. “You call your buddies now and warn them what happens if they hurt Carol. You don’t, I fucking tear you apart.”

  “Let go of me! You fucking freak—”

  Jim slapped him hard enough to rattle his teeth. Pearce looked stunned, his eyes dazed. Jim brought his hand back to slap him again, and some life flickered in the biker’s eyes. Pearce’s knees buckled and his hands moved up defensively to protect his face.

  “I’ll call them, Jesus Fucking Christ, I’ll call them!”

  Jim let go of his jacket collar, and the biker stumbled backwards before regaining his balance. His legs shaky, he took out a cell phone and made a call. All color had drained from his face and his hands shook.

  “Come on, come on, answer,” he pleaded to no one in particular. Then, his voice frantic, “Raze, it’s me, Pearce. Zeke’s dead. This guy’s a fucking freak. I swear to God he pulled Zeke’s arm right off….no, I’m not kidding…listen to me, don’t touch his girl. I’m dead if you do…what? No man, I’m serious, don’t fuck me like this.”

  “Give me the phone,” Jim said.

  “He wants to talk to you,” Pearce told Raze.

  Pearce handed the phone to Jim.

  “I want my girlfriend back safely. Now.”

  There was no response, but Jim heard guys talking in the background.

  “Hey, Raze, you hear what I said? I want her returned back to me.”

  “Fuck you.”

  The voice was soft and oily, like someone who thought he was dangerous and wanted to make sure everyone else knew that also.

  “You bring her back now or I’m going to start hurting Pearce far worse than I hurt Zeke. He’ll tell me where you are.”

  Some more silence, then, “You got fucking balls. You sucker punch me and my bros, rip me off, and then you think you got the right to call the shots?”

  “I want her back.”

  “Yeah, well, fuck you. I want my money back.”

  “You can have it.”

  There was another long stretch of silence. Then, “Yeah? Just like that, huh?”

  “That’s right. As long as you bring her back to me safe. Otherwise it’s going to be a bloodbath.”

  The guy on the other end started laughing in that same soft, threatening tone. “You really do got a set of fuckin’ watermelons hanging off you.”

  “You think Pearce made that up about me ripping Zeke’s arm off?”

  “Yeah, I do. You expect me to buy that bullshit?”

  “Send one of your bros to the Cineplex on Orchard Drive. Theatre eight. He’ll find Zeke in the back row. His arm’s lying on the floor next to him.”

  “You’re full of shit.”

  “Send someone.”

  “If you really killed Zeke—”

  “I did.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Ask Pearce again.”

  “I don’t care what the fuck he says. You got a piece on him, right? He’ll say whatever the fuck you want.”

  “You want your money back. That’s what this is about. Let’s just do it.”

  “I want more than just my money back. I want interest for what you’ve put me through.”

  “That’s not going to happen. You can get your money back. Otherwise, you’ll lose Pearce, then you’ll lose a lot more after I find you.”

  More silence, then, “Let me talk to Pearce.”

  Jim handed the phone back to the biker who listened intently, his eyes large and scared.

  “This is no shit…I know, I know, it sounds like bullshit but I saw it...on my mother’s grave, I swear to God…he ripped his arm right off like it was nothin’…this guy’s a fucking freak…yeah, okay.”

  Pearce handed the phone back to Jim. Raze told him he still didn’t buy this bullshit about Zeke, but he was willing to let Jim give the money to Pearce and that the girl would be returned afterwards.

  “That’s not going to happen. It needs to be an exchange.”

  “What do you suggest, smart guy?”

  “I’ll get the money. Carol doesn’t know where it is so it’s not worth hurting her to try and find out. It’s also hidden well enough that you’re not going to find it. Once I have the money, Pearce calls you back and we have an exchange somewhere public. Then we forget we ever ran into each other, and you can spend your energies arranging Zeke’s funeral.”

  “You’re such a fucking smart guy. What if I tell you to fuck off and keep the money? From what I hear your girlfriend is a sweet-looking thing. I could put her to work and double my nine grand in a week.”

  “You do that and more of your bros are going to die.”

  “Fuck, you’re a cocky sonofabitch.”

  “Just telling you what’s going to happen.”

  Raze laughed a soft, rumbling laugh. “What the fuck, we’ll do it your way. Have Pearce call back within a half hour or your girl’s being put to work.”

  “Let me talk to her.”

  “Can’t. She’s in transit. You got a half hour.”

  Raze hung up. Jim steeled himself, handed the phone back to Pearce. The sun was hitting him hard and it hurt like hell, but he couldn’t afford to show Pearce any weakness. He told Pearce to leave his bike where it was, that he could pick it up later, then led him to his beat up Chevy Nova. Pearce made a face looking at it.

  “This ain’t nothin’ but a tin can on wheels,” he complained.

  “Shut up and get in.”

  Pearce squeezed his way in and barely fit in the passenger seat, his knees pressed against the dashboard and his head crammed at an awkward angle. He watched with a smirk as Jim put on a pair of driving gloves.

  “You take driving this tin can seriously?” Pearce asked.

  Jim ignored him. He tried to sink low into his seat to avoid the sunlight, but it still found unprotected areas of his face and parts of his wrists where there was a gap between his jacket and gloves. Wherever the sunlight hit him it was like his flesh was boiling. Nausea welled up inside. He wanted to vomit, but the last thing he could afford to do was to start retching in front of Pearce. He fought back the urge. The biker seemed to sense his distress, his smirk hardening as he watched Jim.

  “You don’t look too good,” Pearce said.

  “Shut up.”

  “This is inhumane making me ride in this tin can. Probably against the Geneva convention.”

  “I said shut up.”

  “And I heard you. How’d you do that to Zeke?”

  “If you want I’ll give you a demonstration. What do you want pulled off, a finger or thumb? Or maybe your whole hand?”

  “That’s okay. You don’t have to demonstrate nothin’. But how’d you learn to do that?”

  Jim showed a grim smile. “Special forces training,” he said.

  Pearce appeared to digest that. He chewed on his bottom lip for a minute, then asked if Jim was the guy who did the meth dealer that was all over the news. “The asshole with half his face gone and his blood missing. You’re the guy who did him, didn’t you?”

  Jim didn’t answer him.

  “What did you do with his blood?”

  “Last time. Shut up.”

  Jim pulled into the motor lodge’s parking lot. There were no bikes in sight. Of course if they had gotten Carol to tell them where she and Jim were staying, their bikes would be hidden, but he doubted there was anything they could’ve done to make Carol tell them that or anything else. He braced himself for the blast of sunlight that was coming, then left the car. The damn sun made it feel like his bones and joints were welded together and it made it hard for him to move normally. Using his thumb, he signaled for Pearce to get out of the car. The way the biker looked at him, it was clear that he knew something was wrong, but he left the car and followed Jim into his motel room without incident. Once inside the darkened room, Jim felt better, his nausea mostly gone and his strength back. The biker was still eyeing him, and Jim knew he was trying to decide whether to jump him, trying
to decide how much of a weakened state Jim had fallen into. He didn’t give Pearce the chance to act. Instead he lifted the waterbed with one hand and took the money roll that was stashed underneath it. Pearce’s eyes dimmed watching that, realizing whatever chance he had was gone. Jim tossed him the money roll.

  “Count the money and call Raze,” he said.

  Pearce did exactly that.

  * * * * *

  Hayes had been in Cleveland for two hours and had already talked to the detectives investigating Duane Posey’s murder, and realized quickly they had nothing. They wanted to know why he was interested in the murder, and he fed them his standard bullshit story about researching it for a novelist. The lead investigator was a Detective Joe Colvin, and he appeared skeptical about that and wanted a name. That took Hayes aback. He knew he was sweating when he stumbled out with an excuse why he couldn’t give them that. He knew the guy thought he was full of shit, and all he could think was, fuck, if they arrest me and make me take a drug test I’m probably still loaded with ecstasy, fuck! His brain just wasn’t working right, still fuzzy from the three hours of sleep he had managed the night before, along with the booze and drugs. Colvin was a big bruising guy who from his scarred face and flattened off-centered nose must’ve been an amateur boxer when he was younger. He asked for Hayes’ PI license, then spent a good few minutes studying it. After that he wanted Hayes’ flight information and an alibi of where he was the night before. It occurred to Hayes that Colvin considered him a suspect for the murder—maybe thought he was some psycho who got off on talking to the cops after a killing, and the thought of that made him start sweating more. He found himself holding his breath until Colvin dismissed him. That was a half hour ago, and the incident mostly sobered Hayes up. Since then he had been making his way to bars that were within walking distance of the murder site. He had hit three of them without any luck, and the one he had just entered was more divey than any of the others. The smell in the place was a mix of stale beer, urine and perspiration. The only customers were hardcore alkies, all staring bleary-eyed and seeing nothing as they nursed their drinks. Several of them with their stained pants were probably the source of the urine stench. Hayes approached the bartender and showed him a picture he had gotten from one of the newspapers of Duane Posey.

  “You know him?” Hayes asked.

  The bartender glanced at the picture, nodded. “Yeah, good old Duane,” he said.

  “So you do know him?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “You don’t like him much?”

  “Nobody who knew Duane liked him much. The guy was an animal.”

  “You know he was murdered last night.”

  “Yeah, saw it on the news. Because of that I was able to come to work this morning with a smile on my face.” The bartender scratched his jaw, his lips pulled back to show his teeth. “Someone out there deserves a medal. Or at least a lot of free drinks.”

  “Was he here last night?”

  The bartender’s eyes faded for a moment, then he shook his head. “He could’ve been. I can’t remember. Whenever Duane came here, I tried not to pay attention.”

  “He had his share of enemies then?”

  “Yeah, I’d say so. You could probably count anyone he ever met in that category.”

  Hayes showed him a picture of Jim’s girlfriend.

  “How about her? Ever see her?”

  The bartender looked at the drawing and slowly shook his head. From his eyes and the way his mouth tightened, Hayes knew he had seen her recently.

  “Nope,” the bartender said. “Sure would like to, though. That’s one beautiful girl. Not the type of customer I tend to get in here.”

  Hayes collected the drawing and thanked the bartender for his time. “If she does come in here, call me on my cell.”

  He handed the bartender a business card, who stood frowning severely as he stared at it.

  “I don’t get it,” he said. “What’s the connection between this girl and a scumbag like Duane?”

  Hayes smiled thinly. “None. The police told me he was seen hassling her. She’s the one I care about, I couldn’t care less about Duane. Her mom just died and her family hired me to find her so I could bring her back home for the funeral.”

  The bartender almost bit. Almost. He started to open his mouth before closing it firmly, deciding that Hayes was bullshitting him. It didn’t matter. Hayes had what he needed, and when he left the bar an adrenaline rush was surging through him. He called Serena on her cell and told her that Jim’s in Cleveland. “Or at least he was last night,” he added.

  “Donald, you never cease to amaze me. Have you found where he’s staying yet?”

  “Not yet. But I did find someone who saw Jim’s girlfriend. Can I talk frankly?”

  “Of course,” she said, but with that crackling glass quality edging into her voice. The sound of it made Hayes’ heart beat just that much faster, and once again he found himself sweating. He knew he was making a mistake, but he told her his theory on how the girlfriend was used as bait to lure the victim into a dark alley. “I think he uses her with all these killings,” he said.

  More glass crackling as she asked whether he had shared this speculation of his with anyone else.

  “No, and I’m not going to.”

  “Go on.”

  Hayes wiped his brow, felt his heart skip in his chest. “I think Jim is killing people and drinking their blood.”

  No response from Serena. Just dead silence. Hayes wiped a handkerchief along the back of his neck, continued, “These people being killed are all missing a lot of blood. Another thing they have in common is they’re all lowlifes, dregs of society. In Kansas City the word on the street was a vampire did the killing. Police are discounting that as nonsense, but I have a gut feeling someone saw the killing, and saw Jim drinking the victim’s blood.”

  “Donald, my advice is spend your energies finding which motel Jim is staying at and to quit wasting them on this kind of speculation. It is not anything you would ever be able to prove, and would not be beneficial for you if you could.”

  Hayes’ heart was racing. Her tone had changed to something artificially friendly, but there was an underlying threat to it.

  “Understood,” he said, his voice cracking.

  “Good. And drink some water. Your voice sounds a bit froggy. Call me as soon as you find him.”

  She hung up, and Hayes stood for a long moment feeling shaky inside, especially his heart which was fluttering like a butterfly. Why the fuck did he have to bring that up? What the fuck was the matter with him? He gritted his teeth as if he were in pain, then went back to his car where he cracked open a Cleveland yellow pages that he had picked up earlier and found its motel section. There were a lot of divey low-cost motels listed, especially around the airport. This was going to take a while. He called his office and spoke with Annie. She had faxed the drawing to all the motel’s that had fax machines and was overnighting copies to the rest. She had already called half of them and out of those fifteen of the desk clerks claimed the girl was staying with them. “That’s what a ten grand reward’s going to get you,” she added. “I was surprised I actually talked to people who were willing to admit they hadn’t seen her.”

  “Restores your faith in humanity, don’t it?”

  “You bet’cha.”

  Annie gave him the list of leads, and told him she’d keep on it. Using a city map, Hayes located where the motels were and started with the ones closest to the airport. He had crossed six of the motels off his list when he heard the news report over the radio about a man found dead in a movie theatre, his body savagely mutilated. The newscaster didn’t specify how the body was mutilated, but did state that the police were considering it “one of the most vicious and depraved murders in recent Cleveland history”. As far as Hayes was concerned that said something.

  One of the most vicious and depraved murders in recent Cleveland history.

  All he could think of was Jim, a
nd a vivid image of Jim’s drawing crystallized in his mind. A large part of the murder didn’t fit—the fact that it took place so soon after the other murder and that it happened in the middle of the day and in public. In the past the bodies would be left hidden so they wouldn’t be discovered for days, and Hayes was sure that there were plenty of corpses that still hadn’t been found. As much as this murder didn’t fit, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was Jim’s work, and more than that, that something very wrong had happened to cause it and that more killings were on the way. He looked up the address for the Cineplex and put down his list of third-rate fleabag motels.

  Chapter 8

  Jim sat grimly waiting for Pearce’s phone to ring. Pearce had already called Raze to tell him most of the money was accounted for. Before Jim was willing to set up an exchange he wanted to talk with Carol to make sure she was okay. According to Raze she was still in transit, but he’d be calling back within the hour. That was forty minutes ago. Jim shifted his gaze to the biker, who appeared calm and unconcerned. Jim doubted he’d be so relaxed if he understood that if the call didn’t come in the next twenty minutes pieces of him were going to be ripped off until he told Jim where Raze and the rest of his biker gang could be found.

  Pearce’s cell phone rang.

  Jim nodded to him to answer it. Pearce flipped the phone open, listened intently and handed it to Jim.

  “Zeke’s all over the news,” Raze said.

  “At least you now know what you’re dealing with.”

  “You fucking asshole.”

  “Again, at least you know what you’re dealing with. Let me talk to Carol.”

  Jim heard some talking in the background, then the sound of a woman gasping.

  “Carol! Are you okay?” Jim yelled, his body tensing as he prepared to do worse to Pearce than they could possibly be doing to Carol.

  There was some coughing, then Carol telling him she was okay. “They just took a rag out of my mouth,” she said.

  “They haven’t hurt you?”

  “Not too much.”

  “What do you mean not too much?”

  She was pulled away from the phone and Raze was back on.

  “Quit your worrying,” Raze said. “We haven’t done nothin’ to her yet. Just a few bumps and bruises from her traveling. It’s not too comfortable riding in the trunk of a car. Where we doin’ the exchange?”