Vamparazzi

by Laura Resnick

  So evidently Lopez’s changed appearance since the last time we’d met was the result of spending a lot of time underground in recent weeks, as well as assuming Hector’s identity.

  “You’re not looking for terrorists this time?” I asked.

  “I’m not supposed to discuss what I’m looking for,” he said as we passed through the basement, heading toward the big staircase that would lead me back up to the theater—where NYPD cops were probably already questioning my fellow actors.

  “But your case has similarities to last night’s vampire victim?” I prodded.

  “Vampire victim,” he repeated, looking pained. “You just couldn’t resist using that phrase, could you?”

  “Well, she did have all her blood dr—”

  “You’ve been hanging around the vamparazzi too long.”

  “I don’t hang around with them.”

  “Then maybe playing a vampire victim every night has affected your judgment.”

  “My judgment is . . .” I realized that he had just deliberately steered me away from the subject of his investigation—and was trying to irritate me enough that I wouldn’t notice the ploy. Which made me even more curious, naturally, about what he was investigating that might be related to Angeline’s death. “You said one of the reasons they briefed you on last night’s murder was because of where the body was found.”

  “You should go upstairs now,” he said firmly. “They’ll be looking for you.”

  “Underground.”

  “Your friend Licenoodle will be worried.”

  I ignored this obvious attempt to distract me. “What are you investigating underground that—”

  “Esther.”

  I gasped as the most horrifying possibility occurred to me. “There’ve been other victims, haven’t there?”

  For a moment, his expression went so carefully blank that I knew he was considering lying to me. Then his shoulders sagged and he said, with obvious reluctance, “Maybe.”

  “Maybe?” I repeated shrilly.

  He sighed in weary resignation. “In the past couple of months, three bodies have been found in ... unusual underground locations.”

  “Three murder victims?” I exclaimed.

  “One may have been natural causes.”

  “May have been?”

  “There, uh, aren’t enough remains for us to be sure.”

  “Oh.” I queasily recalled what he had said earlier about the effects of decomposition and hungry rodents. Then I demanded, “And the other two bodies?”

  He hesitated, then nodded. “Murder.”

  “Were they exsanguinated?” Seeing that he didn’t want to answer me, I prodded sharply, “Well?”

  “Try to stay calm.”

  “Lopez!”

  “We’ve kept this out of the press. No one knows the details. And it has to stay that way. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, yes, go on,” I said impatiently.

  “The bodies of two missing urban explorers have been found at other abandoned underground locations.”

  “Drained of all their blood?” I asked anxiously.

  “Not exactly.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Looking very tired again, he said, “Only some of their blood was drained.”

  9

  “You weren’t going to tell me this, were you?”I said accusingly.

  “I’m not supposed to tell you this,” he pointed out, obviously clinging to his fraying patience.

  “You’ve got vampire victims littering the landscape, I could be next, and you weren’t going to tell me about this?” I was working up a head of steam now.

  He rubbed his forehead as if it ached. “I should never have tried to talk to you when I haven’t slept in . . . I don’t know how long. That was my first mistake—thinking I could deal with you when I’m half-dead.”

  Warming to my theme, I demanded, “And what’s wrong with your colleagues, that they’re doubtful about the connection between exsanguinated murder victims recently found underground and last night’s murder? Are they gibbering idiots?”

  “My next mistake was thinking I could talk to you at all,” Lopez said with morose self-condemnation. “Even if I’d gotten some sleep first. At what point did I think this might go well? Where was my head?”

  “A vampire’s stalking the city, and you didn’t think this was worth mentioning to me?”

  “Why would I mention it to you?” he demanded, his volume rising. “Just because you’re in a vampire play?”

  “Well . . . Um . . .” Actually, when he it put it that way, I realized there might be a flaw in my logic. Which didn’t stop me from saying, “You should have told me!”

  “Told you what?” He clutched his skull as if it was really pounding now. “Esther, there is not a vampire stalking the ... There’s no such thing as . . . Just because the victims have been . . .” He scrubbed his hands through his hair. “No. Wait. Stop.” Lopez took a very deep breath. And another. Then he lowered his hands and said with almost epic calm, “We can’t talk about this now. You have to go upstairs and answer police questions. And I have to go home and die.”

  “What?”

  “Or at least get some sleep.”

  Actually, he did look ready to keel over. I took a deep breath, too. “Okay. Yes. You’re right. I’ll go talk to the cops. And pretend we haven’t had this conversation. You go home and ... shave. Seriously.”

  “You don’t get to nag someone you’re not dating,” he snapped.

  “We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

  “I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to it.”

  I overlooked his needlessly sarcastic tone and turned my back to him. I said over my shoulder, “Since I have to go face your colleagues now, could you please lace me back up? I don’t want the rest of the NYPD to become this familiar with my underwear.”

  “Fine.” He came closer.

  “It works pretty much like shoelaces,” I said helpfully.

  “Uh-huh.” He yanked the sides of my gown together over my chilly back and started tightening and pulling on the laces, his touch impatient and impersonal.

  “Careful,” I chided. “If you tear something, I’ll get in big trouble. The wardrobe mistress doesn’t like me.”

  “Oh?” He yanked again, obviously still annoyed with me. “Why ever not?”

  “The first time I wore this costume, I asked for more clothes.”

  That startled a laugh out of him. His touch gentled, and I could hear a modicum of good humor returning to his voice as he said, “Well, I have to admit, given what you’re wearing, I can’t understand why there aren’t a lot more men coming to see this show.”

  “Daemon is onstage a lot more than my neckline is,” I said dryly as Lopez finished tying the back of my dress.

  At the mention of my leading man, he put his hands firmly on both of my shoulders and gave me a gentle squeeze. “It’s so late,” he said. “After they question you, make sure the cops send you home in a squad car, okay?”

  I felt his breath on my neck as his hands stroked down my bare arms. I closed my eyes. “Okay.”

  “I’m . . .”

  “Hmm?” I leaned back a little, trying to get closer to him without doing anything overt.

  “I’m sorry. About . . .” His hands moved on me. Comforting. Arousing. “I didn’t want to scare you. I just want you to be safe.”

  “I know.” My voice felt weak. So did my knees. I sank against him, my back melting into the sturdy wall of his chest.

  It was only for a few seconds, I promised myself. I’d move away from him in an instant. But first, I needed ... Well, it had just been too long since I had been near him like this.

  Lopez lowered his head to rest his cheek against my hair as he tightened his grip on me. He released his breath on a long, slow exhalation. We stood together silently, his body solid against mine as I gratefully soaked up his heat ... and felt dizzily aware of a growing desire to soak up a lot mor
e than that. Remembering that I had decided to give him up rather than get him killed was a lot easier to keep firmly in mind when he wasn’t touching me. Or speaking to me. Or within a mile of me.

  I was trying to summon up the will to pull myself out of his grasp when he turned me slightly toward him. My breath trembled in my throat, my blood humming in anticipation of what he might do next. He moved one hand from my arm so that he could trace a finger alongside the rising welt on my neck.

  I drew in a sharp breath, excited by his touch.

  “Does this still hurt?” His voice was low and soft.

  “Um . . .” I’d forgotten about the bite on my neck. And now that Lopez had reminded me of it with his gently tickling touch ... All I could think about, actually, was the feel of his hands on me, his body warming me, the soft caress of his breath on my hair ... and the quickening rise and fall of his chest as he held me. I had no idea if my neck hurt, but the exultant pounding of my heart sure did.

  The heavy thudding in my chest brought me to my senses. The sound of my own heartbeat reminded me that I wanted his heart to go on beating, too.

  “Be honest with yourself, Esther,” the vicious killer had said to me that fatal night in Harlem, having left Lopez to die alone in the dark. “Would he be lying in agonized paralysis awaiting his death now if not for you?”

  Fueled by remembered horror, guilt, and grief, I summoned every bit of willpower I possessed, and I stepped away from him. “I have to go upstairs.”

  In an effort to conceal my chaotic feelings, I wound up sounding curt. He heard it and immediately removed his hands from me.

  “Right. Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Remember what I said. Don’t lie to the cops about anything, but be discreet about what we’ve discussed.”

  “I will.” I met his dark-lashed eyes, blue and bloodshot and a little brooding now. Then I looked away again. “Thank you for coming here to warn me even though you weren’t supposed to get involved.”

  He didn’t say anything. Maybe he was remembering, as I was, that he’d done more extreme things than this for me in the past—including lie to his superiors, conceal evidence, and falsify reports. Which had a lot to do with why he’d broken up with me in the first place. That wasn’t the kind of cop he wanted to be, and seeing himself as an honest and honorable police officer was closely entwined with how he saw himself as a man, too.

  Finally he said, “I’d better leave.”

  When he turned around and went the way we had just come, I said, “You’re really going back there?” I knew he didn’t want to be seen, but the underground passages still struck me as a dark, scary, and damp way to make his exit.

  “I like the tunnels,” he said, walking away without looking back, his shoulders slumped with fatigue. “It’s quiet down there.”

  “Sure,” I muttered, lifting my skirts as I turned to climb the stairs back up to the theater. “Very quiet. Except for a vampire prowling around, draining people of their—”

  “I heard that,” Lopez said irritably.

  I exited the basement without encountering anyone. As soon as I closed the door softly behind me, though, I heard a terrible wailing that seemed to penetrate the very walls of the building. Someone was sobbing and screeching with the uninhibited passion of a toddler, but this person sounded a little older than that, if not necessarily more mature.

  Following the tooth-jarring noise of Mad Rachel’s wails of rage and anguish, I made my way toward the dressing rooms. I arrived to find that the area was jammed with people; the cast, the crew, Al Tarr, Victor, and a number of cops were all present.

  Mad Rachel was inside our dressing room with the door closed. Between sobs, she screeched, “I want Eric! I want my mamma!” And also: “Don’t touch that!”

  I heard someone else in the room trying to reason with her; someone who sounded stressed-out and exasperated. A cop assigned to the hapless task of questioning her, I guessed. Whatever he said, it was followed by full-volume ranting from Rachel, the gist of which seemed to be that the police were horrible people and she hated them.

  Bill was standing in a corner, deep in conversation with a uniformed cop, his face morose. Victor was pacing just outside the closed door of Daemon’s dressing room, wringing his hands and muttering to himself. Leischneudel was with him, trying to persuade Victor to take a sip of water. The actor dropped the water bottle when he saw me. It hit the floor with a thud, startling Victor, and rolled away.

  “Esther!” Leischneudel cried with obvious relief. “I thought you’d left without me.”

  “Ah, there’s the missing actress,” Tarr said casually, to no one in particular.

  Leischneudel ran toward me, but a tall stranger in a dark coat got in the way, saying, “Esther Diamond?”

  Behind him, Leischneudel was waving his arms and grimacing at me.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “We’ve looked all over for you.” Without even glancing behind him, the man moved smoothly to block Leischneudel’s path when the actor tried to get around him to reach me. “Where have you been?”

  “Who are you?” My gaze flashed to the gold badge he was wearing in plain view. “And what’s going on here?”

  “Esther, you won’t believe what’s happened!” Hovering behind the tall detective, Leischneudel’s face and tone reflected appalled shock.

  “I’m Detective Branson, NYPD.” The cop’s gaze fastened on my neck, and I realized he was looking at the bite mark Daemon had left there. “I need to ask you some questions.”

  I looked around with an air of alarmed bewilderment. “About what?”

  “Esther!” Leischneudel exclaimed. “Jane has been m—”

  “Please wait over there, sir,” Detective Branson interrupted him, pointing to a chair about ten feet away without taking his gaze off my neck. “I need to speak with Miss Diamond.”

  Leischneudel was hopping around behind him, trying to get my attention. In a moment of lapsed judgment, the actor clutched his throat, stuck out his tongue, and crossed his eyes.

  Branson turned around and looked at him. Perhaps due to his years on the police force, he didn’t react to Leischneudel’s grotesque pantomime. “Now, sir.”

  “Jane’s been murdered!” my friend cried, abandoning his attempt at simulating violent death. “The one who attacked you last night!”

  “Murdered?” I repeated.

  “She hath been most foully slain!” Seeing our expressions, Leischneudel forced himself to taking a calming breath. “Sorry. That just slipped out.”

  “Is there somewhere private we can talk?” Branson asked me. “Such as your dressing room?”

  I pointed at the door that was practically vibrating under the assault of Mad Rachel’s shrieking wails. “She and I share that room.”

  A spasm briefly crossed Branson’s face. “Okay, not in your dressing room then.”

  “Jane’s been murdered?” I said.

  “Her name wasn’t Jane,” Branson said wearily, evidently having already learned why we called the victim that.

  “But she’s been murdered?”

  “She’s been found dead.” Branson used the dogged tone of one trying to get control of the conversation. “And I have some questions for you. Starting with, where have you been for the past twenty minutes?”

  “The bathroom.”

  He shook his head. “We looked for you the bathroom.”

  “The one in the lobby,” I specified, hoping they hadn’t searched that far afield for me.

  The cop frowned. “Why were you there?”

  The volume of Rachel’s sobs increased until I could have sworn the door was rattling. I nodded toward it. “I was avoiding her.”

  My explanation evidently satisfied Branson, since he moved on. “I understand that you and Adele Olson met last night?”

  “Who?”

  “The victim.”

  “She’s been murdered?” I repeated.

  “Please answer the question, Miss Diamond.”

/>   “What was the question?”

  “Did you meet the victim last night?”

  “Not exactly. And you know,” I said seriously, “she might not be dead now if you people had arrested her, the way I asked you to.”

  I thought I saw a vein pulsing in Branson’s forehead as he said, “Tell me about your encounter last night with Adele Ol—”

  “Oh, my God!” Leischneudel gasped, startling both of us. He pointed toward my heels. “What happened to your dress? Fiona will kill you!”

  Branson frowned. “Remind me who Fiona is.”

  “Something’s happened to my dress?” The last thing I needed, considering everything else that was going on, was trouble with the wardrobe mistress. “Oh, no.”

  “Miss Diamond—”

  “Here, look.” Leischneudel lifted the back of my skirt while I twisted around to see what he was trying to show me. I discovered that my recent subterranean sojourn had left a dark smudge on the hem of my white gown. Fortunately, it didn’t look like a permanent stain; but Fiona would snark at me about it, even so. “Damn.”

  Bending to look at the damage reminded me of how tortuously uncomfortable my corset had become by now. I said absently, “I need to take off my clothes.”

  “What?” said Detective Branson.

  “The worst part, Esther,” Leischneudel said urgently, “is that the cops think Jane was killed by a vampire.”

  “We do not think—”

  “You can’t keep me here!” Rachel screeched inside our dressing room. “Equity will hear about this! You’ll never work in this town again!”

  “Actors.” Branson looked like he had inherited Lopez’s headache.

  The door to Daemon’s dressing room opened, and all eyes turned in that direction. The Vampyre star emerged, preceded by a uniformed cop and followed by a female detective.

  As soon as he saw me, Daemon said, “Esther! Tell them I didn’t really mean it!” His pale face was tense and strained, his normally seductive voice taut and panicky. “Tell them it was just part of the play! Tell them.”

  My hand flew to my neck, my palm covering the telltale welt there. The melodramatic gesture was reflexive, not intentional. But everyone in the hallway stopped speaking and stared at me. I could feel all eyes fixated on the bite mark I was instinctively covering with my palm. Obviously, the incident onstage had already been a subject of interest in the police interviews.