Rainy Nights: Three Mysteries

by J. R. Rain

  “What the unholy fuck does that mean?”

  Ron looked truly agonized. I knew this because his uni-brow was arched halfway up his forehead. “Look. She’s meeting with someone.”

  I didn’t like his answer, mostly because I knew it was bullshit. I hit Roy hard with the back of my hand. It’s amazing how much kinetic energy you can generate with a simple backhand swing. Roy felt it. He stumbled backward and yelped.

  “Jesus, what the fuck was that for?”

  “What’s she doing up north?”

  “Look, I don’t—”

  I didn’t like the beginning of that answer, either, and my other hand shot out, low. It caught him in the gut and he doubled over. I grabbed the back of his hair and pulled him up to face me. His nose was trickling blood. He was gasping hard as if he had just run a marathon and it took all my willpower not to slap him again just because I hated his stupid eyebrow.

  “Talk. No lies. Or this starts going very badly for you.”

  He gasped, sucking wind. I could feel his heartbeat reverberating up through his hair.

  “Look, she’s...she’s searching for the thing that killed her parents.” Suck, gasp. “He’s somewhere up north.”

  “Who is he? What’s his name?”

  “I don’t know. She never tells us anything. She only drops, you know, clues. Says it’s better that we don’t know anything.”

  His words jived with Nicole’s. They also had the ring of truth. I always listen for the ring of truth. It’s there, if you know how to find it. I let him go, and he collapsed in a big velvet chair. He looked defeated and fucked up. Good.

  “And how did you meet Veronica?” I asked.

  He smiled weakly. “Anyone looking for vampires eventually ends up here,” he said, spreading his arms.

  “Do you have any clue how fucking lame that sounds?”

  “Do you have any clue what you’re talking about?” he countered, and wiped his bleeding mouth and stared down at the blood on his hand. The word longingly came to mind.

  “And what do people do in here?” I asked, motioning to this back room.

  Roy licked his hand.

  “Anything they want, man.”

  I stood, sickened.

  “You’ll be seeing me,” I said, and left.

  * * *

  I was sitting in a Starbucks a few streets away.

  Adrenalin was still pumping through me. I still felt a strong desire to kick someone’s ass. The name Roy popped into my mind. Maybe later.

  I had no clue what was going on, and that was the frustrating part. I’ve been frustrated on cases before, trust me, but this one was taking the cake.

  Seriously, what the fuck was going on?

  Sipping on a latte of some sort and eating a scone of some sort, I waited while my laptop fired up. Starbucks was mostly empty. No surprise there since it was coming on to midnight. My hands were still shaking a little. Adrenalin does that to you. Sometimes it takes me a little while to come down from my ass-kicking high.

  Finally online, I did a quick Google search and came up with nothing. I sensed a very thorough beating in Roy’s immediate future. If that weird, blood-sucking asshole lied to me....

  A few tries later, after trying different keywords, I came upon the article I wanted. For now, Roy was spared.

  The article was in the L.A. Times. There had, indeed, been a car fire in Echo Park, one that had burned nearly half the hillside. Two charred bodies had been found inside a Cadillac. No indication of foul play, and no mention of the daughter who had witnessed the attack. The article gave the couple’s names: Jeremy and Tonya Fortune.

  I quickly accessed my various data mining websites, proprietary sites available only to licensed private investigators, and found them soon enough. Jeremy and Tonya Fortune out of Reseda, California. The valley. About an hour north of Los Angeles. It had to be them because all their personal information abruptly stopped three years ago. I even verified the Cadillac.

  I dug deeper.

  Jeremy and Tonya Fortune had one daughter. Valerie Fortune.

  Valerie? Veronica?

  It was her, I knew it. Why she had changed her name, I didn’t know. Just as I didn’t know why she had not come forward to report her parents’ murder.

  Maybe she feared no one would believe her.

  Believe what? That a vampire killed her parents? If so, then she was right. No one would have believed her.

  I checked her date of birth, then did the math. Valerie—or Veronica—was indeed seventeen. Which put her at fourteen at the time of her parents’ death.

  So what did I have here?

  Two dead bodies, and a girl who witnessed something. What she witnessed, exactly, I didn’t know. But a car with her parents inside didn’t just go up in flames on its own.

  I sat back and drummed my fingers on the table. Veronica’s story was credible. But it was hearsay. I needed to talk to the source.

  I needed to find Veronica. Or Valerie.

  I packed up my laptop, polished off the latte thingy, and decided to start fresh in the morning.

  After all, I had had enough of vampires for one night.

  Hell, for a lifetime.

  Chapter Six

  We were in bed together.

  Roxi had wanted to make love, and I had just wanted to talk. I know, lame. Of course, all it took were a few seconds of persuasion and I soon saw her side of things.

  Now, panting and sweating and feeling as if I might very well have a heart attack, I turned on my side and looked at her. Roxi was lying on her back, panting a little herself. Her skin glowed softly from the ambient light coming in through the partially open blinds.

  I said, “There’s something screwy going on here.”

  “There was a lot of screwy going on here, babe.”

  “Of the investigative kind.”

  She told me to tell her about it and I did. I had never felt that sense of shyness with Roxi. Ever. It’s one of the reasons why I thought we might just have a chance of making it. I caught Roxi up to date on the case. As always, she had listened with complete attentiveness. Another reason I was falling in love with her. That, and she always called my big stomach a “donut”. You gotta love that.

  When I was finished, Roxi said, “Lots of people are talking about vampires here, but no one’s talking about a girl who is no doubt seriously delusional.”

  “Or perhaps somehow suffering from the traumatic and horrific events of the night her parents were killed.”

  “Perhaps Veronica had been hurt, too. Didn’t Gladys tell you she showed up at her door bloodied and bruised?”

  I said, “But the cuts and bruises could have just as easily been from running through the wooded park at night.”

  “Fine. So let’s say she witnessed something horrific happen to her parents,” said Roxi. She crossed her hands behind her head and stared up. “Why is she going around telling people it had been a vampire attack?”

  “Maybe what happened to her parents was too horrible to deal with, especially for a fourteen-year-old girl,” I said. “And to make sense of it she replaced the reality with something fantastical.”

  Roxi nodded, somehow following my logic. “With something that did make sense to a fourteen-year-old girl.”

  “But vampires?” I asked.

  “Who knows. They’re everywhere these days. Not to mention we don’t know the depth of her psychosis.”

  We were quiet for a few minutes. Outside her apartment I heard a lot of street noise. But the noise was steady, soothing. I felt my eyes growing heavy.

  I said after a while, “So now she’s hunting vampires.”

  “Or what she thinks are vampires.”

  “And somehow convinces a few fanatics that she’s a vampire slayer.”

  “Wish fulfillment,” said Roxi. “These are vampire lovers, and now they have a girl in their midst who claims to not only have seen one kill her parents, but to hunt them as well. She’s practically their hero.”<
br />
  “Much like I’m your hero?”

  She rubbed my donut. “Something like that.”

  “So, if we can agree that there’s no real vampires, then what the hell is she hunting?”

  “That,” said Roxi, rolling over and kissing me lightly on the cheek, “is the million-dollar question.”

  * * *

  I woke up, gasping and weeping.

  My son again. Same mad dash through the forest. The smell of burning flesh. The tormenting sound of running water. His blackened hand.

  Jesus.

  The mad dash through the forest was only in my dreams, of course. The reality had been far different. Twisted car metal, the smell of gasoline, people screaming, my son trapped...reaching for me. A fire under the hood, spreading rapidly. Myself half-unconscious, but too drunk to help my own son....

  Sweet, sweet Jesus.

  I wept some more, quietly, so as not to disturb Roxi, who slept contently on her side. A few minutes of this later, I realized grimly that Veronica and I were not so different. After all, we had both seen loved ones burning....

  Burning....

  Oh, God.

  We have something in common, I thought. Something two people should never, ever have in common.

  And as I sat there in bed, with fresh tears on my cheeks and complete hopelessness in my heart, I suddenly remembered something Roy had told me. Something that hadn’t made sense at the time.

  “Her first attempt failed.”

  I focused my thoughts, tearing them way my son. So what the hell had Roy meant by that? And now Veronica was apparently up north. How far up north? And what attempt had failed? Had she tried to kill a vampire and the attempt failed? Was she following a vampire north, somehow?

  I got quietly out of bed and padded into the kitchen. There, I opened my laptop, fired it up, and soon I was online, jacking into Roxi’s wireless network.

  I didn’t know what I was looking for. I didn’t even know what to Google. Hell, I had the complete World Wide Web at my fingertips, and I didn’t even know where to begin.

  And so I tried random phrases:

  Vampires. Seattle.

  Oh, sweet Jesus. That turned up more than I bargained for. Apparently, this was Twilight country. If Veronica was up there, then any information I had hoped to garner was lost to me. Still, I waded doggedly through fifty or so pages, but nothing stood out.

  I tried Washington, vampires. I told Google to remove any mention of the word Twilight or Stephenie Meyer. Good, better. Not quite so many hits, and many of these pages were new to me. Still, after about a half hour of searching, nothing stood out. I moved on.

  Portland, vampires.

  I scanned and scanned. Same shit. This was feeling like a big waste of time. Needle in a haystack came to mind. I predicted that a serious beating was in Roy the bartender’s immediate future. He wasn’t telling me something, and I was going to kick the shit out of him until he gave it up.

  I typed in: San Francisco, vampires.

  And on about the tenth page, something turned up. An article from the San Francisco Chronicle about a book signing taking place tomorrow. A popular vampire author. Not necessarily the break I was looking for, since I had by now come across a shitload of articles about vampire writers. But it was the title of the article that caught my eye.

  “Security Beefed Up For Popular Vampire Author”

  Oh? I read on. The author, James P. Storm, had apparently been attacked by a fan four days earlier at the Glendale Barnes & Noble. According to the article, his assailant had been wielding a silver stake. The article went on to state that the attacker had escaped, and because of this, security had been heightened at all of Storm’s signings.

  With my heart now pounding steadily in my chest, I scrolled down and found a picture of Mr. Storm signing books. He was smiling at one such fan as he handed back a book. The man’s skin was unusually tan. Almost golden. Hell, he practically glowed. But there was something else. Although he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, something seemed to be reaching down to partially cover the back of his hand. A tattoo.

  I right-clicked and saved the picture. I next uploaded it into my photo viewer. Blew it up twice as big.

  Indeed, it was a dark tattoo, but the picture was too pixelated to tell for sure what it was. But if I had to guess, I would say that I was looking at something that looked like a claw.

  A dragon’s claw?

  As I stared at the picture, completely and utterly fascinated, I found myself wondering if I was looking at an actual vampire....

  Chapter Seven

  It was early. Too early for someone who’s his own boss. But if I wanted to make it to San Francisco with plenty of time to spare by the 2:00 p.m. book signing at Borders, well, I had to get moving.

  Roxi had barely stirred when I got up to dress. I kissed her on the cheek and told her I would be back tomorrow. She murmured that she loved me, which was news to me.

  I smiled down at her and told her I loved her, too, but I think she was already asleep.

  Now I was on the road with a Starbucks mocha between my legs and a belly full of scone. What the hell is a scone, anyway? I’ll Google it later.

  The sun was rising to my right, in the east, as I headed steadily up the 5 Freeway. Or, as my friends in San Fran call it, 5 Freeway, minus the article the.

  San Franciscans are weird.

  Cool, but weird.

  So I was heading up the 5 Freeway, listening to the wind whistle across my partially open window, and wondering what the hell I had gotten myself into.

  Maybe I should have listened to Roy.

  Maybe I should have laid off the case. After all, wasn’t Veronica, or Valerie, nearly an adult now? Hell, hadn’t she basically been on her own since witnessing her parents’ murder three years ago.

  Yes, and yes, but one thing shouldn’t be forgotten here: More than likely Veronica was delusional. More than likely she had erroneously pitted the blame on an innocent writer of vampire fiction. And if she had attacked him with a fucking silver stake, well, she was still a threat to the man.

  For his safety, she needed to be stopped.

  For her mental health and her own safety, she needed to be stopped.

  And I was just the guy to do it?

  Apparently so. After all, I didn’t pick the cases, they picked me.

  As the sun came out in full force, I dropped my shades and headed steadily north.

  On the 5 Freeway.

  * * *

  I called Detective Hammer of the LAPD Missing Persons Division. He picked up on the fourth ring.

  “So I’m a fourth-ring friend now?” I asked.

  “Since when were you a first-, second-, or even a third-ring friend?”

  “Now that’s just mean.”

  “I happen to be a busy man, Spinoza. You’re lucky I picked up at all. Now what the hell do you want? I’ve got a mother waiting outside my office who hasn’t seen her seven-year-old in five hours.”

  My own stomach plummeted at the thought and my heart went out to her. I made a mental note to check up on her and offer my services. I said, “I need you to put me in contact with a buddy of yours on the San Francisco PD.”

  “You think just because I’m with LAPD that I have friends around the country?”

  I waited.

  “Okay, you’re right. I don’t have time to fuck with you. What’s this about?”

  “Our friend the vampire slayer.”

  “Talk to me. Fast.”

  I quickly caught him up to speed. When I was finished, Detective Hammer whistled lightly. “Yeah, a real nut job. Here’s a name and number. Detective Sparks. A good man.” He gave me his number and added, “So this guy really writes vampire novels?”

  “Yes, apparently.”

  “Aren’t most vampire novels about teenage girls running around and, you know, acting retarded?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I said. “But you seem to be some sort of expert.”

  He s
aid something derogatory about me and my hygiene, reminded me once again that I was nothing more than a glorified mall cop, and hung up.

  * * *

  I called Detective Sparks with the SFPD and caught him up to speed. I did my best not to mention the words “vampire slayer” until the very end. And when I finally did—because I inevitably had to—I could practically see the detective’s eyebrows shoot halfway up his forehead. I had never met Sparks or heard of him, but I had a mental image of a man shaking his head and his eyes rolling up.

  “Vampire slayer?” he said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “As in, you know, vampires?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, now I’ve heard everything.”

  “Sadly, now you have.”

  “And you have a picture of this girl?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Swing it by the station and we’ll give it to our guys.”

  “See you then.”

  We hung up, and I continued driving north through the heart of California, past acres and acres of farmland. I had heard once that California farms fed most of the world. Out here, driving up this empty stretch of highway, it was easy to believe.

  And as I sat back and dug in for the rest of the drive, I idly considered the possibility that perhaps Veronica had really witnessed her parents being killed by a vampire.

  Now I almost regretted not working the cheating spouse cases. Almost. No matter what, Veronica was a minor and she needed help.

  One way or another, I was going to help her.

  * * *

  Four hours later, and using my GPS navigation to direct me through the busy streets of San Francisco, I soon pulled up to the SFPD Main Station. Shortly after that, I was directed up into Detective Sparks’s office.

  The detective was pretty much as I had imagined: average-sized, thick around the neck and shoulders, and balding. We shook hands, chatted briefly. He took Veronica’s pictures and made colored copies of them and gave them to one of his men. The images were then uploaded and broadcasted to various officers. Within minutes, Veronica’s mug was everywhere.