Kiss of Death (15 page)

He gets my Bureau username. “Okay, I'll copy those across and give you a call to take you through the access procedure from your computer.”

“Great, thanks.”

Back at my desk I open up the MySpace page for Malediction Society and spend thirty minutes tracking
down the four vampires that Cheryl described, but none of them use their real names. The voluptuous woman is called VampBaby, the big guy with the tat is SirJonas, the
Clockwork Orange
guy is called Kaos and the final of the four is KillerFangs. I e-mail links to each person's profile page through to Mercedes and ask her if she can find out their real names. But in the meantime, I log in as Veronica and send friend requests to the four of them. It's a start at least.

I spend the next hour poring over e-mails between Desiree and Sherry, but they're mostly inane—same with her Facebook, Twitter and MySpace accounts. She doesn't seem to have any online friends through these accounts linked to the Goth world.

Once I'm Facebooked out, I move on to Renfield's syndrome. I find no mention of it in the databases of the American Psychological Association or the American Psychiatric Society or their journals—it's certainly not a clinically recognized disorder.

At 2:00 p.m. an e-mail comes in from Mercedes. She's managed to get names on the rogue four—James Logan, Patricia Peters, Jake Oliva and Jon Eriksson. Mercedes has also performed a DMV search and criminal record search for each of them. I print out the material. Are these our killers?

Monday, 2:30 p.m.

UCLA
is right around the corner, so when Sloan rings to say they'll be leaving soon I mention I'll walk, which leaves Sloan in shock. Driving everywhere is one part of the American culture I can't imagine ever succumbing to—even a twenty-minute walk is considered too far by many. The people of L.A. may like their exercise, but getting from point A to B is all about the car.

I make my way to Westwood Village, enjoying the sunshine. As I glance up at the sun and soak in its rays, I can't help but think about Anton Ward and his followers. Light sensitivity is one of the many claims of most modern-day vampires, but I don't know how anyone could dislike or avoid the sun—I could certainly never embrace being a creature of the night, that's for sure. But maybe that's the Australian in me. I like my wide-open spaces and blue skies with the sun beating down on me.

I make a quick stop for a soy caramel macchiato at Starbucks, and by the time I'm at the main UCLA entrance less than ten minutes later my cup is empty. On the campus map I look up the location of Jeffrey Carrington's class, the Black Box Theater in Macgowan Hall.
Once I find it, I think maybe I should have driven—the theater is in the northwest corner of the campus and I'm standing on the southern border. Setting a fast pace, I make my way to the theater. Sloan is waiting for me at the entrance.

“Sorry I'm late.” My skin is slick with droplets of sweat.

“Just got here myself.”

“Where's Carey?”

“I kept him on the video footage. It looks we'll have all the footage to your FBI contact by the end of the day or tomorrow morning at the latest.”

“That's great.”

We make our way through the main entrance, which takes us in at the back of the small auditorium. About forty students sit in the theater seats, and standing in front of the stage is an older man. On stage, three students act out a scene, and it's soon obvious that one student is a psychiatrist and the other two are patients. One boy's doing a great job of exhibiting classic schizophrenia symptoms and the other one seems to be suffering severe depression. We watch for another minute or so before I spot Desiree in the front row.

“What's Desiree doing here?” I whisper. Yesterday Desiree was shattered by her best friend's murder but today she's come to class? Most people would need a little more time to mourn for the dead.

Sloan raises an eyebrow. “Let's take her first.”

We make our way down the center aisle to the teacher.

“Mr. Carrington?” I say.

He turns around, annoyed, and gives us a fervent “Shhh.” The students hesitate for only a moment before continuing with their piece, but the boy playing the schizophrenic only gets a few words out before Sloan interrupts again.

“LAPD, Mr. Carrington.”

He turns around again, and this time Sloan's holding her badge up in front of his face.

His body slumps, like he's lost one of his best friends. “Sherry.”

“Yes. We're investigating her murder.” Sloan introduces us both.

Now the rest of the class has their attention firmly focused on us, not the stage.

Desiree sits front and center, with another two girls on either side of her. I give her a nod and she responds with a hesitant, self-conscious smile like she doesn't want everyone to know we've already spoken.

I decide to push the matter to observe her response. “Hi, Desiree. How are you?”

She looks down, something uncharacteristic for a girl of her obvious confidence. “Okay, thanks.”

Maybe it's grief.

Now all eyes are on her and she doesn't seem comfortable with that. Maybe she's not as outgoing and confident as Mrs. Taylor thinks, or as she first appeared to me.

“The class is devastated by Sherry's death.” Carrington's hands clasp together and he brings them up under his chin.

“I can see that.” Sloan looks around at the class.

Carrington either doesn't pick up on her sarcasm or ignores it. Instead his brow wrinkles. “
I'm
devastated. Sherry…” He shakes his head and looks off into the distance. “I'm close to all my students.”

A quick glance around the room shows a few of the females looking up at Carrington with adoring eyes, including Desiree. I don't see the attraction myself, but then I'm not a college girl. And what exactly does “close” mean?

“I'm sorry for your loss,” I say politely.

He nods and the students look appropriately somber. But they are all actors…or studying to be.

I give him a small smile. “We'd like a few words with Desiree, and then you, Mr. Carrington.”

“Of course. Anything I can do to help you find Sherry's killer.” More brow wrinkling.

Maybe I'm being unjustifiably harsh.

I turn my attention back to Desiree and give her a nod. She grabs a leather satchel from the floor and presses past her friends.

“We were so looking forward to Sherry's performance today, too.” Carrington sighs. “She's always exceptional…artistry to watch.” A tear glistens in the corner of his eye.

Nope, I wasn't being harsh—the man's a piece of work. This whole thing is a performance for us, and his students. Can't wait to question him…maybe Sloan's on the money looking into Sherry's romantic involvements first and foremost. But Carrington will keep for a few minutes.

We lead Desiree up the stairs, away from prying ears. “Where can we go that's private?” I ask.

She shrugs. “There may be a classroom free. Or at this time the Murphy Sculpture Garden won't be too busy. At least for another fifteen minutes.”

“Great. Lead the way.”

We follow Desiree into the sculpture garden. While there are several groups of students who obviously don't have classes, the place is relatively deserted.

I make for a seat in dappled sunlight. “I'm surprised you're here today, Desiree.”

She sits down and bites her fingernails. “I wasn't going to come.” She catches herself out and pulls her hand down. “But I know what this class and Jeffrey meant to Sherry. She wouldn't want me to miss it.”

Who knows what the dead would want. I think I'd
want my best friend to mourn me for a little longer than a day.

“And Sherry would have wanted me to tell Jeffrey personally, and the class.”

I wonder if it's common to use professors' first names at UCLA.

“So you informed them?” Sloan takes a seat next to me.

“I told Jeffrey before the class. He took it even harder than I expected.”

“He and Sherry were close?”

“She was his favorite. She's the best in the class by far.”

“I see.” Sloan pauses. “But their relationship was only student-teacher?” She hesitates.

“Sherry's dead, Desiree.” Sloan speaks softly. “Someone murdered her and your loyalty to her now needs to be directed at catching her killer, not keeping her secrets.”

Desiree nods. “I know.” A deep breath, then: “Jeffrey's the reason Sherry broke up with Todd. Sherry was in love with him.”

So far she's only confirming Todd's story.

“Was the feeling mutual?” I ask.

“Love?” She shakes her head. “I don't think so.”

“Did they have a sexual relationship?” Sloan gets straight to the point.

Another pause. “Yes. It started about a month ago.” She bites her nails again. “I've got him into so much trouble, haven't I?”

“Sherry's not a minor, so it's not a legal problem.” Sloan unbuttons her jacket and leans back, settling in. “But I assume the college has policies about this.”

Desiree nods. “And then there's his wife, too.”

He's married. Interesting that he doesn't wear his wedding ring…at least not in classes.

“Was there anything else you were hiding from us yesterday?” I ask. Desiree may think the relationship is a revelation to us, but if Davidson and Riley are right, Desiree was not only privy to Sherry's involvement in the Goth world but also a part of it. What if they were donors?

She shakes her head, but it's not a convincing denial.

“So you and Sherry have never been to Bar Sinister?” Sloan's tone is harsh.

“Oh my gosh, how did you know? Was it one of those freaks? Is that who killed her?”

“It's too early to speculate, Desiree.” Sloan cocks her head to one side. “But you're not making our job any easier. Why didn't you tell us about this yesterday?”

“I didn't think it was relevant.”

Sloan's eyes narrow. “Why on earth not? Any re cent changes to someone's lifestyle are extremely important.”

Desiree shrugs and bites her fingernails.

In her defense, we didn't mention the bite marks, and thinking back we didn't explicitly ask her about the Goth scene. Maybe it is an innocent oversight on her part.

I rest my hand on Desiree's shoulder. “Tell us about Bar Sinister. Help us bring Sherry's killer to justice.”

Desiree puts her head in her hands for a few moments before sitting upright again. “Yes, we were at that bar once, and also Malediction Society. But we're not like them. We're not Goths.” Desiree's voice is full of disgust and prejudice. She's ashamed people will find out about her secret.

“But you were dressed as Goths?”

“Yes. The piece we were supposed to perform today…it's about two female Goths who get involved with this creepy guy who thinks he's a vampire.”

“So you and Sherry were at the club…”

“Researching. Trying to get a feel for the characters. It's part of method acting.”

I've heard about method acting—apparently it's responsible for Dustin Hoffman not showering or sleeping for two days before the climactic scene in
Marathon Man
. Could Sherry's research have cost her her life somehow?

“And what about the other student in the piece?” Sloan asks.

“Gordon. He didn't bother showing up. Decided he didn't need to check out the clubs, but Jeffrey's all about character research. We knew our performances would be way better for inside knowledge. And that Jeffrey would be impressed.”

“So the research was to please him?” Sloan's voice is pleasant and conversational again.

She shrugs. “I guess…in a way. The research was to ensure we gave the best performance possible, and that is what pleases Jeffrey. You heard him in there describing Sherry.” She jerks her head back toward the classroom. “Artistry. That's the highest compliment coming from Jeffrey.”

“I see.” Sloan moves forward, leaning her forearms on her thighs. “Did anybody else know about Sherry's affair with Professor Carrington?”

Desiree winces. “It sounds so…sordid when you put it like that.”

“Sherry was having an affair with her college professor, Desiree,” I say. “They're the facts.”

“You don't approve.”

I think about it…do I disapprove? Is Desiree over-reacting or is she picking up on a judgmental streak in me? Sherry and Carrington are adults. The only part to judge is Carrington's adultery, and that's between him and his wife.

“I don't disapprove, Desiree. My job is to find out
everything I can about a victim and everyone around them. Like I said, I'm just stating the facts. Sherry and Carrington were having a secret relationship and Carrington's married—that fits my definition of an affair.” I pause. “Did Sherry see it differently?”

Desiree snorts. “Of course. She believed they were soul mates. That it was only a matter of time before Jeffrey realized Sherry was his true love and left his wife.”

Ah, the innocence of youth. I could be wrong, could be showing my jaded, cynical side, but my bet is Sherry isn't Carrington's first.

“What about you, Desiree?” Sloan leans in closer. “Anything between you and Jeffrey Carrington?”

Desiree blushes again. “I wish.”

I nod, acknowledging her desire even though I can't see the attraction. I move on to the After Dark group. “Desiree, have you ever heard of Anton Ward, Walter Riley or Larry Davidson?”

She shakes her head.

“What about a group of vampires called After Dark?”

“No.”

I pull out pictures of the three men from the case file. Those of Riley and Davidson are mug shots from their arrest, and the photo of Ward is from the newspaper article. “Do you recognize any of these men?”

She looks at the photos and then shakes her head. “No.”

“Are you sure? These two men saw you and Sherry at Bar Sinister. They ID'd Sherry. Are you sure you don't recognize them?”

She studies them more closely. “I don't think so. But we talked to lots of people. It gave me the creeps and I just wanted to get the hell out of there, but Sherry wanted to soak up the atmosphere and get an inside take.” Desiree
shakes her head again. “Looks like she took it too far, huh?”

I'm struck by the coldness of Desiree's last comment. It's almost as if she's insinuating that Sherry deserved what she got. Desiree's hit a nerve with me, but I make sure I don't show it. The she-deserved-it attitude toward victims of sexual assault and sometimes murder works me into a frenzy.

“Did Sherry ever go to the club without you? Or meet up with Goths?”

“I don't think so. But she sure was intrigued by it. Like she thought it was sexy.”

“Do you think it's sexy?”

She shrugs. “Some of the vampire books and movies are pretty cool, but I don't want anyone to bite me.”

“And Sherry did?”

She hesitates. “She did say she'd like to know what it felt like. That maybe it would be nice.”

“How did you respond?”

“I told her she was losing her mind.”

I nod. “When was that? When did she express this interest?”

She scrunches up her face. “About a week ago I guess.”