Vamparazzi

by Laura Resnick

  I poured myself a cup of coffee and asked, “Tarr went to work at three in the morning?”

  “Sleaze never sleeps,” Lopez said dryly. “The tabloid is a twenty-four-hour-a-day operation. So Tarr checked in, did some work, then slept there. I guess they have a few cots on the premises, in case a hot new scandal—like this murder case, I suppose—requires their crack journalists to be on hand around the clock.”

  “If Tarr makes a habit of sleeping at work, it certainly explains a lot about his appearance.”

  “Doesn’t he shave, either?”

  “Then Daemon went home?” I prodded, steering the conversation back on track.

  The ride to Daemon’s Soho loft took only a few additional minutes, especially at that time of night. He dismissed the driver, then took Angeline inside with him. Within a few minutes of entering Daemon’s home, she damaged a twelve thousand dollar glass sculpture. She sulked about his distressed reaction to the incident, then got angry when she couldn’t drag his attention away from the damage.

  “Apparently this sculpture wasn’t just something an interior decorator had picked out for him,” Lopez said. “Daemon described himself to the investigating officers as a serious art collector.”

  “So vampirism isn’t his only pretension?” I sipped my coffee.

  If Angeline’s casual destruction of a treasured work of art hadn’t already switched off his libido, then (as Daemon later told the cops) the tantrum that followed certainly would have done so. Just wanting to get rid of the girl now, he told her he wasn’t in the mood for company anymore and asked her to leave. She was insulted and offended, ridiculed him, and threatened to expose him as sexually impotent and incapable.

  “But apparently he’s slept with so many women that he had no concern this would be taken seriously. Or, at least, that’s his story, and he’s sticking to it,” Lopez said. “And he got rid of her after a few more minutes. With some shouting and foul language, but without any violence—well, except for a little more damage that she did to his sculpture before leaving.”

  That was the last he saw of her, according to Daemon. Investigation of his home revealed that the sculpture was indeed damaged, and Angeline’s fingerprints could be found on a few things in the living room, which is where she had spent her entire brief visit. So far, the police had found no evidence that she’d ever entered any other portion of the dwelling. Nor were there any signs of violence apart from the broken items accounted for in Daemon’s story (the sculpture and also the glass Angeline had been drinking from).

  Two witnesses had already been found who saw her alive after that, when she left Daemon’s building and then walked up West Broadway. It was late; but it was a Friday, and a few people were coming home from nights out on the town. And apparently a woman on the street in a Regency gown was memorable, even on Halloween weekend in New York City.

  “But no one knows yet what happened after that,” Lopez said. “One possibility, of course, is that Daemon followed her.”

  “But he had just thrown her out,” I said, pouring a second cup of coffee.

  “Maybe he’s lying. Maybe she walked out, for whatever reason. Then he followed her, trying to get her to come back, and things got ugly. Or maybe he did throw her out, but then he felt uneasy about her threats to expose and embarrass him, so he decided to go after her.” After a moment, he added pensively, “If so, though, he didn’t take her back to his place.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Even if Daemon spent hours cleaning and scrubbing his loft—which somehow strikes me as even less likely than his being a vampire—forensics would have found something if he had committed the murder there. There’s a lot of blood in the human body.” I heard a touch of frustration in his voice as he continued, “It happened somewhere else. I’m sure of it. And finding out where would be a big step forward.”

  “You really don’t think Daemon’s the killer.” I could tell from his tone.

  “No, I really don’t,” he admitted. “But it’s not my case.”

  “It’s connected to your case,” I protested. “It’s probably the same killer.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Oh, come on. Exsanguinated murder victims found under—”

  “Maybe,” he repeated firmly. “I’m about to head over to Manhattan South to read their reports, review Daemon’s interview, and examine their evidence. And I’ll see what I think then.” He added, “No one has more fun on a sunny Sunday than I do.”

  “Did you go to Mass today?” I asked.

  “What are you, my mother?”

  “There’s no need to be insulting,” I said. “It was a friendly question.”

  “Well, yes. That’s where I was before I called you.”

  He waited, apparently expecting me to comment. I didn’t. I gathered from things he’d said in the past that his parents were fairly religious Catholics, and I knew from our . . . friendship that he attended Mass regularly. (And that his mother nagged him if he didn’t.) By contrast, I was a secular Jew who only went to Temple twice a year, at most (and only if my mother really nagged me). I probably shouldn’t be interested in his private spiritual convictions, given that I was trying to exorcise my fascination with him, but I was curious about just how religious he was and how much his faith affected his worldview.

  I was also aware of the irony that, of the two of us, I was the one who believed in various mystical phenomena (with good reason), while he, who attended the Eucharist each week, was the steadfast skeptic.

  Deciding I should stick to the business at hand, I dropped that topic and said, “I assume you’ve got an alternative theory about who the killer is?”

  “I’ve got a few,” he said. “But I try not to fall in love with a theory when I don’t have any evidence to support it.”

  “You think that’s what they’re doing,” I pounced. “You think the cops investigating Angeline’s death are so in love with their theory that the celebrity vampire killed her, they’re not even—”

  “Don’t,” he said. “Branson’s already mad at you.”

  “Oh, Branson’s a—”

  “Let’s not make him mad at me, too.”

  “But if the cops are overlooking—”

  “Stop,” he said.

  “They could miss—”

  “Don’t you want to know about the blood?”

  “What blood?” I asked blankly.

  “That was the first thing I meant to tell you when I called.”

  I recognized what he was doing. “Don’t change the sub—”

  “The blood you drank,” he prodded. “Thinking it was—God help us—Nocturne wine cooler.”

  “That blood? Oh!” Actually, I did want to know. “Yes! What about it?”

  “Well, it’s definitely human.”

  “Ugh.” My hand reflexively covered my mouth. “I think I spat most of it out. Maybe all of it . . .”

  “And there’s nothing wrong with it. I mean, it’s healthy. You’re absolutely fine.”

  “Oh, good,” I said with relief. “Er, I guess it’s not ... not . . .”

  “The murder victim’s blood? No.” I could hear amusement entering his voice. “But it does belong to someone you know. Someone who, you’ll be pleased to learn, eats lean proteins and whole grains, has never smoked, and takes a multivitamin every day.”

  “Who?”

  “I’ve really been looking forward to telling you this . . .”

  “Well?”

  “It’s Daemon’s own blood.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “No, I couldn’t make up something this good.”

  “He extracts and bottles his own blood?” I said incredulously.

  “And then pretends he got it from sexual partners in, er, unconventional practices.”

  “Why?”

  “I wish I could see your face right now,” he said.

  “It’s contorted with amazement.”

  “Apparently he’s been doing this for ye
ars.” Lopez was laughing as he said, “Daemon increased his, uh, production of snack food in preparation for having Tarr living in his pocket. He evidently thought that sheer quantity would convince the Exposé that his act is for real. Or something.”

  “Maybe that’s why he looks so pale.” I had thought the actor had naturally dramatic coloring, but perhaps he instead had an iron deficiency due to frequent phlebotomy. “What do you call blood play if you only do it with yourself?”

  “I don’t know. I’m wondering if it can make you go blind or grow hair on your palms.”

  “So, with women, Daemon just, uh, does standard stuff?”

  “I’m not sure anyone had a strong enough stomach to ask him for specifics about that. But whatever else he may or may not do, he doesn’t drink any blood other than his own.” Laughing again, Lopez added, “And he only drinks his own when he can’t get away with substituting Nocturne.”

  “Talk about dedication to building an image,” I said in amazement. “He couldn’t just study acting and audition for roles, like the rest of us?”

  “Hey, his masquerade got him a nice loft in Soho, a chauffeur-driven limo, some starring roles, and lots of tail.”

  “Well, when you put it that way ... I wonder what sort of exotic, commercially viable creature I could pass myself off as?”

  “I think you’re an exotic, commercially viable creature just the way you are.”

  I cradled the phone against me ear and smiled. “Thank you.”

  “What I’ve just told you is confidential, by the way.”

  “Yeah, I guess so, considering how much trouble Daemon went to in order to convince the world that he habitually drinks blood and has ‘vampire sex.’ ”

  “And what you and I talked about last night still goes,” Lopez said seriously. “Stay away from him.”

  “But you don’t think he’s the murderer,” I argued.

  “No, but that’s my opinion, not an established fact. And a bunch of homicide cops do still think he’s the killer.”

  “What do they—”

  “Daemon says he went to bed alone after Angeline left, and he didn’t see or speak to anyone until his personal assistant showed up around noon. That’s at least eight hours without an alibi. So the cops will be looking for proof that he’s lying and that he wasn’t innocently at home in bed for the rest of the night.”

  “Instead of doing that, they should be looking for the real killer,” I said.

  “They’re doing both.” Lopez sounded a little cranky. “Even if the investigating officers weren’t a little too in love with their current theory, they’d have an obligation to follow up on a suspect’s statement—especially a suspect who doesn’t have an alibi for the estimated time of the crime. That’s part of a cop’s job, Esther. Because, shocking as this may sound, suspects lie to the police. All of the time.”

  “Ah. I see your point.”

  “In that case, I should mark this date on my calendar,” he grumbled. “Sunday, November third, the day you saw my point about something.”

  “I don’t think you got enough sleep last night,” I said.

  “Until the cops on the case are absolutely sure about Daemon,” he said firmly, “I want you to view him as dangerous and treat him with sensible caution.”

  I wondered how much higher ticket prices would go when the tabloids, fans, and scalpers all realized that Daemon, having been released without being arrested, was still under intense police scrutiny.

  “And, as you may remember,” Lopez continued,“I didn’t get enough sleep last night because of a different theory. One which is, if anything, even more plausible today: The killer may be someone obsessed enough with Daemon to kill a woman who seems to be the object of his interest.”

  Nearly being smothered beneath a pile of lust-crazed Janes ensured that I was taking that theory very seriously, too.

  “That’s another good point,” I said encouragingly. “You’re doing very well.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  “Note how I am taking the high road and ignoring your tone.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Thinking of last night’s attack made me realize that if I was going to do a show today, I should probably assess the damage to my appearance. Carrying my coffee cup, I went into my bathroom while I listened to Lopez reiterate the safety rules he wanted me to follow until the killer was in custody.

  As soon as I saw my reflection in the mirror above my sink, I sucked in my breath on a horrified gasp.

  “What’s wrong? Esther!”

  Hearing the sudden alarm in his voice, I realized just how worried about my safety he really was. I said quickly, “Sorry. I’m fine. It’s nothing. Well . . .” I grimaced. “Not nothing. I just looked at myself in the mirror.”

  “Oh.” His sigh of relief was clearly audible over the phone. “Did you grow fangs overnight or something?”

  “It’s going to take a lot of effort for me to look presentable enough to do a show today.”

  My black eye—Angeline’s legacy to me—felt better today, but it looked much worse, an ugly blossom of black, purple, and sickly yellow. There was a swath of stinging mottled red across my cheek, an abrasion made by someone shoving my face into the pavement last night. My complexion was ghastly pale with fatigue, and there were dark circles under my eyes.

  “How’s your neck?” Lopez asked.

  I pushed aside my sleep-snarled hair and took a good look in the mirror. “I think there’s an old Star Trek episode where people on an alien planet are dying of mysterious welts that look just like this one.”

  “Let’s pause a moment to enjoy the fact that the guy who did that to you has just spent hours being questioned by over-tired cops who think he’s a murderer.”

  Leaning closer to the mirror, I used my fingertips to gingerly explore the inflamed flesh, which was various shades of pink and blue, speckled with angry little puce dots. I said in appalled wonder, “You know, if he did have fangs, like a real vampire, this would be a serious wound. I’d probably be in the hospital now.”

  “A real vampire?” Lopez repeated.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “No. I don’t. And we’ll have to leave it that way, since I need to go to work now.” He ended the call by saying vaguely that he’d be in touch again, then he hung up.

  I held the phone against my chest for a moment, filled with mixed emotions. Then I went back into the bedroom, put the receiver into its cradle, and pulled my cell phone out of my tote bag to check for messages.

  As expected, Bill had recently sent a text message notifying everyone that the show would go on and advising us to be at the theater at the usual time for a Sunday performance. The Vampyre bowed to tradition in that respect, keeping early hours this one day of the week. Our 5:00 P.M. start, though later than most other matinees, ensured that there were still plenty of restaurants serving dinner and trains running to the suburbs when our Sunday performance ended.

  Bill had sent an additional text message to me. It said that Fiona wanted to speak to me about a stain on my costume. I deleted the message and wondered how good my chances were of avoiding the wardrobe mistress completely again today.

  I took off my nightgown and put on my terrycloth robe, intending to go take a shower, when the land line rang again. My caller was Thack.

  “I’ve read the news,” he said. “So I wasn’t sure whether I would still have to—er, would still be able to see The Vampyre today.”

  I explained the latest development and assured him the curtain would indeed rise.

  He prodded, “So Daemon Ravel has been questioned by the police in connection with murder?”

  “Yes.” I assumed that most of the facts (as well as plenty of fabrications) were all over the Internet by now. So I said candidly, “The cops questioned everyone at the theater, but they were particularly interested in Daemon. They seemed to consider him a suspect.”

  However, my candor stopped short of telling Thack that
I was both a peripheral suspect and a potential target in this case. My agent was prone to overreaction, and I saw no productive purpose in mentioning those looming clouds to the man whose job it was to think optimistically about my future.

  “Well, I certainly hope all those groupies whose adulation keeps Daemon Ravel employed are paying attention. This is what happens when you go around posing as a vampire,” Thack said censoriously. “Pretending to be an undead creature of the night. Wearing fangs and capes. Claiming to suck blood from the necks of virgins and—”

  “I don’t think virgins are a key element in Daemon’s schtick.”

  “Nothing good comes of playing with these appalling stereotypes. And I hope this will be a lesson to Mr. Ravel.”

  “I don’t know, Thack.” I thought of Lopez’s recent enumeration of the professional and personal benefits Daemon enjoyed as a result of his masquerade. “He may view a scandal like this as just the cost of doing business.”

  “When the music stops, the band has to be paid, Esther. The only respectable thing Daemon Ravel can do, now that he’s involved in a murder, is express public contrition over his revoltingly clichéd behavior and retire into quiet obscurity.” Perhaps remembering then that our show still had two weeks left to run, he added, “Er, after The Vampyre closes, of course.”

  “Of course.” Since it was clear that Thack could easily be pushed over the edge into a lengthy rampage, I also decided not to mention that I’d been physically attacked by some of Daemon’s fans—including the murder victim. “I have to go, Thack. I’ll see you backstage after the show?”

  “Yes. And if I have any appetite left after sitting through this play, I’ll take you to dinner.”

  As soon as I hung up, I realized that I had forgotten to reserve Daemon’s VIP seats for tonight, so I called the box office and did it now.

  “Yes, Daemon and I discussed it, and Victor was going to phone you to authorize it,” I lied cheerfully to the staffer who took my call. “You’re saying Victor hasn’t called? Really? Hmm. Do you think that his employer being questioned by the police on suspicion of murder could be why he forgot?”