Time of Death (6 page)

Then Eve saw him coming down the corkscrew of steps from the top level. He was dressed in black, as would be expected. His hair, black as well, rained past his shoulders, a sharp contrast to the white skin of his face. And that face had a hard and sensual beauty that compelled the eye.

He moved gracefully, a lithe black cat. As he reached the second level, a blonde rushed toward him, gripped his hand. There was a pathetic desperation about her as she leaned into him. He simply trailed his fingers down her cheek, shook his head. Then he bent to capture her mouth in a deep kiss as his hands slid under her short skirt to rub naked, exposed flesh. She clung to him afterward so that he had to set her aside, which he did by lifting her a foot off the ground in a show of careless strength.

Eve could see her mouth move, knew the woman called to him, though the music and voices drowned out the sound.

He crossed the main level, and his eyes locked with Eve’s. She felt the jolt—she could admit it. His eyes were like ink, deep and dark and hooded. As he walked to her, his lips curved in a smile that was both knowing and confident.

And in the smile she saw something that didn’t cause that quick, physical jolt, but a deep and churning physical dread.

“Good evening,” he said in a voice that carried a trace of some Eastern European accent. “I’m Dorian Vadim, and this is my place.”

Though her throat had gone dry, Eve gave him an acknowledging nod. “Lieutenant Dallas.” She drew out her badge yet again. “Detectives Peabody and McNab. And . . .”

“No introduction necessary.” There was another quality to him now, what seemed to be a prickly combination of admiration and envy. “I’m aware of Roarke, and of you, Lieutenant. Welcome to Bloodbath.”

She knew what she saw when she looked at him. She saw in those
pitch-dark eyes her greatest single fear: She saw her father.

There was no physical resemblance between the man before her and the one who had tormented and abused her for the first eight years of her life. It went, she understood, deeper than physical. Its surface was a calculated charm thinly coated over an indifferent cruelty.

Under it all was utter disregard for anything approaching the human code.

The monster that had lived in her father looked at her now out of Dorian Vadim’s eyes.

And he smiled almost as if he knew it. “It’s an honor to have you here. What can I get you to drink?”

“We’re not drinking,” Eve told him, though she would have paid any price but pride for a sip of water to cool the burning in her throat. “This isn’t a social call.”

“No, of course not. Well then, what can I do for you?”

Eve slid the photo of Tiara across the bar. Dorian lifted it, glanced at it briefly. “Tiara Kent. I heard she was killed this morning. Tragic.” He tossed it down again without another glance. “So young, so lovely.”

“She’s been in here.”

“Yes.” He affirmed without an instant’s hesitation. “A week or two ago. Twice, I believe. I greeted her myself when I was told she’d come in. Good for business.”

“How did she get the invitation?” Eve demanded.

“One may have been sent to her. A selection of the young, high-profile clubbers is sent invitations periodically. We’ve only been open a few weeks. But as you can see . . .” He turned, gestured to the crowd that screamed over the blasting music. “Business is good.”

“She came alone.”

“I believe she did, now that you mention it.” He turned back, angling just a little closer to Eve, until the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. “As I recall, she was to meet a friend, or friends. I don’t believe she did. I’d hoped she’d come back, with some of her crowd. They spend lavishly, and can make a club such as this.”

“Underground clubs aren’t made that way.”

“Things change.” He picked up the drink Allesseria had set on the bar, watching Eve over the rim as he sipped. “As do times.”

“And how much time did you spend with Kent?”

“Quite a bit on her initial visit. I gave her a tour of the place, bought her a few drinks.” He sipped again, slowly. “Danced with her.”

Her father had smelled of candy from the mints he chewed to cover the liquor. Dorian smelled of musk, yet she scented the hard sweetness of candy and whiskey. “Went home with her?”

He smiled, and when he set down his glass his knuckles lightly brushed Eve’s hand. “If you want to know if I fucked her, you’ve only to ask. I didn’t, though it was tempting. But bad for business. Wouldn’t you agree?” he said to Roarke. “Sex with clients is a tricky business.”

“It would depend on the client, and the business.” Roarke’s voice was a silky purr, a tone Eve knew was dangerous. “Other things are bad for business as well.”

As if acknowledging some unspoken warning, Dorian angled his head in a slight nod, shifted his body away from Eve’s.

“Did you tell her you were a vampire?” Eve demanded. “That you could turn her?”

Dorian slid on a stool and laughed. “Yes, to the first. It’s part of the atmosphere, as you can clearly see. The core clientele come here for the thrill, the eroticism of the cult, the thrill of possibility. Certainly part of the draw is the fear and the allure of the undead, along with the dark promise of eternal youth and power.”

“So you sell it, but you don’t buy it.”

“We’ll just say I very much enjoy my work.”

“Tiara Kent was exsanguinated, through a two-pronged wound through the carotid artery.”

He lifted one arched black brow. “Really? Fascinating. Do you believe in vampires, Lieutenant Dallas? In those who prey on the human, and thirst for their blood?”

“I believe in the susceptible, in the foolish, and in those who exploit them. She was drugged first.” Eve took a careless glance around and hated,
hated
that her chest felt tight. “I wonder how many illegals I’d net if I ordered a sweep of this place?”

“I couldn’t say. We both know such things aren’t as . . . regulated underground.” He stared deeply into her eyes. “Just as we both know that’s not what you’re here for.”

“One leads to another. Her killer left his DNA behind.”

“Ah, well. We can, at least, settle that one particular element.” Watching her still, he rolled up his sleeve. “Allesseria, I’ll need a syringe with a vial. Unopened.”

“You keep needles behind the bar?” Eve snapped out.

“Part of the show. We serve several drinks that contain a dram or two of pig’s blood, and it’s added with a syringe for flourish.” He took the needle from the bartender. “Should you do the honors,” he asked Eve, “or I?”

“A swab of your spit would be easier.”

“But not nearly as interesting.” He pumped his fist until a vein rose, then slid the needle neatly—expertly, Eve thought—into it. Depressed the plunger. “Allesseria, you’ll witness I’m providing the lieutenant with my blood voluntarily.”

When the bartender didn’t speak, Dorian turned his head toward her slowly, stared.

“Yes. Yes, I will.”

“That should be enough.” He flashed a hard smile at Eve, then removed the needle, capped off the vial. “Thank you, Allesseria.” Flipping the syringe agilely, he held it out, plunger first. “Dispose of that properly,” he ordered, then handed the vial to Eve. “You’ll mark and seal that in our presence?”

As she did, Dorian swiped his fingertip over the drop of blood on the tiny puncture in his flesh, then laid it on his tongue. “Is there anything else?”

“Did you see Miss Kent with anyone in particular, see her leaving with anyone?”

“I can’t say I did. I believe she danced with any number of people. Feel free to ask any of the staff, and I’ll be happy to ask myself.”

“You do that. We’ll need an address, Mr. Vadim.”

“Dorian, please. I’m known as Dorian. I can be reached here. I’m living upstairs at the moment. Let me give you a card.” He waved his fingers, flicked them, and a glossy black card appeared between the index and middle finger. As he passed it to Eve, his fingers brushed down her palm, lingered for just an instant too long. Then he smiled. “I tend to sleep days.”

“I bet. One more thing. Can you verify your whereabouts from midnight to three this morning?”

“I would have been here. As I said, I’m most often here.”

“Anybody vouch for that?”

His lips quirked again, in a kind of smug amusement that put her back up. “I imagine so. You might ask any of the staff or the regulars. Allesseria?” He turned his black gaze from Eve’s face to the bartender. “You were on last night. Didn’t we speak some time after midnight?”

“I was on until two.” Allesseria kept her eyes locked on Dorian’s. “You were, ah, working the floor before I left, came by the bar for a spring water just before I clocked out. At two.”

“There you are. Lieutenant, it’s been a pleasure.” He took her hand, held it firmly. “But I really need to get back to work. Roarke. I hope you’ll both come back, for the entertainment.”

Through the fog that shimmered and curled, he glided off again, easing his way through the crowd. Eve shifted her body, stared hard at the bartender. “You want to tell me why you lied for him?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Busily now, Allesseria wiped the bar.

“You don’t see a woman whose face is all over the screen and mags, and she comes in at least twice, hangs with your boss. You don’t make her.” Some of the anger she felt for herself snapped out in her voice. “But you remember Dorian got a spring water at two in the morning.”

“That’s right.”

“I need your full name.”

“You’re going to cost me my job if you don’t back off.”

“Full name,” Eve repeated.

“Allesseria Carter. If you have any more questions, I’m calling a lawyer.”

“That’ll do it for now. You
remember
anything, get in touch.” Eve laid one of her cards on the bar before she stepped away. “If that wasn’t Kent’s Prince of frigging Darkness pigs are currently dive-bombing Fifth Avenue.”

“Blood will tell,” Roarke said quietly.

“Bet your fine ass.”

Once they were out on the street, Peabody’s sigh was long and heartfelt. “Man. Creepshow—even if the Lord of the Undead is intensely sexy.”

“Looked like another freak to me,” McNab muttered.

“You’re a guy who likes women. If you were a woman who liked men, we’d still be rolling your tongue back into your mouth. He completely smoked, right, Dallas?”

Women had found her father attractive, Eve thought. No matter what he’d done to them.

“I’m sure Tiara Kent thought the same even as he was draining the life out of her. I’m going to call a black-and-white for you. I want you to take the blood sample directly to the lab, wait while it’s logged in.”

“Got it.” Peabody took the sample, stowed it in her bag.

“I’ll run our host, and the bartender. This isn’t his first time around the block—and she was lying about seeing him this morning. Lab comes through quickly enough, we’ll be giving Vadim a very unpleasant wake-up call.”

They separated, and as she walked Eve gave Roarke a quick hip bump. Now that she was on the street, away from Vadim, away from those pulsing lights, she felt herself again. “You’re quiet.”

“Contemplating. He was scoping you, you know. Subtle but quite deliberate.” When she started to jam her hands into her pockets, Roarke took one, brought it casually to his lips. “He wanted to see your reaction—and mine.”

“Must be disappointed we didn’t give him one. Or much of one on your part.”

“More puzzled, I’d think.”

“Okay, why didn’t you slap him back?”

“It was tempting, but more satisfying to let him wonder. In any case, he’s not your type.”

She snorted. “Nah. I don’t go for the tall, dark, gorgeous types who exude sexuality like breath.”

“You don’t go for sociopaths.”

She glanced up at him. He’d seen it, too, she realized. He’d seen at least that much, too. “You got that right.”

“Besides, I’m taller.”

Now she laughed, and because really, what did it hurt, she turned as she climbed the platform to the car, feigned judging his height as she laid her hands on his shoulders. She pressed her lips to his, warm, ripe, real, then eased back. “Yeah, I’d say you’re exactly tall enough to fit my requirements. You drive, ace. I want to start the runs on the way home.”

She used her PPC, and though it was limited to a miniscreen, Dorian Vadim’s ID photo still had punch. His hair had been shorter when it was taken, but it still brushed past his shoulders. It listed his age at thirty-eight, his birthplace as Budapest, where according to his data, he still had a mother.

It also listed a very impressive sheet.

“Grifting’s a specialty of our suave Mister V,” Eve related. “Lotsa pops there, starting with a juvie record that was never sealed. Bounced around Europe and came to the States, it seems, in his early twenties. Arrests for smuggling—no convictions on that. Illegals, some pops, some questioned and released. Worked as an entertainer—mesmerist and magician. Hmmm. A lot of dropped charges, heavy on the female vics. Was questioned about the disappearance of two women he reputedly bilked. Not enough evidence to arrest, and no DNA in his records.

“Slithered through the system like a snake,” she muttered. “No violence on record, but wits recant or poof with regularity.” She frowned over at Roarke. “You buy into that mesmo stuff?”

“Hypnotism is a proven art, you know Mira uses it in therapy.”

“Yeah, but mostly I think it’s bull.” Still, she remembered the odd sensation she’d felt when Dorian had stared into her eyes. Her problem, she told herself. Her personal demons.

“Anyway, the man’s bad news. And he’s got a pattern of victimizing women, wealthy ones particularly.”

She did a quick run on the bartender and found no criminal on Allesseria. “Bartender’s clean. Divorced, with a kid just turning three.” Eve pursed her lips as Roarke drove through the open gates toward home. “I get her in the box, even alone at her own place, I can break her. She’s lying about seeing Dorian. I could snap her statement in five minutes without him around. He scares her.”