The Spinoza Trilogy (9 page)

She said it so matter-of-factly that my next question died in my mouth. I was left stumbling over words until I finally said, “So how many of them are out there?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, but I don’t think many. The ones who are really old and smart rarely kill anymore. They find other ways to get blood.”

“
So, um, how many have you killed?”

“
Just three. Storm would have been the fourth.”

“
And he’s the one who killed your parents.”

“
I hated him for so long.” She paused, composed herself. “I spent the past three years hunting him.”

“
How did you find him?”

“
I’m a hell of a detective,” she said.

“
Maybe you could work for me someday.”

“
Maybe,” she said. “Anyway, if you meet the right people and make the right friends, yeah, there’s a whole scene out there.”

“
Scene?”

“
Vampire scene.”

“
Of course.”

She leveled her stare at me. Her eyes, I saw, were lightly bloodshot. “But you took care of him for me.”

“Spinoza the Vampire Slayer,” I said. “So he’s really dead?”

“
Of course, you saw him turn to dust. That’s what happens to them when they die.”

I nodded. “Of course. Silly of me to ask.”

Veronica’s neck was surprisingly healed. Just a big red blemish. She saw me looking at her neck. Now she reached up and touched it self-consciously.

“
It’s hideous,” she said.

“
It’s not that bad,” I lied.

“
You’re a bad liar. The doctors tell me that it’s healing surprisingly fast.”

“
Ah, youth,” I said.

“
Sure. Youth.” She smiled again and stood. She reached out a pale hand across my desk. “I just wanted to thank you, Mr. Spinoza, for saving my life. I wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for you, and a monster would still be out there killing innocent people.”

“
All in a day’s work,” I said, and shook her shockingly cold hand. I nearly winced at her icy flesh.

She saw my reaction and released my hand. “They’re always cold now, since the attack.”

“I, um, hadn’t noticed.”

“
You’re a bad liar, Mr. Spinoza.”

I told her to call me if she ever needed any help or needed a job, and she assured me she would. At the door, she looked back at me and seemed about to say something, but decided not to.

As she turned to leave, I saw a fresh tattoo above her low-riding jeans. It was a tattoo of a black dragon.

I sat back in my chair and put my feet up on my desk and laced my hands behind my head, certain that I had just seen my second vampire.

The End

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THE VAMPIRE

WHO PLAYED DEAD

Spinoza Series #2

Copyright © 2011 by J.R. Rain

All rights reserved.

Dedication

To the memory of Robert B. Parker.

Acknowledgments

Thanks again to Sandy Johnston and Elaine Babich.

The Vampire Who Played Dead

Chapter One

I was sitting in my vinyl swivel chair.

The chair had no armrests. It had come with the office, along with the broken particle board desk, missing one corner and warped as hell. Someday I would find myself a swivel chair with armrests. And a desk that didn’t rock every time I leaned an elbow on it.

Someday.

To my left, sitting on a stainless steel counter next to a stainless steel sink, the compact coffee maker made surprisingly human-like gurgling noises, although I couldn’t remember the last time I heard a human gurgle. On my desk was a greasy white Winchell’s bag, bulging nicely with its contents.

The day was young and full of hope. That is, for anyone other than me. For me, it was just another day filled with regret, pain, and eternal guilt.

The donuts helped with some of that.

And when the coffee was done, I stood up and went over to the coffee maker and filled a metal thermos, then returned to my armless vinyl swivel chair. I sipped the brew and watched the steam march up to the ceiling, voicing my pleasure with a resounding, “Ahh.”

The wind slapped rain against the window, beating a pleasant staccato. I swiveled in my chair, maximizing its full potential, and watched the rain drool down the massive pane, beyond which a low vault of swollen purple clouds meant business.

Memories of my son playing with plastic boats in the gutters came rushing back to me, and I let the tears flow freely, unable to stop them, not wanting to stop them.

Minutes later, I came back to the present and reached over to the donut bag. I had just selected a pink sprinkle when the phone rang.

I glanced at my watch: 7:22 a.m. Early for a client.

I lifted the receiver and held it against my ear and waited. I took a bite of the donut, as sprinkles cascaded down my short front like pink rain.

In the earpiece, there was some white noise, then a shuffling sound, followed by a long scraping. I took another bite of the donut, then cradled the phone between my ear and shoulder like a pro and took a sip from the thermos. There was now some shallow breathing. Very faint. Then it came faster. Now we were getting somewhere.

The rain paused briefly. Outside, the storm clouds were the color of brain matter. I next dug into the bag and produced a hefty buttermilk that made me feel good just looking at it. The rain returned, doubling its efforts, pounding the windowpane. Somewhere on the distant horizon, sheet lightning flashed. Thunder galloped overhead.

“
A sad tale’s best for winter,” I said into the phone.

“
What?”

A young man’s voice. Maybe fifteen or sixteen. Old enough to find me in the Yellow Pages, but not old enough to find the courage to speak.

“Shakespeare,” I said. “When in doubt, quote Shakespeare. Chicks dig it.”

“
Really?”

“
Probably not, but you never know.”

Actually that was a trick of mine to help me overcome my own shyness, which had plagued me all my life. Quoting other people was far easier than making stuff up as you go.

The young man continued saying nothing, but I could hear him breathing. The breathing, I noticed, was coming faster and faster.

Don’t hyperventilate on me, broheim.

I’m a patient man. In my business, you have to be patient. I also knew that it’s not easy for people to come to other people for help. Especially young people.

While I waited, I ate. The buttermilk was greasy, but that didn’t stop me. I sat forward in my chair and listened into the phone and listened to the rain, and wondered who this young man was, but instinctively knowing that I should wait. That he should make the first move.

“Are you Spinoza?” he finally asked. There was a slight squeak to his voice. Fourteen, maybe?

“
As ever there was.”

“
What does that mean?”

“
It means yes.”

“
Oh.”

More silence. Rain slanted diagonally across my window.
Who has seen the wind,
I thought,
neither you nor I.

“
Do you find people?” he asked.

“
Yes,” I said.

“
How much do you, um, charge to find someone?”

I set the donut aside and leaned forward on my elbows.

“Two tacos,” I said.

“
Two what?”

“
Two tacos and maybe a burrito.”

He actually laughed. The sound was muffled, as if he were talking in a closet, or under covers. I figured maybe both. More likely a bathroom, though.

“My mom was killed,” he said.

“
I’m sorry to hear that.”

“
She was killed two years ago.”

“
I’m sorry,” I said again.

“
Why do you keep saying that?”

“
Because no boy should be without his mother.”

There was a pause and I heard a choking sound on the other end. He muffled the phone so that I couldn’t hear him cry but he didn’t do a very good job of it and I heard the deep sobs and the pain and the immense heartache. As he wept I thought of my boy, but I did not cry. I would not cry with the young man on the phone. Alone, yes. But not now.

I waited for him to get hold of himself and when he finally did, I asked him if there was anything I could do to help him. He sniffled some more, and told me his tale.

And what a tale it was.

Chapter Two

I was at Astro’s Burgers in Silver Lake. I had just sat down and ordered an orange juice when Detective Hammer, my cop friend, stepped into the restaurant. He spotted me and came over.

“
You’re late,” I said as Hammer sat.

“
I’m a homicide detective with the Los Angeles Police Department. You’re lucky I even give you the time of day.”

“
Private eyes are people, too,” I said.

“
Yeah, but they ain’t real cops.” He waved the waitress over and put in his order. A milkshake, fries and double cheeseburger.

“
Should I call 911 now?” I asked.

“
You better hope I don’t keel over; otherwise, you would be minus your only cop friend in Los Angeles.”

“
I can always make another cop friend.”

Hammer snorted. “Not you, pal. You can barely look a waitress in the eye.”

“I’m shy. You know that.”

“
I thought only teen girls were shy.”

“
Think again.”

Our drinks came, although I was using the word “drink” loosely in his case. The milkshake might as well have been ice cream. In fact, Hammer quickly ditched the straw and used his spoon.

He said, between slurps, “So how did you hear about the Evelyn case?”

“
Her son hired me to find her.”

Hammer choked on his milk shake. I could have been wrong, but I think some of it even came out of his nostrils. He covered his face and coughed some more and I handed him a napkin.

“He does realize his mother is dead, right?”

“
Yes,” I said. “He also understands that her body is missing.”

“
He hired you to find a corpse?”

“
Somebody has to.”

Hammer continued shoveling in his shake. Some of it got into his cop mustache, where it was quickly absorbed. I wondered what else had been absorbed into his mustache.

“Yeah,” said Hammer. “I suppose someone’s got to.” He shook his head. “My first grave robbing case. I mean, have you ever heard of such a thing?”

“
Not since Frankenstein.”

Hammer shook his head. “What the hell would anyone do with it?” He turned green and actually set aside his shake. “On second thought, I don’t want to know.”

“Who worked the initial homicide?”

“
Yours truly.”

“
Full circle,” I said.

“
Yeah. First we catch the killer—the husband, always the husband—and now I have to run down the fucking body. What are the chances?”

“
Slim to none,” I said. “Where’s the husband now?”

“
In San Quentin. Death Row.”

“
Tell me about it,” I said.

“
The usual story. An abusive bastard. Beat her up often. One day he doesn’t stop punching and brings a knife into play. A fucking butter knife that he kept near his bed.”

“
Premeditative?”

“
Yup. Stabbed her seventy-two times.”

Now I nearly choked on my orange juice. “Jesus.”

“Bloodiest crime scene I’ve ever seen.”