Kiss of Death (18 page)

“You're welcome.”

We shake hands and she sees us out.

“What do you think, Anderson?” Sloan asks once we're well and truly out of earshot.

“That it was a hellish drive for not much.”

Sloan laughs. “Can't argue with you there.”

I move back to the real question. “I don't think life is that simple for most people, but she does seem to accept her husband's lifestyle.” I unlock the car and climb into the driver's side.

“Maybe she's been taking acting lessons from him. I'd want an Academy Award if I had to put up with his antics.” Sloan drums her fingertips on her thigh. “The
alibi only takes them up to midnight, and if Sherry was killed later in the pathologist's time-of-death range, either of them could have snuck out to meet and kill Sherry. Or maybe both of them.”

The thought had occurred to me as well.

I start the car and pull out—next stop, Todd Fischer.

“So how's the profile coming along?”

An impression is starting to form, but it's very different to the picture Sloan's focused on. But rather than point out the obvious, I say, “It's coming along.”

Sloan stares out the window in contemplation for a minute or so. “Hey, I thought you guys preferred to profile cold? With some distance from the suspects?”

Sloan's right. It's more common to take all the police reports, forensic information, detailed information about the victim, crime-scene photos and autopsy report and profile blind, as it were. That way I can't be swayed by having met one of the suspects. But now that I'm in the field and working cases that can sometimes be fresh, my profiling is blending with what I used to do as a homicide cop back home—general investigative work on the fly.

In the case of Sherry Taylor, I've been with the LAPD just about every step of the way and have been involved in all aspects of the investigation, including interviewing potential suspects.

“You're right,” I say. “I'm totally caught up in this case. On the chase, just like when I was a homicide detective back in Australia.”

“Do you miss it?”

“All the time. But I love America, too, so it's not so bad.”

“Even L.A.?” She smiles.

“Even L.A.” I return the smile before looking back to the road. “Besides, Australia's only got three pro filers and forensic psychology isn't used as much by law enforcement as it is here. The U.S. is much better from a career
perspective.” I check my blind spot and change lanes to avoid a turning car. “And it's not like it's a different planet. There are lots of similarities between the States and Australia.”

“Such as?”

I shrug. “I don't know…. Well, the landscape can be similar in places.”

“Thought you guys were mostly desert.”

I'm not sure if she's being sarcastic or serious, but I go with serious. “We do have a lot of desert, but we have cities, too.”

She smiles. “I know. You've got Sydney. I've seen the pictures.”

“Sydney's our biggest city but there are plenty of others, too. Australia's a big country, you know. It's only a little bit smaller than the U.S.”

“Get outta here. But your population's much smaller than ours, yeah?” Sloan is uncertain—no doubt wondering if every preconception she has of Australia is a misconception.

“Uh-huh. Just over twenty million.”

“That's a lot of space for twenty million.”

“Yeah. But like you said, a lot of it is desert.”

“What else?”

“Um…we've got gum trees, like L.A. does in some parts and we mostly drive big cars like you guys.”

“So we're polluting the world together, huh?”

“'Fraid so. But things are changing, just like here.” I pause. “The people aren't really that different, either. I mean, your bigger population exaggerates the extremes. More of the really wealthy, more of the really poor. And more vampires, I guess.”

She laughs. “Can't say I knew much about the vamp subculture until a few days ago myself.”

After a few moments of silence, Sloan prompts me to continue the comparison game.

I merge onto the southbound 405. “There's the architecture. Again, pretty similar for the most part. I mean, you're a young country like us, so you don't have really old buildings. American and Aussie cities have skyscrapers with urban sprawl around them.”

“What about the differences?”

The first thing that comes to mind is directly related to our line of work. “Guns. We don't have guns like you guys do.”

Monday, 7:30 p.m.

It's dark by the time we get to Merit-Carson.

This time when we ring the Fischers' bell, it's Todd who answers.

“You've got some news?” He beckons us inside.

“Just more questions, I'm afraid.” I don't want Todd getting his hopes up if he's innocent.

He leads us into the living room and clears one of the sofas of women's clothing and magazines so Sloan and I can sit down.

Sloan crosses her legs. “Just a quick visit today, Todd.”

It has to be quick—we've got to get to Los Feliz for Carey and Sloan to interview After Dark and we're running late as it is.

“We spoke to Professor Carrington today,” Sloan says.

Todd nods. “Did he know Sherry had a crush on him?”

Sloan leaves it a beat. “It was more than a crush, Todd.”

“What do you mean?”

If he really doesn't know that Sherry's relationship with her professor was sexual, then he's in for a nasty surprise.

“They were sleeping together.”

“What?”
His body goes rigid with genuine shock…and anger. “You're wrong. She wouldn't sleep with both of us, not Sherry.”

“I'm sorry, Todd,” I say.

He puts his head in his hands for a few seconds before looking up. “You got it wrong. Who told you that?” He shakes his head. “It was Desiree who was sleeping with the guy, not Sherry.”

“Desiree?” Sloan's voice is even, but she raises an eyebrow at me.

“For as long as I've known them, Desiree always wanted what Sherry had. But she's got them all fooled. Even Sherry was blind to Desiree's jealousy. Nearly split us up early on.”

“How so?” I ask.

Todd rests his elbows on his knees and clasps his hands together. “Sherry and I had been going out for six months when Desiree came on to me. She wanted me because I was Sherry's. I could spot it a mile off. But I wasn't interested.”

“Go on.”

“We were at a club one night and Sherry went to the washroom. As soon as Sherry was gone, Desiree pushed herself up against me and rubbed her hand along my face. Then she whispered in my ear, ‘Sherry doesn't need to know.' I backed away and told her it was never going to happen and she disappeared.”

“Did you tell Sherry?”

“Stupidly, yeah.”

“What did Sherry say?” I ask.

He leans back and gives a little shrug. “She didn't believe me. Said I must have misinterpreted Desiree. I could tell from her reaction that I was in a no-win situation. If I pressed the point it would have driven a wedge between us—she'd trust her best friend of five years over
her boyfriend of six months. So I shut the hell up…and made sure I was never alone with Desiree again.”

“Did she try it again?”

“No. But I think Sherry might have said something to her. Told her I'd thought she'd come on to me or something, because Desiree kept her distance.”

“And what makes you say that Desiree was sleeping with Professor Carrington?” Sloan asks.

“Sherry told me.”

Sloan takes out her notebook. I've noticed she rarely uses it, relying mostly on her memory, but for the odd detail she will take it out. “When was this?”

“It was roughly a month after we broke up. Sherry was pretty upset about it. She'd liked the guy for a while, but Desiree started sleeping with him. I told her the guy was a creep if he slept with his students and she should keep away.”

Good call.

“But I didn't bother pointing out that Desiree hadn't been a true friend. Like I said, Sherry could never see the vindictive streak in Desiree. And when I told Sherry the guy was a creep, she said…she said she was in love with him.” Todd shakes his head again.

“Must have been hard.” Sloan gives Todd a supportive look. “Especially when it was such a schoolgirl crush.” Sloan's baiting Todd.

He nods emphatically. “I told her that. He was older, and she looked up to him. She was just blurring that line.” He pauses. “Anyway, like I said, Sherry wasn't sleeping with Carrington. And don't believe a word Desiree says when it comes to Sherry. They may have been best friends, but she's never had Sherry's back.”

Sloan and I exchange a glance and I nod at Sloan.

“Carrington did confirm that he and Sherry had been sexual partners for two to three weeks before she died.”

“No…no…”

“You may be right about Desiree and her motives,” I say, “but Sherry and Carrington were sleeping together.”

Todd stands up and starts pacing. “I just can't…I can't believe it.”

His first reaction was denial and anger, then he convinced himself it was Desiree's lies. But now that he knows it's come from the horse's mouth, so to speak, he has to accept that Sherry was sleeping with them both. And it looks like that's a tough pill for Todd to swallow.

A few minutes later we leave Todd to deal with his anger and head to Los Feliz to meet up with Carey and an FBI comms van and techs.

Soon I'll be seeing Anton Ward again and with the prospect comes a small wave of butterflies. I find myself visualizing his face and wondering what he'll be wearing.

Sloan interrupts my thoughts. “He was angry about Carrington.”

He… Todd Fischer, not Anton Ward.

“Yes,” I say, “but I believe he was genuinely surprised. I don't think he knew.”

She sighs. “Maybe.” Another deep sigh. “You're right, the kid seems okay. But it'd be nice, wouldn't it? The last person who saw our vic was an ex-boyfriend who knew about Sherry's new lover. But I know they can't all be open-and-shut.”

“No.” I check my mirrors and pull out.

“We should still keep an eye on him.”

“I guess it's worthwhile. And I'd really like to know what upset Sherry on Saturday night. Maybe she went to confront the source of her distress after she left Todd.” I'm still thinking something led Sherry back to the Goth world later that night, and hopefully video footage from Bar Sinister will confirm that.

After a couple of minutes of silence Sloan shakes her head. “Desiree and Carrington. I sure do want to speak to them again.”

Monday, 8:45 p.m.

W
ard's house looks totally different at night—I hadn't noticed it this morning, but the place seems downright creepy now. It could be the glow of candlelight from the windows, coupled with the large tree branches that frame the house, added to the eerie glow of a plump moon. Whatever way you look at it, Ward's Los Feliz home looks like something out of a horror flick. Despite this I'm still longing to see him again, which makes me feel incredibly uneasy. I've got at least an hour or two before the moment of truth—Sloan and Carey are up first.

I sit in the front seat of the FBI surveillance van, behind Sloan and Carey's car. “You ready?”

“Uh-huh. You can hear me okay?” Sloan is wired. We had all the equipment ready for me tonight, so we figured we may as well use it on Sloan, too. That way I can hear the conversations in real time.

“Yup. Loud and clear.”

“Let's meet the vampires.” Carey's hand pops up in between the seats in a quick salute.

Sloan and Carey drive off to Ward's house a hundred and fifty feet down the road.

“Okay, driving up the driveway now. Still got us?”

“Copy that.” I turn to the FBI tech in the back of the van and he gives me the thumbs-up.

“Man, this place looks creepy.” Sloan's voice is tight and it sounds like she's ever so slightly rattled. And I reckon it'd take a lot to rattle Sloan.

“I know.” I take another look at the mansion and the branches swaying in the wind. “I can see it from here.”

It's only a couple of minutes later that Sloan whispers, “Ringing the doorbell now.” Given Ward's place is under his own form of video surveillance, that'll be the last time Sloan talks directly to me.

“Copy that.”

“Good evening, detectives.” I recognize the voice of the butler. “Everyone has assembled and the master is ready for you.”

Like he had a choice.

Sloan picks up on it, too. “Well that's just terrific, because we're ready for him, too.” Doesn't sound like she's rattled anymore.

“This way, please.”

Just like in this morning's recording, the three sets of footsteps are loud, each giving off its own echo. But this time they last for longer, so obviously Stephen French is taking them to a different room, one farther into the mansion's belly.

The footsteps stop and the momentary silence is broken by two rapid knocks on a door. The door creaks open.

Sloan takes a rapid and forceful intake of air.

“Holy crap!” Carey's voice is much higher than usual.

Shit. “What is it? Are you okay?”

“You said it, Carey.” Sloan's tone is calm, letting me know that whatever caused their reactions didn't place them in any immediate danger.

There's silence for a moment, then a voice booms in the distance. “Welcome to After Dark.” Ward's tone is theatrical and obviously they're in another large, high-ceilinged room because again there's a distinct echo. Even with the theatrics, the sound of his voice sends a small shiver down my spine.

“We are all here to help in any way we can.” Ward's voice gets clearer and he's obviously moving toward Sloan. “My house is your house.”

Now he sounds really close, like he's invading Sloan's personal space.

Sloan's usual no-nonsense approach prevails. “Cut the crap, Mr. Ward. We're not here for a show. This is a murder investigation.”

“Of course.” His voice is softer. “So, how would you like to do this?”

We'd agreed that Sloan and Carey would split up, interviewing each group member individually. Given they've already questioned Riley and Davidson, that should leave them with the nineteen vampires plus the other donors. We also drafted a list of core questions when we rendezvoused with Carey around the corner thirty minutes ago.

“We'd like to interview all your members, one by one,” Sloan says. “If you've got two rooms we could use, we'll be able to get out of your hair more quickly.”

“My house is at your disposal.” A short pause. “Stephen, can you please show Detective Sloan to the drawing room and Detective Carey to the dining room.”

“Thank you.”

“He sure is being hospitable.” Even though I have a direct line into Sloan's ear, I don't want to distract her, so my comments will be kept to a minimum.

“I also have a list of my current members and the six members who've left the group since its inception ten years ago,” Ward continues.

Papers shuffle for a few seconds followed by a short silence.

“Take your pick, Detective Sloan.” Ward's voice is suggestive, even flirtatious. “Who would you like to talk to first?”

I'd shown Sloan Teresa Somers' photo from Facebook and asked that she question her if possible. Given she's one of the few people in the group who I've met, I wouldn't mind listening in to the interview. Plus, she seemed close to Ward and may be a good source of information if I can get her onside—and the more I know about her, the easier that will be.

“I'll take the redhead.”

“Good choice, Detective Sloan.” Ward's voice is deep and even, with a hint of satisfaction. “Teresa, you're up, my darling.”

A few seconds later I hear a breathy tone that I recognize. “Hi.”

“Detective Sloan, this is Teresa Somers. Teresa, please answer all of the detective's questions as honestly and thoroughly as you can.” Ward takes a breath. “Detective Carey, you're next.” Again, Ward's voice is provocative. But perhaps Carey's eyes are falling out. I think about some of the outfits the clubbers were wearing last night and sigh…never send a man in if there's going to be cleavage.

Eventually Carey says, “She's fine.”

Ward chuckles. “Yes, she is
fine
.”

As they walk, French offers Carey, Sloan and the two members a drink. Sloan and Carey both opt for coffee, while Teresa asks for a gin and tonic and Carey's interviewee asks for champagne.

The footsteps stop and French says, “The dining room, Detective Carey.”

“Thanks.”

A few seconds of silence before the footsteps resume.
Then: “And you know the drawing room, Detective Sloan. I'll be back shortly with your coffee, Detective.”

“Thanks.”

“And your gin and tonic, Ms. Somers.”

Teresa thanks him, too.

I notice he used “Ms. Somers,” which indicates he's not part of Ward's group, but merely household help.

“I don't imagine Mr. Ward gets much use out of the fireplace.” Sloan's trying to relax Teresa.

“No. But the L.A. nights can get cold and I think Anton likes the mood of it more than the heat.”

“Nothing like a fireplace, huh?”

“Exactly.”

I hear a distinct rush of air as Sloan sits down. “So, Anton…you don't call him master?”

“It depends on the context. We are not required to refer to him as anything in particular, it's just what comes naturally.” She gives a little giggle. Her voice becomes low and breathy. “There are certain times when I refer to him as master.”

“I see.”

I imagine Anton Ward likes to be master in all his sexual encounters.

“Shall we start with the questions then, Ms. Somers?”

“Shoot.”

“So, you've been with After Dark for seven years?”

“That's correct.”

“And how did you come to meet Anton Ward and join the group?”

“I was introduced by a friend, Reece. I knew about After Dark soon after I moved to L.A.—it's the most prestigious house and extremely difficult to get into.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Anton is well respected. He's a god.”

My scalp prickles at the mention of the word. In many
ways Ward does portray himself as a god, which could land After Dark right in the new religious movement domain. But at the same time I can see and feel his magnetism myself, so it's not surprising that Teresa has this level of respect and admiration for him.

Teresa continues. “I moved to L.A. from Seattle eight years ago and immediately tapped into the vamp scene here.”

“Were you involved with the scene in Seattle?”

“Of course. I've known I was different since I was a young child. But it was not until I was around thirteen that I realized exactly
how
I was different.”

“Go on.” Sloan sounds a little disinterested, and I'm not sure if it's an interview technique or if she's pissed about spending time on Ward and After Dark instead of Fischer and Carrington. Or maybe it's just because it's a Monday night and she wants to be at home with her hubby and her feet up. Home is certainly where I should be, given this is Darren's second of three nights in L.A. I doubt any kind of sexy outfit will get me out of this one.

I tune back into Teresa.

“When I was thirteen my next-door neighbor, Johnny Boon—” she gives a little sigh, like perhaps Johnny was her childhood crush “—had a nasty accident. He fell out of a tree and hit his head, bad, and there was blood everywhere. I watched from the sidewalk as the paramedics loaded him up, but even from fifty feet away I could smell his scent, smell the blood, and I yearned for it.” Teresa's voice is becoming more and more animated. “I knew it was wrong…strange…and I managed to hold myself back on that day, but all I could think about was putting my lips to his head and drinking the blood as it flowed from the wound.” Her breathing gets heavier, as though the memory of it is highly arousing for her. “The dark thickness of it as it rolled down his head called to me.
He
called to me.” She's suddenly silent and after a few beats lets out a long, contented sigh. “And that's when I knew I needed blood.”

“Don't react, Sloan.” I want to ensure Sloan's reaction doesn't distort Teresa's interview. I don't want Teresa to hold back if she thinks Sloan is judging her, or to exaggerate things if she realizes she's shocking Sloan.

“And when was the first time you drank blood?” Sloan's voice is even.

“Six months later. It was Johnny's blood.” Her voice is dreamy now. “I know he thought it was weird, but he wasn't complaining because I was giving him what he wanted…sex. It was both of our first times, you see. Johnny wanted me and I told him my one and only condition for sex. I took a small knife from our kitchen, cut into his hand while we were fooling around and sucked and sucked as we went at it.”

Blood…it's a fascination I've never understood, and hearing Teresa's story and its link with her sexual pleasure doesn't change my mind. I doubt anything would. I remember my first homicide case back in Melbourne. It was a stabbing victim who'd crawled from his kitchen to his bedroom to dial 000, our equivalent of 911. It was too late for him; his blood was spread across his apartment. It only served to reinforce my repulsion for the kinds of human beings that can commit such crimes. I knew then, more than ever, that I'd chosen the right career. I was going to get whoever had done this and put them away for life…and I did.

Two short raps come through my earpiece and the door opens.

“Gin and tonic, Ms. Somers.” The chink of ice, then I hear the butler unloading a few items near Sloan. “I thought you might like a pot, Detective, given you'll be in here for a while.”

“Thank you, Mr. French. That's very thoughtful of you.”

“Happy to be of service. Please ring if you need anything else.”

Efficiency personified.

“Thank you.”

The door closes and I hear Sloan pouring her coffee. “Where were we?” I'm sure Sloan knows they were talking about Teresa's first sexual experience and her first taste of blood, but she's intentionally coming off as slightly disinterested.

From my perspective Teresa's story has already given me a psychological explanation for her fixation on blood and vampirism. She had the hots for the boy next door, saw his blood and linked that with her early sexual feelings and her desire for him. That was then consummated with the physical exchange, sealing her erotic fantasies about blood. If Johnny Boon had never hit his head, or Teresa hadn't had an acute crush on him, I doubt she would have gone down this path. It also ties in with Renfield's syndrome: something happening in childhood that causes blood to feel exciting. After puberty, this excitement turns to sexual arousal, and in adolescence and adulthood blood and the consumption of blood becomes linked to a feeling of power and control.

Teresa answers Sloan's question. “We were talking about my awakening.”

“Ah, yes.” Sloan takes a sip of coffee. “Now awakening refers to the time when you first realize you're a vampire. Correct?”

“Very good, Detective.”

I can imagine Sloan giving Teresa one of her best smiles. “You said you moved from Seattle to L.A. Why?”

“Work. I moved for a better job.”

“And what do you do?”

“I'm a graphic designer. Most of my work is in the arts fields, rather than corporate. And I got offered a job at MGM.”

“Designing?”

“Uh-huh. I design posters for movies, plus a load of other marketing materials.”

“Sounds fun.”

“It is.”

“I think MGM is behind Mr. Taylor's show,
Stars Like Us,
” I say. Sloan has probably made the connection, but there's no harm in pointing it out.

“And do your work colleagues know you're a vampire?”

She gives a little snort. “No. I tone it down a bit. It's still an office environment, albeit a creative one.”

“So they know you're a Goth, but not that you're a vampire?”

“Yes, that sounds accurate.”

The next question on the list we put together is whether the member is a vampire or a donor, but that's already been well and truly answered. Even so, Sloan asks Teresa if she ever acts as a donor.