Vampire Games (10 page)

“
A helluva shot. Or punch. Jacky’s been talking about you.”

“
Jacky exaggerates.”

Romero shook his head. I think—
think
—his cauliflower ears might have wobbled a little. “Actually, no,
señorita
. I would say Jacky is not known to exaggerate. If he says a boxer is damn good, the boxer is damn good.”

“
I’m not a boxer,” I said.

Romero raised his eyebrows. “Maybe not, but you can punch.”

“
I’m not looking for a trainer,” I said. “I’m here about your brother.”

That snapped him out of whatever reverie he was in. “My brother?”

I nodded. “I’m looking for answers, Romero.”

He didn’t want to let go of what he’d just seen outside the office—in his own gym, no less—something that defied logic and common sense. He finally looked at me, and he finally showed me his real self. Maybe my little display had broken through his machismo and affected him on a deeper level. I didn’t know. But there was a change in him. His walls were coming down and as he looked at me, simply staring at me with an intensity I’d only seen a few times in my life—and perhaps only from Kingsley’s hauntingly amber eyes—Romero broke down.

And he broke down hard.

He covered his face with his hand and wept into it, shuddering, his shoulder muscles and triceps rippling. I watched the tears appear through his fingers and cascade down over his knuckles, and watched as his aura rippled with hues of blues and greens.

After a few minutes of this, he rubbed his face with the backs of his hands. “I’m not sure what came over me.”

“
It’s natural,” I said. “And perfectly okay.”

“
It’s not natural for me.” He wiped his eyes some more. “I miss him so much, Ms. Moon.”

“
I understand.”

“
He should not be dead.” Romero shook his head, rubbed his arms. “Caesar rarely absorbed punishment. He was good. Damn good. He was the one handing out the beatings. And when he wasn’t punching, he was ducking and weaving.”

“
Tell me about the fight.”

“
The fight was no different than the rest. Russell Baker’s good, but not that good. He must have landed a lucky shot or two, enough to do damage. Hard to say.”

“
Is it your professional opinion that your brother was hit hard enough to be killed?”

“
From what I saw? No. From what I know about boxing? Anything can happen.”

“
Who’s allowed in the locker room before a fight?”

He shrugged. “I guess anyone the fighter allows.”

“
And who did your brother allow?”

“
Myself, my older brother, Eduardo, his manager, his girlfriend, and his promoter.”

“
That’s a lot of people.”

“
Not really. Mostly Caesar was with me and Eduardo, discussing strategy, last-minute thoughts, and trying to calm him down. He is always so excited before a fight.”

“
But you were Caesar’s official trainer, correct?”

“
Yes. But that didn’t stop my other brothers from coming in and giving us their two cents worth.”

He chuckled. I chuckled. I said, “Was there ever a problem having that many people in the locker room before a fight?”

“
Rarely. Call it controlled mayhem.”

“
Tell me about the locker room on the night in question. Did anything happen that stands out? Anything unusual? Out of the norm?”

He was shaking his head and thinking hard, now running his fingers through his thick, black hair. I noticed some magazines near his computer keyboard. No, not magazines. Travel guides to the Bahamas. “No, sorry. Nothing that stands out.”

“
You said his girlfriend was in the locker room that night.”

“
Yes.”

“
What was his relationship like with his girlfriend?”

Romero shrugged. “Normal, I suppose.”

“
Define normal.”

“
They mostly got along.”

“
Mostly?”

He shrugged again. “They fought like anyone, I guess.”

“
They fight physically?”

Romero paused and cocked his head a little, giving me a better view of his cauliflower ear. I tried not to make a face. “I’m not sure what you’re suggesting, Ms. Moon, but I can assure you that he did not have any altercations with his girlfriend before the fight. I was with him the entire time.”

“
Did your brother mention if he’d been fighting with his girlfriend earlier? Say at the hotel room?”

Romero looked away and shrugged. “He mentioned a small fight. Nothing big. But they had made up by the time of the fight.”

“
Prior to the Vegas fight, when was Caesar’s last fight?”

Romero looked up, thinking. “Four months ago.”

“
So three months before his death?”

“
Yes.”

“
How rigorous are his sparring sessions?”

“
Rigorous?”

“
Yes. Could he have suffered any punishment during practice?”

“
We use headgear, Ms. Moon. We go light. Not too heavy. We break up anything that gets too physical.”

“
Is it your expert opinion that Caesar could not have suffered any real injury in his practices leading up to his last fight?”

“
None.”

“
And he didn’t have a history of brain trauma?”

“
None. He was just a kid and a damn good fighter. Damn good. He could have been the best.”

I nodded, and wondered why I was feeling like I wasn’t getting the whole story. Romero was fighting back tears. Caesar was dead, and there was only one obvious lead. I said, “Can I have his girlfriend’s information?”

Chapter Twenty-three

I somehow found a parking spot on the street near Allison Lopez’s Beverly Hills apartment. By
near
, I meant three blocks away, all of which I hoofed under the last rays of the setting sun.

Normally I would have been sprinting...and my skin would have been burning and blistering. Even in the setting sun.

But now, all I felt was mildly uncomfortable. No sprinting needed. If anything, I felt like I was coming down with a cold. Or a feeling of weakness. Mild apprehension.

And so, I moved along the tree-lined sidewalk with as much energy as I could muster, knowing that in about twenty minutes, I would have all the energy in the world.

Just twenty more minutes.

I moved between opulent apartments and condo skyrises, some many dozens of stories high, and all boasting glass and steel and smooth plaster. All reflecting the setting sun. Some had limousines parked out front, waiting with doors open, chauffeurs standing ready. I saw no fewer than three Paris Hilton look-alikes, all texting while their dogs squatted on narrow strips of grass out front. The dogs each looked up at me in unison as I passed, baring their little white teeth. One of them even leaped at me, nearly causing its owner to drop her phone.

Whew!

Dogs didn’t like me, which was annoying, since I was a dog lover. But I was especially a wolf lover. Except that thought, of course, depressed me instantly, so I let it go.

At Allison’s apartment—one of the bigger and more opulent ones, no less—I followed the instructions as given to me by her during our brief phone conversation just a few minutes earlier.

I pressed the pound button on the caller box but nothing happened. I pressed it again. Nothing. No response. There was no sign that the damned thing was even working. Frustrated, I dialed Allison’s cell number; it was busy. Unlike New York apartments, few L.A. apartments have doormen. This one didn’t. The plush lobby, just beyond the glass entryway, was empty.

I stood there, frustrated.

I looked around. One of the Paris Hilton look-alikes was still texting, even though her dog had finished piddling minutes ago. I looked over another shoulder. No one.

I looked back at the locked glass door. There was no doorknob, just a handle. A heavy deadbolt fastened the door to a thick metal frame. No doubt, everyone within the building felt safe and secure in their posh apartments, as well they should. This bolt was serious business, released only by the occupants within. The sign above the handle said “Pull.”

Two things happened simultaneously. The first was that the sun had finally set. I knew this because I suddenly felt more alive than I ever had before, which is saying something. The second was that the deadbolt tore through the metal door frame, ripping sideways through the metal.

The sound was god-awful loud. I looked casually back to the Paris look-alike. She was still texting, oblivious to life beyond her smart phone screen. I did, however, have the full attention of her little dog.

I wiped the handle clean of my prints, stepped through the doorway, waved to the security camera, and headed over to the elevators, knowing full well that I wasn’t wearing enough makeup to even show up on camera.

Sometimes it was good to be me.

Chapter Twenty-four

Allison answered her door with her own cell phone pressed against her. She waved me in without a thought. I wondered if she was aware that she hadn’t actually buzzed me in.

The apartment was smaller than I had expected, but the monthly rent was undoubtedly quadruple my own mortgage. The door opened into a small hallway that led first to a smallish kitchen. Shoe boxes were piled on the counter and spilled over onto some stools, as well. The shoe boxes were printed with Jimmy Choo and Manolo and Valentino, words that were foreign to a single, working mother who lived in the suburbs.

I continued following Allison into a smallish living room, where she motioned offhandedly for me to sit on an oversized couch. I was just figuring out how to offhandedly sit, when I saw something I probably shouldn’t have seen.

A fresh cut along the inside of her finger.

Normally, the sight of blood does little for me. Yes, I drink blood. Yes, it nourishes this strange body of mine. But that’s about the extent of it. I have a supply of the stuff at home. It was not generally a big deal to see blood.

Until now.

Now, the sight of her bloody finger did something to me that concerned me greatly. It stirred a hunger in me. Real hunger. My stomach growled and my mouth watered and I hated myself all over again. I forced myself to look away, gritting my teeth and grinding my jaw. I looked down at my own pale hands and was surprised to see I had balled them into fists. Purple veins crisscrossed just below the surface of my skin.

A bleeding finger should not arouse a hunger. A bleeding finger should not arouse a
need
. It was just a wound.

Unless, of course, you were a fiend.

My stomach growled and roiled. It seemed to turn in on itself. Jesus, my sudden hunger was unbearable, unrelenting.

“
Jesus,” I whispered, still looking down at my clenched fists.

“
Are you okay?” asked Allison. She was standing nearby. I could hear her sucking on her finger now.

My stomach nearly did a somersault.

Jesus.

I looked up, despite knowing that doing so might be a mistake. It was. Allison was still alternately sucking her finger and looking at the wound—and wincing. I didn’t wince. I stared. No doubt hungrily.

It’s just a wound,
a voice in my head said. The voice, I knew, was the last vestiges of my humanity.
Just a wound. An injured finger. Nothing more, nothing less.

Except I knew that it was more. So much more. The wound, and the resultant blood, represented so much. It represented complete satiation. Unlimited life. Unlimited strength. Complete and utter superiority.

I blinked. Hard.

Since when did superiority matter to me? Since when did I ever care to be better than others, or control them?

I didn’t know, but that train of thought alarmed me more than my hunger. That train of thought was dangerous. Violent. Scary as shit.

“
Oh, does blood make you queasy?” asked Allison.

I blinked and might have nodded.

She went on, moving her hand out of my line of sight. I tracked her finger closely, the way a cheetah might a wounded warthog. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was cutting an apple when the phone rang. My mom. Always my mom. Especially with Caesar gone. Everyone calls me these days. Everyone feels sorry for me. Anyway, long story short, I cut my finger pretty deep.”