X-Rated Blood Suckers Read online

  Without glancing back, the crow leapt into the air and soared over the roofs and trees. Its morose caw echoed across the neighborhood.

  I lowered the sash and locked it. I slumped in my desk chair and thought about the chasm of murder and conspiracy I was about to fling myself into.

  Alone.

  But not powerless.

  I opened the upper desk drawer. I was going into a situation greatly outnumbered. Better that I even the odds with human technology. I pulled out a Colt .380 automatic and racked the slide. A silver-tipped cartridge glittered momentarily before being rammed into the chamber.

  I had a plane to catch.

  Chapter Four

  AFTER ARRIVING AT LAX, I rented a sedan and headed to my hotel in Culver City. I checked in and picked up a box marked TRAINING MATERIALS. Since 9/11, to avoid the scrutiny of traveling commercial air with a weapon, I had express-shipped my pistol from Denver.

  Returning to my car, I opened the box and dug through the bubble wrap to retrieve a Ziploc bag. In it were my Colt automatic, holster, twenty-one silver bullets divided evenly among three magazines, and the remaining twenty-nine bullets that came in a box of fifty. Plenty of ammo for every conceivable scenario. If I needed more firepower, I'd steal a machine gun.

  My cell phone remained quiet. Why hadn't I heard from Katz Meow? I'd called last night and left a message that I'd be here soon. She'd replied with voice mail that she expected me. My last call had been when I arrived at the airport, and still nothing from her.

  Katz didn't seem the type to ignore me, especially since the trip was on her dime. Perhaps she had misplaced her phone. Or maybe there were other reasons, more sinister reasons, which were the real purpose for my investigation.

  I kept an Internet hacker on retainer. I didn't know if this person was female or male, only that once a month I sent five hundred bucks to a private mailbox in Kalamazoo, Michigan. In return I had a keyhole into almost every database wired to the information grid. Some months I needed squat, so the money was a colossal drag on my overhead. Other times, what I got was worth every dollar.

  Courtesy of my hacker, I carried a sheaf of background info on the principals in this case, including phone numbers, home and work addresses, photographs, and other documents.

  Roxy Bronze emerged from the past as if she were a corpse washing up on a beach. She was born Freya Krieger in nearby Burbank. Her father was a marketing executive and her mother a Realtor, which provided Freya with a comfortable middle-class upbringing. A high school honor student and track star, she turned down an athletic scholarship and Olympic tryouts to pursue premed studies at the University of Southern California. She graduated magna cum laude. After that, Freya attended the Johns Hopkins School of Medicine. She returned to L.A. to intern as a cardiac specialist with La Brea Mercy Hospital. She became the victim of an operating room scandal, which destroyed her medical career. Freya Krieger had climbed to impressive heights, only to tumble off and become Roxy Bronze.

  Roxy's obituary mentioned she had been cremated. That meant no more clues from her remains.

  I had two mailing addresses to Katz Meow, one c/o Gomorrah Video, the other a private mailbox. Wilma Pettigrew rented a place in Encino, close to the private mailbox address. I'd start there.

  One more thing. I knew from experience to keep plenty of money handy in case it wasn't wise to use plastic or visit an ATM. Cash withdrawals left a trail. I took eight thousand dollars in hundreds and tucked it into the lining of my overnight bag. I also carried a backup credit card under an alias. These precautions should keep my whereabouts hidden for a while.

  Seen from the freeway, the sprawl of the San Fernando Valley stretched in relentless monotony. A line of homes clung to the surrounding hills like the ring around a bathtub.

  The place in Encino was a two-story townhome on a narrow, winding street. I parked in the fire lane and got out. Enameled planters with pink and white impatiens flanked the entrance to her home. A sticky note was on the aluminum screen door. The note was written in loopy cursive letters.

  Katz

  Where you been??? Call!!!

  Cindi

  The i's in Cindi were dotted with tiny hearts.

  Who was Cindi? A friend, no doubt. Obviously she couldn't find Katz either.

  I rang the doorbell. No one answered. The front door was locked. No evidence that anyone had forced it open. I looked under the doormat for a key. Nothing. I checked in the planters and along the trim above the door. Again, nothing.

  I went to the alley and counted houses until I found Katz's.

  Her back door faced a row of detached garages. I tugged on the handle of the garage I presumed would've been hers. Locked.

  As I put on a pair of thin leather gloves, I looked about to see that no one watched. I twisted the garage door handle until metal snapped. I gave the handle another pull, and the garage door slid up.

  I half expected to find Katz's corpse rotting inside. Instead, the garage yawned empty. Oil stained the concrete floor. A bicycle with a broken chain and flat tires leaned against one wall. Cardboard boxes sat in lopsided stacks on the far side. I checked the boxes and found only women's clothing.

  I shut the garage door and climbed the back stoop of Katz's house. The door and windows were locked. Curtains prevented me from peeking inside. But the windows on the second floor were open.

  The backs of the other townhouses faced the alley. I examined the rows of windows, concerned that I might be watched, and saw nothing to trouble me.

  I scaled the wall by climbing along the gutters. I pulled back on the screen of the closest window and slipped into Katz's bedroom.

  For a woman whose occupation would've earned her a dishonorable mention in both the Old and New Testaments, the bedroom was decorated in pedestrian tastes: simple pine furniture, striped linen, pictures of birds and flowers on the walls. No leather harnesses, whips, or boxes of dildos.

  I checked the rest of the house. Nothing remarkable in the kitchen or bathrooms.

  I found a filing cabinet in the spare bedroom closet. Katz kept receipts, bills, bank statements, contracts, even personal letters in meticulous order. Must have been the lingering mid-westerner inside of her. None of the documents provided anything useful.

  What I didn't find were the usual carry-it-with-you possessions. A ring with car and house keys. Purse or wallet. Cell phone.

  Nada.

  It seemed Katz had walked out expecting to come back, except that she hadn't.

  I went out the window the same way I'd come in. Until Katz called me, if she ever did, I'd work on the list of murder suspects, starting with her boss and the leader of the Los Angeles nidus, Cragnow Vissoom.

  Chapter Five

  FROM KATZ'S HOUSE it was a quick drive west to Canoga Park, home to Cragnow's porn studio. Gomorrah Video was off Sherman Way

  where I turned right at a corner with a Tio Taco and a store with the sign ETHICAL PHARMACY. I passed a print shop and a plastics distributor and circled a two-story complex in white stucco.

  A tall metal fence surrounded a parking lot. I entered through an open gate. At the far end of the lot, a cargo truck was backed against a loading dock. The other cars in the lot included two Sebring convertibles, an Audi, and a Hummer.

  After parking the sedan, I took off my sunglasses to remove my contact lenses. Red auras surrounded the few humans down the street. I put my sunglasses on and clipped the holster and pistol into the back of my trousers.

  The entrance to Gomorrah Video was a nondescript glass door flanked by windows facing the sidewalk. Mylar film covered the glass on the inside.

  The door buzzed as I entered. A chest-high counter divided the reception area. An interior door opened to the right. A video camera watched from above that door.

  A lanky brunette, almost as tall as my five ten, stood behind the counter. She kept her attention on papers she shuffled on the countertop. A cropped Miss Kitty T-shirt stretched over small breasts round as tangerin
es. Tribal tattoos curled around the biceps of her toned arms.

  Vampire? I slipped my sunglasses a bit, enough to glimpse a red aura. Human.

  "You're late. The audition was at two," she said, not bothering to look up. She pushed a form across the counter toward me. "Hope you brought two types of IDs like you were told."

  I adjusted my sunglasses and cleared my throat.

  "This ain't a babysitting service," she said. "You wanna work, then buy a goddamn watch and use it." She lifted her head. Her gaze dropped from my face to my crotch. Her forehead creased in puzzlement. "You're here for an—"

  "Audition?" I replied. "No. Apparently I don't have enough of a middle leg."

  She gathered the papers into a pile. "Then why are you here?"

  I could zap her and walk in, but the camera would record me. Considering that at least one human had been murdered, not to mention the disappearance of vampire agents from the Araneum, I'd better be careful about drawing attention. I couldn't smash through the city like a wrecking ball and expect to sift for clues in the debris.

  "I'm here to see Cragnow Vissoom."

  "You got an appointment?" She tucked one strand of hair behind an ear studded with rings.

  "Tell Cragnow that Felix Gomez needs to see him. Mention that it's family."

  "Family," she repeated in a shocked whisper. She pulled her arms back and stepped away. Her blue eyes signaled alarm.

  Unless she was a chalice, why did she cringe at the word family, code for vampire? If she was a chalice, she should be better trained than to exhibit such public telltale behavior.

  She fumbled under the countertop, brought a telephone receiver to her ear, and pressed buttons. "Andy, it's Rachel. Someone's here to see Crag." A pause. "Felix Gomez. Family."

  Rachel glanced at me, then to the floor. "I'm sure he is." She hung up. "Crag… Mr. Vissoom will see you. It'll be a minute."

  My fingers tingled with caution. I backed against the wall. The pistol pressed into my lower spine. The entrance and front windows were to my left, the interior door to my right. In case of an ambush I'd spring to the ceiling, tear through the acoustical tile, and bash my way out the roof.

  The interior door opened. Two young men entered, both shaved bald. One was Caucasian and the other Afro-American. They wore sunglasses, T-shirts, black leather vests, and jeans. Their vests were unfastened and bulged unnaturally, barely disguising the shoulder holsters tucked underneath.

  I peeked over my sunglasses to catch auras simmering with suspicion. Orange auras. Vampires.

  Thick muscles roped across their torsos and arms. Intricate tattoos covered the arms and neck of the white vampire like a puzzle of geometric bruises. His companion's dark skin appeared waxy despite the makeup. He was obviously a recent vampire. Squat and short, in matching outfits, they looked like they were auditioning to be Ninja Turtles.

  They waited at the threshold of the door and stared from behind their sunglasses in practiced macho postures.

  "We gonna sniff each other's butts or what?" I asked.

  The black vampire tipped his head down the hall. "This way."

  "You first," I replied.

  Tattooed white vampire beckoned with his hand. "Humor us, tough guy."

  We proceeded over a polished floor, past several doors and a shipping bay. Stacks of DVD boxes and computer components lined shelves inside the bay.

  The hall led to stairs we climbed to the second floor. Posters of porn actresses spanned the adjacent walls. One door along the hall was open, revealing a bed and klieg lights. An antiseptic smell pervaded the air, evidence of the mopping up of love puddles accumulated in a day's work.

  The hall ended at a set of wooden double doors. Fixed to one door was a brass name tag engraved with CRAGNOW VISSOOM, PRESIDENT.

  The black vampire knocked once and opened the door without hesitating. "Go on in."

  The room was decorated in the current retro vogue. The low ceiling emphasized the horizontal design of the furnishings. At the immediate right stood a liquor cabinet and bar in Danish modern. On the left, soft light illuminated a large aquarium.

  A slender man got up from a leather executive chair set against a desk, also in Danish modern. An abstract mural covered the wall behind him.

  He stood at an impressive height—at least six foot two. "I'm Cragnow Vissoom." Trendy wire-rim glasses sat on an aquiline nose. His eyes lacked a wolfish sheen, meaning contacts dulled his tapetum lucidum. "Felix Gomez?"

  "I am." I took off my sunglasses.

  Cragnow's aura surrounded him like the corona of a glowing chunk of coal. The aura shone steadily, revealing either a calm disposition or that he was very good at hiding his emotions.

  My vampire escorts motioned me forward.

  Cragnow smiled as I crossed the room. Wrinkles furrowed his cheeks and around his eyes. Graying temples offset a mane of thick hair. In human years, he looked to be in his midfifties.

  When I drew close, Cragnow pointed to a red suede love seat. He gestured past me. "Give us a few minutes." The escorts withdrew and closed the door.

  I remained standing until Cragnow sat. Coasters, napkins, and a basket of bagels rested on the kidney-shaped coffee table between us.

  In his pressed plaid shirt and khaki chinos, Cragnow looked like an accountant on casual Fridays instead of a porn mogul. "Felix, what brings you to my corner of sunny California?"

  I wondered if the previous agents from the Araneum had been so warmly received. And then as warmly exterminated.

  "Katz Meow," I said.

  Cragnow's aura brightened. He straightened, then stood. "You know where she is?"

  I hadn't expected this reaction. "I was hoping you could tell me."

  "You a boyfriend?"

  "No. An interested party."

  "Interested party," Cragnow mumbled to himself. He walked to the bar. "She missed the morning photo shoot for the cover of her latest video, Seven Brides for Seven Gangbangs. Certain to be a classic."

  "A must for the connoisseur, I'm sure," I replied.

  "It's not like her to be absentminded." Cragnow opened a small refrigerator tucked inside the bar. He pulled out a chilled 450-milliliter bag of human blood. "Care for a pick-me-up? Type A-positive?"

  The offer caused my thirst to rise. I had long been "cured" of my aversion to human blood and would enjoy a taste of flesh nectar. Yet I wasn't convinced of the sincerity of his hospitality. So I didn't answer.

  Cragnow snipped one corner of the bag with scissors and squeezed the thick, red contents into a blender. He added ice and a can of espresso drink. After mixing the brew into a frothy blend, Cragnow filled two highball glasses with the frappé. He touched the cap on a bottle of Finlandia vodka. "A little extra zing?"

  "No thanks."

  "Take the starch out of your jockstrap, Felix. You're among family." He measured two shots into one glass and stirred it with a swizzle stick.

  Cragnow wrapped napkins around each glass and handed the virgin drink to me. "Salud."

  I brought the frappé close to my lips and hesitated. The aroma of coffee enhanced the meaty notes of the chilled blood, but I couldn't bring myself to taste it.

  Cragnow sighed. "Oh come on. I invite you to my office, and you act like I'm trying to kill you." He offered his glass. "Let's trade. Careful, mine's got booze, so it might crinkle your shorts."

  I waved him off and sipped from my glass. At the first indication of distress, I'd draw my pistol and blast him. The icy blood rolled over my tongue, and the delicious rush refreshed me to my bones.

  Cragnow nudged the basket of bagels toward me. "Try one. You won't find any as good west of the Hudson River."

  I chose a whole wheat bagel and paused. Why the eagerness to have me eat?

  "You are a suspicious bastard." Cragnow snatched the bagel from me and bit. He held the bagel, showing the ragged crescent of his teeth marks. "Satisfied?"

  "It's my nature. My apologies." I sorted through the bagels. A business card from
the Blue Star Bakery and Delicatessen rested on the bottom of the basket. A scrawl along the margin of the card read:

  To Crag. Thanks for everything.

  Morty

  There were no Mortys on my list of suspects. There was now. I focused my attention back to Cragnow and studied his aura. "So where's Katz?"

  Cragnow sipped his drink and licked the froth from his lips. "I don't know."

  Not a ripple of emotion disturbed his aura. His reaction remained too steady, the supernatural version of a liar's straight face.

  "Enlighten me, Felix. What's your interest in Katz?"

  "I'm a private detective. She hired me."

  "Hired you for what? To play hide-and-seek in Los Angeles?"

  "She wants me to find who killed Roxy Bronze."

  Cragnow cupped the glass in both hands. "Roxy Bronze." He leaned back into his chair. "Even dead she torments me."

  "I didn't know she tormented you at all."

  "We had our differences." Cragnow took a sip. "What's the reason you've come to see me?"

  "Katz provided a list of people… and vampires who may want to share what they know about Roxy's death."

  "Ask the police. It was their investigation."

  "I'll get to them."

  "What's in it for you?" Cragnow asked.

  I placed my drink on the coffee table. "It's my job."

  "How much did Katz pay you?"

  "That's privileged information."

  Cragnow put his glass on the edge of his desk. He stared at the ceiling. "Let's wave a magic wand and pretend that Katz Meow gave you, say a ballpark figure, somewhere around"—he rocked forward and glared—"a hundred thousand dollars."

  Exactly the retainer she had offered me. "Okay, so Katz can't tinkle, much less make a bank withdrawal, without you knowing about it. What are you getting at?"

  "Let me wave that magic wand again, and suppose I give you two hundred thousand to drop the case and go home."