"And Katz?"
"Should you run into her, refund the money. You'll still be ahead two hundred thou. And if you never run into her, you'll have three hundred." Cragnow's aura sparkled with self-assured confidence. "Pretty sweet deal."
I picked up a napkin and wiped my lips. "Let me tell you something about myself, Cragnow. I have a habit of finishing what I start."
He nodded and smiled. "You're a vampire who confuses ego with principle. And you think I should admire you for it." The tips of his fangs protruded past his upper lip.
Cragnow's smile deepened into a leer. The smooth sheath of his aura formed into points like the claws of a poisonous centipede.
Chapter Six
CRAGNOW'S AURA BRISTLED with malevolence. It was a good show, and I should've been impressed. But I could overpower Cragnow, dig my talons into his throat, and squeeze until he told me what I wanted to know. How far would I get before his goons rescued him? Certainly the other vampire agents had tried to muscle information… and failed. To get answers I'd need guile, not brute force.
Cragnow headed the Los Angeles nidus, one of the largest in the world, his own barony of the undead. However, that power had demands I would use against him. Chief among his obligations as nidus leader was keeping the community hidden from the blunt-toothed humans.
"Tell me about your chalice," I said.
The points of Cragnow's aura recoiled in suspicion.
Good, I'd knocked him off balance.
His smile vanished. "Who do you mean?"
I motioned in the direction of the front desk. "Rachel. The receptionist."
"She's not a chalice."
"Oh?" I arched my eyebrows. "Then explain her reaction when I mentioned that I was family. How could a human, other than a chalice, know about that?"
The points of Cragnow's aura withdrew into the glowing sheath surrounding him. His fangs receded behind his upper lip. He pushed back into his chair. The surface of his aura became prickly.
He clasped the edge of his eyeglasses. He hesitated at removing them. I knew he regretted not taking them and his contacts off sooner, leaving me with the advantage of reading his aura while he couldn't see mine. He'd done so out of arrogance, and to remove them now would be an admission that I threatened him.
Cragnow lowered his hand and smiled. The skin around his eyes wrinkled. "That's a question only a vampire from the Araneum would ask."
"If you're implying that I'm here on behalf of the Araneum, I'm not," I lied. "My question was one any vampire would ask. Aren't you the head of the local nidus?"
"That's no family secret."
"Then it's your job to enforce the protocol that protects us."
Cragnow's aura softened into an even, inscrutable facade. He paused and drank from his vodka blood frappé.
I asked again, "What about Rachel?"
Cragnow tightened his expression. "Let me worry about her." He stood and walked toward the bar. He held his glass up. "Care for a refill?"
"I'm fine."
Cragnow kept his back to me as he refreshed his drink. "I've changed my mind, Felix. Since you're not going to drop the case, I'll tell you what you can do for me." He turned about. "Go ahead and find out who killed Roxy Bronze."
Lucky for me that Cragnow wore contacts, otherwise my aura blazing in surprise could've blinded him. I paused to regroup my thoughts.
"Okay, Cragnow, let me be honest. You were my number one suspect."
"Why? Because I was Roxy's former boss?"
"You and she had disagreements."
"Many. But that doesn't mean I killed her."
"She bought out her contract with you and was going to start her own video and distribution line." I gestured to the walls. "She made Gomorrah Video. How much did her loss affect you?"
"Let's set the record straight." Cragnow's aura bristled with a fuzz of annoyance, "I made Roxy. She didn't make me. There are many more where she came from. I've got beauty queens, suburban moms, eighteen-year-old cheerleaders fresh off the bus from Kansas, eager to pump spoog for Gomorrah. Roxy was past thirty, a goddamn hag in this business."
"So her leaving didn't bother you."
"Hell yes. But you're talking as if that never happened anywhere else. In Hollywood, the legit movie business, mind you, backstabbing is more common than a handshake." Cragnow picked a newspaper from the magazine crib beside the bar. He tossed the newspaper on the coffee table. "Here's the Wall Street Journal. I dare you to open that and not find one article about business partners screwing each other's balls deep."
"I don't understand your problems with Roxy," I said, wanting to bait Cragnow into revealing more. "Should've zapped her with hypnosis to keep her in line."
Cragnow replied, "You surprise me, Felix. I thought you'd have more experience with humans than that. Posthypnotic control is not reliable outside of the trance, especially for someone with a strong personality."
"Like Roxy?" I asked.
"Especially her."
"Did Roxy know you are a vampire?"
Cragnow's aura tightened.
"It's a simple question. Answer yes or no."
Cragnow's eyes narrowed. "No."
"Was she aware of vampires?"
"I'm positive she wasn't," Cragnow said.
"To be clear about this, you didn't murder Roxy?"
"No." Cragnow closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "And to answer the next question, I don't know who killed her either."
These denials meant little. I lied about being here for the Araneum, and Cragnow could lie about his involvement in Roxy's murder.
"A minute ago you offered me two hundred thousand to drop the case," I said. "Now you want to know who killed her. Why?"
"Not out of sympathy, that's for sure. Roxy got what she deserved. But talking to you made me realize there's a lot more to this." Cragnow rested an elbow on the edge of the bar. "When Roxy died, I thought that was the end of that headache. Now Katz Meow is missing." He looked at me. His aura churned with swirls that betrayed worry. "Maybe I'm next."
"Meaning whoever killed Roxy could be after you?"
"I have to consider that." Cragnow poured more vodka into his frappé. He jammed in a swizzle stick and swirled it. Pink froth spilled out. He ran a finger around the rim of the glass to wipe the foam and then licked his finger clean.
"Don't get me wrong, Felix, I'm not on your side." He returned to his chair, a drunken wobble disturbing his gait. He eased into the leather seat. "It's that your visit has turned on a little lamp in my head. Maybe I've been too complacent about my plans…"
"What plans?"
Cragnow's aura tightened to the smoothness of glass. An equally tight grin curved his lips. "My plans for Gomorrah Video, what else?"
That's what I needed to find out.
"Since you're being straight with me"—his grin widened and the fangs showed—"at least as straight as I'm being with you, do this. Find out who killed Roxy Bronze. It'll be a favor."
"A favor to the leader of the L.A. nidus? What an honor. What do I get in return? A merit badge?"
The grin faded. "Don't push it. You're working for Katz Meow, not me."
Cragnow was feeding me rope, and it wasn't a lifeline.
I asked, "Would you know someone named Coyote?"
Cragnow answered with a nod and said, "Haven't seen him since I fumigated my house."
"What's that mean?"
"I'm sure you'll find out." Cragnow fumbled for the corner of his desk and pressed a button. Staring at me, he sipped from his drink.
The room grew quiet until the loudest sound was the gurgling of the aquarium. The door swung open. The black vampire bodyguard motioned me out. His vest was folded back to expose the big pistol holstered against his chest.
I replaced my sunglasses, gave Cragnow a salute, and followed the bodyguard down the hall and to the reception area. Rachel wasn't there. The bodyguard held the front door open and watched until I got into my car and drove off.
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Traffic on the Ventura Freeway crawled along like a sleepy river. A great mass of inhabitants swelled within the San Fernando Valley, and I was but one speck among the millions. I felt the pressure of countless anonymous eyes smothering me. I wished I was back in Denver, safe and in control.
I whipped off my sunglasses and scanned cars and buildings, looking for the telltale blossom of an orange vampire glow against the sea of red auras. I realized my mistake in assuming that the danger came only from vampires. With the threat of vampire-human collusion, any one of these humans could be after me.
Again I raked my gaze across the confusion of auras, searching for a glow—orange or red—luminescent with malice against me. Icy fear pumped through my limbs. I was like a swimmer convinced that a shark lurked unseen in the surrounding waters.
A stream of self-absorbed humans swirled past. There was nothing around me except hurried indifference.
Thirst parched my throat. I took the exit into Sherman Oaks and stopped in the parking lot of a strip mall lined with boutiques. I pawed through the box my pistol had been shipped in. Under a layer of bubble wrap rested a large Ziploc bag with six 450-milliliter bags of human blood. I removed one, chiding myself for not storing the blood properly. But the plastic bladderlike bag felt cool, so the blood inside should still be safe.
I fanged one end of the bag and sucked the delicious meaty fluid. An invigorating energy flowed through me, quenching the ache of dread like salve on a burn. I relaxed against the driver's seat, rolling up the bag of blood as if it were a tube of toothpaste, and squeezed the last liquid morsels over my tongue. Satisfied, I stuffed the empty bag into the well of the center console.
Guilt crept into me. Guilt for showing weakness because I had lapsed into paranoia.
In previous assignments—against Chinese drug lords, Transylvanian vampire-hunters, and even assassins from our own government—I had never been scared like I was a moment ago. Why now?
Other vampires, that's why. I glanced left and right for orange auras. Certainly by now, Cragnow had warned his undead minions about me.
Why had he let me slip away? Was I bait to draw out his enemies? How concerned was he about Roxy Bronze's murder, provided he wasn't one of the killers?
Resting a hand on the remaining pile of blood bags, I thought about nourishment, another of my worries. All the usual sources—butcher shops, blood banks, chalice parlors—would be watched and my visits reported to Cragnow. The classifieds on the HollowFang.com—a newsletter for the undead disguised as a fanzine for vampire wannabes—wouldn't list anything safe. I could forage for human necks but shuddered at the idea of prowling the streets, even ritzy Rodeo Drive
, with the verminous lust of a junkie.
The dashboard clock said it was midafternoon. Time to quit fretting and get back to work. Besides, I had enough blood for two days.
Next on my list of suspects was Lucius "Lucky" Rosario, the real estate developer whose plans for big profits at the public trough were thwarted by Roxy. I pulled out a photo of Rosario clipped from the newspaper, and a map to his office.
Was Rosario human or undead? Unfortunately, there was no registry of vampires available that I could query. Was he involved with vampire-human collusion or was he only a party in Roxy's death? Or neither?
I got back onto the freeway and headed east into downtown L.A. Rosario's company, Lucky Developments, was in a gigantic high-rise near Fourth and Hope. I turned into the entrance for the basement garage and pulled close to the attendant's booth.
He leaned out of his booth. "No public parking, sir."
I raised my sunglasses, zapped him, and instructed him to raise the entry bar.
Along the edge of the map I had written Rosario's license plate number. Inside the basement garage, I passed a black Porsche Cayenne SUV bearing his plates. At least his car was here.
Lucky Developments was on the seventeenth floor. I kept my sunglasses on while I rode the elevator.
A blond receptionist sat behind a desk in the company foyer, her gaze fixed on a monitor. Conversations buzzed from fabric-walled cubicles stretching down the hall to the left.
"I'd like to see Lucky Rosario," I said.
The receptionist folded her arms. "Mister Rosario's not here. Give me your name and number and what this is about, and I'm sure he'll call you."
I removed my sunglasses and hit her with a good blast of vampire hypnosis. "Here's my appointment."
The receptionist's red aura pulsed like the flash from a strobe light. Her eyes jerked wide, looking like green pellets floating in circles of milk. Both arms dangled toward the carpet. Her mouth gaped, and a drop of spit gathered on her painted lower lip.
I glanced down the hall to make sure we wouldn't be bothered. "Where's Rosario?"
The receptionist worked her mouth. The spit slid to her chin. "Lucky," she whispered, "Lucky's in his office. The door behind me."
"Good girl. Now close your eyes." I placed the receptionist's arms across the keyboard and leaned her forehead against the computer screen. "Have a nice nap."
Her jaw fell open, and she began to snore. I approached the door, turned the knob, and entered.
A portly man in a white shirt and stylish tie sat behind an immense wooden desk, his back to the panorama of Los Angeles filling a picture window. A red aura surrounded him. Good, a human.
I locked the door behind me. This interrogation wouldn't take long.
His shirt creased into the folds of his fat torso. Fleshy jowls widened the bottom half of his face and tapered to an angular forehead topped by a short haircut.
The cuffs of his shirt were folded back, exposing thick, hairy wrists. His hands held the grip of a disassembled pistol. The rest of the gun and bullets lay across a rag on the desktop. Why the gun?
Narrow-set eyes flicked toward me from either side of a bladelike nose. The web of broken capillaries on each flabby cheek flushed into red splotches. "Who the hell…"
We locked gazes. His face matched the photo. Smiling, I pointed a finger and gave Rosario my best vampire hypno-stare. "Bang. Bang."
Chapter Seven
ROSARIO'S AURA FLARED then settled into a turbulent neon mass swirling around his bulk. His gaze clung to mine. His eyes dilated into wide, black dots surrounded by the thin rims of his brown irises. The pistol grip assembly fell from his hands and clunked against the desktop.
I circled the desk, swiveled his chair toward me, and grasped his beefy hands. Massaging the flesh between his thumbs and forefingers, I deepened the trance. His aura settled into a soft glowing texture like phosphorescent chenille.
Dark concentric wrinkles filled his eye sockets, appearing as if they had once been bruised and never completely healed. I focused into the black wells of his eyes that led into his subconscious mind.
"Lucky," I said, "did you kill Roxy Bronze?"
Streaks indicating worry snaked through his aura.
"Lucky, answer me."
He drew a breath and kept quiet.
I stared deeper into his eyes. "Did you kill Roxy Bronze?"
He inhaled and his reply came out as a sigh. "No."
Strike one. Okay, he hadn't murdered her.
"Relax and listen to me." I kept massaging his hands. "Do you know who killed Roxy Bronze?"
More streaks pulsed through his aura.
Under hypnosis, some humans gushed like faucets. They yakked so much I wanted to send them a bill for therapy. And for some, like Rosario, questioning them was like dredging through mud.
I kept repeating my question and Rosario got around to giving me another "No."
Strike two. Still nothing on the killer. "Lucky, have you met a vampire?"
Again, the answer took a long minute to arrive. "No."
Strike three. Rosario knew nothing of vampire-human collusion. I dropped my head and exhaled in frustration.
Vampire hypnosis wasn't getting me any traction. In this situation, fanging him wasn't worth the trouble, especially if I h
ad to put my mouth against the wattles of that fat neck. Better that I quit wasting time and try my luck gleaning information from the office surroundings and then his conscious mind.
I released his hands. They plopped into his lap.
"Close your eyes."
I turned Rosario's chair against the desk and set his forearms on the desktop. He wore a fancy gold wedding ring. Around his left wrist he had a gold watch with diamonds on the crown, a band of thick links, and the U.S. Marine Corps insignia enameled on the watch face. On his right hand he had a pinkie ring with a ruby, no doubt a poseur memento of imagined goombah roots.
One wall was decorated with permits and certificates as well as his undergraduate degree in accounting from UCLA. The southern wall had business plaques and photos of Rosario with celebrities and politicians. There were none of him with Roxy or Cragnow. A cabinet of cherrywood spanned the northern wall. The shelves held awards and various photos of Rosario with a nice-looking, young brunette and two children, both preadolescent girls. Above a middle shelf hung a portrait of a stern-faced and much slimmer version of Rosario in a Marine Corps uniform before a U.S. flag.
Lucius "Lucky" Rosario: accomplished business leader; family man; military veteran; amigo to the famous. A real civic peach. Nothing in the room alluded to graft or cavorting with porn stars.
I pulled out my contacts case and put the contacts on. I opened the office door a crack and stood, as if I'd just crossed the threshold.
"Okay, Lucky, wake up."
Rosario's breath quickened. He blinked. His head reeled back, as if he had suddenly lost his balance. His arms jerked across the desktop, scattering the pieces of his disassembled gun. A couple of cartridges rolled off the desk and thumped against the carpet.
Rosario sat upright and shook his head, the slabs of his swarthy jowls quivering. His gaze swung dizzily across the desk and then onto me. His bushy eyebrows arched in astonishment.
Rosario wouldn't remember anything from the instant before I zapped him.
He stared at me, to the door, then back to me. "How'd you get in here?"
"Your receptionist let me in." I closed the door and approached the leather chair in front of his desk. "Mind if I take a seat?"
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