Vamparazzi

by Laura Resnick

  I introduced Leischneudel to Max. They exchanged cordial greetings, then the actor’s gaze shifted again to Rachel. She was cooing solicitously as she poured a drink of water for Nelli into an empty cookie tin that previous denizens of this room had left behind.

  “I have a four-man vampire posse now,” I told Leischneudel. “Do you have one, too?”

  “I have the Caped Crusaders,” he said. “Two guys in ... capes. I was, oh, a little startled when they suddenly flanked me outside the theater today.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  “I guess they mean well, but they make me nervous.”

  “Go figure.”

  “Esther, something’s up. There’s a . . .” He glanced hesitantly at Max.

  “Max is a trusted friend,” I said. “You can speak freely in front of him.”

  And there were no worries about speaking in front of Rachel, who was still yakking chirpily to Nelli.

  Leischneudel nodded and said, “Well, Daemon came to work early today. Trying to beat the crowd, I think.”

  “That’s not like him,” I noted.

  Nelli sneezed. Rachel coddled her.

  Leischneudel continued, “I got the impression from what Victor said—Victor’s really in a state—that Daemon was worried about a negative reception from some of the fans. So he wanted to arrive well before he was expected and get inside quickly.” He explained, “You see, Tarr filed a story about the murder that was released in the Exposé’s online edition a few hours ago. And it doesn’t make Daemon look good.”

  “Well, what did Daemon expect?” I said dismissively. “Tarr’s in this for himself, not for Daemon.”

  “Apparently that didn’t really occur to Daemon until he saw today’s story,” said Leischneudel. “Anyhow, Tarr got here a few minutes after I did. As soon as they met, Daemon started shouting.”

  “I kind of regret missing that.” I asked hopefully, “Is there any chance Daemon threw him out of the theater and told him never to darken our doorway again?”

  “I think he might have been working up to that. He was really angry. But then they were interrupted. Detective Branson showed up and wanted to speak to Daemon right away.”

  “Who is Detective Branson?” Max asked.

  I explained, then wondered, “Doesn’t Branson ever sleep?”

  “I guess Tarr got kicked out of the room then, because he . . .” Leischneudel stopped speaking and turned his head to look through the open door.

  “What?” I prodded.

  “Someone’s coming,” he said, obviously interested in seeing who it was.

  I heard footsteps a moment later. Then I saw Detective Branson walking past my door. He noticed that it was open—and that Max, Leischneudel, and I were all looking at him. So he stopped to say hello.

  “How are you today, Miss Diamond?”

  “A little worse for the wear.” I hadn’t intended my voice to be quite so chilly, but I was recalling that he’d told Lopez he considered me a viable murder suspect. “And you, detective?”

  He took in my appearance—the black eye, the welt on my neck, the abrasions on my cheek. “Have you seen a doctor?”

  “I’m an actress. I can’t afford a doctor,” I said. “How is the investigation coming?”

  “Well, it would be better for everyone if the tabloids would leave it alone, that’s for sure.”

  “Fat chance,” I said glumly.

  “Yep.” Branson left.

  Keeping his voice low as the sound of Branson’s footsteps faded away, Max asked Leischneudel, “Do you know why the detective came to see Mr. Ravel?”

  Leischneudel shook his head and was about to say something, but we suddenly heard shouting coming from Daemon’s dressing room. Without hesitation or delay, the three of us scurried into the hallway and stood there eavesdropping. Unfortunately, though, Daemon lacked Rachel’s industrial-strength volume, so I couldn’t tell what he was saying.

  Victor was pacing anxiously right outside Daemon’s door, so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn’t notice us. However, I thought he probably would notice if, for example, I shoved him aside and pressed my ear directly to Daemon’s door.

  Listening with a faint frown of concentration to the echoes of Daemon’s angry voice floating down the hall, Leischneudel said, “Something about the girl didn’t stay. She left after ten minutes . . . ‘You knew that. I told you that’ . . . He’s asking why Tarr didn’t write the truth.”

  I snorted. “Can Daemon really be that naive?”

  Victor finally noticed our presence. He gave a wan little wave, then went back to pacing.

  Now we could hear Tarr’s voice. He was apparently trying to soothe Daemon.

  “Tarr being soothing is peculiarly disturbing, isn’t it?” I said.

  Daemon stopped shouting after one more short, sharp outburst.

  A few moments later, Leischneudel shook his head. “I can’t make out anything else.”

  “Daemon certainly sounded agitated. Not at all like his usual self.” I said to Max, “Reluctant though I am to subject myself to Tarr’s prose, I wonder if we should read that article?”

  “You can find it easily. It’s all over the Internet,” Leischneudel said. “And tomorrow’s print edition of the Exposé will run an expanded and updated version on the front page.”

  “Give me a summary.”

  “Daemon lured the girl to his place and killed her in a fit of delusional bloodlust,” Leischneudel said.

  “Wow,” I said. “No wonder he’s angry.”

  “The article never actually says that, of course. It’s all insinuation and innuendo, written with the pretense that the author considers Daemon innocent. But by the time you finish reading it, you’re convinced he did it.”

  Even for a D-list celebrity who believed that no matter what was said, being talked about was always better than not being talked about, this probably crossed the line.

  Leischneudel glanced at his watch. “I’m going to go get ready for the show. Oh, by the way, is Thack still coming?”

  “Yes, as far as I know.”

  After Leischneudel left us, Max said to me, “Under the circumstances, perhaps our first step should be to attempt to determine whether Mr. Ravel is or is not what he claims to be.”

  I nodded. “I’ll get Nelli.”

  I still didn’t believe that the attention-seeking actor who secretly extracted his own blood in the course of conducting his elaborate charade was a vampire—either made or hereditary. But I agreed with Max that it made sense to try to find out for sure.

  I went back into my dressing room, where I found Nelli still playing with Mad Rachel. I grabbed the dog’s pink leash and ignored Rachel’s whining objections as I led Nelli out of the room.

  “I’m very disappointed in you,” I said to Nelli in the hallway. “You like her?”

  She panted cheerfully as I handed her leash to Max. We three proceeded down the hall to Daemon’s dressing room, where I brushed off Victor’s anxious protests as I knocked on the door. Then I opened it and entered without waiting to be invited in. My disdain for both of the men inside the room ensured that I really didn’t care if I was interrupting a private conversation.

  As it happened, though, Daemon looked relieved by the interruption, and Tarr was pleased to see me. I found the reporter’s welcoming grin and warm greeting so disturbing that I momentarily forgot why I was there.

  Then Tarr said, “Who’s the old guy? And what is that—a hybrid dog-horse thing?”

  Nelli sneezed again, quite forcefully.

  I performed introductions.

  “I’m allergic to dogs,” Daemon said. “Could you please take her out of the room?”

  “A creature of the night with allergies?” I said dubiously.

  Daemon put his hand over his eyes and gave a watery sigh. I stared at him in surprise.

  Nelli sneezed.

  “Hey, I think that dog’s allergic to you, Daemon!” Tarr guffawed at his own witticism.


  “I think something in the theater is bothering her,” I said, noticing that Nelli’s eyes looked a bit irritated.

  Dogs have very sensitive sinuses, and the backstage area of the Hamburg was redolent with dust, sawdust, industrial grime and commercial cleaning fluids, chemical residues and odors, and airborne particles from hairspray, starch, cosmetic powder, and the sweat of generations of actors. In addition to which, I realized, I was somewhat aromatic myself, having applied generous amounts of muscle liniment and antibiotic cream before leaving home today—though that hadn’t bothered Nelli before, so I probably wasn’t the cause of her irritated senses.

  “Did you want something, Esther?” Daemon asked without enthusiasm.

  Max and I both looked expectantly at Nelli. On previous occasions, she had become extremely agitated, even menacing, upon encountering dangerous mystical beings. Would that be her reaction to vampires?

  Nelli sneezed again and gave a little groan.

  I said her name with concern and stroked her head. She drooled a bit and gave a gentle wag of her tale.

  Max and I looked at each other. Then we both looked at Daemon.

  Noticing our intent expressions, the actor said, “Yes?”

  Since our mystical familiar hadn’t clarified things by treating Daemon as a threat, Max evidently decided to cut to the chase. “As an ardent student of vampire lore, sir, I would be very interested in hearing the story of your transformation.”

  Daemon made an inarticulate sound, closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples.

  Tarr folded his arms and said cheerfully, “I have a feeling our boy may be rethinking that part of his bio just now.”

  “Don’t call me your ‘boy,’ ” Daemon snapped, still rubbing his temples.

  Tarr shot back, “Who is Danny Ravinsky?”

  Daemon opened his eyes at that. “Get out.”

  Nelli sneezed.

  Tarr said to us, “That cop—Branson—showed up a little while ago. When our b . . . When Daemon tried to brush him off, Branson said he wanted to talk about Danny Ravinsky. And, whoa, that certainly attracted our friend’s attention.” He paused, then prodded, “So who is he, Daemon?”

  As the obvious answer hit me, I blurted, “Another murder victim?”

  Tarr seemed grotesquely entertained by this question.

  Daemon scowled at me. “No.”

  There was a long, awkward silence.

  Tarr broke it by saying, “You know, when I was in Hollywood, there was this huge star who—”

  “Get out,” Daemon said again. “I have to get ready for the show. Leave.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll be back tomorrow. We still have a lot to talk about.” Tarr looked at me. “You and me, too, toots.”

  “We don’t have anything to discuss,” I said firmly. “And don’t call me ‘toots.’ ”

  He grinned and said, with what he evidently imagined was flirtatious charm, “I’m an interesting guy, when you really get to know me.”

  I was spared having to respond, since Daemon and Nelli both sneezed at the same time, startling everyone.

  Daemon said, “Please take that dog out of here.”

  “Of course! My apologies, sir.” Max said to me, “Nelli and I shall go, er, engage with the crowd. Now that all the actors are inside the theater, the situation may be less volatile outside.”

  “But there are so many people out there, Max.”

  Tarr said to Daemon, “What was I just saying? This thing is exposure for you.”

  “Why are you still here?” Daemon asked him coldly.

  “Yeah, yeah.” Tarr was still grinning. “Going, going.”

  “Our reconnaissance outside may turn out to be fruitless,” Max said to me, “but that possibility should never be a deterrent in any endeavor.”

  “You’ll miss the show,” I pointed out.

  “Lucky you,” Tarr muttered as he passed Max on his way out the door and left.

  Nelli sneezed.

  “She’s still here,” Daemon noted tersely.

  “Never mind, Max, I’ll get you a ticket for another night,” I said quickly.

  “Excellent!” He paused in the doorway. “I shall rendezvous with you in your dressing room after the performance.”

  I nodded. Then I closed the door behind Max and Nelli, and I turned to face Daemon.

  “And now you’re still here,” he grumbled.

  I asked, “Who is Danny Ravinsky?”

  “None of your business, Esther.”

  “Oh, come on, Daemon,” I said. “Wise up! Whoever he is, do you honestly think it’s a secret you can keep now that Tarr has heard the name? Now that he’s heard a cop baiting you with it?”

  To my surprise, Daemon suddenly looked like he was going to cry. “Oh, my God.” He buried his head in his hands and heaved a horrible, half-sobbing sigh. “Oh, God.”

  “Who is Danny Ravinksy?” I asked again. “Why are the cops interested in him?”

  Daemon lifted his head and said wearily, “He’s me.”

  15

  I blinked in surprise. “You?”

  “Rather, he was me.”

  “Danny Ravinsky is your real name?” I guessed.

  “No! Daemon Ravel is my real name!”

  I had never actually believed that. So I stared at him, waiting for a more comprehensive answer.

  He let out his breath on a gust. “I changed it. Legally. I’m Daemon Ravel now.”

  “Ah. I see. You were Danny Ravinsky.” When he nodded, I said, “So what? I don’t understand. Why is that such a big deal that Branson would . . .” Then it hit me. “Oh, good God, Daemon. When the cops were questioning you on suspicion of murder, did you not tell them your real name?”

  “Daemon Ravel is my real name!”

  “It didn’t occur to you how suspicious that would look?” I said in exasperation. “Or how much it would annoy the cops when they found out you’d concealed your real name from them in—let’s review—a murder investigation?”

  He said doggedly, “Daemon Ravel is my real—”

  “Fine, whatever. Ravinsky is your given name, then. The name you were born with. The name the cops were bound to find, you idiot, when they started looking into your past—which they were certainly going to do, since they think you killed Adele Olson.”

  “Who?”

  “The murder victim!” I snapped. “Angeline—the girl you intended to have sex with two nights ago. Ring any bells now, Danny?”

  He winced. “Don’t call me that!”

  Although it was beside the point, I said, “Daniel Ravinsky seems like a perfectly reasonable name. Why did you change it?”

  “I . . .” He shook his head. “I didn’t want to be that person anymore. I’m not that person anymore.”

  “Who was that person?” I gasped and asked, “Oh, my God, was he a con?”

  Daemon—who had never worked for the Crime and Punishment empire, after all—looked puzzled. “A what?”

  “A skell. A perp. A criminal. Was he—I mean, were you—in prison or something?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, no!” Daemon jumped to his feet and paced the room in agitation. “I am not a killer! I was not a criminal! I’ve never been arrested. Until this girl got herself killed, I’ve never been in trouble with the law at all.”

  “Got herself killed?” I repeated.

  “This is a nightmare for me!” he cried.

  I looked at him in appalled wonder, and I fervently hoped that this self-absorbed jackass wasn’t a reflection of what Branson saw in me.

  “Well, if you don’t have a criminal record as Danny Ravinsky,” I asked, “then what’s the problem?”

  “Like you said.” He sagged into another chair. “The cops think it’s suspicious that I didn’t tell them who I used to be.”

  “Go figure.”

  “Look, I knew I didn’t have a criminal past. So I didn’t think my former identity was relevant.”

  “I’m pretty sure the cops like to
be the ones who decide what’s relevant in a murder investigation.”

  “And apparently the wheels of justice turn slowly,” Daemon grumbled. “They’ve found out who I was, but they haven’t yet determined that I have a clean past. Not to their satisfaction, anyhow. I gather that’ll take a little longer.”

  “But if you’re telling the truth about that—”

  “I am!”

  “—then they’ll find out, and they’ll drop it. So cheer up. It’ll blow over.”

  “No, it won’t,” he said desperately. “Not now that Tarr has caught a whiff of this. You’re absolutely right about that.”

  I didn’t understand why this made Daemon look suicidal. “Okay. Tarr will print that you used to be a blameless guy named Danny Ravinsky. So what?”

  He looked at me as if I were a pathetic half-wit. “I’m Daemon Ravel.”

  “Yes, I think you’ve established that.”

  “I am a vampire!”

  “Oh, please.” I turned to leave the room.

  “I’m a romantic prince of the night, a mysterious figure who walks the edge of darkness, an icon of erotic desire.”

  I turned back to him. “And because of that, I keep getting assaulted by your crazed fans!” I added, “I’ve meaning to kill you for that, by the way.”

  “I’m a symbol of modern society’s craving for magic and wonder in their drab little lives,” he insisted. “I’m a representative of man’s struggle with his dark impulses and his quest to understand his primal nature.”

  “And I’m about to barf.”

  “I’m also a celebrity. The face of a national ad campaign. The star of my own TV show.”

  “Canceled.”

  “The title character in a sold-out off-Broadway play,” he continued. “And the first choice for the lead role in an upcoming movie.”

  I blinked. “Really?”

  “Yes! Plus,” he added, “I own a nice loft in Manhattan.”

  Well, he had me there.

  I said, “I gather none of this was true of Danny Ravinsky?”

  “God, no.” He leaned back in his chair and contemplated the ceiling. “Danny was a middle-class kid from Gary, Indiana, who studied acting at a state college and then spent years doing summer stock, school tours, and industrial training films.”