Kiss of Death (12 page)

“Thanks again for the offer, but for the moment we'll keep it in-house. And I hope you feel better.”

The professor is keen, but the cynic in me questions his motives. He can probably smell a book in it and I'd rather keep him away for that very reason. I thank him again for his help before hanging up.

I follow Clark's suggestion and do a quick Google search on
vampire fangs.
Crowns run at around $1,200 and dentures are about $100. And judging by the section on vampire fangs I find on one vampire Web site, there are lots of providers. Way too many to investigate.

Ten minutes later Carey and Sloan walk down the long path and get into the car.

“Well?”

“This guy's a piece of work.” Carey shakes his head. “He's even got a butler.”

“Really?”

Sloan sighs. “I can see the charm, I can, but he's also an egotistical prick.”

Their initial response makes me feel queasy. Have I somehow been sucked in by Anton Ward? He certainly doesn't seem to have impressed Sloan or Carey.

Carey passes me back my recorder.

I focus on the psychology, not my gut reaction to Ward. “He could be delusional. He might be fooling himself
as well as his members. If he believes he's two hundred years old and part of the traditional aristocracy, he'd keep a butler.”

“It's very English, though, isn't it? A butler?”

I shrug. “I guess. But vampire mythology started in Europe, and European aristocracy had a similar social structure to the English. Ward is trying to project himself as the master, the lord of the house. The butler adds to that image.”

“It did seem very old-world to me.” Carey shakes his head again.

“Like their clothing?” I smile. “What
was
the master of the house wearing?”

Sloan chuckles. “Leather pants, a black silk shirt and this weird little corset thing.”

I'm disturbed by the fact that I want to see the outfit for myself. “Loads of the guys were wearing that style at the club last night. There seemed to be two distinct looks—Goth punk, and the old-world look.”

“What was he wearing last night?” Carey seems only mildly interested.

“Black pants, not leather, a white shirt and a black velvet vest with red and gold brocade.”

“Nice.”

“It kinda looked good, actually,” I admit. “It suited him…he looked like he'd just stepped off the catwalk.”

“Sounds about right.” Sloan puts the car into Drive. “The autopsy was scheduled for ten, so we should get the end of it.”

“Sounds good.” I cue up the interview. “Don't mind me. I'll just listen to this.”

The recording starts off like the last one, with Sloan introducing herself and Carey.

“I'm afraid Master Ward isn't available,” a male voice says in an extremely polite manner.

“Is he home?” Sloan asks.

“Yes. But he's asleep.”

“And you are?” Carey's voice has the slight disinterested tone I often pick up from him.

“Stephen French, the butler, sir.”

“I think you should go wake your boss, Mr. French,” Sloan says. “We're here about a murder.”

A pause, then: “Right this way, ma'am, sir.”

I hear footsteps echoing, like Sloan and Carey are being taken down a marble hallway with high ceilings.

I pause the recording. “What was the house like?”

“Over the top.” Carey gives me a broad grin. “Antiques, but masculine, not fussy. The butler showed us into a formal living room and it even had an open fireplace and medieval suit of armor.”

I think objectively about the psychology of the decor. “If Ward claims he's a wealthy two-hundred-year-old man, he would surround himself with some historical artifacts. All part of the image.” I pause. “Did he claim to be two hundred?”

“Not exactly.” Sloan takes a left into West Sunset Boulevard. “Keep going and you'll hear his explanation.”

I press Play and the butler's voice seeps through the speakers. “If you care to wait here, I'll awaken the master. Can I offer you any refreshments? A coffee perhaps?”

“Coffee would be great. Thank you.” I can hear relief in Sloan's voice. Maybe it was her first coffee for the day.

There's a stretch of silence before Carey says, “Get a load of this place.”

“I know. And the butler? Puh-lease?” Sloan pauses. “Can't wait to meet Ward in person. Anderson's whet my appetite.”

“Whatever.” Carey sighs.

“Am I keeping you from something, Detective?” Sloan's voice is mostly humorous; so much so that I get
the feeling this could be a common banter between the partners.

“Thrilled to be here.”

Another pause. “I wonder if Sherry was ever here.”

A door opens.

“Coffee, sir, ma'am.” The voice is female this time.

I pause the recorder. “Who's that?”

“I liked her.” A cheeky grin forms at the corner of Carey's mouth and I get the feeling it's for Sloan's benefit.

Sloan shakes her head. “A busty woman in a maid's uniform.”

I let out a little snort. “I see.” I press Play again.

“How do you take your coffee?”

“Should have seen the setup.” Carey talks over the recording but I don't stop it as it's only Carey and Sloan telling the maid how they have their coffees. “Silver tray, the coffee was in a long silver pot, and there was a matching sugar bowl, cream jug and teaspoons. And the cups were fancy-looking china.”

“Sounds impressive.”

“Meant to impress.” Sloan glances at me in the rearview mirror.

I tune back into the recorded conversation.

“Will there be anything else?” the maid asks.

“No, thanks,” Sloan replies.

Silence again for a few seconds before Carey says, “Look up there.”

Sloan lets out a
tsk-tsking
sound. “Now, why would Mr. Ward need to video his guests?”

I pause the recording. “A video camera?”

“Yup. Almost invisible.” Carey twists around in his seat. “I only noticed it when the maid came in. When she opened the door, natural light flowed in and I caught something glistening in the bookshelf. I looked up, and there it was.”

“Shit.” Realization hits. “You said my name. You said ‘Anderson.'”

“I thought of that, too,” Sloan says. “But I didn't say your first name, or detective or agent. Besides, Ward knows you as Veronica.”

I nod. “Yeah…you're right.”

I fast-forward through roughly five minutes of silence. “Wow, he kept you guys waiting awhile.”

“Uh-huh.”

Finally the door opens again.

“I am so sorry for the delay.” Ward's voice is low and syrupy, just like I remember it from last night. Hearing his voice again draws me to him and I'm suddenly aware that I'm eager to see him. The desire confuses me. It's hard to put a finger on the sensation—while there is a sexual element to it, it's more than that. It's a yearning to be near him, in the same room as him. I shake my head.
Snap out of it, Sophie.

Stephen French introduces Sloan and Carey to Anton Ward. “Anything else, master?”

“No, that will be all. Thanks, Stephen.”

The door closes.

“Again, please accept my humblest apologies.”

Sloan clears her throat purposefully but doesn't say anything.

I hear coffee being poured.

“I'm a night person, you see. So for me, it's now roughly two o'clock in the morning.”

“You always been a night person, Mr. Ward?” Sloan asks.

“Since I was fourteen. Most of us are awakened in our adolescence.”

“So that'd be about eighteen years ago?” Carey asks.

“As I'm sure you found out from some sort of background search, Detective Carey, I was born on
September 7, 1977. And my birth name was Brett Simons.”

“So you don't claim to be a two-hundred-year-old vampire?”

There are a few seconds of silence, and then the sound of a cup being placed on a table. “It is not a simple question that you ask, Ms. Sloan.”

“Simple from where I'm sitting.” Sloan pauses. “And it's Detective Sloan, thanks.”

“I'm sorry.” He pauses. “
Detective
Sloan.” Another brief pause. “In answer to your question, I am thirty-two years old…in this life. But I have been reincarnated several times and always come into my birthright as a vampire on my fourteenth birthday. But it is not what you think…I'm not delusional, nor must I feed on huge quantities of blood. Vampirism is greatly misunderstood. People base their perception of vampires on books and movies, not on real life.”

“Real life?” Sloan keeps her voice open.

“In real life there are some individuals who need the blood of others to survive.” He pauses, contemplative. “Or certainly to thrive. A vampire who does not maintain himself in the proper way will find it difficult to even get out of bed, let alone function normally.”

“You mean coffin.” Now Sloan doesn't hide the amusement in her tone. “Get out of your coffin.”

A beat of silence, then: “It is both a condition and a calling, Detective.” His voice is slow and forceful.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Ward, but to an outside observer this seems…well, fanciful at best.”

“That's ignorance. I will try to explain the feeling in terms you can understand. It's a little like the lack of energy people with glandular fever or severe depression experience.” He sighs and I can hear him pick up his cup of coffee and have another sip. “You have a question, Detective Carey.”

“That was a little unnerving,” Carey says from the front seat.

I turn off the recorder. “How so?”

“I do think this is all baloney, but I really
was
about to ask him a question.”

“Your expression probably gave it away, Carey.” Sloan throws him a sideways glance. “Let's face it—your poker face isn't the best.”

Carey isn't put off by Sloan's dig. “I don't think so.”

“Or it was a lucky guess.” Sloan snorts. “Next you'll be telling me he sucked your energy.”

Carey gives Sloan a fake smile.

I press Play again, ready for Carey's question.

“Yes, Mr. Ward. You said it's a condition. So you're saying that you and your members have a medical condition that means you require blood?”

“Medical and spiritual. Our bodies need the energy of others to thrive. We feed off them, off their life force—either through their blood or spiritually.”

“Spiritually?”

“There are two types of vampirism, Detective Carey. One involves feeding from blood and the other type is called psi-vampirism. In the latter, you feed off a person's spiritual energy.”

“And what type are you, Mr. Ward?” Sloan's gone back to the serious approach.

“I am both, Detective.”

Sloan clears her throat. “And you're the head of After Dark, correct?” A pause, probably while Ward confirms nonverbally, and then Sloan says, “And how many vampires are there in the group?”

“We are a small house. Selective. My clan has nineteen vampires at the moment and ten donors, although we do also associate with others from within L.A.'s vampire community.”

“You said
house?
”

“A family, a group, if you like. It can sometimes also be called a clan or coven, but I do not like coven because of its link to witches.”

“Vampires don't like witches?”

Ward gives a little exasperated sigh. “Again, I can hear the mockery in your voice. I am not talking about the witches of fiction who cast spells and can fly…or vampires who can only be killed by a stake through the heart. I am referring to the ancient feminine power of Wicca and the condition of vampirism. We don't choose to be a vampire, just like we don't choose the color of our hair—we are born with it.”

“And you were born with raven-black hair I suppose?” Sloan's on his back instantly. And again, she's got a point. In the photos and in person last night, Ward's hair was jet-black. There's no way it could be that black…without a little help from a bottle.

He lets out a deep chuckle. “Point taken, Detective Sloan. My analogy is faulty because many people do choose the color of their hair. But I can assure you,
my
hair is natural and so is my vampirism.”

“Is the L.A. vampire community a large one?” Sloan brings the conversation back on point.

“Yes. I'd say there are a couple of thousand vampires, maybe more, then the donors and wannabes.”

“Wannabes?” Sloan sounds genuinely curious.

“People who are drawn to the image, the mythology, but do not, in fact, need another's life force to survive.”

I pause the recording. “That's a lot of suspects.”

Sloan nods. “I'll say. Assuming Sherry's death is related to this aspect of her life.”

Obviously Sloan's still not sold that our perp is someone from L.A.'s vampire community. I hit Play again.

“And how many houses?” Carey asks.

“It is hard to say. There are many houses in L.A.”

“Give us a ballpark, Mr. Ward.” Sloan is a little impatient.

“Maybe fifteen houses.”

I blow out a breath, but keep the recording going. It is a lot of suspects, but at least it's a little more specific than the information Cheryl was able to give us last night.

“And the donors,” Carey asks. “They're the ones who give blood, right?”

“That's correct, Detective.”

“Do any of your members live here?” Sloan asks.

We know that at least Riley and Davidson live in their own place, but what about the others? It was a good question, especially from my point of view. Destructive cults tend to be isolated geographically as well as emotionally.

“No. Not full-time. Although some members of my house do stay over from time to time.”