Vamparazzi

by Laura Resnick

  “Maybe you shouldn’t get up just yet, sir,” said one of the cops as Leischneudel began trying to rise.

  “No, no, I’ll be all right.” He reached for me, and I helped him climb slowly to his feet. He stood there for a moment, using me for balance, his posture a little bit hunched over. His face was still strained, but he nodded after a moment. “I’m okay. It’s just always kind of a shock to the system when that happens. You know what I mean?”

  The two cops nodded vigorously.

  Leischneudel took a deep breath and smiled wanly. “I’d really like to go home now.”

  “Of course.”

  As we helped Leischneudel walk gingerly toward the squad car, the cop who’d spoken to me earlier said, “With such an exciting show out here, I don’t know why anyone would pay three-fifty just to see the play.”

  “Indeed.” Another flashbulb went off in my face. “Heigh ho, the glamorous life.”

  10

  Lopez was nibbling delicately on my neck, the wet heat of his mouth seductive and sultry. His lush lips caressed my sensitive skin, and his teeth nipped just hard enough to hurt me a little—in that good way.

  “I missed you,” I whispered, wanting to weep with longing. “I tried so hard to be strong, but now that you’re here, I . . .”

  I . . . actually, I couldn’t remember how he had gotten here. Or why he was here. I also didn’t know where “here” was.

  But I didn’t really care. His arms were around me, his hands moving over my body, his tongue stroking and teasing me . . .

  I gasped when he shoved me down onto the bed. He followed me down to the mattress, his solid weight deliciously heavy on me, his touch rough and ruthless as he imprisoned my hands over my head and started kissing me with reckless hunger.

  “He’s really not the altar boy he pretends to be, is he?”

  “What?” I said, startled by the sound of a woman’s voice here in my bedroom—ironic, cold, a little malicious.

  “Hmm?” His breath was warm and sweet as he nuzzled me, suddenly gentle again.

  “Who said that?” It had sounded so familiar. I’d heard those words before. In exactly that voice. “Who’s here?”

  “You remember.” Lopez looked down into my face. Even though it was dark, I could see how blue his thicklashed eyes were. I could see, I realized, because there were flames all around us. Illuminating everything. The bed was on fire!

  He murmured softly against my lips, “She killed me.”

  “This is dangerous.” I looked around at the burning bed. “We should do something about this. Don’t you want to know what to do?”

  “Because of you,” he said. “She killed me because of you. Remember?”

  I did remember! I had asked for his help one hot summer night in Harlem, and now he lay near death in a dark ritual space, a secret room consecrated to Evil, where no one would know to look for him.

  “I went there for you,” he whispered.

  “I know.” I started crying.

  “The Lord of Death is dancing around your lover,” she said with unholy glee, “waiting to escort him to the cemetery!”

  “No!” I wailed.

  Lopez was standing behind me now, and we were in a long, dark, echoing tunnel underground. Stalactites hung down around us, creating a shimmering upsidedown forest of beautiful, tortuously twisted crystal formations.

  “You like it here,” I mused. “I didn’t know that about you.”

  He was trying to unlace my Regency gown. “The girl was a ringer for you in this dress. You should take it off.”

  I felt him pulling on the fastenings of my gown. I also saw him lying in front of me, on the cold, damp floor of the tunnel. He had been given an ordeal poison and was dying of slow paralysis. Sweat beaded his face. He could barely breathe. He was looking at me, silently imploring me to do something about this.

  “I did what I had to!” I said desperately. “You should go now!”

  “Let’s get this dress off you first,” he said behind me.

  “Am I really in danger?” I asked.

  “I wanted to show you this.”

  “What?”

  Still lying on the floor, his neck was bleeding now. He showed me the fang marks on his jugular vein.

  “No, it’s my carotid artery,” he said.

  “This is your doing,” his killer said to me. “You have no one to blame but yourself.”

  “You’re an evil bitch,” I replied.

  “But she got in here, even so,” Lopez whispered, tugging at my gown.

  I felt impatient now, wanting him to finish undoing my laces and take off my clothes. To shed the layers between us so we could embrace, naked and uninhibited. I yearned for that. But the more he yanked and tugged and tried to free me, the more knotted and tangled the laces got, and the heavier and thicker the layers of cloth became.

  “Maybe I have to wear it,” I said at last. “Maybe this is just how it is.”

  “It looks good on you,” he said judiciously.

  I looked at the teeth marks on his neck as he lay dying on the filthy floor of the tunnel.

  “There’s more to this, isn’t there?” I asked.

  “You know the answer to that by now.”

  I touched my neck and felt bite marks there. “Yes, I know.”

  When I pulled my hand away from my wound, I saw there was blood on my fingers. “Is it safe?”

  “Ask them.”

  I turned in the direction of his gaze, and I saw a horde of vamparazzi stampeding through the tunnel, coming in this direction. I recognized Daemon among them, dressed as Lord Ruthven. He was surrounded by grinning goth girls and mean-looking guys in black leather. There was also a woman in white body paint, with a low-cut red dress and elaborate red wings. When she smiled, I saw a row of sharp teeth. She was with a guy who had wobbly fangs and a slight drooling problem.

  “They think a vampire did it,” Leischneudel said, standing beside me. He looked hollow-eyed and frightened.

  “Is it really blood?” Dr. Hal shouted, stampeding with the other vamparazzi. He waved a placard overhead that I couldn’t quite read. “How do you know?”

  “I just hate vampires,” Thack said to me.

  “Should you be wearing a white suit down here?” I asked, looking at his outfit.

  “Don’t be absurd,” he replied. “I never wear white after Labor Day.”

  “But—”

  “Get her! Get her!” the Janes screamed, racing toward me with maddened expressions.

  I gasped in fear and fell back a step, then turned to ask Lopez for help. But I saw him lying there, dying because of me, and I changed my mind. Instead, I turned and ran in the other direction, leading the swarm away from him. But I didn’t know where I was going. I was just staggering around in the dark, my legs heavy and unresponsive, the thick blackness of the tunnels closing in on me.

  I tried to shout for help, but my voice didn’t work.

  I looked over my shoulder and saw the vamparazzi coming for me, their flashbulbs going off, illuminating the tunnels. In the elusive light of their flashes, I could see an escape route, but my legs wouldn’t move. The Janes were stalking me now, their fangs drooling, blood dripping from their pouty pink mouths.

  “Hey, can I get some photos of this?” Al Tarr asked me.

  I found my voice. “Go away!”

  Tarr pulled out his notebook, poised his pen over it, and asked, “So that’s my rival?”

  He nodded toward Lopez, who leaned casually against a tunnel wall nearby, wearing grubby clothing, his hair too long, and in need of a shave. He looked dangerous and sexy.

  “What’s he doing here?” the reporter asked, scribbling in his notebook.

  “He’s always here,” I said. “You know that.”

  “Does he know any good songs?”

  “What?”

  Tarr shook his head and kept taking notes.

  I frowned when I saw that Lopez’s neck was still bleeding.

 
“What if there really is a vampire lurking around here?” I asked Tarr.

  The tabloid writer looked surprised by that. “If there is . . .” He thought it over. “Well, then we gotta get some pictures.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t have a camera.”

  “Me, neither.” He prodded, “But you know who does, right?”

  “Yes.” I looked over at the wall again, but Lopez was gone. I watched a Jane stalking past me and Tarr, her eyes glowing, her fangs dripping. I stood very still, not even breathing, hoping she wouldn’t notice me. After she moved on to another prospective victim, I nodded and said, “I know who has a camera.”

  “Can you get it?” Tarr asked.

  “Get it?” I repeated.

  Get it . . .

  The sharp ring of the telephone jerked me out of a sound sleep. I flinched, my heart pounding, my brain disoriented and befuddled. I looked around in confusion as I pressed a hand against my thudding chest.

  The phone rang again.

  Get it.

  I groaned as I rolled over in my bed and glanced at the clock on my nightstand. It was a little after noon. So I’d had almost six hours of sleep. I scrubbed my face with my hands as the phone rang again. Squinting my stinging eyes against the sunlight that was filtering through the blinds on my bedroom window, I picked up the receiver and croaked, “Hello?”

  “How did you manage to turn yourself into a suspect ?” Lopez demanded.

  Since I had seen him only moments ago in my dreams (where I had done a little more than just look), hearing his voice on my phone confused me. As did his opening salvo.

  I said, “Huh?”

  “When I left the theater last night, you were a witness and maybe a target. Now you’re also a suspect,” he said in exasperation. “How do you manage these things?”

  “Huh?”

  He backed up a step. “Are you awake, Esther?”

  “I am now,” I said irritably. “I think I liked you better in my dreams.”

  “What?”

  “Why did you wake me?”

  “I didn’t know you’d still be asleep.” After a moment, he added, “Sorry. It probably should have occurred to me. I know they kept you at the theater until nearly five. And I also heard about what happened when you left. How are you?”

  I winced as I sat up. “Ow . . . A few aches and pains, that’s for sure. I wonder how many women were in the pile-on?”

  “Five were arrested.”

  “It seemed like more,” I said wearily, sliding out of bed and stumbling down the hallway. “So you’ve talked to the cops today, I gather?”

  “Yeah. Branson and I connected by phone a couple of hours ago. Which is how I know that you’re a suspect now.”

  “I don’t understand.” I went into the kitchen to open a bottle of painkillers and pour a glass of water. “How? Why?”

  “Funny, that’s what I said.”

  “Well?”

  “Apparently you made a poor impression on Detective Branson when he interviewed you.”

  “Oh, good grief.”

  “I’ve only seen a little of your work,” Lopez said. “But I’ve seen enough to know you’re a very good actress.”

  “Yeah?” I perked up. “Did you see—”

  “So why can’t you at least fake sensitivity and womanly emotion when the situation calls for it?”

  “Whoa. Branson thinks that because I’m not distraught over the victim’s death, that means I might have killed her?” I swallowed three painkillers with a gulp of water.

  “Something like that,” Lopez said dryly.

  “You’re not going to disagree with me when I say he’s an idiot, are you?” I decided that caffeine was the essential chaser for my ibuprofen breakfast.

  “Apparently he expected better of you, Esther,” Lopez said solemnly. “But then, he doesn’t know you like I do.”

  “Hmph.” I started pouring water into the coffee machine. “Wait a minute. If I’m a suspect, that means ... They still don’t know who the killer is?”

  “Right again.”

  “Daemon’s not under arrest?” I blurted in surprise. It had seemed like a sure thing last night.

  “No. They sent him home a couple of hours ago.”

  “Hey! So I still have a job!” That made me feel energized, even without the caffeine.

  “Well, for tonight, anyhow.”

  I paused while measuring scoops of coffee. “You mean they still might arrest him?”

  “If they think they can make a case,” Lopez said. “They can’t right now. But they still like him for this, so they’ll be trying. While also looking at other suspects. Such as—oh, for example—you, now that you’ve alienated Branson.”

  “Oh, surely I’m not a serious suspect?” I switched on the coffee machine.

  “No, but you did feasibly have a beef against the victim, who attacked you and then went home with your boyfriend.”

  I gasped in revulsion. “He’s not my—”

  “I know. But that’s one possible interpretation of the murder. And it’s one that Branson’s entertaining, now that you’ve pissed him off.” Lopez added critically, “That wasn’t smart, Esther.”

  “Bullshit,” I snapped. “My whereabouts are accounted for. Leischneudel brought me home in the cab waiting for us outside the theater, and he stayed here until nearly four. Then we called for a taxi to come take him home. If Branson doesn’t believe me or Leischneudel, then he can check with the taxi cab company.”

  “Oh, he will. But Branson thinks one possibility is that as soon as you were alone, you went back out by yourself—”

  “At that time of night?”

  “—and you found, confronted, and killed Angeline.”

  “I wasn’t homicidally angry about my black eye.” I stretched a little, trying to wake up my stiff muscles. “I just wanted her arrested for assaulting me.”

  Lopez said, “His theory relies on a level of ruthlessly effective time-management that I told him definitely doesn’t apply to you.”

  “How thoughtful of you to stick up for me,” I said sourly.

  “But it’s a theory that does fall within range of the estimated time of death—which is never as conveniently precise as they make it seem on Crime and Punishment.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” I decided to redirect the conversation. “While you were listening to Branson theorize that I’m a murderer—”

  “Okay, look, I told him there was no way—”

  “Did you happen to notice anything else, detective?”

  “Such as?”

  “He never mentioned you being at the theater. Or Hector Sousa. Or a scary-looking guy in desperate need of a barber.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “The cops have no idea you were there last night.”

  “And I owe that, no doubt, to your shrewdly evasive and cunning conversational skills.”

  “Okay, the subject never came up,” I admitted.

  “That was going to be my next guess.”

  “Things were so bizarre and chaotic when the cops were there—”

  “Branson did mention that.”

  “—that I don’t think any of the other actors even remembered they’d met you.”

  “On the other hand, I think the cops who were there last night will remember for years to come that they’ve met all of you.”

  “For all the good it did them. Why can’t they make a case against Daemon?” Realizing from the silence that followed that he was debating whether or not to tell me, I pointed out, “You know that Daemon will tell me if I ask him.”

  “So go ask him.”

  “But then I’d have to talk to him,” I objected, as the aroma of brewing coffee filled my little kitchen.

  He laughed. “All right. That tabloid reporter who follows him everywhere will probably squeeze a lot of this out of him and make it public, anyhow.”

  “Count on it. Tarr is persistent.” For no rational reason, I added, “He asked me out
.”

  “Tarr did?”

  “Uh-huh.” I felt my face flush and wished I hadn’t mentioned it.

  After an awkward pause, Lopez said, “I guess even tabloid writers get lonely.”

  “I don’t like him,” I said quickly. “I turned him down.”

  Another pause. A longer one. “Why are you telling me this?”

  I really had no idea. Nor could I have explained why I asked, “Have you gone out with anyone? You know, since . . .”

  “Adele Olson was seen leaving Daemon’s loft,” he said, retreating safely into cop mode. “Alive and alone, healthy and on her own two feet.”

  I was embarrassed and appalled at my own behavior. The last thing I wanted was for Lopez to think I was playing games with him. Which was probably exactly what he did think now.

  Fortunately, his information was surprising enough to distract me from my mortification. “She was seen leaving his place? Who sees someone at that time of night?”

  “There were still some people on the streets. It was barely thirty minutes after she attacked you.”

  I snorted involuntarily. “That was fast.”

  I heard his puff of laughter and felt relieved that we were getting back on an even keel, as if my odd little outburst hadn’t just happened.

  “I gather that Angeline turned out to be too crazy even for Daemon’s taste,” Lopez said. “He insists nothing happened between them.”

  “They didn’t sleep together?” I said in surprise.

  “He says no. Which happens to be consistent with the medical examiner’s findings,” he said. “Meanwhile, a thorough—very thorough—investigation of Daemon’s loft hasn’t yet uncovered any evidence to contradict his story.”

  “What is his story?” I asked. “He just gave her a lift somewhere?”

  “No—though he did give one to your friend, Al Tarr.”

  “He’s not my fr—”

  “After leaving the theater that night, Daemon’s car swung by the Exposé’s offices on Houston Street to drop off the reporter.”

  The fact that Daemon had given Tarr a lift somewhere made more sense, I realized, than my vague assumption at the time, which was that Tarr was accompanying Daemon and his groupie home, and would watch TV or something in the living room while they ... I stopped there, realizing these were mental images I didn’t want to pursue now any more than I had on the night I’d seen the threesome drive away from the theater.