by Alex P. Berg
“Uh…I think they’re alive,” said Rodgers.
“They are,” said Shay. “I can see their chests moving. Not vigorously, mind you.”
Traci found her voice. “My room! What the hell did these morons do?”
“It doesn’t look too good, does it?” I said. “Hopefully you collected a hefty deposit before you allowed them to stay.”
“That’s it,” said Traci. “I don’t care what Mr. Fillgary-Banks says. They’re gone. Finished. Out of here. Effective immediately.”
“That might be easier said than done,” I said. “I’m not sure how amenable any of these guys are to waking. We probably shouldn’t have sent Quinto away. I bet he could carry two of them by himself. Although…do you have smelling salts?”
Traci closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. When she reopened her eyes, she’d regained a sense of calm. “Yes, actually. I do. Believe it or not, this sort of…thing isn’t completely unheard of at the Banks. Rockers aren’t the only ones prone to excess. Give me a moment.”
Traci left, leaving us detectives to our investigation. Steele moved further into the room, while Rodgers joined me in the middle.
“You’ve seen Yellow Cobra in concert, right Rodgers?” I pointed the trio out with my free hand. “Sammy Styles? B. B. DuPrat? And Ritchie Roth?”
“I think so,” said Rodgers. “I’m sure we can get someone else to confirm. Or ask them—if we can get them to wake.”
I snapped my fingers a few times in B. B.’s direction as I sipped my coffee. He didn’t even flinch.
“Hopefully the smelling salts will be enough,” said Shay. “Looks like we’re dealing with more than booze.”
She bent over a coffee table and picked up a collection of miniature cardstock envelopes, the kind drug dealers used to distribute their product.
“Anything left?” I asked.
Shay shook the envelopes. “Maybe a pill or two. I’ll pocket them for analysis. Same with this.” She dragged her finger through a pile of white powder that had been scraped together in the middle of the coffee table. She used one of the now empty baggies to scoop up the remainder.
Shay stood, slipping the envelopes into her jacket before wiping her fingers on a protruding couch cushion.
“So,” she said, joining us by the Cobras. “Either one of you notice anything unusual I might’ve missed?”
“Now what kind of question is that?” I said. “First of all, how are we supposed to know what you may or may not have overlooked? You’re usually the most observant one in our group. And second of all, everything about this case is unusual. I mean, there are drumsticks protruding from a wall, for crying out loud.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what I don’t see,” said Rodgers. “Camels.”
I pressed my lips together and nodded sagely. “You know…now that you mention it, I hadn’t noticed the lack of camels.”
“Like your jokes are any better,” said Rodgers with a frown. “But on a more serious note, there’s something else I don’t see. Blood.”
Rodgers had a point. Though the camel’s back had been matted with the stuff, there didn’t appear to be any in the apartment—though the spaghetti and meatball wall art provided a serviceable analogue.
The clip clop of heels announced Traci’s return. “Got it,” she said, holding up the smelling salts.
“Good,” I said. “Let’s start with this one.” I shot a finger at Sammy.
Traci uncorked the bottle, leaned over the couch, and waved the salts under Sammy’s nose. The man startled. His eyes shot open, his arms flailing as he bolted upright.
“What the…? Whose it…? I…” He blinked several times, peering left and right.
“Sammy Styles?” I said.
“Huh? Yeah. Is this our room? What the hell happened…?”
I pointed out the other prone forms. “Are those your band mates, Ritchie Roth and B. B. DuPrat?”
“What? Yeah… Who are you?” He shifted his glance from me to Rodgers to Steele.
I gave Traci a nod. “Let’s get the others. Sammy, I’m Detective Jake Daggers with the NWPD. We need to ask you some questions about last night.”
Traci waved the salts under Ritchie’s nose. He bounced off the floor, flopping around and behaving in a similar fashion to his pal Sammy. “Whaza! What? Where? I… I mean…huh?”
“Welcome to the party,” I told the guy. “Sammy. About last night? What can you tell me? Start at the beginning.”
“Dude…what?” he said, pressing a hand against his head. “Seriously, what’s going on? How did I get here?”
Traci waved the salts under B. B.’s nose. All the platinum-haired elf did was groan. The hotel manager looked to us for guidance.
“Give him another sniff,” said Steele. “Ritchie. You mind telling us what happened to you?”
Ritchie sat up from the floor, brushing chandelier shards from his clothes and holding his neck. “Happened? I don’t understand.”
“You’re covered in mud,” said Rodgers. “You have a black eye. And you were taking a nap in a pile of broken glass.”
“Was I?” said Ritchie. “Aww, man. Again?”
Rodgers eyed me. “Are these guys for real?”
B. B. groaned, louder this time, as Traci placed the smelling salts near his nostrils. He turned his head and cracked an eye. “Ugh…what happened? I feel like death.”
“But you’re alive,” I said. “And awake. Everyone is, now. So maybe my partners and I can finally get some answers. What happened last night?”
“Seriously, dude. Detective. Whatever,” said Sammy. “You asking over and over isn’t going to change anything.”
“Pardon?” I said.
“I don’t remember anything, man,” he said. “It’s like…a blur.”
“Ritchie?” I said.
The drummer blinked and cracked his neck. “I…uh…think we went to Billy’s. After that? I couldn’t really say.”
“Wonderful,” said Shay with a roll of her eyes. “B. B.? You have anything to add to the discussion?”
The elven guitarist let out a pained sigh. “Do we really need to do this right now? My head is killing me, and I feel like I got worked over by an angry ogre.”
B. B. peeled himself off the couch, sat up, and leaned back against the cushions.
Traci jumped and screeched. “Gods! What…?”
Sammy’s eyes widened. “Dude…what happened to you?”
Blood covered B. B.’s chest from his collarbone to the bottom of his ribs. His shirt had been torn open, revealing gashes in the flesh beneath—at least three or four. More blood soaked the couch cushions upon which he’d been laying. It was only because of the man’s prone position that we hadn’t noticed earlier. He must’ve come in and immediately collapsed on the sofa, otherwise surely the blood would’ve spread.
The sight threw me for a loop, too, but I played it off. “So much for your observation, Rodgers.”
Steele closed on B. B. “Multiple lacerations. Not too deep, based on coagulation. Looks like they’re stable. B. B., what the heck happened?”
He looked at Shay blankly. “Uh…”
“We need to get this man to a doctor,” said Rodgers.
“No, it’s okay,” said B. B. “Just some scrapes…I think. Some rest, a little bourbon. I’ll be fine.”
“I think Detective Rodgers is more right than you are,” said Shay. “We need to get this man some medical attention, but we also need to get all these knuckleheads to the station for statements. Ms. Gilmore? Could you send a runner to the 5th Street Precinct? Tell them to have a medic ready. The rest of you, come with us. Time to have a chat.”
“Hold up,” I said. “Traci? Could you spare a couple security guards? Have them help Detective Rodgers escort the Cobras back to the station? Steele and I have another pressing matter to attend to.”
Shay lifted a brow. “We do?”
“Yes,” I said. “Club Midnight. That place could blow this case wide open.”
“Seriously, Daggers,” said Shay. “We need to get these musicians back to the precinct for questioning.”
“And you don’t think Rodgers and Quinto can handle that?” I said. “Come on. We need to visit that club sooner or later.”
Shay eyed Rodgers.
He shrugged. “Quinto and I’ll handle it. You two go on ahead. I’ll meet you back at the station.”
Shay sighed. “Fine. Daggers?”
I smiled. “You won’t regret this.” And I hoped she wouldn’t—but she might if Club Midnight really was everything I feared it could be. Hopefully the vampires only frequented the place after hours.
10
The receptionist at the Banks Hotel’s front desk was able to give us directions to Club Midnight, but even with an address in hand, finding the actual locale was no small feat. We walked up and down the street in question three times looking for a sign before eventually stopping and asking for directions at a shoe shine stand. As it turned out, the entrance to Club Midnight lay in the middle of an alley, buttressed on one side by stacks of discarded wooden crates and on the other by overflowing trashcans, to which I added our now empty coffee cups. Even the club’s door was unmarked.
I swallowed hard as I stood before it. Needless to say, its location didn’t inspire in me a sense of ease.
I pulled on the door, which turned out to be unlocked, and held it open for Shay. “Ladies first.”
She gave me a knowing glance. “Mmm-hmm.”
“What?” I said. “I’m a gentleman.”
“One who’s scared of things that go bump in the night, maybe.”
She entered, and I followed. The place didn’t have any windows to speak of, but thankfully someone had left a couple lanterns burning, bathing the interior in a flickering, orange glow.
Unfortunately, the ambience did nothing to dispel my growing concern. A pair of crimson velvet-upholstered divans flanked a curved archway, the latter of which opened up into an expanse as black as the deepest pits of a subterranean reservoir. End tables sidled up next to the divans, their wood dark and gleaming and their legs finely wrought, featuring carved roses and clawed feet. Black-framed paintings covered the walls, depicting scenes of men and women in loin cloths reaching towards lone rays of light as hordes of diseased, skeletal masses pushed toward them. Heavy, black drapes covered the entrances to hallways to our left and right.
I cleared my throat. “Well, this is cheery. Um…hello?”
My call died in the hanging folds of fabric and couch cushions. I waited a few moments for a response, but none came.
“I don’t like this,” I said. “Not one bit.”
Shay smiled and snickered.
“You think this is funny?”
“A little, honestly,” said Shay. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you so on edge.”
“And I’m surprised you’re not taking this more seriously,” I said. “Perhaps you were right about the camel and his abnormally large feet, but there are numerous elements of this case that point to nefarious supernatural goings-on. Not just the manner of Chaz’s death, mind you, but his belongings. His manager, Benson Forsythe. I assume you noticed how he didn’t want to travel to the station to identify Chaz’s body. You know—because it’s daylight.”
“I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt for now, Daggers,” said Shay. “But keep in mind, there have never been reports of vampire activity in the city, at least not during my time on the force, and we’ve never had a murder of this kind before. Besides, if vampires do exist, you don’t think they’d congregate in as stereotypical a location as this, do you?”
“Why wouldn’t they?” I said. “Stereotypes are based in fact. That’s why they’re so useful. If I were a creature of the night, this is precisely where I’d hang out.” I peered into a corner. “Is that a spider web?”
“Looks like a decoration,” said Shay. “Regardless, I guess I’m of the opinion our beliefs about supernatural creatures are more based in myth than reality.”
I chewed on my lip. “I don’t know about that. Like I said, stereotypes are pretty accurate in my experience. Don’t want to get shivved? Don’t go into the slums at night. Don’t want to get your pockets picked? Stay away from street urchins and gnomes with leather-soled shoes. Don’t want to get your blood forcibly removed by vampires? Avoid creepy gothic nightclubs without windows.”
Shay crossed her arms. “Well, we’re here, at your insistence. Even though I didn’t rank this place particularly high on our list of investigative options, I agree we should, in fact, check it out. So—” She held a hand toward one of the drapes. “After you.”
“Who’s the gentleman, now?” I said.
“The term you’re looking for is lady.”
I swallowed back my fear and swiped at the nearest drape, drawing it across the door frame. A dark if otherwise unspectacular hallway beckoned.
“Hello? Anyone there?” I called again.
Shay’s foot tap-tap-tapped as I waited. “Well?”
“Fine. I’m moving.”
I set off down the hall, trying to keep my eyes sharp but finding it difficult to do so in the gloom. The starving, desperate folks in the paintings shook their heads at me, telling me to turn back while I still had a chance. I ignored their sage advice.
After turning a corner, I found myself at the back of a wide open lounge. More couches and loveseats, all of them upholstered in black or deep red, spread out across the floor. A bar stretched to my right, while somewhere deep in the darkness, the gleam of an elevated stage shone through.
“See?” said Shay. “It’s a club. Nothing else.”
I peered toward the far corner. I’d noticed movement.
“I think I saw someone. Hey! Hello?”
Again, no response.
“Go on,” said Shay.
My hand itched, and I debated hanging onto Daisy for safekeeping. Nonetheless, I moved, crossing the room to the far corner. Of course, once I’d arrived, I found nothing. The hairs on my arms rose, and I felt a chill run down my spine.
“I really don’t like this,” I said, looking around.
“I guess no one’s here.” Shay turned and glanced back the way we’d came. “Seems odd they’d leave the front door open. This is a decent neighborhood, but still…”
“Unless whoever owns this place isn’t worried about theft,” I said. “For obvious reasons. Not all thieves are dumb. There could be rumors about this place. Rumors that—”
I felt a chill touch on my shoulder. I turned and screamed.
A tall, wiry man with immaculately moussed black hair and pale skin stood behind me, a black-as-night jacket draped over his shoulders. He held his thin lips parted by a hair and his hand at shoulder level, perfectly still.
He didn’t seem inclined to kill me. Not right away. I stopped screaming.
“My apologies,” he said in a cool, measured voice. “I didn’t mean to startle you. My name is Vance. Can I help you?”
“I… Uh… I mean…that is—”
Shay bailed me out. “I’m Captain Steele from the NWPD. This is my partner, Detective Daggers. Are you in charge here?”
“I’m the owner and operator of this establishment, yes,” he said. “Is there a problem?”
Shay produced the matchbook from her jacket. “Is this from your club?”
He nodded. “It is.”
“An individual was found with it in his possession this morning. Chaz Willy Wilson. Are you familiar with the man?”
“Chaz. Yes, of course,” said Vance. “An excellent creative mind. Bit of a troubled soul, but who amongst us isn’t. I consider him a friend. But when you say he was found…?”
“There’s no easy way to say this, Vance,” said Shay. “Our officers found him dead. In Rucker Park. He passed away early this morning.”
Vance drew air in sh
arply through his teeth. “So he’s passed on, then. I have to admit, I…wasn’t expecting to hear that.”
“You said you consider him a friend,” said Shay. “Do you mind if we ask you a few questions about him?”
“Yes, of course,” said Vance. “I’ll show you to my office. Please, come with me.”
11
Vance paced back and forth across his office, his hands clasped behind his back. Unlike the rest of his club, the room possessed that most elusive of structural elements—a window. Of course, it too had been covered with thick black velvet that drowned out the sun’s light. Instead, a single candle illuminated the space, one placed within a bleached-white sculpture of a human skull that sat on the man’s desk. At least, I hoped it was a sculpture.
“I can’t believe he’s dead,” said Vance. “His image remains fresh in my mind. He was such a vibrant individual. Moody and morose at times, yes, but clever. Creative. So full of vim and vigor.”
“So he was here last night, I take it?” asked Shay.
She sat in one of the padded chairs before Vance’s desk, though she’d rotated it to face the center of the room. I’d chosen to stick to the margins, near the bookshelves overflowing with old tomes and packed with black leather, crystal, and polished stone curios. There, I could distance myself from the oddly pale Vance—or at least I would’ve if the man stopped pacing and retreated behind his desk like he should.
“Chaz stopped by the club last night,” said Vance. “I didn’t get a chance to talk to him, but I made eye contact. He waved at me as he arrived.”
“Would you describe him as a regular?”
Vance nodded. “To an extent. He didn’t visit with great frequency, but I believe his regularity had more to do with his schedule than his desire. He performed often, after all. But perhaps I’m injecting my thoughts and emotions into matters where they’re not insightful.”
“How would you characterize your relationship with the man?” asked Steele.
“As I said, I considered him a friend,” replied Vance. “As a connoisseur of musical acts, I recognized him when he first arrived many months ago. I introduced myself, and we struck up a conversation. Surprisingly, he and I shared many interests. His knowledge in certain subject matters was impressive given his public persona. I admit I’ll miss our, how should I say…philosophical discussions regarding theology, life, death, and the afterlife. I hope the latter treats him well.”
