How to Party with a Killer Vampire (27 page)

I moved to him and took the hand that didn’t sport an IV. “Hi,” I said softly.

“Hey,” Brad mumbled with a thick tongue. He gave a slight nod to Detective Melvin.

“How you doing, buddy?” Melvin asked, towering over his bedridden friend. “Golf later?”

Brad sort of laughed, but winced immediately afterward and squeezed my hand.

“You’re going to be all right,” I said, stroking his hand. Platitudes seemed best at a time like this.

“How’d you find me?” he whispered through a raspy throat. I could tell it hurt to talk.

I explained what happened, how the detective had met me at the cemetery, what Duncan had done to help locate him, and how Otto had even contributed to his rescue. Brad blinked now and then as he took in the story and tried to process it. Unconscious for most of the time during the ordeal, he couldn’t recall many details, so we filled him in as best we could. But there was still one unanswered question I had to ask.

“Brad, what were you doing in the cemetery?”

Brad frowned, then blinked some more, as if trying to pull out an answer from the deep recesses of his memory bank. “I . . . had a thought when I was with you, Luke. Let’s see . . . you said something about Spidey’s cell phone, wallet, and keys—that they never turned up. They weren’t on his body, or near the crime scene, or in his car. I went back to see if I could find them.”

It was probably in the Black Pond, I thought.

“And did you find it?” the detective said.

Brad took a slow, deep breath. “I figured he took his things out of his pockets before they started jumping around. Probably put them somewhere safe near the starting point. Near his car.”

“Why not just lock his valuables in their car?” I asked.

“Spidey drove a piece of junk,” Detective Melvin answered. “When we finally found it parked out of sight at another cemetery, one window was broken. A door handle had fallen off. And the lock didn’t work.”

“He put everything in a backpack and hid it,” Brad added.

“So did you find it?” I asked.

Brad gave another half grin. “It was tucked under a broken gravestone.”

“Wow,” I said, glancing at Melvin for his reaction. “What was inside?”

Melvin looked anxiously at Brad.

Brad’s grin faded and he gave a heavy sigh. “No idea. Someone must have come up behind me, slugged me over the head with something, and taken it.”

“Then dragged you into that mausoleum,” Melvin added, “closed it up, and left you for dead. Wonder why they didn’t take your cell phone.”

“Don’t know. Maybe he didn’t have time.”

“Must have been pretty strong to drag you over there and shove you inside,” Melvin said. “Plus, he locked the gate with a new padlock. That takes planning.”

I shuddered, remembering the fates of the other two cemetery victims. “Whoever it was must have been following you, Brad.”

“Or maybe he just returned to the scene of the crime—looking for Spidey’s backpack too—and saw me there,” Brad said.

A nurse entered the room—she was way too young and way too cute. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Matthews needs his rest. I’m going to have to ask you to come back in the morning.

I squeezed Brad’s hand, partly to let him know I would miss him, and partly to warn him to stay away from that nurse. He squeezed back, then gently caressed my fingers.

“Presley, be careful,” he said. I could see he was starting to fade. “Someone knows you and I are snooping around, asking questions. You could be in real danger.” He turned to Melvin. “Luke, keep an eye on her for me, will you?”

“You want me to place her in protective custody?” Melvin asked, pulling handcuffs out of his pocket.

“Very funny,” I said, “although I wouldn’t mind borrowing those cuffs. . . .” I shot Brad a wicked grin. He started to laugh, but the pain stopped him. “You rest up. I’ll come see you tomorrow. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Bruiser . . . I left him at Sansa’s—”

“I know. He’s fine. Spencer is taking good care of him. Last I saw him, he was dressed like a baby and was being pushed around in a carriage. I’ll let Sansa know what happened. Now get some sleep.” I leaned down and kissed him lightly on the lips, then turned away and left the room before he saw the tears in my eyes.

Detective Melvin saw me safely to my car in the hospital parking lot. He asked me to call him when I reached home and I promised I would, although it seemed unnecessary, and I was sure he wouldn’t really want to be bothered. I figured he was just living up to his promise to Brad.

I got home in less than thirty minutes, with very little traffic, thanks to the early-morning hour. I pulled into the carport and headed inside my condo. The cats had been fed earlier, but they always acted as if they were starving, mewing and climbing all over me, so I refilled their bowls. Finally, I changed into my PJs and headed off to bed, exhausted from the emotional day and the physical bloodletting. I called the detective to say I was home safe, then flopped onto the soft mattress, wondering what had been in Spidey’s backpack. It had to be something important to the killer, since he’d returned to the scene of the crime to retrieve it.

Or had he just been following Brad?

So what was it? Spidey’s cell phone? If so, what had the killer tossed into the Black Pond the night Spidey was murdered? I’d forgotten to mention the pond to Detective Melvin, and I made a mental note to tell him in the morning.

Thank God it wasn’t Brad at the bottom of that pond.

Hopefully it wasn’t anyone else.

In any case, it was time for all this to end—before the killer tried again. But to end it, I’d have to figure out what Spidey, Bodie, and Brad had in common that would cause the killer to want to silence them. Other than their having been in the cemetery at one time or another, I couldn’t come up with anything. Spidey had been there late, supposedly to meet Angelica. Bodie had been sneaking around there to find dirt on the stars, including Angelica. And Brad had been there looking for Spidey’s backpack, which might have had his cell phone with incriminating phone messages from Angelica.

Angelica Brayden.

She was the only one—to my knowledge—with a secret that might jeopardize her career: that she was married. Was that really a big enough reason to kill people?

And would she have been strong enough to do it?

Maybe . . . with her husband’s help.

Otherwise it had to be a man. Only a man would have had the strength to wield a shovel with such force and drag Brad to the mausoleum.

Like a bat that had lost its radar, I was flying around in circles, going nowhere.

Unless . . . it was someone who wanted to protect Angelica?

I awoke from a dream about Angelica—she had fallen into the Black Pond—and it had scared the crap out of me. I had the sweaty forehead and tangled sheets to prove it. Angelica had to be the key to all of this. While I could find no real evidence, no solid reasons why I thought this, something in the back of my mind brought me to this conclusion. I’d learned to trust my instincts, whether it came to party planning or crime solving.

I grabbed my cell phone off the nightstand where I’d put it after talking to Detective Melvin the night before, and punched in his number. This time I got his voice mail.

“Detective, this is Presley. Listen, I forgot to tell you something Otto Gunther mentioned to me yesterday. He said he saw someone throw something into one of the cemetery ponds the night Spidey was killed. He called the spot the Black Pond. He didn’t see what it was, but I wondered if you could check it out. Meanwhile, I’m going to see Angelica. I think she’s the key to all of this. Call me when you get this message.”

I showered and dressed in black jeans and an old top I’d handed out at my Séance Party that featured a Ouija Board on the front. I wished I had a real Ouija Board that would give me the answers to my questions, but maybe the shirt would channel some clues. After feeding my boys and promising them some new cat toys when all this was over, I called Lucas Cruz.

“Presley,” the director-producer said. He was either being psychic or had caller ID.

“Lucas, I need your help. Brad’s in the hospital. He was attacked yesterday and left for dead—”

He cut me off with a gasp. “Crime Scene Brad? Is he all right?”

“He’s okay. We found him in time.”

“What happened to him?”

“He was hit over the head and stuffed into a mausoleum at the cemetery. Listen, I need to talk to Angelica Brayden as soon as possible. You mentioned she has a place in the City where she stays during her off time. Do you have her cell number and her address?”

“Oh my God. Who’s next?” he said, his voice wavering.

“Lucas, do you have Angelica’s information? I’m in a hurry.”

“
Uh
. . . yeah, let me check. . . . She has a place on Post Street . . .
uh
. . .” He finally located the information and gave it to me. “Listen, Presley—”

I cut him off. “I’ve gotta run, Lucas. I’ll call you later.” I hung up before he could ask more questions, grabbed my purse and a bagel, stuffed my feet into a pair of black Vans, and fled the condo with my cell phone still in hand.

As I pulled onto the Bay Bridge headed for Angelica’s place, I glanced at my cell phone lying on the seat beside me. I was dying to call the hospital and talk to Brad. Was it worth risking a ticket? “Heck yes,” I said to myself. I checked my rearview mirror for any sign of a police car, then keyed in a search for the hospital number with my right thumb. If I got a ticket, maybe Detective Melvin could get me out of it. As if.

By the time I crossed the bridge, I was connected to Brad’s room. The phone rang a dozen times without a pickup. He must have been indisposed in some way. I just hoped he was still all right. I’d make a beeline there as soon as I finished talking with Angelica.

I’d thought about calling Angelica first but decided a surprise visit would be better. I found a green parking space—twenty-minute limit—around the corner from the Post Street address and parked, figuring this wouldn’t take long. And if I wasn’t back in time, what was a ticket when one was trying to solve a murder case?

Judging from the number of windows, the ornate cement building was four stories tall. Judging by the style, I guessed it was built in the late 1920s or early 1930s. I hurried up the faux stone steps to the iron gate that covered the door and searched for Angelica’s buzzer. I rang it and waited for the door to open. Instead, a male voice said, “Yes?”

“Hi,
uh
, this is Presley Parker, from the party the other night? I have something for Angelica and happened to be in the neighborhood.”

A few seconds of silence passed before the buzzer rang. I pushed open the gate and went in search of an elevator. Although there was no doorman, the Art Deco lobby was plush and featured marble floors, white columns, stamped tin walls, and a carved ceiling. The place murmured money instead of screaming it. I wondered how long Angelica had lived here, and why she still kept it if her plan was to go to Hollywood.

I stepped into the red-carpeted elevator that could probably hold maybe two thin people at a time, and listened to the grinding gears on the slow ride up to the third floor where Angelica lived. The door opened to a beige and blue carpeted hallway, with four numbered units. Each of the doors was painted to match the carpet. I located Angelica’s place and rang the round bell.

A tall, lean man with dark skin opened the door. He wore gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt with a popular sports logo. Barefoot, he held something tightly in his right hand. A medicine bottle? I recognized him immediately as Angelica’s bodyguard/husband.