Vamparazzi (22 page)

“Who?”

“I've really been looking forward to telling you this . . .”

“Well?”

“It's Daemon's own blood.”

“You're kidding!”

“No, I couldn't make up something this good.”

“He extracts and bottles his own blood?” I said incredulously.

“And then pretends he got it from sexual partners in, er, unconventional practices.”

“I wish I could see your face right now,” he said.

“It's contorted with amazement.”

“Apparently he's been doing this for years.” Lopez was laughing as he said, “Daemon increased his, uh, production of snack food in preparation for having Tarr living in his pocket. He evidently thought that sheer quantity would convince the
Exposé
that his act is for real. Or something.”

“Maybe that's why he looks so pale.” I had thought the actor had naturally dramatic coloring, but perhaps he instead had an iron deficiency due to frequent phlebotomy. “What do you call blood play if you only do it with yourself?”

“I don't know. I'm wondering if it can make you go blind or grow hair on your palms.”

“So, with women, Daemon just, uh, does standard stuff?”

“I'm not sure anyone had a strong enough stomach to ask him for specifics about that. But whatever else he may or may not do, he doesn't drink any blood other than his own.” Laughing again, Lopez added, “And he only drinks his own when he can't get away with substituting Nocturne.”

“Talk about dedication to building an image,” I said in amazement. “He couldn't just study acting and audition for roles, like the rest of us?”

“Hey, his masquerade got him a nice loft in Soho, a chauffeur-driven limo, some starring roles, and lots of tail.”

“Well, when you put it that way ... I wonder what sort of exotic, commercially viable creature
I
could pass myself off as?”

“I think you're an exotic, commercially viable creature just the way you are.”

I cradled the phone against me ear and smiled. “Thank you.”

“What I've just told you is confidential, by the way.”

“Yeah, I guess
so,
considering how much trouble Daemon went to in order to convince the world that he habitually drinks blood and has ‘vampire sex.' ”

“And what you and I talked about last night still goes,” Lopez said seriously. “Stay away from him.”

“But you don't think he's the murderer,” I argued.

“No, but that's my
opinion,
not an established fact. And a bunch of homicide cops
do
still think he's the killer.”

“What do they—”

“Daemon says he went to bed alone after Angeline left, and he didn't see or speak to anyone until his personal assistant showed up around noon. That's at least eight hours without an alibi. So the cops will be looking for proof that he's lying and that he
wasn't
innocently at home in bed for the rest of the night.”

“Instead of doing that, they should be looking for the real killer,” I said.

“They're doing
both
.” Lopez sounded a little cranky. “Even if the investigating officers
weren't
a little too in love with their current theory, they'd have an obligation to follow up on a suspect's statement—especially a suspect who doesn't have an alibi for the estimated time of the crime. That's part of a cop's
job,
Esther. Because, shocking as this may sound, suspects lie to the police. All of the time.”

“Ah. I see your point.”

“In that case, I should mark this date on my calendar,” he grumbled. “Sunday, November third, the day you saw my point about something.”

“I don't think you got enough sleep last night,” I said.

“Until the cops on the case are absolutely sure about Daemon,” he said firmly, “I want you to view him as dangerous and treat him with sensible caution.”

I wondered how much higher ticket prices would go when the tabloids, fans, and scalpers all realized that Daemon, having been released without being arrested, was still under intense police scrutiny.

“And, as you may remember,” Lopez continued,“I didn't get enough sleep last night because of a different theory. One which is, if anything, even more plausible today: The killer may be someone obsessed enough with Daemon to kill a woman who seems to be the object of his interest.”

Nearly being smothered beneath a pile of lust-crazed Janes ensured that I was taking that theory very seriously, too.

“That's another good point,” I said encouragingly. “You're doing very well.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Note how I am taking the high road and ignoring your tone.”

“Uh-huh.”

Thinking of last night's attack made me realize that if I was going to do a show today, I should probably assess the damage to my appearance. Carrying my coffee cup, I went into my bathroom while I listened to Lopez reiterate the safety rules he wanted me to follow until the killer was in custody.

As soon as I saw my reflection in the mirror above my sink, I sucked in my breath on a horrified gasp.

“What's wrong? Esther!”

Hearing the sudden alarm in his voice, I realized just how worried about my safety he really was. I said quickly, “Sorry. I'm fine. It's nothing. Well . . .” I grimaced. “Not
nothing
. I just looked at myself in the mirror.”

“Oh.” His sigh of relief was clearly audible over the phone. “Did you grow fangs overnight or something?”

“It's going to take a lot of effort for me to look presentable enough to do a show today.”

My black eye—Angeline's legacy to me—felt better today, but it
looked
much worse, an ugly blossom of black, purple, and sickly yellow. There was a swath of stinging mottled red across my cheek, an abrasion made by someone shoving my face into the pavement last night. My complexion was ghastly pale with fatigue, and there were dark circles under my eyes.

“How's your neck?” Lopez asked.

I pushed aside my sleep-snarled hair and took a good look in the mirror. “I think there's an old
Star Trek
episode where people on an alien planet are dying of mysterious welts that look just like this one.”

“Let's pause a moment to enjoy the fact that the guy who did that to you has just spent
hours
being questioned by over-tired cops who think he's a murderer.”

Leaning closer to the mirror, I used my fingertips to gingerly explore the inflamed flesh, which was various shades of pink and blue, speckled with angry little puce dots. I said in appalled wonder, “You know, if he did have fangs, like a real vampire, this would be a serious wound. I'd probably be in the hospital now.”

“A real vampire?” Lopez repeated.

“You know what I mean.”

“No. I don't. And we'll have to leave it that way, since I need to go to work now.” He ended the call by saying vaguely that he'd be in touch again, then he hung up.

I held the phone against my chest for a moment, filled with mixed emotions. Then I went back into the bedroom, put the receiver into its cradle, and pulled my cell phone out of my tote bag to check for messages.

As expected, Bill had recently sent a text message notifying everyone that the show would go on and advising us to be at the theater at the usual time for a Sunday performance.
The Vampyre
bowed to tradition in that respect, keeping early hours this one day of the week. Our 5:00 P.M. start, though later than most other matinees, ensured that there were still plenty of restaurants serving dinner and trains running to the suburbs when our Sunday performance ended.

Bill had sent an additional text message to me. It said that Fiona wanted to speak to me about a stain on my costume. I deleted the message and wondered how good my chances were of avoiding the wardrobe mistress completely again today.

I took off my nightgown and put on my terrycloth robe, intending to go take a shower, when the land line rang again. My caller was Thack.

“I've read the news,” he said. “So I wasn't sure whether I would still have to—er, would still be able to see
The Vampyre
today.”

I explained the latest development and assured him the curtain would indeed rise.

He prodded, “So Daemon Ravel has been questioned by the police in connection with
murder?
”

“Yes.” I assumed that most of the facts (as well as plenty of fabrications) were all over the Internet by now. So I said candidly, “The cops questioned everyone at the theater, but they were particularly interested in Daemon. They seemed to consider him a suspect.”

However, my candor stopped short of telling Thack that
I
was both a peripheral suspect and a potential target in this case. My agent was prone to overreaction, and I saw no productive purpose in mentioning those looming clouds to the man whose job it was to think optimistically about my future.

“Well, I certainly hope all those groupies whose adulation keeps Daemon Ravel employed are paying attention.
This
is what happens when you go around posing as a vampire,” Thack said censoriously. “Pretending to be an undead creature of the night. Wearing fangs and capes. Claiming to suck blood from the necks of virgins and—”

“I don't think virgins are a key element in Daemon's schtick.”

“
Nothing
good comes of playing with these appalling stereotypes. And I hope this will be a lesson to Mr. Ravel.”

“I don't know, Thack.” I thought of Lopez's recent enumeration of the professional and personal benefits Daemon enjoyed as a result of his masquerade. “He may view a scandal like this as just the cost of doing business.”

“When the music stops, the band has to be paid, Esther. The only respectable thing Daemon Ravel can do, now that he's involved in a murder, is express public contrition over his revoltingly clichéd behavior and retire into quiet obscurity.” Perhaps remembering then that our show still had two weeks left to run, he added, “Er, after
The Vampyre
closes, of course.”

“Of course.” Since it was clear that Thack could easily be pushed over the edge into a lengthy rampage, I also decided not to mention that I'd been physically attacked by some of Daemon's fans—including the murder victim. “I have to go, Thack. I'll see you backstage after the show?”

“Yes. And if I have any appetite left after sitting through this play, I'll take you to dinner.”

As soon as I hung up, I realized that I had forgotten to reserve Daemon's VIP seats for tonight, so I called the box office and did it now.

“Yes, Daemon and I discussed it, and Victor was going to phone you to authorize it,” I lied cheerfully to the staffer who took my call. “You're saying Victor hasn't called? Really? Hmm. Do you think that his employer being questioned by the police on suspicion of murder could be why he forgot?”

I got the seats.

Next, I called Leischneudel.

At my request, he and the cops who'd driven us home before dawn had searched my apartment when they dropped me off. Though exhausted, I was following through on my promise to Lopez to take safety precautions. And given that I had just received news of the murder
and
been attacked outside the stage door, the cops seemed to consider my anxiety normal and my request reasonable. Leischneudel had offered to spend the night here, but I declined. I felt a little guilty about sending him home alone, knowing that Mary Ann wasn't visiting him this weekend and Mimi was at the vet's; and I sincerely appreciated his heroic struggle to protect me from the maddened Janes. But he was so overwrought with nerves and tension, he was making
me
jumpy, and I just felt too wrung out by then to cope with him bouncing off the walls of my apartment for the next few hours.

“Did you get any sleep after you got home?” I asked him now.

“Not really.” His voice sounded a little raspy over the phone, which was unusual for him and obviously a sign of his fatigue. “I was too wired, after everything. So I finally gave up, got out of bed, and called Mary Ann. Luckily, I caught her before she went to the library this morning. She's working on a backbreaking research paper.”

His almost-fiancée was a graduate student, on a full scholarship, with a 4.0 GPA. Leischneudel was very proud of her.

“Is that why she hasn't visited lately?” I asked. “Too much work?” Leischneudel had mentioned that Mary Ann had a heavy course load this semester.

“Yes. I haven't seen her in three weeks. We talk almost every day, of course, but it's not the same thing.” He sighed. “It was going to be hard for her to get away this weekend, because of this paper she's working on. And I knew we'd be doing additional performances here for Halloween weekend, so I wouldn't be able to spend much time with her, anyhow . . .” He made a rueful sound. “The way this weekend has turned out, I can't decide if I'm glad for her sake that she stayed home, or sorry for my sake that she's not here with me.”

“I know the feeling,” I said morosely.

“Anyhow, I'm glad I called her. Because, of course, when I told her everything that's happened, Mary Ann knew exactly what I should do.”

“Oh?”

“Bring Mimi home!”

I smiled. “Of course.”

“So I went and picked her up a little while ago.”

“How is she?”

“She's a lot . . .” He cleared his throat, and his voice started to sound more normal as he continued, “A lot better today. But temperamental about taking the medication they sent home with us.”