Vampires 3 (18 page)

I typed in:
San Francisco, vampires.

And on about the tenth page, something turned up. An article from the
San Francisco Chronicle
about a book signing taking place tomorrow. A popular vampire author. Not necessarily the break I was looking for, since I had by now come across a shitload of articles about vampire writers. But it was the title of the article that caught my eye.

“
Security Beefed Up For Popular Vampire Author”

Oh? I read on. The author, James P. Storm, had apparently been attacked by a fan four days earlier at the Glendale Barnes & Noble. According to the article, his assailant had been wielding a silver stake. The article went on to state that the attacker had escaped, and because of this, security had been heightened at all of Storm’s signings.

With my heart now pounding steadily in my chest, I scrolled down and found a picture of Mr. Storm signing books. He was smiling at one such fan as he handed back a book. The man’s skin was unusually tan. Almost golden. Hell, he practically glowed. But there was something else. Although he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, something seemed to be reaching down to partially cover the back of his hand. A tattoo.

I right-clicked and saved the picture. I next uploaded it into my photo viewer. Blew it up twice as big.

Indeed, it was a dark tattoo, but the picture was too pixelated to tell for sure what it was. But if I had to guess, I would say that I was looking at something that looked like a claw.

A dragon’s claw?

As I stared at the picture, completely and utterly fascinated, I found myself wondering if I was looking at an actual vampire....

Chapter Seven

It was early. Too early for someone who’s his own boss. But if I wanted to make it to San Francisco with plenty of time to spare by the 2:00 p.m. book signing at Borders, well, I had to get moving.

Roxi had barely stirred when I got up to dress. I kissed her on the cheek and told her I would be back tomorrow. She murmured that she loved me, which was news to me.

I smiled down at her and told her I loved her, too, but I think she was already asleep.

Now I was on the road with a Starbucks mocha between my legs and a belly full of scone. What the hell is a scone, anyway? I’ll Google it later.

The sun was rising to my right, in the east, as I headed steadily up the 5 Freeway. Or, as my friends in San Fran call it,
5 Freeway
, minus the article
the
.

San Franciscans are weird.

Cool, but weird.

So I was heading up
the
5 Freeway, listening to the wind whistle across my partially open window, and wondering what the hell I had gotten myself into.

Maybe I should have listened to Roy.

Maybe I should have laid off the case. After all, wasn’t Veronica, or Valerie, nearly an adult now? Hell, hadn’t she basically been on her own since witnessing her parents’ murder three years ago.

Yes, and yes, but one thing shouldn’t be forgotten here: More than likely Veronica was delusional. More than likely she had erroneously pitted the blame on an innocent writer of vampire fiction. And if she had attacked him with a fucking silver stake, well, she was still a threat to the man.

For his safety, she needed to be stopped.

For her mental health and her own safety, she needed to be stopped.

And I was just the guy to do it?

Apparently so. After all, I didn’t pick the cases, they picked me.

As the sun came out in full force, I dropped my shades and headed steadily north.

On
the
5 Freeway.

* * *

I called Detective Hammer of the LAPD Missing Persons Division. He picked up on the fourth ring.

“
So I’m a fourth-ring friend now?” I asked.

“
Since when were you a first-, second-, or even a third-ring friend?”

“
Now that’s just mean.”

“
I happen to be a busy man, Spinoza. You’re lucky I picked up at all. Now what the hell do you want? I’ve got a mother waiting outside my office who hasn’t seen her seven-year-old in five hours.”

My own stomach plummeted at the thought and my heart went out to her. I made a mental note to check up on her and offer my services. I said, “I need you to put me in contact with a buddy of yours on the San Francisco PD.”

“
You think just because I’m with LAPD that I have friends around the country?”

I waited.

“
Okay, you’re right. I don’t have time to fuck with you. What’s this about?”

“
Our friend the vampire slayer.”

“
Talk to me. Fast.”

I quickly caught him up to speed. When I was finished, Detective Hammer whistled lightly. “Yeah, a real nut job. Here’s a name and number. Detective Sparks. A good man.” He gave me his number and added, “So this guy really writes vampire novels?”

“
Yes, apparently.”

“
Aren’t most vampire novels about teenage girls running around and, you know, acting retarded?”

“
I wouldn’t know,” I said. “But you seem to be some sort of expert.”

He said something derogatory about me and my hygiene, reminded me once again that I was nothing more than a glorified mall cop, and hung up.

* * *

I called Detective Sparks with the SFPD and caught him up to speed. I did my best not to mention the words “vampire slayer” until the very end. And when I finally did—because I inevitably had to—I could practically see the detective’s eyebrows shoot halfway up his forehead. I had never met Sparks or heard of him, but I had a mental image of a man shaking his head and his eyes rolling up.

“
Vampire slayer?” he said.

“
Yes,” I said.

“
As in, you know, vampires?”

“
Yes.”

“
Okay, now I’ve heard everything.”

“
Sadly, now you have.”

“
And you have a picture of this girl?”

“
Yes.”

“
Good. Swing it by the station and we’ll give it to our guys.”

“
See you then.”

We hung up, and I continued driving north through the heart of California, past acres and acres of farmland. I had heard once that California farms fed most of the world. Out here, driving up this empty stretch of highway, it was easy to believe.

And as I sat back and dug in for the rest of the drive, I idly considered the possibility that perhaps Veronica had really witnessed her parents being killed by a vampire.

Now I almost regretted not working the cheating spouse cases. Almost. No matter what, Veronica was a minor and she needed help.

One way or another, I was going to help her.

* * *

Four hours later, and using my GPS navigation to direct me through the busy streets of San Francisco, I soon pulled up to the SFPD Main Station. Shortly after that, I was directed up into Detective Sparks’s office.

The detective was pretty much as I had imagined: average-sized, thick around the neck and shoulders, and balding. We shook hands, chatted briefly. He took Veronica’s pictures and made colored copies of them and gave them to one of his men. The images were then uploaded and broadcasted to various officers. Within minutes, Veronica’s mug was everywhere.

I left the station, feeling as if I had somehow betrayed the girl, denying her the chance at retribution.

Maybe,
I thought.
But more than likely she was going to hurt someone, including herself.

I checked the time. 1:00 p.m.

The book signing was in one hour.

Chapter Eight

Apparently this James P. Storm was a pretty popular guy. A line filled mostly with titillated women wended itself through the store, out the front door, and around the building.

I was in the wrong business.

Many of those standing in line were clutching various books. I noted that most of the covers were darkish and gloomy and seemed to scream vampire.

Inside, the Borders was everything a super bookstore should be, and perhaps a little more. This one, it seemed, had three stories. That’s a shitload of books.

I silently vowed to read more someday. Maybe then I’ll finally figure out what the hell a Kindle is.

James P. Storm was nowhere to be found, having yet to make his grand appearance. As I cruised the bookstore, following the long line of excitedly chatting women, I looked for Veronica. Would have been nice if I found her standing there wielding a stake, but no such luck.

At the front of the line, which ended up at the second floor in the mystery section, I found myself at a long table draped in a red table cloth and stacked high with gloomy-looking vampire books. A life-sized cardboard cut-out of James P. Storm leaned against an easel next to the table.

I walked over to the cut-out. Storm wasn’t a bad-looking guy. Certainly nothing to write home about, although he seemed to take himself a little too seriously for someone who simply wrote vampire novels.

And that tan. Sweet Jesus. The man looked practically radioactive.

I tried to imagine him pouncing on Veronica’s mother and father, ripping open their throats, and drinking from them. I couldn’t do it. Mostly, I couldn’t imagine him tearing himself away from a tanning bed.

I checked the time: 1:50.

His Royal Tannedness would be appearing soon, no doubt to the delight of those waiting in line for God knows how long. I moved away from the table and checked out the security set-up. A single policeman was standing off to the side, near an “Employee Only” door. He didn’t look happy about his assignment. I didn’t blame him. I scanned the crowd and spotted two security guards patrolling the line. The security guards looked a little more into it.

I knew from Detective Sparks that a plainclothes officer was in the store as well, looking for anything unusual. Granted, an endless line of chattering women waiting for a too-tan man seemed unusual enough, but whatever.

I noted that one of the security guards had a piece of paper rolled up in his back pocket. The paper and the partial image I saw looked familiar. It was Veronica, an image no doubt distributed by the police. Good, there was nowhere for her to hide or to run. We were going to find her, and save her from herself.

Or, at least, that was the plan.

I checked my cell. Five minutes to go.

She was here, somewhere. I knew it. I felt it. But so far no one matched her description: that of a tall, dark haired, seventeen-year-old girl with murder in her eyes.

A murmur began behind me. The murmur turned into outright cheers and clapping. I turned to see a tall man emerge from a backroom door, escorted by two very serious-looking Borders employees and another police officer.

James P. Storm waved to his adoring fans, flashed a white smile, and took a seat at the long table. He picked up a pen, nodded to one of the Borders employees, and the first in line was permitted to stand before the table. Both policemen took up their positions to either side of the author. Both policemen looked as if they would rather be anywhere but here. One actually yawned.

As I stood watching the scene from about fifty feet away, I couldn’t help but notice that Storm seemed frail and sickly, despite his brilliant tan.

Fake tan,
I suddenly thought.

So fake that I suspected it could have been make-up. I had lived in Hollywood long enough to have seen my fair share of fake tans. Bronzers they call them. Something you rub on the skin. No sun required.

Perfect for a vampire.

I should have laughed at the notion. I should have banished it from my thoughts. I should have done anything but take it seriously. But it suddenly made some sense. Weird, strange, incomprehensible sense. Oxymorons on top of oxymorons.

I frowned and watched him smile brightly at the next girl in line. He took her book with an equally tan hand, and spoke quietly to her, smiling, and then leaned over and wrote something inside the book. As he wrote, I noted a change in his pleasant expression.

He wasn’t smiling now; indeed, he looked like he was in pain. Or deathly ill.

Like a vampire forced into the light of day?

I shook my head.
Craziness.

As he handed back the book to the young lady, his white long sleeve rode up his arm a little, and I couldn’t help but notice the fanged head of a snapping dragon. A helluva big tattoo. No doubt that beast wrapped all the way up his arm, and probably then some.

Don’t get caught up in the craziness,
I thought.
Lots of people have dragon tattoos.