To Catch a Vampire (7 page)

Victim number three is Officer Antoine Baker, age forty-one. He lived and worked in Forth Worth as a police officer. Fifteen years on the force, a few commendations, one citation for excessive force two years ago. Married ten years, two children, avid motorcycle enthusiast. Also avid horn dog. Per his partner, Shane Nashaw, Antoine had a new girlfriend every month. The wife, Lashandra, should be the prime suspect, but she had an airtight alibi. She was away in Houston singing with her church choir. Doesn’t get much better than that.

The night he disappeared, Antoine and flavor-of-the-month Rochelle went to the Red Goose Saloon for drinks. Rochelle left when Antoine started flirting with a woman Rochelle can’t remember a thing about. The police think she’s lying, but the bartender remembers Rochelle leaving with her roommate. They were together for the rest of the night. Two bar patrons remember Antoine making out with a “Naomi Campbell lookalike,” and leaving with her and some friends. The sketch is close to the one provided by a witness of the couple’s later disappearance. No sign of the victim since. The entire force was out looking for “Naomi” and her posse to no avail. The cabal had already moved onto Donna or some other place and victim we may not even know about.

Donna Bennet Zahn, number four, age sixteen at time of disappearance. Junior at Summit High School in Mansfield, Texas. Poor student with Cs and Ds, except in art. Suspended twice for smoking and once for fighting. Parents Claude and Cindy, older sibling Jeffrey. Father owns a garage, mother a nurse. Parents ruled out due to lack of priors, and though neighbor and friend interviews said their relationship was strained, they loved her. Ex-boyfriend lead suspect. Wayne Ronertson, age seventeen. Donna broke up with him two weeks before, and friends stated he was sending her notes and hanging outside her house. He was also at the same club, the Lizard Lounge, the night she disappeared. He claims he left before her. Last person to see her was her friend Cherie Martindale, who saw her dancing with a tall man with spiky brown hair named Rick.

I pull out a sketch of Rick. Late twenties, thin mouth, high forehead, brown hair, handsome even with the spiked dog collar. Apparently, he was with a group of friends, but Cherie never met any of them. The bartender from that night didn’t recognize him, so the case is at a dead end. I flip past a list of items taken from Donna’s bedroom to the last page. The photos of her. The first is a recent one taken for the yearbook. She’s pretty, or would be if she removed the heavy white makeup, eyeliner, and black lipstick. The badly dyed jet-black hair with blonde streaks doesn’t help; but the dark blue eyes, small nose, and lips with high cheekbones do. Too bad she doesn’t smile. The other photo is from years ago. Absent are the horrendous makeup and hair. Instead, she had a healthy tan and strawberry blonde hair. Why she changed is anyone’s guess.

Lastly, Linda and Don Costarello, the most recent missing persons. Donald Lee Costarello, age thirty-seven, originally from Chicago. Criminal lawyer at Waltham, Spektor, and Ludo with a specialty in fraud. Married previously to Tori Schneider, but divorced five years ago. She lives in Chicago with their son, Cody. Current wife was Linda Harris, age thirty, part-time personal trainer, married a year before. Happy marriage by all accounts. Don had a prior for possession of cocaine four years ago, but no other criminal history. Interesting list of items taken from the house. Dildos, chains, you get the picture. Friends said they had an open marriage. Apparently, Don enjoyed watching and occasionally joining in while his wife got it on with strange men and women. Whatever floats your boat.

Don’s secretary reported him missing when he didn’t show up for court on Monday. Credit card bills placed them at the club Purgatory the night they disappeared. They were regulars there and one of the waitresses, a Jodi Gibbs, remembered the couple hanging out with a group of people in their late twenties to early thirties. All she remembered about them was they only ordered one drink each, which seemed to stay full all night. She also remembered three names: JR, Serena, and Rick. The sketch of “Rick” is very close to the previous one, minus the spiked hair. JR fits the description the source gave: black hair, blue eyes, the sunken-in cheeks popular with males now, and a pointed nose. The woman, Serena, is African American with full lips, straight black hair with bangs, and wide brown eyes. Since that night there has been no credit card activity or other signs of life.

I close the Costarello file with a sigh and rub my eyes. I waded through stacks of paper to cull the relevant details out of the police jargon. I haven’t read this much in one sitting since I was studying for my Biology final in college. I barely got a D.

Oliver finished reading way before I did. Right around Antoine he got up and left and hasn’t been back since. He’s not one for the investigative side. Our little group is split in two: investigative and retrieval. Investigative is Nancy, Carl, Andrew, and the real FBI agents all led by former Washington, D.C., detective Will. I was brought on for retrieval along with Irie, Oliver, and Will. Fueled by too many
Law and Order
s and Nancy Drew books, I wormed my way onto the investigative side. Otherwise I’d spend most of my time in hotel rooms watching soaps until it was time to kill something. The good news is I’m pretty great at it. Oliver, I’ve found, lacks the necessary patience. An immortal with a patience issue, go figure. Since the rest of the team’s not here, I guess it’s up to me.

Game plan time. It’s so much easier when I’m just given an assignment and off I go. I wish Will was here. He’d know where to start, who to talk to, what evidence was important. By myself, I could just waste days while they kill another person. Okay, I need to make a pact with myself now: If I feel like I’m getting nowhere in two days, I’ll call him—sooner if Oliver lays one inappropriate hand on me.

Okay, Bea. You’ve done this enough times by now to know where to start. No physical evidence, no DNA, no fingerprints, nothing. The nightclub in question didn’t have cameras. The only witnesses had their memories wiped. Okay, why did they wipe the memories? They had to know something the vamps didn’t want them to. So, how do I get that information out of them? Oliver? No help, he doesn’t have the power to restore memories, only the vamp who put the whammy on them has that. Wait … if I remember Witchcraft 101, there are certain spells and potions that can open consciousness. That might work. Now I just need to find a witch in a strange city where I don’t even know where the nearest grocery store is. It’s not as if they advertise “Witches” in the yellow pages. I’ll find one somehow. At least I’ll have something to do tomorrow besides nude sunbathing.

After jotting down the addresses and telephone numbers of Amanda, Petra, and Rochelle, I gather the files and totter out of the conference room in search of a copy machine. I want copies of the composites in case we get a bite (har har) tonight. The outer cubicles are near empty, with no annoying ringing phones or banal conversation, just a high-pitch giggle in the back. Oliver leans into a cubicle, whispering to a barely-out-of-college blonde. She either finds everything he says hysterical or is having a seizure as she vibrates like a spring that’s just been flicked. The blonde looks up at me, giggling even harder. Oliver rises and turns around. Grin Number Four appears, the awkward one when he’s been caught doing something naughty. What the heck are they talking about? Me, probably. Lord knows what he told her.

“There you are,” he says with the same grin. “I was beginning to wonder if you were slumbering in there.”

“Unlike
some
, I actually read the whole files.” My eyes dart to the blonde. “Where’s the copier?”

“I can show you,” she says, standing up. Ugh. A skirt halfway up her stick thighs, I should have guessed. So not professional. Okay, I know, glass house much right now? But I’m undercover, not a representative for the U.S. government. If her skirt was any shorter, my three-year-old goddaughter Flora couldn’t even wear it. As she walks over, Oliver folds his arms across his chest and doesn’t take his eyes off her butt. His eyes jump to mine for a moment, and grin Number One appears. I roll my eyes and follow the Lindsay Lohan of the FBI to the copy room.

“Here you go,” the blonde says, gesturing to the machine.

“Thanks,” I mutter. I pull out the sketches and start the machine.

“So, do you like undercover work?” the blonde asks.

“I’ve never done it before,” I say, pressing the button.

“Oh.” She walks over to the machine, stopping at the files. “So, how long have you two worked together?”

Subtle. “About three months. Longest three months of my life.” I put the next sketch into the machine and press the button. “If I have to hear one more word about his wife and four kids, I’m going to stick a red-hot Q-tip into my ear. I’m almost as sick of hearing about them as I am about his impotence problem. I’ve told him time and time again ‘if you put Tabasco on it, eventually it will lose all sensation.’ I mean, TMI, right? But you know men.” I put the final picture in, and the machine spits it out. “All done,” I say cheerfully. I hand her the originals and the files.

“Um, thank you,” she says.

When we walk out, me first, Oliver still waits by her desk, smiling. “I got everything I need here,” I say, matching his smile. “You ready to go?”

“If you are.” He takes the hand of the blonde and raises it to his lips. “Thank you for the stimulating conversation, Hayley. I hope to see you again.”

Darned if she doesn’t look at his crotch. “Same here.”

“Thanks for all your help,” I say as I start toward the elevator with Oliver behind me.

The elevator door opens right as I press the button. Love when that happens. We step in, both pressing the button. The doors close and bye-bye Hayley.

“She was a delightful girl,” Oliver says.

“Yeah, she really seemed to like you. Maybe you should ask her out, see what she says.”

“Perhaps I will.”

“You do that.”

The doors open onto the lobby and we walk out, handing back our visitor badges as we pass. I try to gain some ground away from him, but in these frigging shoes he doesn’t need super-speed to reach me. He takes my arm, but I yank it away without even realizing it, shocking even myself.

“I have upset you,” he says, stopping.

“Nope,” I say, still walking toward the parking lot. For once he doesn’t follow. “Come on! We have a club to get to,” I shout back at him.

“We have at least an hour before we should arrive,” he shouts back, still not moving.

Crud. Having no real choice, I stop walking and face him. “Jesus Christ,”—he winces— “can we please get moving? My feet are killing me!”

He bridges the gap between us until he’s two feet away. “I apologize if I upset you. It was not my intention.”

“I’m not upset, I’m uncomfortable. I honestly don’t care if you and the chick were going at it Animal Planet style in front of me. Flirt with whoever you want. Not my business.”

“You do care,” he states as cold hard fact.

I roll my eyes. “Okay, I probably would care if you were having sex in front of me, I mean, gross, but
…
” I shake my head. He always does this! I want the talking to stop, but he utters a few words and it’s soliloquy time. I stop myself. “I’m not having this conversation with you again. Not when I’m dressed like a hooker in front of the FBI building. We have work to do. That is what we’re here for, right? Work? So let’s go. We can check out the Costarello condo.”

This time we both start walking toward the parking lot, though he walks behind me. “I am sorry. I will try not to let it happen again.”

And darned if I don’t feel a little better.

_____

The Costarellos lived in the trendy—read: ritzy—part of Dallas where the Dolce & Gabbana boutique is down the road from the Prada store, along with a Starbucks on every other block. Their high rise, a triangular building that’s mainly glass, is wedged between a Dean & DeLuca and Armani Exchange. Since it’s a work night and everyone but us night owls is tucked away in their beds, we manage to find a metered spot across the street. Oliver holds the helmets as I pull out my badge while we cross the street. A skeptical door man stares at the badge for a few seconds but opens the door.

The lobby is exactly as I imagined it would be: white marble, with a fake waterfall off to the side. There’s even a little pond with koi. I keep my credentials out as I approach the middle-aged man in the burgundy vest behind the reception desk. His nametag reads “Rob.” His expression changes from confused to absolutely puzzled as we reach him.

“Can I … help you?” Rob asks with a Texas drawl.

“I’m Special Agent Beatrice Alexander and this is Agent Oliver Montrose with the FBI. We’re looking into the disappearance of Don and Linda Costarello in 602.”

“Oh,” Rob says, relaxing a little.

“Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?”

“The police already did. I mean, I barely knew them.”

“You work the night shift?” I ask.

“Afternoon. I usually leave around midnight.”

“I understand the Costarellos had many visitors at night,” Oliver says.

Rob chuckles. “Yeah. And they usually looked like you two. Not my place to judge, though.”

I pull out the sketches of the bad guys and lay them on the tabletop. “Do any of these people look familiar to you?”

He studies them carefully. “I don’t think so.”

“Okay, thank you,” I say, collecting the pictures. “Can we have the spare key to 602?”

“Um … I’m afraid I can’t do that. We have a strict policy about warrants.”

Oliver steps forward, meeting Rob’s eyes. Rob’s body tenses again, and his eyes turn vacant. “Hand her the key,” Oliver says.