Vampyres of Hollywood (15 page)

I liked him. He was smart and capable and not hard to look at.

I spend all my days in an industry populated by people who occasionally approach the complexity of two dimensions. I was beginning to discover that Detective Peter King was a fully rounded personality, and in truth, I’ve always been a collector of people.

And he was funny. That’s always been the clincher for me.

As a rule, vampyres don’t have a lot of humor in their lives. Hundreds of years of watching humanity suffer at its own hands tends to diminish one’s capacity for fun. It’s hard to stay in the moment when you’ve got an overview of nearly five hundred years of religious crusades, racial genocide, and garden-variety annihilation in your immediate memory—even when it’s not your genus that’s been suffering.

I’ve seen the research—usually in glossy magazines with single-word titles—that suggests women go for men who are physically attractive or ruggedly handsome, though in truth I’ve always been wary of a man who looks prettier than I do. There are certainly women who are attracted to the size of a man’s assets—either physical or metaphorical. But if there is one defining factor that most women agree on, it is that they are attracted to men who make them laugh.

I have always loved laughter. And if I look back over my lovers through the centuries, they shared one thing in common: they managed to make me laugh, Daumier and Molière, Goldsmith and Sheridan, and even Melba. I’ve never been attracted to the stage comic or the movie comedy actor: they tend to be morose characters.

So I love to laugh. It takes me out of myself for brief flashes of time. That’s why I stayed with Voltaire as long as I did. His lovemaking wasn’t very satisfying—thin blood—but his wit was.

This life—this vampyre existence—is not a life that encourages relationships. As a rule, vampyres don’t have a lot of romance in their lives, either. Desire, yes, passion and lust certainly, but not romance. Once I get aroused and the Change takes over, I could care less about candles and flowers. Or having a “relationship.” It’s all much baser than that, and that’s fine with me.

Relationships are difficult for my kind. Vampyre couples do exist—look at Theda and Charles—but they are rare indeed. In the main we are solitary creatures. We take lovers from the human world, but these tend to be brief affairs, lacking in emotional attachment. They have to be. We’re faced with two choices when it comes to humans: avoid relationships or Turn the ones we love.

I once thought it was easier to create another vampyre than it was to watch a human age and die. But the very act of creation often changes the nature of the person, and far too often the human I fell in love with was not the vampyre I created. Watching a loved one grow old is never easy; waiting while faculties fail and limbs weaken is extraordinarily difficult—especially when the passing decades have no effect on yourself. Ultimately, I have always told my human partners about my true nature and given them the choice. Surprisingly, many of them chose not to Turn. I’ve often wondered if they felt resentful as they aged and I remained untouched by time. Circumstances have often forced me to leave my human lovers as they aged, but I have always—with only one tragic exception—managed to return to be with them at the end.

There is a mythology that those of my race are without pity. It is not entirely untrue; there are many amongst the vampyre who believe that humankind are little better than slaves or food—or both. And it is also true that long life tends to give one a different perspective, a detachment that might be easily mistaken for indifference. Some of the world’s greatest scientists, thinkers, and industrialists have been vampyre. They have used their extra-long lives to stunning effect, to change and better man’s lot.

Loneliness is the curse of the vampyre.

I have heard stories of the incredibly old—those whose lives extend into millennia—who have simply chosen to end their lives. As vampyres age, they change, their physical bodies alter, skin hardens, spines extend into tails, nails harden into claws, teeth lock into position and do not retract. They become demonlike and gargoyle in appearance, and they are, I am convinced, the source of the demon legends. But this appearance guarantees a reclusive existence, and eventually these aged vampyres—the Ancients—grow lonely. Most simply stop feeding and starve to death, and drowning is not uncommon. In my lifetime, I’ve met three Ancients, each one two millennia old, and none were even vaguely human. But I’ve not encountered one in a long time. Solgar is now the oldest vampyre I know in America, and from conversations we’ve had I estimate him to be around one thousand years old. He claims to have ridden with Geoffrey Martel, who later became Geoffrey II, and I’ve no reason to doubt him. In all the years I’ve known him, first in Vienna, then Paris, London, Chicago, and now L.A., I’ve never known him to have a companion, a lover, catamite, or even close friend. And I’ve known him for nearly two hundred years.

I could not live like that.

Above all, I needed companionship…and laughter.

And Peter King made me laugh and that was intriguing. Somewhere at the back of my mind a tiny warning bell went off. I would have to be careful with this one.

“Detective King will be staying for coffee, Maral,” I said as King escorted DeWitte, Travis, and Anthony out the back door. He handed each one of them a business card and then waited while they climbed into DeWitte’s Rolls and watched them drive away. “Would you make a fresh pot, please?”

She bent over the table to pick up the coffeepot, her mouth pursed in anger. Maral doesn’t like it when I make new friends.

I came and stood behind her, resting the palm of my hand on the back of her neck and allowing a little of my heat to flow through my flesh. I could feel a shudder run down her body. Bringing my mouth close to her ear, I whispered, “We need him. We can use him. We need to get to this killer before he strikes again.” I brushed strands of blond hair off her forehead and turned to see Peter King standing in the open doorway. I knew what it looked like—he’d seen me caressing Maral, my lips against her face. No doubt he’d already heard the stories about the Scream Queen and her assistant and their quirky relationship. This would just add to the confusion.

It didn’t help that Maral smirked at him as she waltzed away.

“Would you like me to check upstairs?” he asked.

“Please, sit. The alarm system will ping if anyone goes in or out up there.” I resumed the position I’d been sitting in earlier, forcing him to sit down opposite me. “I want to thank you for the way you dealt with Thomas and Travis and the bodyguard. That could have gotten very messy.”

“That’s some business partner you’ve got there—”

“Junior partner. A position Thomas has trouble dealing with. But believe me, Detective, he’s a pussycat compared to some of the bastards I work with in my business.” I handed him the Courvoisier. “Will you do the honors?”

L’Esprit de Courvoisier is bottled in individually numbered, hand-cut Lalique crystal decanters. He handed it right back to me, clutching the base in both hands. “I’d rather handle a loaded gun with the safety off than run the risk of dropping that, ma’am. I’ll stick with coffee.”

Once again, I burst out laughing. I was still laughing when Maral walked in with the fresh pot and a pissed-off look that said I’d better make do with coffee because she wasn’t going to be offering her wrist any time soon. I’d calm her down once we were alone.

She’d removed her suit jacket and her breasts were revealed in the black silk camisole she wore underneath. Bending over to pour the coffee brought them right down to Detective King’s eye level. Ah, the jealousy of a twenty-eight-year-old. Whatever she was attempting didn’t work, however; he glanced at them frankly—more of a courtesy really—and then turned his eyes back to me. That’s when she splashed coffee on his bandaged hand. He hissed with pain.

“Maral—,” I started.

“You ladies have it out for my right hand, I think,” Peter said, dabbing at the coffee-stained bandage with a napkin.

“I’m sorry, Detective King,” Maral said, without a trace of regret in her voice. “I’m still a little jumpy from the afternoon, I guess. I hope I didn’t burn you.”

I could tell she didn’t hope anything of the sort and I suspect Peter could, too. Whatever companionable mood that had been growing between us disappeared. He checked his watch and I saw the tiniest ridges appear at the corners of his eyes. “I’m fine, Ms. McKenzie. Already bandaged, in fact. But while I’m here, I’d like to ask you some questions as well. Save us having to go to the station and make it official.” He was smiling, but the threat was there.

Maral put the coffeepot down and poured herself a cognac. Then she moved beside me on the couch, her body rigid and close enough for me to feel her thigh against mine. Holding the snifter in both hands, she glared at King over the rim.

“What questions?” Maral asked, voice barely above a tight whisper, already guessing the type of questions King would be putting to her.

“I’ve seen your file, Ms. McKenzie. I’m sure it’s hard for you to talk about, but sooner or later someone is going to make the same connection I did: Ovsanna Moore’s personal assistant was responsible for killing a man, eviscerating him with a knife—not unlike one of the Cinema Slayer victims. I’m surprised Smoking Gun hasn’t run that piece already. Especially given that you knew all four victims. Do you have an alibi for the nights of the murders?”

“You think I did it!” Maral began, her accent beginning to thicken. I saw the glass tremble in her hand and reached over to take it from her before she dropped it. I didn’t need any more spilled blood from cut fingers to rile me up again. Replacing the antique Waterford crystal would be a bitch.

“That’s not what I said. I just asked you a question,” King said softly. “And I’m looking for something cast-iron and checkable.”

“Maral was seated with me at the Oscars on the night Jason was murdered,” I said. “There will be tape.
E! News
did a special on the clothes, and both Maral and I were interviewed on the red carpet. All of the news stations carried clips from the show and from the parties afterwards. We appear in a couple of them. You can’t get more cast-iron than that. We were in Agoura when Mai was killed, shooting exteriors for the new movie. Maral was on the set from seven
A.M.
until we wrapped at nine that night. I know because we heard the news of her death on the drive home.”

“And Tommy Gordon?” King asked, directing the question back to Maral.

She had herself back under control now. “I don’t know, Officer,” she said icily. “I don’t know exactly when he was killed. But I’ve got a PDA that’ll tell you everywhere I’ve been every day for the past five years. Today, while poor Eva was being butchered, I was with Ovsanna and Neville Travis in her trailer and then Ovsanna and I drove to see Thomas DeWitte at the office. I’m sure they’ll all confirm that.”

Although King made no move to write down the information we’d just given him, I had no doubts he’d check it out thoroughly. He reminded me of Dashiell Hammett, with that intense stare.

“I have to ask,” the detective said, and I acknowledged that with a nod.

“Maral didn’t kill anyone, Peter. Nor did I, in case that was your next thought,” I said earnestly.

“I’m beginning to believe that,” he said, surprising me. “Though I’ve a feeling that you may be next in line. All the dead are linked to Anticipation Studios. And you are Anticipation. The killings are coming closer to you.” He frowned, head tilting to one side. “You knew this?”

“Suspected.”

“And this doesn’t frighten you?”

“I don’t frighten easily, Detective.”

“Maybe you should. You could be next.”

“That sounds like a line from one of my movies. I appreciate your concern, but I don’t share it. Besides, I’ve got guards at the studio and a state-of-the-art security system here in the house—”

“The guards didn’t do Eva Casale any good and your security system didn’t stop Thomas DeWitte and his friends from getting in, either.”

“That was my fault,” McKenzie said. “I left the gate open when I let you in. I never do that. I was just so rattled.”

“Well, keep it closed from now on,” King said. “And change all your access codes, too. Alter your patterns. If you have meetings planned for the next few days, reschedule them at the last minute. Talk to your publicity people and make sure no one releases anything about where you’re supposed to be or when. I’d also think about some additional security, maybe someone a little higher caliber than Anthony.” He stood up to leave. “Thanks for the coffee,” he added without a trace of irony.

“I’ll walk you out,” I said, indicating the open door that led out into the garden.

The night was cold and I watched Peter King tighten up against it. I couldn’t feel it—vampyres never do—but for the sake of verisimilitude I wrapped my arms around my body. Ever the actress.

“You’ll catch your death,” King said, which brought a slight smile to my face. “Go back inside. I can find my own way out.”

“Good night, Peter. I’m sorry about your hand.” I leaned up and brushed my lips across his cheek, tasting salt and sweat and a hint of my French roast coffee. “Oh, and I never gave you that signed photo for your mother.”

“Save it for next time. Good night, Ms. Moore.” He turned and walked down the driveway toward the street.

So…Peter King was planning on a “next time.” Good. Maybe then I could get him to call me Ovsanna.