Holiday with a Vampire 4 (22 page)

But Angie...

He could remember the “Missing” posters that had gone up all over town.

She was blonde and blue-eyed, young and innocent. She had done her shift one night, singing her little heart out—and been reported missing when she hadn’t returned to work the following day. The casino cameras had lost her once she’d mingled with the throng of humanity on the street.

“What do you have to do with Angie Sanderson?” he asked. “It’s not your job to find people. And if you really are innocent, then you need to get out of here—since it’s dead obvious one of your kind is up to something very bad.”

Candy looked at him with her golden eyes gleaming with tears.

“I don’t believe ‘my kind’ have anything to do with this. As for what I have to do with Angie...she’s my half sister. And I don’t care if you’re a cop, an Elven or an archangel come down to claim us all—I’m not leaving until I find her!”

Chapter 3

S
axon got up and moved away from Candy and that far-too-tempting bed.

He needed some distance. First the woman had been the embodiment of exotic beauty and erotic movement. Now she seemed like a little girl lost. It didn’t matter which, really. When she looked at him, he felt as if he were being drawn deep into a netherworld where he could easily become lost forever—and he didn’t dare take that chance. Especially not now, with a murderous werewolf on the loose.

“Your half sister?” he said, studying her. “Half...what?” He conjured the picture of the missing woman. Blonde, angelic.

Elven?

Candy shrugged, then sat up and ran her fingers through her hair. “Half sister. We share one parent.”

“And?”

She took a breath, then said, “I’m a bit of an unusual...being.”

“Go on,” he said firmly.

“Our mother was the sweetest, gentlest and most amazing woman you could ever meet. She met one of her own kind—an Elven—and they had Angela. Then Angie’s father died.”

Saxon felt his muscles tighten. Elven normally led very long lives. “Because your mother met your father?” he asked.

The look she gave him was so scathing that he felt as if he were melting in the pool of her contempt.

“Angie’s dad died because he had it in his head that he should serve his country,” she said quietly. “He was in the air force, and his plane went down in the water and he...died. I’m sure you understand.”

Saxon nodded. Of all the underworld beings, the Elven had been the last to come to the New World. They didn’t melt if they touched water, but they were creatures of the earth. Despite their strength and normally robust health, they couldn’t survive long in or even over water. Because of that, they hadn’t come to the New World en masse until flying became commonplace. A few adventurous and hardy souls had made it over via ocean liner, but the crossing had been difficult. Not everyone who attempted it had succeeded, and the weakened survivors had been easy prey on arrival.

“And your mother married a...werewolf?” he asked.

“You really are a condescending SOB, aren’t you?” she said sweetly.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not a prejudiced man,” he denied quickly.

She shrugged. “You are—but perhaps it’s not entirely your fault. You’re Elven.”

She said the word as if no explanation was needed, and she was probably right, he thought.

“So, yes,” she went on, “my mother married a werewolf, and I don’t know a soul who doesn’t like my father. He was the best father in the world to my sister. He doesn’t know yet that she’s disappeared. Neither does my mother.”

“And they don’t know that you’re working here, either, do they?” Saxon demanded.

She exhaled. She was obviously trying to come up with a good explanation, but then she simply said, “No.”

He shook his head while looking at her. “So how are you going to explain to your father that you’ve been dancing in a strip club and pretending to be a prostitute?”

“That’s the point, don’t you see? My mother is an actress. Angie and I grew up in the theater. I’ve done nothing but act—act like something I’m not—since I got here.”

“You’ve acted out wild romps with men?” he said incredulously.

“If you know so much—”

“I know you’ve agreed to see only a few private clients. But you’re growing legendary—there’s talk about you around town.”

“Really? That’s wonderful. I’m getting to where I need to be,” she said, smiling.

He walked over to her and pulled her to her feet. “What’s the matter with you? You’re dealing with ruthless men—ruthless creatures who can rip you to shreds and scatter your bones across the desert. Have you actually slept with these monsters?”

“No!” she protested. “I told you—it’s all an act. I’m trying to find out who killed Angela, and I think I know.”

“What? Who?”

“I’m trying to get to know people who are close to Carl Bailey,” she said. “Everyone’s on guard, too intimidated by him, on his own turf. But people are less wary, more willing to talk, when they’re away from work. Maybe Bailey himself will even show up here one of these days. I’m certain he’s behind her death, if he didn’t kill her himself. He has his eye on this place, and I think he’d do anything to get it. If Angie heard something about what he was up to, something he didn’t want her to know, he wouldn’t have thought twice about siccing some killer werewolf on her. As for my...sexual activity, I accept very few private clients. Luckily for me, my performance has earned me the right to choose who I do and don’t see.”

“This is dangerous. You’re dangerous!”

“Good,” she told him flatly.

“And how do you get rid of those clients without...delivering?” Saxon demanded. He reminded himself that he wasn’t her father. He had no right to sound so angry. But...

She was dangerous, all right.

She shook her head and offered a dry grin. “I make them believe they were involved in an experience that was pure magic.”

“And how do you do that?”

“It’s in the eyes,” she said softly.

“You have werewolf eyes, animal eyes,” he said. His voice was harsh.

“Yes. And I could have made you leave here without suspecting a thing, thinking you’d been to heaven and back,” she told him.

“I doubt that,” he assured her. “I’m Elven, remember?”

“And I’m half Elven—and half wolf,” she reminded him sweetly. “Should we test it out? Or perhaps you should leave now. And make sure you arrange an exceptional gratuity for me, will you?”

He walked over to her, jaw locked, frustration boiling inside him. “What’s the matter with you? Your sister disappeared. Do you want to disappear, too?”

“I’m forewarned—and I do have that wolf thing going for me, after all.”

“You can stop that. Some of my best friends are werewolves,” he said.

She laughed. It was a nice sound. An honest sound. “Sorry, but that is so, so patronizing.”

He flushed, then was annoyed with his own reaction. He was a cop, for God’s sake. “It’s not patronizing. It’s just the truth,” he said. “Listen—”

“I’m not going away. I’m free and over twenty-one. And here in Vegas, my activities—or whatever activities you suspect me of—are completely legal. You can continue on your quest—just leave me alone to follow mine.”

She surprised him by smiling again. A real smile, not pretending to be a hardcore temptress or making fun of him.

“Let’s start over, shall we?” She walked over to him, offering her hand. “My name is really Calleigh. Calleigh McGowan. From San Francisco. I’m a Libra—usually very fair in all things. I love long walks in the forest, and I think there’s nothing quite so beautiful as a full moon rising on a clear night. And you’re...?”

He couldn’t help it; his lips twitched. He gave her his hand. “Saxon Kirby. Detective by trade—and inclination. I have a deep-seated need to help the underdog, and I loathe watching the powerful take advantage of the weak.” He paused, shaking his head. “What the hell am I doing standing here still talking to you?”

“Admitting that I’m not going away, that I may actually be—” she paused to laugh “—of some help. Face it, Carl Bailey is always surrounded by security, and he may have half your department in his pocket.”

“All right, back up.”

“I said may,” she stressed.

“And Carl Bailey may not even be behind these deaths. It could be any one of a whole list of suspects, including the new hotshot in town—that Canadian wolf who’s been throwing around so much money.”

She could manage a truly impressive stubborn set to her chin. “I’m telling you, it’s Carl Bailey. He runs the werewolves of Las Vegas. The Keeper here is...weak.”

Weak. That was an understatement.

“It’s not like that in San Francisco,” she said. “There are laws in San Francisco, and everyone knows you obey them or you pay the price.”

Saxon frowned. San Francisco had laws—why couldn’t the rest of the world manage it?

No time to dwell on that now.

“I should call your father,” he threatened.

She looked away nervously, and he realized he’d hit on the key to keeping her safe.

“You don’t know who he is,” she said, but she still wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“I’ll find him. I know he’s in San Francisco,” Saxon told her.

She shook her head. “Don’t you dare! He doesn’t know that Angie is missing. He doesn’t know that I’m here. He and my mother—”

“Listen to what you’re saying! Do you want them to lose two daughters?”

“Care to let me finish?” she asked him coolly.

“All right.” He stood back, arms crossed over his chest.

“Not too long ago, my father got a request from a Keeper in London, via Larry Miller, our Keeper in San Francisco. They were having some trouble in Chelmsford—a banshee rampage. Anyway, they were seeking my father’s advice.” She was quiet for a minute. “My dad has a background in law enforcement and the judicial system. He’s gone to work with the English on a central plan so they won’t find themselves in this situation again, and my mother’s over there with him. It’s very secret. I don’t even have a way to reach him. He calls every few days to check on me. He thinks Angie is so busy with a show that she’s impossible to reach, so...”

“So you’ve been lying to him,” Saxon finished. “Your father is Theo McGowan, then? The former congressman?”

She didn’t respond. She didn’t need to.

He shook his head. “Great. Theo McGowan’s daughter is in Vegas pretending to be a stripper, and he has no idea.”

“You won’t find him.”

“Actually, I wasn’t thinking about that. I was thinking how great it is that the San Francisco Keepers actually cooperate with their international counterparts. But that’s not important right now. What’s important is—”

“Finding Angie and stopping this killing spree,” Calleigh said. “And that’s just what I intend to do.”

“Calleigh, listen, I’m a cop—”

“And I’m a big girl. You can’t stop me. What you can do, if you want, is help me,” she told him. “Meanwhile, your bill is getting higher and higher,” she warned him. “You need to get out of here before you go bankrupt.”

“Calleigh, I can’t let you do this.”

“It’s not your call. Right now you need to go. We can talk later,” she told him. “Trust me. If you don’t give me away, I’m safe, at least for this afternoon, even if I can manage to lure Carl Bailey here. If—”

“Carl Bailey is old, Calleigh.”

“And I’m young.”

“My point is, he knows every trick in the book, and he hasn’t got a moral fiber in his body. He’d just as soon kill you as look at you if you were in his way.”

“Then I’ll have to make sure he doesn’t realize I’m in his way. How about I meet you tonight and we can make a plan to work together?” she said. “Please. Frankly, I don’t want to be responsible for a good cop going bad to pay his bill for my services.”

He hesitated. “You’re not lying to me to get me out of here?”

“No. I swear. I’ll do anything to find Angie, so if you’re really going to search for her and not think of her as a showgirl gone bad—”

“Calleigh, Missing Persons has been on it—”

“And done nothing.”

“All right. We’ll talk tonight. But if you don’t show, I will find you here, and I will find a way to arrest you.”

“I’ll meet you.”

“Where?”

She scratched out an address he knew vaguely. It was one of the local equestrian facilities where the members of the show circuit trained their hundred-thousand-dollar mounts.

“This is where you’re living?” he asked her incredulously.

She nodded. “The house belongs to a man—a human being—named Dirk. He’s in love with Angie, and he’s going insane with her gone.”

“And he knows what you’re doing and hasn’t tried to stop you?”

“Seriously? Even if he wanted to—which he doesn’t—can you imagine any human who could stop me? I need to find my sister.”

Saxon knew that he would find Angela Sanderson, no matter what. She was Elven.

He looked at Candy—at the hope in her eyes.

He could only pray that, with everything else that had been going on, there was the ghost of a chance that he would find her alive.

Chapter 4

S
axon had several hours to kill until he was scheduled to meet up with Calleigh.

He headed back to his station house, sat down at his computer and pulled up the information on the cases that he was now convinced were linked.

Two months back: bones found in the desert. They might have been the result of an accidental death—and the surefire way the desert had of cleaning up the dead. A forensic examination of the bones had been inconclusive. There were no chips or marks on them to indicate that a bullet or a knife had been the cause of death. There were tooth marks on the bones, but while the ME considered them likely to be postmortem, Saxon had his own theories on that. The dead man had been about six feet tall, between forty and fifty years old—and somehow he had managed to die ten miles out in the sand, where vultures, coyotes, beetles and whatever else had pretty much taken care of all his soft tissue. His dental records had led nowhere. He’d been wearing a denim shirt and jeans, size-nine boots, and a buckle that advertised a Tennessee country rock band.

He’d died minus a wallet or any other identification—or someone had intentionally removed them.

Saxon had attended the autopsy, because the bones had indicated a possibility that the victim had been one of the Elven, who had strong, elongated bones.

But in the end the ME had determined that the skeleton had belonged to a man—just a man, and nothing more. A dumb man—traveling in the desert on foot with no wallet—but a man. Except that Saxon didn’t think that little of humanity. And no mortal man could have gotten that far out in the desert on foot. It was too convenient to think he’d simply lain down in the sand to die, then was fortuitously consumed by the local wildlife. No, someone had taken him out there and left him to die, or killed him elsewhere and dumped him in the desert for the body to be eaten and the evidence destroyed.

Murder number one, he thought. At least that he knew of.

Then there had been the craps dealer. Rutger Heinz. He had come to Las Vegas because he’d been entranced by what he’d seen and read about the city while growing up in Bavaria. He’d arrived just five years earlier, attended the University of Nevada, then taken a job.

At Monty’s casino. Which was mostly owned by Carl Bailey.

Security cameras recorded Rutger’s exit the night he had gone missing. He could be seen getting into his car and driving away. And then, somewhere in the congested traffic of the Strip, he had disappeared. And he hadn’t been seen again.

Not long afterward, Angela Sanderson had disappeared. Exquisite, beautiful, Elven. Young, talented, ready to take on the world. With everything to live for.

One thing he’d noticed on the casino security footage of both Rutger and Angela before they’d disappeared was that there had been a very high proportion of werewolves around. It was a tentative connection to the murders, but his gut told him it was real nonetheless, that werewolves were involved in the disappearances as well as the killings.

Then, yesterday, the half-chewed body of the Oregon tourist that had caused a disaster on Fremont Street.

Two officially dead—and his concern as a homicide detective.

Two missing and, he feared, most likely dead.

The dead man found right there on Fremont Street seemed to be a sign that the murderer wanted to be noticed. It was like a cry for recognition.

Why would a killer make such a point of calling attention to himself? One possibility: it could be a cry for help. Maybe he abhorred the killing, but couldn’t stop himself and was hoping the police would catch him. Or maybe he was showing off for someone.

Another possibility: the killer was so mentally deranged that he was certain he wouldn’t be caught; as a narcissistic personality, he considered his own desires of uppermost importance and couldn’t imagine that he could be caught.

Yet no matter what else was true of the killer’s psyche, the validity of this was not in question in Saxon’s mind: the killer was a werewolf. A werewolf acting as pack leader, as alpha, and trying to convince the rest of the pack that it was time for the wolf pack to take their place as kings of the city.

Las Vegas was one of the pleasure capitals of the world, a neon-lit paradise where every vice known to man—and Others—could be indulged. Where money—and women—changed hands from minute to minute. A city where Carl Bailey was already the de facto king.

What more could the man want? Saxon wondered. Why would he kill—or, more likely, have someone else kill for him? He had money, and hundreds of people working for him, worshipping his name. He had power, scores of mistresses, every conceivable comfort.

Maybe it wasn’t Carl Bailey, Saxon reminded himself.

He shook his head.

No, Carl had to be involved. The new wolf from Toronto hadn’t been here long enough to make the kinds of connections you needed to kill someone and dispose of the body.

Still, it wouldn’t do to count the guy out. A smart detective considered all possibilities.

He rose. He supposed he could pay a visit to Carl. But he wanted more evidence than what he had—which came down to pretty much nothing—when he actually accosted the man.

He wanted to arrest the bastard, just on general principles, but he had nothing to hold him on.

Besides, how much good would it do when he finally did have enough? How much sway did Carl Bailey have in the courts? Was there any hope the werewolf would actually wind up paying the ultimate penalty under the law?

There should have been another law. A universal law for the nonhuman races. The kind of law that the Keepers had surely used to rule over their creatures, once upon a very long time ago.

Saxon reminded himself that he was a cop. Even if he could prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Carl Bailey was a murderer, the man was protected by his rights under the Constitution. Saxon couldn’t just walk in with a silver bullet and shoot him down.

They desperately needed real laws for the Otherworld. With real consequences.

It was a waste of time to rue the fact that Monty Reilly was either as crooked as Carl Bailey or totally ineffectual. There were two lost people out there, alive or dead. One of them a woman who was, in a way, kin. He had to find them.

He put through a few calls and found out that the new wolf in town, Jimmy Taylor, was playing craps at one of Carl Bailey’s casinos.

He decided he felt like gambling.

* * *

Jimmy Taylor was in his late twenties, tall, leanly muscled, and he had a thick lock of dark hair that fell over his forehead and the heavy-lidded bedroom eyes that women seemed to find attractive.

The guy could have made it in movies. He should have headed to Hollywood—the kingdom of stars—Saxon thought.

But he’d come here instead—to the kingdom of high stakes.

Carl Bailey’s Galway Glen casino was, like all his properties, expensively and expertly decorated. There were salutes to Ireland throughout. The Tralee Tavern, located above the casino floor with a view of the action, was done in shades of green, and the bartenders were all female and all wearing short green skirts. Carl liked women—the prettier the better, the bustier better still. It was pretty much a given that if a beautiful woman wanted a job—and was willing to kowtow to Carl Bailey—she was guaranteed a job at the casino.

Saxon knew that Carl hated him. He knew from the minute he entered the casino that the security cameras were on him and his presence would be announced to Carl, wherever in the city the man might be.

He didn’t head straight to the gaming tables but decided on a drink first. He settled into a green upholstered chair at the Tralee and took a minute to appreciate the ornately carved wood of the bar itself, designed to look as if it had been cobbled together from logs in a forest. Eyes peered out from between artificial branches, as if mischievous leprechauns were watching out for those who’d come to imbibe. A realistically carved female figure, one of Ireland’s famous selkies, looked down from above the bottles of expensive liquor shelved behind the bar.

His waitress was in her early twenties. She shimmered a bit when she moved, and he instantly thought, shape-shifter.

“Good evening, Detective Kirby,” she said. “Are you here to ask questions? Or are you...off duty?” she finished flirtatiously.

“I’m off duty. But I always like to ask questions,” he told her. “I can start with how do you know my name?”

She flushed. “I guess you’re not going to believe I’ve waited on you before and you introduced yourself?”

“No.”

“Okay, so...the truth is, Mr. Bailey alerted the employees to keep an eye out for you to show up. He doesn’t want to cause a stink by refusing you entrance. He does want you watched.”

Saxon looked over at the selkie statue above the bar. He knew she had cameras in her shimmering eyes.

He waved.

“Why does he want me watched?” he asked innocently.

“He says you’re on a vendetta—blaming the werewolves for everything that’s been happening lately.”

“Could be a shifter pretending to be a werewolf,” he said with a shrug. “Or a person. It’s not as if vicious serial killers can’t be human.”

“So what will you have?” she asked, apparently deciding not to pursue the topic of his intentions.

“I think I’ll stick with the theme. A good Irish beer, please.”

She left to get his beer, and his eyes idly tracked her journey back to the bar. He noticed that there was a platform in front of the selkie statue, and as he watched, one of the servers climbed up and took her place on it. Traditional Irish music started playing, and she began to dance, her feet moving with skill and speed to rival the best performer back on Irish soil.

The waitress returned with his beer.

“She’s good,” he said, nodding toward the dancer.

“Yes—we don’t get hired if we can’t perform.”

“What’s your specialty?”

“I’m a vocalist,” she said.

“This is where that singer used to work,” Saxon said, keeping his tone casual.

“What singer?”

“The one who disappeared.”

His waitress shrugged. “Girls come and go in Vegas. You get a better offer, you move on.”

She started to turn away, but he grabbed her wrist to stop her. “This girl didn’t get a better offer. She disappeared.”

She tried to wrench herself away from him. Without blinking, he made a vise of his hand.

“Damn Elven,” she muttered.

“You don’t need to fear the Elven. You do need to fear your boss.”

“Let go of me. They’ll notice, and I’ll get in trou—”

“Then smile and act like you’re flirting with me.”

She smiled, and he kept his eyes locked with hers, so she didn’t give the cameras a guilty look.

“Did you know her? Angela Sanderson?” he asked. She was obviously frightened, her eyes widening in shock, but she didn’t say anything. “You did know her,” he said.

She leaned close to him and laughed, as if he’d said something funny. “I replaced her,” she said, swallowing. “They said she wasn’t coming back. But that was before I knew...”

“Before you knew that she’d disappeared.”

She looked even more terrified, if that was possible. “I have to go,” she insisted, trying to pull away again.

This time he released her. When she was gone, he drank his beer, then headed for the craps tables.

He spotted Jimmy Taylor at one and took a spot at the other end. He bought in for several hundred, aware that Taylor was staring at him angrily. He ignored the other man and laid money down on the pass line.

A man at the middle of the table was rolling. “Lucky seven, lucky seven!”

The dice landed on four and three. The players applauded.

Jimmy Taylor continued to ignore Saxon as the run continued. The same man rolled an eight next, and more money landed on the table. He hit several more numbers, and then an eight again. The table cheered. There was money everywhere.

But Taylor didn’t seem happy. And when the roller came up with another seven, Taylor actually looked relieved, though sighs went up elsewhere around the table, along with some applause for the shooter, who’d made a lot of money for most of them.

Taylor went to cash in. Saxon held his ground, putting down his money while the next shooter started. On a whim, he played a nice sum on craps. The shooter hit an eleven, and Saxon realized he was coming out ahead, a nice plus for his investigation.

He watched as Jimmy collected his money and headed toward the bar. He waited through the next roll, then cashed in himself and headed back to the Tralee.

There was Jimmy Taylor, his hands rough on a young waitress’s shoulders. Saxon was tempted to step in, but he reminded himself that he was playing for higher stakes. And he knew Jimmy wasn’t going to hurt the girl anyway—not in public, and not in one of Carl Bailey’s establishments.

He followed when Jimmy left the bar. He thought at first that the guy was going to head upstairs, which could prove tricky. Carl’s men would be on him like an infestation of lice if he tried to go up to the rooms.

But either Taylor didn’t know he was being followed or he didn’t care. Either way, he apparently had a destination in mind. Or maybe—Saxon warned himself—a plan.

Taylor headed out to the streets. Saxon followed him down the neon strip, until he took a sudden turn into a back alley. Okay, so a plan it was.

It occurred to Saxon long before he entered the obvious trap that he would need some help, which was easy enough to arrange. It was good to be a cop. But first he wanted about two minutes alone with Jimmy Taylor. After that, it would be great to have some help. He hit the speed dial on his phone and gave the code for “Officer in Need of Assistance.”

Then he took a deep breath and ducked into the alley, keeping close to the wall of the building on his right, one of the smaller casinos and most likely another of Carl Bailey’s properties.

There was a doorway marked Employee Entrance about thirty feet in, and Taylor was heading right for it.

Saxon hurried past boxes and an overflowing Dumpster, and before Jimmy could put his hand on the doorknob, Saxon grabbed his shoulder and spun him around, forcing his thumb on a pressure point in the younger man’s throat as he slammed him against the door.