To Catch a Vampire (6 page)

Marianna raises her hand, palm side up, presenting her cappuccino wrist. Without a word, Oliver releases me, strolling over to Marianna. Taking her hand, he raises it to his lips, kissing the thin skin where the veins meet. “You are as beautiful as I remember,” he says, mouth still hovering centimeters from her skin.

“As are you,” she says with a smile. “Still enjoy making love with your shoes on?”

He releases her hand. “Now, you know the only reason I did that was Gustave was returning any moment. It was a good thing I had them on, if you remember.”

“As if I could ever forget you.”

Gag me.

“And who is this … lovely creature you’ve brought with you,” Marianna asks, eyeing me.

“I’m his wife,” I say harshly.

Marianna looks at Oliver, mouth agape. “You married?”

“Yes. A year ago.”

“Now, I know you are lying,” she says, smiling. My body locks up again, all joints buckling. I’ve blown our cover. They’re going to eat us.

Oliver stays as cool as the Fonz. “Why do you say that?”

“The very thought of you in any form of relationship longer than a weekend is incredulous,” she chuckles.

I have to agree with her.

“I am a changed man. Love transformed me.”

“You must be some form of magician, kitten,” she says to me. “You have performed the impossible.”

“I’m good like that,” I reply.

“You look it,” the boy on the couch says in a thick German accent. He reaches across to touch my leg, but I move away, flinching. He wouldn’t have gotten me anyway. Oliver moves faster than I can see. One moment he’s next to Marianna, and the next he’s got the boy’s wrist in his hand, teeth snarled.

“Attempt to touch my wife again and I will break every bone in your hand. Twice.”

The German snarls back, making his gaunt face close to skeletal. His companion matches his look, but hisses like a snake too. The German yanks his arm away.

“Everyone,” Marianna says in a calm tone, “we are all friends here. Let us not fight.”

I touch Oliver’s shoulder, leaning in and whispering, “Let it go.”

He glances at me and drops the vampire face. The Gruesome Twosome remains poised to strike.

“Klaus. Ingrid,” Marianna says like a scolding mother.

It takes a moment, but their faces return to normal. Snooty, but normal. They still shoot daggers at us with their eyes. Oliver crosses his arms across his chest, I’m sure mentally willing them to try again. Gloria, who lounges on the armrest of Mr. Cigar’s chair, winks at me. I suddenly feel like a hick in Beverly Hills, out of place and pitied. Marianna sits up, stretching her long legs in front of her, staring at me. “Kitten, you must have been Helen of Troy in a past life. We almost had a war on our hands.” She pats the now empty seat next to her. “Come. Sit. Oliver, prepare some drinks for me and your lovely wife.”

Like a good boy, he does as she says, as do I. All eyes follow me to the couch. I slowly sit, delaying the inevitable a second longer. My body remains at a state of readiness just in case she does strike, but I do cross my ankles to keep Gloria and Klaus from getting a cheap look. (Their eyes do glance there.) Oliver starts mixing, but doesn’t take his eyes off me. My protector.

“So, tell me about yourself Beatrice. It is Beatrice, correct?”

“Yeah, Um, not much to tell. I was born, now I’m here,” I chuckle nervously.

“Well, how did you meet
our
Oliver?” she asks.

“
I
met
my
husband … um … at the library.” Not a total lie, we did meet in a library. “He was checking out books on … knitting.” Oh yeah, I’m a jerk. Oliver stops pouring vodka, raising an eyebrow.

“Knitting?” Cigar asks.

“I have been alive almost five hundred years. I am running short on things to learn,” Oliver says, not missing a beat.

“Whatever,” Cigar says, sniffing said item. He hasn’t taken a single puff. Gloria takes it out of his hand. She inhales, and blows smoke in his face. O … kay.

“Was it love at first sight?” Marianna asks.

“Actually, no. I couldn’t stand him,” I don’t lie. “He was rude, crude, obnoxious, he scared me, and hit on me at the most inappropriate times.” I meet his eyes. Grin Number Three greets me. I smile back, then look away. “But then he showed his real self. He helped me when I really needed a friend, and my opinion changed. We were married a year later in Vegas. It was one of those places with Elvis. I know it’s not official, but it means something to us both.”

“You don’t have rings,” Cole, the concierge says.

“I don’t like jewelry,” I say. “I’m allergic to gold and he’s allergic to silver.”

“The sign of our commitment is in a location we intend only each other to ever view,” Oliver says, staring at me.

That was for the knitting remark, I know it. Okay, enough about me. “And how did the three of you meet?” I ask the scary Germans.

“We are brother and sister,” Ingrid answers with her hand still on his thigh. Oh. My. God. Mondo grossness. Eww.

“Oh,” I say for lack of something better. “And you?” I ask the redhead.

“Gigi is our consort,” Klaus says harshly.

“And what about you two?” I ask Gloria.

Oliver, balancing three glasses, two filled with blood and another with a screwdriver, walks toward us. He hands us our drinks and walks behind me, putting his hand on the back of my neck. Kudos to me, I don’t flinch.

“I was a dancer at one of Sal’s clubs,” Gloria says.

“I was big time in Detroit in, you know, waste management. I got the head honcho out there out of some trouble, and he turned me in return. I hooked up with Glo about a year later.”

So there’s incest, lying, stripping, and the mafia all crammed into one house. I gulp my screwdriver.

“What about you, kitten? Thinking of joining us, or has this naughty boy never offered?”

“He offered and I declined. Like Queen said, Who wants to live forever?” Everyone in the room stares at me blankly. Wrong question to pose to this group. I clear my throat. “I may change my mind.”

“There is no rush,” Oliver says. “We are quite content with how things are.”

“I just cannot picture it. How do you live?” Marianna asks.

“Blissfully,” Oliver answers with grin Number One, full fang.

“Well, you won’t catch me settling down,” Sal says. “Glo here knows the score,” he says, patting her hand. If this bothers her, it doesn’t show. She sips her martini. “I did that whole married, kids crap for over twenty years. I got my balls back from that woman; I ain’t giving them up again.”

“Trixie does not ‘have my balls’ as you so eloquently put it,” Oliver says.

“Bet she has you gardening or some such shit,” Sal laughs.

“Hardly. We travel.”

“Yeah? Where you been since Gidget got her hooks into you? She doesn’t strike me as the adventurous type, if you catch my drift.”

Um, hello? I’m in the room.

Oliver’s grip in my neck tightens. “I believe you are mistaking adventurous for whorish. Not surprising considering the company you keep.”

“Hey!” Sal says.

“And for your information, I have shown my wife the best of the world. Paris, London, Cairo, Rio to name but a few.”

“Paris, huh? Been there three times,” Sal says.

“We have been there four.”

Okay, they’re about to whip out their johnsons and compare size. Macho men drive me nuts. I stand, tugging down my skirt. “Well, I think I’ve had enough socializing for one night. Nice to meet you all. Oliver?”

With my chin up, I walk past the Gruesome Twosome out the door. I’m halfway up the staircase when Oliver catches up, taking my elbow. We don’t speak until the door to our room shuts.

“We don’t have to do that every night, do we?” I ask, finishing my screwdriver.

“Thankfully, no. I am sorry for how they treated you. It was inexcusable.”

“They’re predators, it’s their nature to toy with food. And you didn’t help matters. Can you please not get into a fight while we’re here? The guy touched me, he wasn’t going any further. Low profile, remember?”

“I was a husband defending his wife.”

“No, you overreacted. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to get dragged into vampire court if I can help it.”

For a fleeting moment, something passes over his face. His mouth tenses and eyes double in size, but it’s gone so fast maybe I imagined it. Was he scared? I’ve only seen him frightened three other times, and they were
bad
situations. Like, we-almost-died situations. “Oh, crud. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. You are right, I will control my temper.”

“You didn’t have a
nothing
face. Is there something you’re not telling me? Because if—”

“Trixie, dear, you are looking for trouble where there is none, I assure you. Now, we should leave. I had George arrange for us to review copies of the case files on the missing. They are expecting us.”

“You’re kidding, right? I can’t walk into an FBI building dressed like this. Can’t we do it tomorrow?”

“Would you rather stay in this house, alone with me?”

Good point. “Don’t want to keep the Feds waiting,” I say, picking up my purse from the floor. I also pull out my suitcase feeling in the side flap for my credentials. There it is. I love this thing. It’s like a black card case, but when opened, there’s a gold shield with “Federal Bureau of Investigation” written on it. This thing can get me into anywhere: people’s homes, work, you name it. It’s also great if you’ve been caught speeding. (I was doing eighty in a fifty-five, and the guy let me off with a smile.)

I also take out my fitted black leather jacket that flares out at the waist. My best friend in the universe, April, made me buy it, convincing me I looked rock-and-roll in it. It was a bargain at half my paycheck. With the matching leather skirt I definitely feel rock-and-roll, but more on the groupie side. If Nana could see me now, she’d throw me in reform school.

“That is a fetching look on you,” Oliver says throwing on his own leather jacket. He loves that thing. It reaches down to his hips and hangs loose. What a pair we are.

“Did they give you keys to a vehicle?” Oliver asks.

“Desk,” I answer, putting the suitcase back under the bed.

He grabs them. “Are we ready?”

“I was born ready.”

Five

The FBI Agent Rode a Black Motorcycle

We make it downstairs
and past the still-chatting group without incident. The Germans glare as we walk out the front door, and Marianna shouts “Have fun you two,” but that’s it. The breath I hold escapes when the door shuts. At least it’s a nice, clear night. The temperature has gone down about twenty degrees, but considering it was a hundred before, that isn’t saying much. The still- hundred-percent humidity doesn’t help either. I don’t like eating soup, let alone having to walk around in it. Leather in the middle of summer is never a good idea. Get me in air conditioning fast.

The door to the garage is unlocked. Even though Oliver walks in first, I’m the one who flicks the light switch by the wood door. Holy mackerel. It’s like James Bond’s garage in here. A black Porsche, a vintage green Aston Martin, a red BMW, and a silver Mercedes. How the other half live.

“I am so driving. Give me the keys.”

Oh, no. Grin Number Two surfaces. “You do not know how to operate our motor vehicle.”

“What?”

Oliver steps away from the Porsche he was leaning against. Instead, he walks over to the other side of the garage where the black BMW motorcycle with matching helmets rests. “Our chariot.”

“You have got to be kidding me,” I say, hands instinctively moving to my hips. “I am not riding on that thing with you.”

“It is a perfectly safe mode of transportation, I assure you.”

“No way. Uh uh. I draw the line here.”

“You do not trust me?”

“No, I just see right through you. You chose this so I’d have to hold onto you on something that … vibrates.”

Grin Number Two becomes grin Number One, the widest with fangs. “Would I do something as underhanded as that?”

“Oliver, you are such a creep.”

“It is too late now, unless you wish to go back inside and speak to Marianna.” He raises an eyebrow. “Alone.”

It would take a nuclear explosion to get me back in that room. With a scowl, I push the button to open the garage. The motor above grinds to life. “Tomorrow we take the Aston. And I drive.”

“I can live with that.”

“You’re not alive,” I mutter.

He climbs on first, kicking out the stand and leveling the bike. I put the helmet on. There goes my hair. Oliver puts his on too, flipping the tinted visor down over his eyes. I do the same. Now comes the tricky part. In the tight skirt, I can’t lift my leg up high. I try but almost topple in the stupid boots.

I have no choice. I hike up the skirt so the world can practically see the control top of my pantyhose. I’ll be flashing my nether regions to all of Dallas tonight. Oh, joy. If people could die of embarrassment, I’d be a corpse right now. To his microscopic credit, Oliver doesn’t turn to get a look at the view. I manage to get my leg over this time and sit on the bike feet up on the metal rests. I swing my purse around to my back, and scoot up so my front touches Oliver’s back. I know he’s grinning even though I can’t see his face as I loop my arms around his torso, clutching onto my own wrists for dear life. Motorcycles have always made me nervous ever since April’s brother fell off one and was in a coma for two days.

Oliver turns the key and kicks the starter. Like a bear, the bike growls to life then hums. The entire body shakes lightly to the hums. Hello. My unmentionable place jumps to life as well, drawing much more attention than I like to give it outside the privacy of my own room. Think unsexy thoughts. Baseball, doing the dishes, old Jack Palance. He so planned this. If I have an orgasm on the interstate, Bette will get a workout tonight.

“Are you comfortable back there?” Oliver asks.

You have no idea. “Let’s just go!”

And we’re off. The bike jerks forward out of the garage and down the driveway. I hug Oliver tighter. If he could breathe, he’d be gasping right now. The gate opens as we approach. We pass through and he guns the engine, which roars louder than a chainsaw. I scream and darn near break Oliver’s ribs as we zoom down the quiet street. The possibility of becoming a road pancake sure does take my mind off the other problem. He slows a bit as we turn the corner but ignores the stop sign.

“Are you trying to kill us?” I scream hysterically over the engine.

“Calm yourself, my darling,” he shouts back. “I have never had an accident.”

We round another corner, tilting so close to the asphalt my ankle glides an inch from it. “Slow down now!” I scream again.

To my surprise, our speed drops by ten miles per hour. “My darling, you are about to crush in my chest.”

With hesitation, I loosen my grip a little. “Then drive like a sane person!”

“But I so enjoy you holding me close.”

“And I so enjoy not being the star of
Blood on the Highway
.”

He maintains speed until we hit traffic a moment later, the dreaded stop-and-go of worker bees on their way home from work.
The drivers can’t see our faces behind the helmets, but I can see theirs. They are all the same with their SUVs, thinning or graying hair, and white shirts done up with hideous ties. They’re old enough to be my father, but they can’t take their eyes off my exposed thigh. Green with envy, no doubt. We look like a freedom fantasy come to life. Open road, leather, semi-hot chick on the back of the hog. The man to my left, even though no doubt talking to his wife on the phone, stares at my hiked up skirt at the area only my gynecologist should see. I wish he could see my glaring face. The light changes and we move to the next red one. The sweat drips down my back and cleavage.

It continues like this for ten minutes: stop, stare, move a foot. The helmet might as well be a plastic bag wrapped around my face for all the breathing I can do. I flip the visor, taking in lung fulls of exhaust from the cars.

“Are you alright, my dear?” Oliver asks, flipping his visor.

“No,” I say in a huff. “It is a thousand degrees, I’m in leather, I can’t breathe, and the whole town is looking up my skirt. How much longer?”

“If we continue like this, forty-five minutes. It is possible to arrive sooner …”

“Then do it!”

“As you wish.”

The engine revs and we rocket off, narrowly missing the truck in front of us. The bike glides between the stalled cars, so close on either side I don’t know where they stop and my legs start. I asked for this, I know, so I can’t complain. I clutch onto Oliver as tight as I can, but bite my lower lip.
Please don’t let us crash, please don’t let us
—

The red pickup a few feet ahead of us changes lanes. The motorcycle skips to a stop. I yelp and close my eyes. Oliver, unfazed, guns it again. I open my eyes as the truck clears. He is about five seconds from losing his driving privileges forever.

We make it to Justice Way fifteen minutes later, pulling into a lot down the street for ten bucks an hour. First thing I do is pull down my skirt, then peel off my jacket. That’s better, but not by much. I can see the waves of heat rising from my skin. Carrying our helmets, we walk toward the Dallas field office of the FBI. From the outside, you would never think this place was FBI. It looks like a regular office building. The few people who filter out in their business suits and pantyhose unabashedly stare at us as we reach the door. Oliver ignores them, but I blush. I’ve never turned heads before. Don’t know if I like it.

I pull my badge out of the hidden pocket of my purse, and Oliver takes his out of his coat. The tall, African American security guard touches his gun as we walk in. The hand moves back when he notices our credentials.

“We have an appointment with Special Agent Michael Tully,” Oliver says.

“Are you armed?” the guard asks.

“Yes.”

Thank goodness we don’t have to go through the metal detectors, or they’d have a field day as I take out all the knives from my bra. The guard waves us through to the man in the reception area sitting behind the bullet-resistant glass. He examines our badges and with a moment of hesitation calls Tully. “He’ll be down in a few minutes,” the receptionist says. “You can have a seat.”

Don’t have to tell me twice. I flop down in a chair with a sigh. I had better spend the whole night sitting or I’ll never be able to walk again. The cold air from above chills the sweat on my torso, face, and legs. Oliver takes the chair next to me, staring at the display of the far wall of all the agents who lost their lives in the line of duty. The last one is a familiar face. Special Agent Spencer Konrad. He died on my first case, eaten alive by zombies. The official story was that a crazy cult member shot him. I barely knew him, didn’t even know his first name, but seeing him looking so serious with dark brown hair slicked back, a pang of sadness grips me. He died serving his country. The only consolation is the man who was responsible died by my hand—or my mind, to be more accurate. I look away from Konrad’s picture. I don’t want to think about that again. Ever.

More people in suits walk through the turnstiles past us, staring. What they must think. Pimp and prostitute? Biker gang informant and girlfriend? That’s what I’d assume. I hug my helmet close, and look down at the floor. Oliver watches them go by, meeting a few eyes. The people look away.

“People can be so rude,” Oliver says.

“Well, we do look like S&M Ken and Barbie,” I point out. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so embarrassed in all my life.”

“You are young.”

“Not helpful.”

“Perhaps it is that they have never seen as beautiful a woman here before.”

“Can it. Time to be professional.”

A man in his early forties with receding hairline, ice blue eyes, and white dress shirt pushes through the turnstile and zones in on us. He smiles, holding out his hand. “Agents Montrose and Alexander?” he asks.

We stand, and a sharp pain shoots up my right leg. “Nice to meet you,” I say, shaking his hand.

He can’t help it. His eyes zoom in on my boobs for a moment. Men. “You as well.”

He takes Oliver’s hand, but Oliver grips it so tight, bones and tendons crack. Tully winces, pulling his arm away. “Nice grip.”

“Thank you for meeting with us,” I say.

“No problem. Follow me.”

I swipe my visitor badge and walk through the turnstile after Tully with Oliver behind us. More sideways glances greet us as we walk down the hall to the elevator. Tully pushes the button, and in we go.

“Where are you two staying?” Tully asks.

“The Radisson,” Oliver replies as we step out of the elevator.

“Nice place,” Tully says.

“I suppose,” Oliver says.

Tully leads us down a beige hallway with a gaggle of closed doors with keypads on them. The movies have it so wrong. You’d think that places like an FBI facility would be a bit more exciting. A gun range, wall of televisions, or people running around like crazy talking about serial killers or bombings. It’s nothing but cubicles with the odd office. Total letdown. We end up in a conference room where a stack of files awaits us. Oh, joy. Homework.

“I was surprised to hear from you guys,” Tully says. “I don’t know what these can tell you. I went through them; I didn’t find a single commonality.”

“Appearances can be deceiving,” Oliver says. He takes off his jacket, sitting in one of the swivel chairs. “Are these all of them?”

“All the ones you requested.”

“You looked through all of these?” I ask, glancing at the stack, which has to be six inches thick.

“Yeah. When I got the call you’d be coming, I went through them. If you want my opinion, whoever told you the same perps did these was jerking your chain. I didn’t see anything warranting an undercover op.”

“We shall see,” Oliver says, meeting the agent’s eyes. “Thank you. That will be all. If we have any questions, we will be sure to call for you.”

“Um,” he says, running his hand through his hair, “I think I should stay. The Costarellos are still my case, and …”

Oliver meets Tully’s eyes again, but this time the agent’s expression changes. A familiar vacant face with dull eyes and slack jaw surfaces. “Leave now,” Oliver says in a soft voice. Like a good mind slave, Tully walks out, shutting the door behind himself.

“Was that really necessary?” I ask.

“I did not like him.”

“You just met him.”

“He was … crude.”

“Says the man who dressed me in bondage gear,” I say, taking the first file.

Victimology time.

Let’s begin at the beginning with Suzie Harriet Thal, age thirty-one. Occupation: bartender at Club Pain which caters to the S&M crowd. I can just imagine what her uniform looked like; we could probably be twins. She’d only been working there two weeks, hadn’t made any friends, nobody knew much about her. According to the file, she was originally from New York. A child of the foster system who left when she was seventeen and got married. Divorced a year later. She alternated between waitress, stripper, and bartender all over the country. Married and divorced a second time and had a child. No contact with either for over a year. Ex is remarried and has an alibi as well as full custody.

Suzie often went home with a man from the bar, and the night she disappeared was no different. One waitress saw a twenty-
something man, tall with brown hair, helping Suzie into her car. It was dark, so the waitress didn’t get a good look at the man. No sign of life since. She was skinny, tall, with long dark-brown hair. She reminds me a lot of my mom.

Next, Kathryn “Kate” Michelle Bending, age eighteen, student at Grapevine High School in Grapevine, victim number two. Good student, long-distance runner on the varsity track team, well liked. Both parents are doctors, no signs of abuse, and no priors on either. Kate didn’t have a boyfriend, ex or otherwise, so no viable suspects. Kate and her friends Amanda and Petra used their fake IDs to get into the Glass Cactus, a local nightspot. They danced and drank, but that’s all the girls remembered. Amanda and Petra woke up the next day covered in bruises with no idea what happened or how they got home. Kate wasn’t as lucky.

The working theory is the girls were drugged, and then horrible, despicable things were done to them, but they managed to get away. The girls were interviewed three times by the police, who got nowhere. The only evidence of foul play were the multiple bruises on their thighs and necks. No sign of Kate since. A waitress and bartender saw the girls bumping and grinding with a couple they had never seen before. They couldn’t give a description except for good-looking and the girl had bright blonde hair. Why they let the other two go, I don’t know. We’ll have to ask the creeps before we take them in.