How to Party with a Killer Vampire (24 page)

“I do.”

“Okay, well, I saw those grave-hoppers and tried to run them off. They scattered—at least I thought they did. When I went back and checked, I heard voices. Two people arguing.”

“A man and a woman?” I asked, thinking it might have been Spidey and Angelica.

“No. Two men. I couldn’t make out what they said, and the argument didn’t last long. They finally left, so I went back to my trailer and had a beer. Then I heard a thud. I looked out my window and saw somebody running. He ran by the Black Pond, threw something in, and took off.”

The hairs on the back of my neck were dancing up and down. “You saw only one person running?”

“Yes. After I found out that kid had died, I wondered if the guy who ran off had anything to do with it, but the cops didn’t think so. Not until that second guy got killed.”

“Can you describe him?”

“No. He was wearing black, I think. That’s it.”

Everyone seemed to be wearing black that night.

“But you said he threw something into the pond. The Black Pond, you called it. Was it the pond we used at the party?”

“No. The duck pond, over there.” He pointed to the left, the other side of where we’d held the party. I call it the Black Pond ’cause it’s more of a swamp now. If you dropped something in there, you’d never see it again.

Wow, this was big news. The killer—assuming it was the killer—threw something into the pond. Evidence? The police never found Spidey’s cell phone. Could that have been it?

“Did you tell the police, Otto?”

“No. I figured if they thought I was crazy, they’d let me go. But if I’d said I’d seen something, they’d keep me there forever, grilling me. I just wanted to get back home.”

“Thanks, Otto. I appreciate this. You’ve been a big help.”

“Like I said, I don’t want to get involved with the police again. Besides, what’s done is done.”

“But you could be in jeopardy, Otto, if the killer thinks you saw something.”

“I’m ready for him,” he said mysteriously, then suddenly grinned. “And not with some toy pitchfork or can of spray paint.”

I smiled. “Didn’t fool you at all, eh? You didn’t believe it was mace?”

“It said ‘Spray Fake Blood’ right there on the can. I can read, you know.”

No doubt in five languages, I thought. I was starting to like Otto. After this was over, I’d have to do something to show my appreciation. Buy him a beer? Get him a haircut?

“What about the guy who was killed and tossed into the open grave that you discovered? Did you see what happened?”

“No. I was watching something on TV, had the volume up.” He tapped his ear. “Getting to be hard of hearing, you know. I went outside for a smoke—my wife didn’t like me smoking in the trailer. Funny how habits stay with you. Anyway, that was when I saw my shovel lying on the ground—the one from my shed. I guess I’d forgotten to lock it up. Then all hell broke loose. . . .”

He seemed lost in the memory. The fog had rolled in and the cemetery had gotten dark. It was time to leave. But I had one last question.

“Otto, what was all that stuff you said about ‘trespassing on hallowed ground, disturbing the dead, the owl portends, death will follow’?”

He chuckled. “Oh that. People who come to cemeteries love that kind of mumbo-jumbo, superstitions and whatnot. I did a little theater in my youth so I like to give them a show. As I said, I scare off trespassers. Guess it didn’t work with you and your party people, eh?”

“You pretty much scared the crap out of me.”

He gave a satisfied nod. “Want to hear some more? If you count the cars at a funeral procession, you’ve just counted the number of weeks you have left to live. . . .”

“Stop! Now I’m going to have nightmares!”

Otto chuckled again, obviously enjoying himself at my expense. I considered giving him my plastic pitchfork. That old man had the devil in him. But I was glad I kept it. In spite of the moonlight, the walk back to the car in the foggy darkness totally creeped me out.

Walking back to my car, I couldn’t help but notice how quickly it had gotten dark. It must have been the plethora of eucalyptus trees that blocked out the usually gradual transition from day to night. The family-sized mausoleums were particularly haunting as they stood there silently, small stone houses filled with bodies. Some of the mausoleums seemed completely enclosed, with no visible entries or exits, but most had wrought-iron fences and gates to protect the long-term residents from being pillaged and plundered.

At the last minute, I took an impulsive detour to check out the Black Pond, only a few yards away. I got out my cell phone and used the flashlight app to guide the way and make sure I didn’t trip on anything. When I reached the pond, it looked like a mud hole, about the size of a small swimming pool. It was so dark and dense, I doubted I would see my toes if I happened to stick my foot in, which I didn’t plan to do.

If someone—say, the killer—threw something—say, the cell phone—into that pond, it would take a professional dredging service to find it.

I had a sudden thought. What if a body had been tossed in there . . . ?

Feeling goose bumps erupting all over my body, I turned back and hurried to the car, conjuring up images of every cemetery-related horror movie I’d seen. With my every step, I thought I saw movement where there should have been stillness.

Where was Brad when I needed him?

In fact, where was Brad, period? I was getting seriously worried.

Shifting into power-walking mode, I reached my car, fumbled with the keys—just like in the movies—and finally yanked open the door and scooted inside. After locking the doors, I punched Brad’s number on my cell phone for the umpteenth time.

No answer, just straight to voice mail.

Did he have that many dead bodies to clean up after?

Or was he avoiding me?

Maybe that was it. He’d come to his senses, realized I had too much baggage to engage in a real relationship, and decided to “comfort” one of his grieving clients—the live kind, not a dead one. Generally I’m too distracted to become paranoid, but something gnawed at the back of my mind about Brad. Whatever it was, it didn’t feel good.

I decided to swing by his house on Yerba Buena Island before going home, to see if he might have fallen or passed out or whatever. I pulled off the Bay Bridge and drove slowly over the curvy island road. Unlike Treasure Island, which lit up at night with houses and streetlights and few trees to block the moonlight, Yerba Buena Island was dark, thick with trees and sparse on house lights. I pulled up in front of the former living quarters of the big-shot naval officers, now deserted except for one. The homes might have been long empty, but they were still grand: two-and three-story Classic Revival houses, with crystal chandeliers, hardwood floors, and decorative wainscoting.

Brad lived as a caretaker in Admiral Bryson’s home, just two houses away from the former Admiral Nimitz home, the grandest of all. I got out of the car and searched for visible warning signs that something might be amiss outside—an overstuffed mailbox, newspapers piling up on the porch, graffiti and vandalism. Everything seemed normal, including the front entry, which still sported the “Crime Scene—Do Not Cross” tape that Brad had strung up when he moved in to keep curious tourists from bothering him.

I walked up the gray steps and peered through the windows. There were no lights on, no noise coming through the walls, no signs of life.

Then I remembered Bruiser.

Where was Brad’s dog? Brad had sort of inherited a fluffy teacup poodle from a woman who’d been killed on a previous job. To my surprise, he’d kept the little purse pooch formerly known as Chou-Chou, renamed him Bruiser, and let the little guy even sleep in his—sometimes
our
—bed.

“Bruiser!” I called through the window. “Chou-Chou–Bruiser! Come here, boy!”

The dog usually came yapping to the front door at the first sign of a visitor, no doubt ready to attack at his master’s command.

Not this time.

I walked around the outside of the house, looking for anything out of place, eventually giving up when I reached the front door again. That was when I heard a high-pitched scream.

I ran in the direction of the sound. It seemed to come from the street below where lower officers’ quarters were. That was where Sansa Brien, a single mom, lived with her five-year-old son, Spencer. Spencer often dogsat Bruiser, while his mother, like many enterprising single parents, worked from home. She ran a day care program for families living on YB and TI. Often when I drove to Brad’s, passing her place, there were half a dozen children running around inside the fenced yard and screened-in porch.

“Sansa!” I called out when I reached the yard. Spencer and a little girl were playing with a baby carriage inside the enclosed porch while Sansa sat in a wicker chair, watching them. “Is everything okay?”

She looked up and grinned. “Hi, Presley. Sorry about the noise. Maile screamed when the dog almost escaped from the carriage.”

I leaned over the chest-level fence and spotted Bruiser in the carriage. Oh my God. Wasn’t that dog abuse? I wondered what the PETA people would say about this. However, Bruiser seemed to be enjoying being the baby. He was busily licking the little girl’s hand.

So Bruiser was still at Sansa’s. I knew Brad didn’t like to leave his dog alone for long periods, so he took him to Sansa’s day care when he was gone. Spencer was Bruiser’s “primary caregiver,” and Brad paid the boy for his services. It was a win-win for everyone, including Bruiser, who got more than enough attention.

Sansa stood up and pulled her sweater tightly around her as she approached the fence. “We were just about to go in. They love being on the porch, but even with the heaters, it’s getting cold. I’m still waiting for Maile’s mom to come get her. I guess she’s running late.”

“I don’t know how you manage those kids all day long. I’d be in a coma after an hour.”

She laughed. “Aw, I love it. It’s like being a kid again and getting to play all day. Would you like a sand pancake? I think that’s on the menu today.”

Sand pancake.
Erp
, I thought.

“Listen, I won’t keep you, but I see you still have Bruiser. Brad hasn’t come back yet?”

“No. In fact, Bruiser spent last night here. I haven’t heard from Brad. I usually get a call if he’s going to be out late or on a job longer than expected. I tried calling, but all I got was voice mail.”

Her words caused a chill to run down my spine. No sign of Brad since last night?

She must have seen the concern in my face. “You think something’s wrong, Presley?”

“I’m not sure. But I’ll call his friend, Detective Melvin, and see if he knows where Brad is.”

“Well, let me know if I can do anything. Meanwhile, we’ll take good care of Bruiser.”

I headed back to my car with dread in the pit of my stomach.

Where the hell was Brad?

 

I called the San Francisco Police Department from my car and asked for Detective Luke Melvin. To my surprise, he took my call immediately.

“What’s up, Parker?” he said, sounding rushed. I think that was a tone he cultivated.

“Sorry to bother you, Detective, but have you seen Brad today?”

“No, but then, I wasn’t in charge of him today. I thought that was your job.”

“Seriously, Detective, I think something’s wrong. I haven’t heard from him since he said he was meeting up with you last night. I checked his house. His dog sitter says she hasn’t seen him either.”

“Maybe he’s busy cleaning up after dead people.”

“Maybe, but I’m pretty sure he would have called at some point.” I paused, waiting for a response. When none came, I asked, “Has anything turned up on the deaths of those two men? Something you might have mentioned to Brad when you saw him?”

“I told him about the DNA test. It came back positive for both Spidey and Bodie Chase. Confirmed that blunt force trauma led to their deaths. Also found a fake ID in Spidey’s pocket, but no driver’s license. The ID was for a dormitory at SF State.”

The detective was full of news. He’d confirmed my suspicions that Spidey had been living in Trace’s dorm room. But right now that didn’t seem important.

“Did Brad say where he was going after he left you?”

“Said he was going to visit a friend. I assumed it was you.”

“Any idea who else it might have been?”

“What’s the matter, Parker? You think he’s cheating on you?”