Читать книгу Kiss of Death - P.D. Martin - Страница 9

Sunday, 7:00 p.m.

I head across to the Monte Cristo on Wilshire, the location of Ruin on Fridays and Malediction Society on Sundays. The bar itself doesn’t open until 10:00 p.m., but hopefully there’ll be someone there, setting up the club. It’s 7:00 p.m. by the time I arrive, spot Sloan and get a parking spot. It takes us another fifteen minutes to find the entrance, which is down a laneway, despite the club’s official address being Wilshire. The place is all shut up but we pound on the big metal door nevertheless.

“Nice neighborhood,” Sloan says sarcastically. The outside of the Monte Cristo and the surrounding area is certainly nothing to brag about, but maybe that fits in with the Gothic scene.

Three posters are plastered on the door: one for Cherry Pie on Thursdays, a lesbian night; one for Ruin on Fridays; and one for tonight. A few event-specific posters are also up, such as the next full-moon party. Looks like we’ve come to the right place.

We bang on the door again and keep at it until eventually someone opens it a crack.

“What?” A woman comes partially into view. Even with only a sliver of her face and body visible, I can make out legs and long black hair.

I hold up my FBI ID. “I’m Special Agent Sophie Anderson from the FBI and this is Detective Sloan from the LAPD.” Sloan also holds her badge up to the crack in the door while I continue. “We’d like to talk to you about the Gothic and vampire communities here in L.A. and about some of your patrons.”

The door opens fully. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you were cops.” The annoyance in her voice is gone. “Can we talk while I work? I’m running behind. I’ve got to finish setting up and get home to tuck my little girl in.”

“Sure.”

Sloan and I follow her in.

“Are you the manager here?” I ask.

She snorts. “No. But I do most of his work.” She turns around. “I’m the bar manager, Cheryl.”

Cheryl’s tall, at about six-two, although a few inches of that is high-heeled boots that come up to her thighs. She wears skimpy black hot pants and a burgundy bodice, strapped tight. Her dark black hair is long and straight, with a heavy fringe.

“Are you a vampire, Cheryl?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Nope. And personally I think it’s all crap. But we get lots of people in here who think they are vamps.”

“After Dark?” Sloan is struggling to keep up with Cheryl’s strides.

“Sure. Most of them come in here—if not every Friday and Sunday at least a couple of times a month. Including their leader, Anton Ward.”

“You know how many people are in the group?”

She shrugs. “There’s about twenty in Ward’s house.”

“House?”

“Coven, house, clan. It’s what they call themselves.” Cheryl ducks under the side of the bar. “You ladies want a drink? On the house of course.”

“Water, if you’ve got it.”

She smiles. “Guess you’re still on duty, huh?”

“Yeah.” Sloan lets out an exaggerated sigh. “I’ll have a water, too.”

“Two waters coming up.” Cheryl bends down into a fridge directly beneath her and places two bottled waters on the bar. Sitting on the bar stools, Sloan and I open the drinks.

“Are there lots of vampire houses?”

“Sure.” Cheryl pauses, looking around the bar. “Sugar syrup.” She grabs a bag of sugar and pours some into a jug, and then takes out a kettle and plugs it in. “I guess there’s about four bigger houses that I know of for sure. But even two or three vamps just hanging out might call themselves a house.”

“You got any names?” Sloan leans forward in anticipation.

She shakes her head. “The others are small fry compared to Anton’s house. After Dark’s the most well-known because of its elite nature.”

“So tell us about Ward.” I take a sip of water.

Cheryl starts cutting lemons. “His group’s been around for ages…longer than I’ve been here.”

“How long have you worked here?” Sloan asks.

“Four years.”

“That’s a long time,” I say in between mouthfuls of water.

“Yeah. For this place and bar work in general. But it suits me. I live down the road and can pop back home to say good-night to my little girl, and the tips are good. And the boss…well, I know I said before he should be here, but I like it that he’s not on my back all the time.” She shrugs. “No reason to move on.”

“So four years ago…” Sloan takes a quick glance around the room. “Ward and After Dark much as it is now?”

“Uh-huh. Maybe a few more members, but that house is pretty stable.”

“Good leadership?” I ask.

“Guess so. Ward’s certainly…charming. And good-looking.” She stops chopping lemons for a second and looks up. “There’s something about him, he’s got…what’s that French expression?”

“Je ne sais quoi?”

“That’s the one.” She gives us a wink. “A great ass, too.”

“Sounds like you’re smitten.” Sloan smiles.

“No.” She shakes her head. “He’s not my type. Way too sure of himself. I like my men a little more submissive.” Another wink.

The kettle clicks off and she pours the boiling water into the jug and stirs while she talks. “But lots of women do like him. He’s got a few from his clan, of course, plus…well, pretty much any woman who comes in here would jump at the chance to get into bed with Ward.”

“I see.” I’m getting curious now. I know from the photos that he’s good-looking, model good-looking, but obviously there’s more to it than that. Then again, as the leader of a large group, cult or not, he’s bound to have a charismatic and magnetic personality.

“Many people leave After Dark?” I ask.

“No, not really. Like I said, it’s a stable house. And Ward’s wealthy, real wealthy, so I think the members get lots of fringe benefits.”

“Such as?” Sloan stands up and for the first time today gets out her notebook, pen and reading glasses.

“I don’t know for sure, but I’ve heard he buys them clothes and jewelry, plus he’s got a standing tab here for drinks. And I think the group meets at his house once a week and the whole thing’s catered.” She stops stirring the sugar syrup and puts it in the fridge before moving back to the last two whole lemons.

I watch her making quick, exact slices. “Does it cost money to become a member?”

“I don’t know.” She pulls out a basket of limes and a few cartons of strawberries.

“Anyone left After Dark recently?”

“Yeah, actually. Damien Winters. Used to be close to Ward, too, but he broke off a little bit ago.” She cuts the limes into quarters. “He hangs out with a different bunch of people now.”

“What’s Damien Winters like?”

She shrugs. “He’s okay. Both he and Ward have very strong personalities and I presume that’s why he left—a house with two alpha males just doesn’t work.”

Sloan stops scribbling and looks up. “Either of them ever violent?”

“Not that I know of.”

“You know who’s in Winters’ group?”

“There are twin brothers from Texas. Real thick Texan accents, and they are rough.” She finishes the limes and moves onto the strawberries, cutting little slits in them. Presumably they’ll be decoration for cocktails tonight. “Security always keeps a close eye on them. And there are a few girls who hang around Winters, too. Don’t know their names, but I assume they’re girlfriends or donors.”

“Donors?”

“The ones who like having their blood drunk by vamps.”

Sloan grimaces. “The vamps that come in here, are they more about the look, or do they really believe they’re vampires?”

“There’s some that have this romanticized idea of the Goth culture and think vampires are sexy…cool. But there are lots of true believers, too, including After Dark. And you don’t want to question their beliefs. I learned a long time ago to keep my mouth shut on the subject.”

“They get angry?”

“Not angry, defensive.” She looks up. “You walk down the street like this and you get looks, you can get picked on. Vamps often feel persecuted. Most of them believe they were born vampires, with some sort of need for blood, and that nobody understands that. Nobody but other vamps.”

I nod. “What about the other houses in L.A.?”

“Like I said, even two vamps who are friends can call themselves a house.”

“You must have some names? Some records?”

“Credit card receipts, I guess. And we’ve got a mailing list and a few of our members have bar tabs. But you’ll have to talk to the manager about that.”

Fair enough. Realistically we’d need a warrant for that information anyway.

“There’s also our MySpace and Facebook pages. Most of the friends on there are regulars.”

“I was on the club’s pages this afternoon, but I’ll take a closer look. Thanks.” I take a final sip of water. “Any of your other customers ever violent or dangerous?”

“Mmm…there’s one guy that gives me the creeps. Don’t know his name, but he’s big and always seems real aggressive—even just in the way he demands a drink. He’s always here with his girlfriend and two other guys. I don’t know if they’re a clan or just hang together.” She finishes the strawberries and stretches up to take a small blackboard on the bar’s corner off its hinges. “I’ve heard they’re really into the whole mythology. And that they’re convinced they must feed off people and turn them to increase their vamp numbers. But it could all be talk.”

“And you don’t know any of their names?” Sloan asks.

“Sorry, no.” Cheryl writes: Cocktail special: Deadly surprise, $12 on the blackboard and rehangs it before moving down to the other end of the bar and taking another small blackboard off its hinges, then returns to the center of the bar. “They usually come in on Sundays, though. I could point them out to you…” Midsentence she looks up and gives us a big smile. “You ladies got any black?” She looks back down at the board and writes in the drink special.

“Can you describe them to us?” I won’t be mentioning that I’m considering coming back tonight. I’m not sure if I want Cheryl, or anyone, knowing that I’m FBI here in disguise. And with the makeup, the clothes and a wig, I don’t think Cheryl would recognize me anyway. I grimace at the thought of me in Goth gear. All in the line of duty.

“The main guy is around five-ten, stocky and bald with a big skull tattoo on his right arm. He usually wears leather pants and a fishnet-T. The girlfriend is big, buxom. Long black hair with bright red streaks and she’s always showing a lot of flesh…and she’s got a lot to show. Then the two guys…one of them is real tall and skinny, hair down to his shoulders and he normally wears full face makeup and a suit. Think Clockwork Orange. And the other guy is kinda short, maybe five-six, but good-looking in a rough kinda way. Short black hair, not much makeup, and he goes more for the leather pants and usually nothing on top. Two nipple rings and a nose stud, too.”

I nod. “Thanks, Cheryl.”

Sloan closes her notebook. “It’s been enlightening, ma’am.”

Cheryl gives a little laugh. “Thanks.” She pauses. “We’re done?”

Sloan and I both say yes.

Cheryl wipes her hands on a tea towel. “I’ll let you out then.”

We follow her back through the club to the main entrance.

“Have you got cameras in here?” Sloan’s scanning the ceiling.

“Uh-huh.” Cheryl stops and points backward. “One in the corner there, one on the rooftop patio and one at the entrance.”

“Do you know if the manager keeps the footage?” Maybe we can find the four people Cheryl’s talking about on video footage.

“Yeah, I think so. But I don’t know for how long. I can write down the manager’s contact details for you. There’s a pen at the door.” She starts walking to the entrance again.

“Great,” Sloan says.

We get to the top of the stairs and follow Cheryl down. “I like your top.”

“Yeah, it’s cool isn’t it?” She looks back at me and gives me a once-over. “You could wear something like this with black pants and it’d look dressy, not Goth, right?”

“True. Where’d you get it?”

She goes behind the desk at the door and pulls out a pen and paper. “Place called VampIt in WestHo.” She starts writing. “So the manager’s name is Brad and he organizes all the security.”

I take the piece of paper. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” She unlocks the heavy metal door and heaves it open.

“Thanks again for your time.” Sloan holds out her hand.

Cheryl smiles and takes Sloan’s outstretched hand, then mine. “Have a good night.”

It didn’t take me long to track down VampIt and recruit Mercedes for the night’s activities. I’m bringing her along as a friend, not as an FBI employee. Not many women go to a club by themselves and I don’t want to stand out. Mercedes and I met at the store in WestHo, leaving Sloan to catch a cab back to her house. I got the distinct impression she didn’t see the point of actually going to one of the clubs in Goth attire at this early stage of the investigation, but if I’m going to profile Sherry’s killer I need to look at all angles.

It had actually been kinda fun shopping for corsets, leather and black. Mercedes and I spent a good forty minutes in the shop, much to the annoyance of the salesgirl who agreed to keep the store open for us when we guaranteed her sales and a big tip…but after twenty-five minutes I think she was regretting her decision. Even creatures of the night want to knock off work. We were lucky the store was even open.

Eventually I chose black leather pants with laces that run all the way up the sides of my legs and a red velvet bodice top—one of the few in the store that had straps. Rather than wasting money on shoes, I decided to wear some ankle boots I had at home, but I did buy an ankh choker, which is supposed to represent eternal life. Mercedes’ outfit is very different from mine. She chose a short black leather dress with an A-line flare to it and a halter neck. She also managed to pick a pair of knee-high boots that she figured would work well in her normal wardrobe, some fishnet stockings, plus a long chain and chunky pendant. The last things on our shopping list were makeup and wigs. The shop assistant suggested going a few shades paler than our own skin tones in the foundation, and then purchasing a translucent powder. Despite my stereotyped notion that I’d be going for white, apparently that’s considered a bad makeup job among Goths. Who knew?

I’m already pretty pale, especially by L.A. standards, so I go with Ivory Bisque for the foundation. But for Mercedes, whose Latin-American blood gives her a beautiful olive tone, the shop assistant recommended Light Beige Blush. We also bought one container of “ash” powder, an almost translucent powder that will set the makeup and our respective foundations, only making the overall effect slightly paler. The piece de resistance was two wigs. Mercedes went for an Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction look, and I decided on a long black do with no bangs. I reckon it was worth the sales assistant’s forty minutes, because the bill totaled $655 and we gave her a $40 cash tip for her efforts. Goth clothes are expensive and I don’t know yet if the FBI will let us write them off. Truth be told, it’s a big investment, but I need to find out more about the vampire community. The more I know, the better informed my profile will be.

By the time Mercedes and I get back to my Westwood apartment it’s 8:30 p.m. and I can’t imagine Darren’s exactly happy with me. I called from VampIt to scrap our dinner plans but I had a hard time convincing Darren that this little outing was important and couldn’t wait.

I slide my key in the door and creep in sheepishly, Mercedes in tow. The television’s on and Darren’s sitting on the couch with a beer in hand. On the kitchen counter are several takeout containers.

“I’m really sorry about dinner,” I say, straight off the bat.

Darren stands up. “Hey, Soph.” He comes over and gives me a kiss on the cheek. Not exactly our usual first kiss, but then again Mercedes is standing right next to me.

“Hi, Mercedes. Nice to see you again.”

Mercedes smiles. “Hi, Darren.”

“I saved you guys some Chinese. I presume you haven’t eaten?” It’s only half a question, because Darren knows what I’m like when I’m on a case—I often forget to eat.

“Thanks.”

“I’d love some,” Mercedes says. “We got time?”

“Sure. A quick bite.” I know it’ll take us a while to get dressed and put on the makeup, but we do need to eat.

Darren and Mercedes lean on the living room side of the kitchen counter while I get out two bowls and place a few spoonfuls of rice in each one. “Beef in black bean sauce or shrimp and vegetables?”

“I’ll take the beef, thanks.”

I spoon most of what’s left of the beef into Mercedes’ bowl and fill mine up with the prawns.

Darren grabs his beer from the coffee table and sits at the small dining table. At least he’s sitting down with us.

“You want some more?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I’m done.”

As soon as we’re seated, Darren takes a deep breath. “You really have to go tonight?”

“Yes.” I stick to my guns. “There are only four Goth nights a week around town—Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights. And it can’t wait until Thursday.”

He hesitates, but doesn’t stop himself. “Can’t wait, or won’t wait?”

Mercedes, head down, is pretending not to notice the start of a potential fight.

I give Darren a forced smile. “Let’s talk about it later.” I glance at Mercedes and he gives a reluctant nod. He knows it’s out of line to start that conversation when we’re not alone.

“So tell me about the club.” His tone is much lighter.

“Don’t know much about it yet. It’s a nightclub near downtown that has two Goth nights and one lesbian night. Guess we’ll know more in a couple of hours.”

Darren nods. “And I see you’ve got a shopping bag there.” He gives a little raise of the eyebrows. “Can’t wait to see the outfits.” The Darren I like…maybe love…returns.

Once we’ve finished eating, we start the transformation in my bedroom, leaving Darren to channel-surf in the living room.

“Looks like you’re in trouble,” Mercedes whispers.

“It’s not exactly the best start to our few days together, but it can’t be helped.”

“Are you sure about that? Why don’t we just wait until Thursday?”

“Darren will cope. Besides, I need to get on top of this angle ASAP. I get the feeling the lead detective isn’t too sure about her decision to call in the Bureau.”

“And you want to prove yourself?” She frowns.

“Not prove myself…I just want to be thorough.”

Mercedes rolls her eyes. “You’re always thorough.”

“My job’s important to me.” I sound defensive, but I can’t help it.

“I know.” Mercedes puts her hand on mine. “But you need a life outside of the job. And Darren…he’s a good guy.”

I sigh. “You’re right. I need to get better at the whole balance thing.” Generally speaking, if I’m not working I’m exercising, and vice versa. And my kung fu takes up a big chunk of time each week too, especially now that I’m working toward my second dan black belt. “This will only take us a few hours and Darren will be fine.” I don’t know if I’m convincing Mercedes or myself.

Mercedes takes the leather pants I bought out of the VampIt bag. “Most men would forgive anything if they saw their girl in this outfit.” She gives me a big smile and passes the pants to me.

“Good.” I lay my clothes out on the bed and Mercedes does the same. Looking at the clothes makes me feel like a teenager dressing up for a nightclub or a high school dance. “We need music.”

“I don’t have anything Goth in my music collection. You?” Mercedes is in her underwear and we both stand at my full-length mirror about to start our makeup.

“I used to listen to Madonna when I was getting ready in my teens.”

She shrugs. “I’m up for Madonna. But I don’t think it would help us get into character.”

I laugh. “Let’s see how we go without any mood music then.”

We both start with regular moisturizer before applying the base, smoothing it over our faces and necks.

I check out Mercedes. “That looks nice.” She’s definitely a few shades paler than normal, but doesn’t look like she’s putting on a clown face, either. I take my dressing gown off and mix the foundation with regular moisturizer to tone it down. My arms and décolletage are already pale and won’t need much work, but I want to blend the effect across my upper body, given I’ll be wearing a corset. Once I’ve smoothed the blend over my arms and chest, I use the ash powder to dust my face, arms and chest. It creates an even, velvetlike finish and, just like the girl said, it only lightens the tone of the base by one or two shades.

I pass the powder to Mercedes. “Knock yourself out.”

“Thanks.” Mercedes looks at her reflection. “Man, how do you stand being this pale all the time?”

I give her a light push. “Don’t get me started. I’d trade skin tones any day.” Mercedes’ skin is beautifully smooth and olive. No need for fake tan, or solariums or even a body bronzer.

She smiles. “Pity you’re not really a Goth.”

When I’m done, my face, décolletage and arms are Nicole Kidman pale. Mercedes, on the other hand, looks more like my natural skin tone but it’s still enough to give a Goth pallor, especially once we add dark eye shadow and lipstick.