Hunger (6 page)
Authors: Karen E. Taylor
“Hell, Max,” I said quietly and tenderly, “in the whole scheme of eternity, it can hardly matter.”
“Ah, eternity,” he said, giving a low laugh. “What must eternity be like?”
“Terrible,” I said as our eyes met, “yet beautiful when filled with times like this.”
We turned to each other then and made love in the cool night air. It seemed a bitter union, desperate and futile. Mentally we had both accepted the inevitable separation; physically we clung to each other in a desperate attempt to postpone the parting. We were joined in an animal mating; instinct took over, leaving no room for intellect or emotion. We were merely two bodies, taking from each other, insatiable yet dispassionate. In the final moments when our lovemaking grew frantic, our peak very near, I realized that I had been crying for some time, a silent outpouring of blood-tinged tears, flowing down my face, soaking my hair and the dark earth beneath me.
When it was over, we drove in silence back to my trailer. Max came in for the first and last time, and lay down on my narrow bed as I prepared for sleep. I drew the drapes, slowly undressed and crawled in beside him.
“Max,” I said and could say no more.
“Hush, my little love, sleep now.” He crooned and rocked me; I relaxed and slept in his arms like a child.
When I awoke the next evening, he was gone. He left a printed card on the pillow with his address. Almost as an afterthought, the words “Love, Max” were scrawled in red ink.
I could not cry, all my tears had been shed during our lovemaking. I dressed and returned to the life I led before we met.
We had kept in touch over the years, Christmas cards from him and change of address notices from me. When my luck ran out in a small southern town, where a persistent sheriff had grown too curious about my nocturnal activities, Max had answered my distress call with a plane ticket, a new life and a new identity. After I arrived in Manhattan, I had offered him no explanations and he had asked no questions.
I broke down one night about three years later and confessed to him the horrors of my life. Max needed little convincing, he had already observed some of my more telling habits: that I never went out into full sunlight, never consumed solid food, how weekly I would choose a man from the dance floor of the Ballroom and return from the encounter revitalized and strengthened. He was curious, not frightened, and his only stipulation to belief was that I allow him to observe a feeding. When this had been done, he laughingly admitted that I either was a vampire or gave an amazingly convincing imitation of one. It was at this point that he began screening potential victims and directing them my way. I accepted his assistance out of the love I still felt for him. But even with my confession, or perhaps because of it, our relationship never progressed further than friendship. It was almost as if that one night of love had never happened.
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A loud knock on the door interrupted my thoughts and I was jolted back into the present. “Come in,” I called softly, wondering why Max would knock. When the door opened, my question was answered. A stranger stood there looking rather ill at ease, and yet oddly sure of himself. He was not the normal type that frequented the club, he looked older than most of the patrons, probably in his late forties. He was tall, fair and well built, but rather nondescript, I thought, until my gaze rested on his face. He had a strong, hawkâlike nose and eyes bluer and more intense than any I had ever seen. A tough customer, I thought to myself as I rose from the couch to greet him.
“Hello, you must be looking for Max. He should be here in a few minutes. Sit down and I'll see if I can find him for you.”
“Actually,” he said slowly and deliberately, looking me up and down in an appraising manner, “I've already seen him. It's you I want to see, if you're Deirdre Griffin. I was told you'd be here.”
“Business or pleasure?” I asked him, smiling my most seductive smile. As a peace offering from Max, he was not really my type, nor was he necessary tonight, but it was a nice gesture. “How can I help you, Mr . . . ?”
“Detective Mitchell Greer, Miss Griffin. And most definitely business.” He gave me a stern look and flashed his badge briefly. “I'd like to ask you a few questions about Thursday night and one of the customers here. I believe you were acquainted with him.” He settled commandingly into the chair behind Max's desk, leaving me with two obvious options. I could remain standing before him like a schoolgirl called to the principal's office or I could sit in one of the side chairs like a prospective employee to be interviewed and grilled. I liked neither of these options, so I walked to the bar and poured myself another drink, mostly to steady my now shaking hands. I lounged against the bar and waited for him to continue.
“Bill Andrews, did you know him?” he asked, all the while studying my face with those incredible eyes.
I saw no reason not to tell most of what had occurred. There was, I felt, still no way that I could be connected to his death. No one, especially not this man, could believe in what I am. And perhaps, if I were subtle enough in my prying, I could discover the true cause of Bill's death, and salve my conscience.
“Yes, Detective Greer, I met him here that night. We drank and danced, as I remember. Then he took a taxi home; he had overindulged a bit. I read about his death in the paper the next day.”
He seemed surprised at the openness of my answer. “And just how well did you know him, Miss Griffin? I suppose he was a regular here.”
“No, he had never been here before to my knowledge. I can't even imagine how you knew he'd been here at all.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of matches. “He had these in his coat. His wife said that he didn't smoke, and that they had never been here together, so we assumed he had been here that night and met someone. An employee here said that you and Bill were together, and Max Hunter confirmed that the two of you had left the dance floor together.” He smugly put the matches back into his pocket.
Max? I thought. Why would he willingly give my name to someone in a situation like this? He of all people knew that one night in jail, or one day, could easily kill me. I tried to keep the anger at bay, but when I spoke, my response was scornful and more a reaction to Max than to this man. “I guess that is an example of brilliant investigative work. Nice job, Detective.” I bared my teeth in more of a grimace than a smile.
Astonishingly, he smiled back, a disarming sort of smile that made him look years younger. “Well,” he admitted sheepishly, “it's not exactly brilliant, but it gave us the only lead we have. To be perfectly honest, we can't really discover much of a motive in this case and we were hoping to find one here.”
I softened a bit toward him, and then realized that that was probably his intention. “I really wish I could help you,” I said stiffly, “but I'm afraid that I am just as puzzled as you. I did not know him very well, we had only just met that evening, you see. He did not seem to be the sort that would be involved in anything that would result in his death.”
“He also didn't seem the sort that would be involved with someone like you. But apparently he was. You and he were reported to have slipped away to some back room here at the club. Would you mind explaining what transpired between the two of you?” His smile had gone and he was again an uncompromising inquisitor.
“I do not care for the tone of your voice or the implications you seem to be making, Detective. Someone here should be able to back up my statement that he took a taxi home, alone. In view of that fact, I can't see that what happened between the two of us is any of your business.”
He gave me another of his sharp, appraising stares. “It is my business when what happens is against the law.”
“And exactly what are the charges? Drinking? Dancing without a license? Corrupting the morals of an attorney?”
“Miss Griffin, this is not a joke. While certainly not as serious as some crime, prostitution is still against the law. And it's my job to enforce that law. You'll find that I take my job very seriously.
I must have stared at him in shock for a few seconds. Prostitution? And all the while I thought he was questioning me for the murder of Bill Andrews. I began to laugh, softly at first, then loudly and for a long time. “I'll have to thank you for this, Detective, when I recover,” I said between bursts of laughter. “I haven't been so amused for a long time.”
He seemed confused by my outburst, then a shy smile brushed his face. “Another great piece of investigative work, huh? The evidence seemed so overwhelming, you coming here so often, meeting so many men. Well, it just didn't look right.”
I guessed this was as close as he would get to an apology and I was so relieved at not being suspected in the murder of Bill Andrews that I let him off the hook.
“Trust me,” I said still smiling, “my morals may not be impeccable, but I do not take money in return for my favors.” Not in this lifetime, anyway, I added silently. “For one thing, I don't need to.”
He looked at me in puzzlement, so I went on. “In my business I make a profit of around seven figures a year. I own Griffin Designs.” When his confused expression did not clear. I explained further. “I'm a fashion designer, women's clothes. You must be a confirmed bachelor not to have heard of me.”
“Divorced, actually,” he admitted reluctantly. “I'm sorry I misunderstood; it's been a long day and I'm very tired.”
“Well then, if there's nothing else I can help you with . . .”
The phone rang and he answered it without hesitation. I found myself admiring his forcefulnessâhere in Max's office where the furniture, I knew, cost more than he would make in a year, he was at ease and in command. Mitchell Greer was not a man easily intimidated or impressed by the trappings of wealth.
“Yes, this is Greer,” he said. “What's up?” As he listened intently to the caller, all traces of amusement vanished from his face. “Another one? Where?” he questioned. Then, “Who was it? That's strange, otherwise it matches the m.o. pretty well.” He ran his fingers in a tired gesture through his hair. “I'll be over as soon as I finish up here.” He hung up the phone with a bang.
“I'm sorry I was so unreasonable with you, Miss Griffin, but this case has me bothered. After all my years on the force, I've still never quite gotten used to the violence.” He gave me a wan little smile. “Thank you for your time tonight. Send me a bill if you want, I enjoyed your company.”
I was more concerned with his telephone conversation, than his attempt at humor. “Can you tell me what is happening? I live in the area and if there is a maniac roaming the streets, I would like to be prepared.” My eyes searched out his, made contact and held him there, hesitant and undecided about how much he should reveal. Had he been just slightly more forceful he might have been able to avoid my questions.
“I shouldn't really say anything, but I can't see what harm it would do. There's been another murder, but it doesn't seem to match, somehow. This one was a prostitute that frequents the areaâthere must be a connection somewhere but I just can't see it. It's just so odd, that they both died the same way.”
“Can you tell me,” my eyes were locked on his, “can you tell me how they died?”
“Damndest thing I've ever seen,” he admitted, pulling away from my gaze and walking slowly to the door, “no signs of violence, no large wounds, but every drop of blood was drained from the bodies.”
I felt a surge of excitement, and lowered my eyes to hide it from him, but he was not looking at me.
“Good night, Miss Griffin.” He closed the door softly behind him.
I sank to the couch in amazement. Finally after all these years here was a sign of another of my kindâin the same city, the same area in which I operated. While I might have been responsible for the death of Bill Andrews, however improbable it seemed, I knew nothing of the girl. No, it had to be someone else like me and I would find them.
Plans began to race through my mind furiously; could I investigate the murders myself without becoming too obvious about my interest? I knew from past experiences that it didn't pay to get too deeply involved with the lawâmaybe Max could . . .
Maxâin my reaction to the information supplied by Detective Greer I had forgotten about Max and his recent role in the investigation. What game was he playing? Did he feel pressured to put me under suspicion to protect the club? To protect his reputation? Would it be bad for business if people were afraid to come to the Ballroom, due to too many murders in the neighborhood?
At that moment the door opened again and Max entered. “Deirdre,” he called tentatively, “are you still here?”
“Afraid that Greer took me in for the murder of Bill Andrews, Max?” Suddenly I was angry, totally enraged, out of control. Before I knew I had moved, I was across the room, slamming the door and grasping his shoulders in a grip designed to hurt. I dug my nails in and felt the material shred beneath my fingers. “You bastard, Max. You knew he'd be here; you set me up for this. Why else would you have called me, pleading with me to see you tonight? Greer needed a murderer and you delivered one to him. Well, it didn't work, he doesn't suspect me.”
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