Dark Hunger (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order) (21 page)

Good.

If this became a habit, she didn’t want to look like a junkie.

She wrapped a towel around her waist, opened the door and was surprised to find so much light in the main room. No one was there. She checked the other bedroom—the master bedroom judging by the size—and found the bed empty and made.

She was alone.

In the kitchen, the clock on the microwave said 11:33.

A coffee pot was on and the pot was full.

Bless Twist’s heart.

Rave poured a cup and then spotted a note and key on the granite countertop—WENT TO WORK … MAKE YOURSELF AT HOME … MY CLOTHES ARE YOURS SO DON’T BE SHY … USE THE KEY IF YOU WANT TO LEAVE AND COME BACK IN … I’LL BE HOME AROUND SIX. LOVE, TWIST.

Rave sipped coffee and went back to check out the coffin.

She didn’t remember getting in it last night.

In fact, she didn’t remember anything after the bloodsucking started.

Had the women put her in it?

Or had she climbed in herself, in lieu of the bed, of her own volition?

And if so—why?

SHE SHOWERED, got a fresh shirt from Twist’s closet, ate, and then sat down at the piano.

She played yesterday’s song four times and liked it better with each passing.

Then she paused to refill her coffee cup.

And when she did, a new melody entered her head.

Just like that.

She set the cup on the granite without even taking a sip and headed straight back to the keyboard. An hour later, she called Tim Pepper.

“I’m going to set the phone down and play a song for you,” she said.

Then she did.

She picked the phone back up before the last chord finished vibrating and said, “Well? What do you think?”

“What do you think I think?” Pepper said. “What I want to know is this. Where in the hell is all this coming from all of a sudden?”

She chuckled.

“I don’t know.”

“Do me a favor,” he said.

“What?”

“Write another one, now, this second, before whatever it is that’s in you gets away.”

She laughed.

“I’m serious,” he said. “Sit down and write it and then call me back as soon as you finish.”

SHE STOOD AT THE WINDOWS, drinking coffee and looking down on New York. She did that until the pot got empty. Then she sat back down at the piano and wrote a third song.

Even better than the first two.

And she played it ten times to prove it.

But there was no fourth.

Not today, anyway.

She was drained and smart enough to know it.

She didn’t call Pepper even though she should.

Instead, she decided to have a look around the loft and see if she could find out what Twist-the-vampire was all about.

She knew she should probably feel guilty, snooping around, but figured that Twist owed her that much after sucking her blood last night.

Then she remembered something.

Something that happened after everyone sucked her.

She remembered having her mouth and lips and tongue on Twist’s stomach. She remembered the warmth of the woman’s skin and the tautness of her abdominal muscles.

And she remembered the sweet taste of blood.

SHE CALLED INFORMATION, got the number for Twist’s law firm, and dialed. When Twist answered, Rave said, “Can you come home early?”

The woman chuckled.

“Hold on,” she said.

A door closed in the background.

Then Twist said, “You want to taste me again, don’t you?”

Rave hadn’t realized it until now.

This second.

“Yes.”

Twist said, “Welcome to the dark side. I’ll be there in an hour.”

Rave exhaled.

She almost hung up but then said, “Are you still there?”

Yes.

She was.

“Did I go in the coffin myself last night? Or did you put me there?”

A pause.

“You went yourself.”

“I don’t remember doing it,” Rave said.

“Did you freak out when you woke up?” Twist asked.

“No, not really.”

“You’re lucky,” Twist said. “I totally freaked, the first time.”

“Do you still freak?”

Twist laughed.

“No, of course not. See you in an hour. I’m bringing Kat, though.”

“Fine.”

“I don’t do anything behind her back,” Twist added, “even vampire stuff.”

“Understood,” Rave said. “Did we suck her last night? I don’t remember—”

“No.”

“Okay.”

“Do you want to do that today?” Twist asked. “She doesn’t mind—”

“Sure,” Rave said. “But only if that’s all right with you.”

Twist chuckled.

“An hour, give or take.”

Rave looked outside.

The sun was bright.

Extraordinarily bright.

Too bright.

“You know what,” Rave said, “on second thought, I don’t want to mess up your day. Why don’t we just wait until tonight, when it’s dark, and when we can have a few drinks and take our time?”

“You sure?”

Yes.

She was.

“Okay. Stay out of trouble until then.”

TEN MINUTES LATER PARKER CALLED and asked, “Are you still alive?”

She chuckled.

“You’re a tricky guy.”

“I’m coming over to get you,” he said. “It’s time for you to get acquainted with New York.”

“Give me an hour to freshen up,” she said.

She hung up and then went through the papers on Twist’s desk as she waited for the woman’s computer to boot up.

Tell me some vampire secrets, Twist Anderson.

Chapter Seventy-Four

Day Seven—April 18

Monday Morning

______________

AFTER TEFFINGER SHATTERED THE GLASS in Mark Yorke’s door, he swung back to the hotel, picked up London and said, “We’re going to Plan B.” Then they headed to the S.F. Public Library.

The wind stopped.

A misty fog took its place.

With the help of a wonderful librarian named Carol Smith, who bore a striking resemblance to Jena Vellone’s mother, Teffinger obtained either an electronic printout or a microfiche printout of every local newspaper article that covered the Barbara Rocker disappearance.

The story was fairly simple.

Barbara Rocker was the 23-year-old daughter of Stanley Rocker.

Stanley Rocker was a filthy rich shipping tycoon.

A filthy rich shipping tycoon with an eye for history, art, the exotic, and anything off the charts, to be precise.

Each year he championed, coordinated, and funded an extraordinary event.

King Tut.

The Impressionists.

Body Works.

The publicity and promotion always befitted the stature of the event. And since Stanley Rocker paid for that publicity, he took the opportunity to put his lovely daughter front stage. It was Barbara Rocker’s smiling face that announced the event in magazines, on TV and on billboards. It was daddy’s way, in effect, to buy a piece of fame for his little princess.

BARBARA ROCKER WENT CLUBBING one Saturday in downtown San Francisco fourteen months ago, on a cold February night.

She left the club by herself.

Her Porsche 911 was later found abandoned on the north edge of the city.

She was never heard from again.

Her body was never found.

Barbara Rocker wasn’t engaged or involved with anyone at the time of her disappearance.

No one demanded ransom.

The police briefly questioned a few persons of interest early on in the case, but never charged anyone. If she was murdered, the person who did it was still at large.

The victim’s father, Stanley Rocker, died two months ago when his 65-foot Hatteras mysteriously went down in cold, choppy waters, twenty miles off the coast.

London said, “It looks like we’re SOL.”

Teffinger grunted.

“Now I understand what Yorke’s problem is,” he said. “This was a huge case. He wouldn’t look too dandy if someone strolled in from out of town and threw some light on the picture that wasn’t there before.”

“You think?”

Teffinger nodded.

“He’s more interested in covering his own ass than he is in solving the case,” he said.

“Why don’t you make an end run around him?” London asked. “Go straight to the chief, or even the mayor.”

“We’ll see,” he said. “First we’re going to talk to this guy, right here.”

He put his finger on a reporter’s name at the top of an article.

Peter Poindexter.

SUDDENLY HIS CELL PHONE RANG. Teffinger expected it to be Double-F Tanker, calling to chew him out for putting him in the middle of things. But it turned out to be Sydney.

“Did you hear what Geneva Vellone did?”

No.

He hadn’t.

“Apparently on her radio show this morning, she made an offer to whoever it is that took Jena,” Sydney said.

Teffinger raked his hair back with his fingers.

It immediately flopped back down over his forehead.

“Don’t tell me,” he said. “She wants the guy to give up Jena and take her in exchange.”

“Exactly.”

“Damn it,” Teffinger said. “I told her not to do that.”

“You knew she was going to do it?”

“No, I thought she wasn’t going to do it,” he said.

“But she mentioned it to you?”

Yes.

“She mentioned it, but I talked her out of it,” Teffinger said.

Silence.

“How’s San Francisco going?” Sydney asked.

“It’s going the way my life usually goes,” Teffinger said. “Do me a favor, go down to the radio station and see Geneva personally. Be sure that she doesn’t do anything stupid once the weirdos start contacting her. I don’t need a distraction right now.”

“Nick, I really don’t have time—”

“Thanks,” he said. “I appreciate it.”

“For the record, I’m making a mean face at you right now.”

Teffinger chuckled.

“I know,” he said. “I can feel it.”

He almost hung up.

But Sydney said, “One more thing. We might have a break in our dead vampire case.”

“Which dead vampire?”

“The male,” she said. “The one by the railroad tracks.”

“Forrest something,” Teffinger said.

“Right, that one.”

Teffinger really didn’t care.

This second, he only cared about Jena Vellone.

But then he remembered the promise he made to Cameron Leigh. And he remembered that whoever killed the male vampire probably killed her too.

“What’s the break?”

“Apparently, an Ohio detective by the name of Maggie Ross was in the guy’s house looking around and stumbled on some male intruder who had broken in,” Sydney said. “He was hiding in a closet and punched her in the face as soon as she opened the door. The thinking is that he might be the killer, or tied to him somehow.”

Possibly, Teffinger thought.

On the other hand, newly dead people often end up robbed.

“Did she get a look at him?”

“Briefly.”

Interesting.

“Stay on top of it,” he said. “Right now I don’t have time to do anything except breathe and find Jena. Keep Geneva out of trouble.”

HE HUNG UP, looked at London, and said, “Wrong number.”

She laughed.

Teffinger picked up the stack of printouts and said, “Let’s go talk to our reporter friend.”

Chapter Seventy-Five

Day Seven—April 18

Monday Afternoon

______________

TRIPP SWUNG BY TEFFINGER’S house on Green Mountain to see if the vampire, Rave Lafelle, had moved in with her friend—Little Miss Exotic—which would explain why she hadn’t returned home last night. The island girl’s Camry was in the driveway; the vampire’s VW wasn’t. The front door was shut and so were all the windows. Given the temperature, something would be open if anyone was home.

He drove to the backside of the mountain and parked.

Then he hoofed it over the ridge, saw no nosy neighbors pointing their stupid faces towards him, and dropped silently into Teffinger’s backyard.

No one shouted.

No dogs barked.

Nothing moved.

The rear sliding glass door was locked. He saw no signs of life inside the house, and moved to the bedroom window. No one was in the bedroom. The window was a vertical slider. Tripp pushed it up and was amazed to find that it actually moved.

Cool.

He put on latex gloves, removed the screen and muscled his way in.

A white cat pranced over to greet him.

Tripp picked it up and said, “What’s your name?”

He carried it with him as he searched the house. “Looks like you’re all alone.”

TWO SUITCASES SAT ON THE FLOOR in the corner of the master bedroom, one on top of the other. The vampire’s? They both turned out to be empty—make that almost empty. Each one had a vinyl ID tag inside with a plastic window that said IF LOST PLEASE RETURN TO: London Fontelle, 29887 Sea Breeze Drive, Miami, Florida 80882; (283) 555-3891.

Got you.

“Her name’s London,” Tripp told the cat. “Do you like that? Personally, I think it’s sort of cool.”

London.

London Fontelle.

Are you a vampire, darling?

Or just a friend of Rave Lafelle’s?

He spotted a pen and notepad next to the phone on the nightstand, wrote the information down and stuffed it in his wallet.

Then he went through the closet.

The woman had some clothes hanging, but not many. Probably only what came out of the suitcases. The rest of her stuff turned out to be in the middle dresser drawer—thongs, bras, socks and T-shirts, primarily. Tripp stuffed one of the thongs, a white one, into his left front pants pocket.

“Don’t tell,” Tripp said to the cat.

Then his cell phone rang.

He looked at the incoming number.

Jake VanDeventer.

Weird.

They weren’t supposed to hook up until later.

“We got trouble,” VanDeventer said. “How soon can you get over here and pick me up?”

Trouble?

How could there possibly be trouble?

They weren’t doing anything today except staying low and waiting for tonight.

“Twenty minutes.”