Stalking the Vampire (24 page)

“What if there
isn't
a break?” asked Nathan.

“Then he wins and we lose,” said Mallory. “Your books to the contrary, the good guys don't always come out on top.”

“That's unacceptable,” said the dragon. “How am I going to sell
Stalking the Vampire
if we don't catch him?”

“Have him steal some of Wings O'Bannon's women,” replied Mallory. “Love stories about vampires outsell hard-boiled detective novels twenty-to-one.”

“I won't do it,” said Nathan. “I have my pride.” He paused thoughtfully. “Of course, I could always turn him into a detective, kind of like McGuire here, but good-looking and sexually irresistible.”

Suddenly there was a thunderclap and a puff of smoke, and the Grundy was standing in front of them. Nathan jumped back, startled. McGuire fainted dead away. Felina paid him no attention whatsoever.

“If you've come to gloat because we've lost him, it's five in the morning and I'm not in the mood for it,” said Mallory irritably.

“I have come to render you a favor,” replied the demon.

“Concerning Vlad?”

“Yes.”

“I thought your nature wouldn't let you interfere,” said Mallory suspiciously.

“Eventually Albert Feinstein would locate you and transmit the same message. I am merely hastening the process, not precipitating or changing it.”

“Why don't you save me a phone call and just tell me what he wants me to know?”

“I can't.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Mallory. “All those restrictions that you don't think are there. Still, you've done your good deed for tonight. I owe you one.”

“I am incapable of committing a good deed,” said the Grundy with a touch of repugnance at the concept. “I have merely performed a minor service for a worthy competitor.”

“Competitor?” repeated Mallory, frowning.

“Rival, if you prefer.”

“Fine. Where's the nearest phone?”

“You don't really expect me to tell you, do you?” said the Grundy.

“No, I suppose not. Thanks for the service. I'll take it from here. And by the way, you were right.”

“Doubtless,” replied the Grundy. “But what is this in reference to?”

“This case is a lot more complicated than just finding Aristotle Draconis.”

“That is why it has sought you out.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“For every prey animal, there is a predator uniquely suited to find and kill it. For every yang there is a yin. And for every crime, there is one and only one detective perfectly equipped to solve it.”

“It may seem predestined to you that I'm going to nail him,” said Mallory, “but he's killed at least two people tonight, I've only got about two hours of darkness left to find him, and every lead has turned out to be a dead end.”

But the detective found that he was speaking to empty air.

“Where did he go?” he asked Felina.

“Away,” she said.

“He's not still hanging around where I can't see him?”

She shook her head.

“Okay. Then I'd better get in touch with Feinstein.” He looked around. “There must be some all-night diner or bar with a pay phone around here.”

“Why don't you just use your cell phone?” asked Nathan.

“I don't have one,” answered Mallory. “There has to be
some
time when no one can bother you.”

“Just turn it off,” said Nathan. “You don't have to leave it on, you know.”

“If I'm going to leave it turned off, then why have it in the first place?”

“You know, I just hate questions like that,” said Nathan, his brow furrowed in thought.

“Since you're so keen on cell phones, loan me yours,” said Mallory.

“I can't.”

“Why not?”

“I left it at home,” said the dragon uncomfortably. “It just doesn't fit the image—a fierce, spear-carrying dragon with a cell phone.”

“Then with your permission, I'm going to find a pay phone, like I was before we started this idiot conversation.”

Mallory began walking down the block. When he'd made it halfway to the next corner, he came to a still-open bar.

“The Kretchma,” he said, reading the sign on the window. “This place looks as likely as any.” He turned to his companions. “You guys wait out here.”

He entered the bar. There was a fiddler playing morbid Russian songs, a bartender who kept crying at each new one, and a waiter who finally came by with a menu tucked under his arm.

“May I get you a
wodka
, Comrade?” he asked.

“No, I just need to use a phone,” answered Mallory. “Where can I find one?”

“In telephone stores, most kitchens, some bedrooms, the occasional hunting lodge, the ladies' lounge, the Hellhound Bus Station…There's no end of places where you can find a telephone, Comrade.”

“How about right here?”

“Right where you're sitting?” said the waiter. “No, I don't see one there.”

“Right here in the Kretchma,” Mallory amended.

“There's one behind the bar and another just outside the men's room,” said the waiter, holding out his hand for a tip.

“Thanks,” said Mallory, taking his hand and shaking it. “Always nice to speak to someone who remembers his manners.”

He walked to the phone by the men's room, where he would be less likely to be overheard, just in case he said something that was worth overhearing, then put a coin in the machine and tapped out Feinstein's number. A moment later the hacker picked up the receiver.

“Hi, Albert, this is Mallory,” said the detective. “A mutual friend suggested that you wanted to speak to me.”

“If he's the same one who's responsible for every disaster and death that takes place within the city limits, I prefer to think of him as a mutual acquaintance.”

“Enough with the semantics,” said Mallory. “What have you got for me?” “Vlad contacted TransEx about ten minutes ago to report that his card was lost or stolen,” said Feinstein. “They've issued him a new one. He hasn't got it yet, of course, but he's got the number, so he can use it to charge just about anything he wants by phone.”

“He knows we're on to him,” said Mallory. “That means he wouldn't have ordered a replacement card if he didn't need it. Keep an eye on him. I can almost guarantee he's going to use it, and soon.”

“Will do.”

“I'll check in with you every few minutes.”

“Just give me your cell phone number,” said Feinstein. “I'll call you the second he charges anything.”

“I'll call you,” repeated Mallory.

“I hadn't realized you had that many enemies,” said Feinstein. “Yes, use untraceable public phones, by all means.”

“Keep this line open,” said Mallory.

“No problem,” said Feinstein. “You're the only one who ever calls me. Everyone else contacts me via e-mail.”

“Catch you soon,” said Mallory, hanging up.

The waiter approached him the moment he was through with the phone. “Your
wodka
, Comrade.”

“I didn't order any.”

“It's goes with the phone.”

“How much?”

“The
wodka
is free. The phone is six dollars.”

“For a local call?”

“For a local call and a glass of Glorious Revolution.”

Mallory left a five and a one on the waiter's tray and took a sip of the drink.

“What do you think?” asked the waiter, watching him intently.

“That's powerful stuff,” rasped Mallory, certain that his throat was on fire.

“It's the same brand Stalin gave to Roosevelt right before they reached the Yalta Agreement.”

“Figures,” said Mallory. “I used to blame Roosevelt for giving away
Eastern Europe and setting up the conditions for the Cold War. Now I can see he'd have signed anything if it let him get away so he could get to a source of water and rinse his mouth out. Damned clever, these KGB.”

“NKVD,” the waiter corrected him. “Fiends of an earlier era.”

The phone rang behind the bar. The bartender picked it up, listened for a moment, frowned, and held the receiver up. “Anyone here named Mallory?”

“Yeah, I am,” said Mallory.

The bartender handed him the phone. “It's for you.”

Mallory took the phone from him, staring at it curiously. Finally he placed it to his ear. “Hello?”

“Hi, Mallory,” said the familiar voice at the other end. “This is Feinstein. I had my computer trace the call you just put through to me.”

“What's up?”

“He just paid for a room at the Waldorf.”

“Thanks, Albert. I'm on my way.”

Mallory gave the phone back to the bartender.

“Not bad news I hope, Comrade?” said the waiter.

“Good news, actually,” replied Mallory. “Nice meeting you.”

“You have to leave right now?”

“Yeah.”

“What a pity. You'll miss Natasha.”

“Natasha?”

“Our singer,” said the waiter. “Each song more heartbreaking than the last.”

“Some other time,” said the detective.

He had almost reached the door when the phone rang again.

“Mallory, it's for you,” said the bartender in bored tones.

Mallory took the phone from him and held it to his ear. “Yeah?”

“Feinstein again,” said the hacker. “He just checked into the Plaza.”

“He didn't like the Waldorf?”

“He hasn't checked
out
of the Waldorf,” said Feinstein. “Hold on a minute. Now he's got a room at the Leamington.”

“He's playing games,” said Mallory. “He's trying to send me on a wild goose chase all the hell over town, from one hotel to another. It's an old trick.”

“Yeah,” said Feinstein. “He just got a room at the Pierre. And here comes one at the Hyatt.”

“You don't have to keep count,” said Mallory. “He's not at any of them.”

“He's probably at some little run-down hotel, laughing his head off at the thought of you checking out every hotel where he reserved a room.”

“He's not at any hotel, luxurious or run-down,” said Mallory.

“How do you know?” said Feinstein. “We're not that far from dawn. He needs a place to lie up.”

“He's not in a hotel, because no hotel will let him bring his coffin up to his room.”

“If he tips them enough, they
all
will.”

“He knows that if
he
can tip them enough to break the rules, then whoever's chasing him can tip them enough to find out what hotel room's holding a Transylvanian casket.”

“Then why is he going to all this trouble?”

“To keep us busy until dawn, while he goes to where he's always planned to go.”

“And where is that?” asked Feinstein.

“His coffin,” said Mallory.

“Well, of course his coffin,” said Feinstein. “But where is it?”

“You're going to tell me, Albert.”

“Me?”

“Yeah,” said Mallory. “A while back you told me you traced my first call to this number.”

“That's right,” said Feinstein. “Piece of cake.”

“Can you find out where Vlad was when he requested his new TransEx card?”

“I can do better than that!” said Feinstein, suddenly enthused. “I can pin-point where he's reserving all those hotel rooms from.”

“Good,” said Mallory. “Once you do, have your computer locate the nearest mortuary.”

“Don't leave the Kretchma,” said Feinstein. “This won't take more than a few minutes.”

Mallory hung up the phone. “I guess I'll listen to Natasha after all,” he told the waiter.

He sat down on a stool at the bar and turned to face the small stage, where the singer had just appeared. She had a fine figure, with the usual low-cut gown, but her songs were so morbid, her face so streaked with tears, that Mallory never looked below her neck. The first two songs ended in her suicide, the third in the murder of her lover, his parents, and her kid sister. The fourth song was cheerful by comparison; only the mailman died, ripped to shreds by the singer's guard dog, who mistook him for the stepfather who had sexually abused her in her youth.

Natasha had just taken her bows and exited when the bartender announced that there was another phone call for Mallory.

“Thanks,” said the detective, taking the received from him.

“You ever think of getting a cell phone, Mac?”

“This should be the last call,” Mallory assured him. He put the receiver to his year. “Albert?”

“Right here,” Feinstein assured him.

“Did it work?”

“You'll have to go there, and then you can tell me,” said Feinstein. “You ever hear of the Hills of Home Mortuary, Cemetery, and Delicatessen?”

“A place with a name like that actually exists?”

“You'd better hope so,” said Feinstein. “Because it's two blocks from where he made the calls, and there's not another within a mile of him.”