Vampyres of Hollywood (16 page)

WEST HOLLYWOOD
5:30
A.M.

Ovsanna Moore was brushing my face with her lips. I turned my head to kiss her but she wouldn’t stay still, so I reached out to take her chin in my hand…

And grabbed onto something long, thick, and muscular.

I opened my eyes…and found a handful of snake clutched in my fist. Black, beady eyes stared into mine and a tongue the color of old meat shot out to brush my lips.

I came out of bed as if someone had stuck a cattle prod in my butt. “Jesus Christ, it’s a goddamned snake!” I heaved it across the room with enough force to kill it, but it went slithering into my open closet and disappeared. I grabbed my pants from the back of the chair and, with my eyes on the floor, I jumped on the chair to try to get them on.

The kitchen door banged. I had one pant leg up and was scrambling for my gun on the nightstand when SuzieQ walked in and turned on a light. She didn’t even blink at the sight of me standing on a chair, hopping into my pants. “You’re up early.”

The sky had barely begun to lighten outside.

“I’m not up out of choice,” I snarled. “I woke up with a snake in my bed. I was holding a goddam snake.” I pulled the other leg of my pants up. “And what are you doing here?” I demanded, glancing at the clock radio. “It’s five thirty in the morning.” My alarm hadn’t even gone off yet. “A goddamn monster snake.” The phone started ringing. “Mean, ugly-looking fucker. It could have bit me. Or strangled me. Or whatever the hell those things do!”

“There’s been another murder. I heard it on my police scanner on the way home from work.”

“A murder…?” That stopped me cold.

“Oh, I’ll bet that’s Dick Nixon.” SuzieQ was more concerned about her snake. “He wouldn’t strangle you, honey; he’s just a Texas indigo. He was probably cold. He likes to climb up in bed and cuddle when he’s cold. Where’d you put him?”

“He’s in the goddamn closet!” I yelled as I picked up the phone.

Captain Barton’s clipped, precise, slightly nasal tone whined down the phone. Five thirty in the morning and I just knew he was already wearing a tie. “You making homosexual jokes, King? I hope not. You know departmental policy,” he said.

SuzieQ came out of the closet with the snake curled around her arm. “He’s upset, Peter,” she whispered. “What did you do to him?” She was flicking her tongue at the friggin’ thing and it was flicking right back. Man, those things give me the creeps. This one was a blue-black color, about five feet long. A Texas indigo, Suzie called it. She’d never said if it was poisonous or not and I’d no inclination to find out. I just wanted to wash my hands and face, rinse out my mouth, and maybe get a rabies shot.

“What’s in the closet? Who’s in the closet?” Barton demanded.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I muttered. “Nothing, Captain. It’s nothing. What’s going on?”

“We got a multiple homicide in a private club in West Hollywood. I want you there now.”

“West Hollywood?” West Hollywood is not part of the BHPD beat, so there could only be one reason…

“Is this a Cinema—”

“Don’t use that term. You know I don’t approve of the tags the press use to glorify these monsters. All we know right now is that we have a multiple homicide…and that two of the vics had your cards on them. You’ve been busy,” he added sarcastically.

“
Two
of the vics? How many were there?”

“I don’t know. Ten or eleven maybe. They haven’t finished putting all the pieces back together.”

“I’m on my way.”

I got the address from the Captain and hung up the phone. I threw on the rest of my clothes, and from my bathroom window as I brushed my teeth and gargled with mouthwash I watched SuzieQ walk back to her place with that damn snake wrapped around her neck. She was cooing at it, talking baby talk. Maybe it would strangle her and I could find a new tenant with goldfish instead.
Tiny
goldfish who don’t like to cuddle.

At that hour of the morning it only took me twelve minutes to get to West Hollywood. I took Sunset to Doheny and as I turned left onto Santa Monica I fell in behind two CSI vans and a news truck from KCBS, all of us headed in the same direction.

It wasn’t hard to find the crime scene. Eight police cruisers, a SWAT van, and nine more news trucks were parked in front of a building on the south side of Santa Monica, between La Jolla and Sweetzer. A private club, the Captain had said, between La Jolla and Sweetzer…and suddenly I knew where I was. I heard Ovsanna Moore’s voice in my head:
A private S&M club between La Jolla and Sweetzer. Hidden entrance, you wouldn’t find it if you didn’t know where to look
.

Rough Trade.

She was right. I wouldn’t have found it if I hadn’t been looking, even with the LAPD chopper in the air above, fighting for space with two A STARS and a Jet Ranger from the local stations, lighting up the street with their high beams.

It was an anonymous brick rectangle with an unmarked metal door, lurking between a neon-lit condom store called All Things Rubber and a trendy sushi bar catering to upscale GLTB couples. No address, but a little metal plate above a keypad and speaker grille had the initials “RT” deeply etched into them.

I’d called the Captain back on the drive over and he’d given me more details. The club had only been open for a month and had a reputation as the pre-eminent S&M club in the city. I wasn’t entirely sure what that meant and I didn’t really care to find out. It had a mixed clientele, straights and gays. Entrée was by invitation only; there was a hefty fee to join and a monthly fee to let you keep coming back for more. More whips, more spankings, more bondage, whatever your pleasure.

I did wonder how the Captain knew so much about the club, but it didn’t seem wise to ask. I hoped he was reading from a report and not reporting from experience.

I parked in front of the sign next door announcing “Custom-fit condoms in 70 sizes and colors” and climbed out of the car. Too bad I didn’t have time to window-shop.

The cops on scene had set up a barrier at both ends of the block, but I was sure that wasn’t keeping telephoto lenses at bay. There’s nothing like knowing you’re appearing on live TV all across the States to make you stand up a little straighter and suck in your gut.

Reporters were screaming at me from across the street. That’s one of the few disadvantages to driving the Jag: I’m never anonymous. Seeing me, the media immediately made the connection to the Cinema Slayer case. And that, even without any more information, made it headline news. They started screaming like a pack of howler monkeys.

“King, King, is this a Cinema Slayer thing—?”

“Who’s inside, Detective, another dead celebrity?”

“Come on, King, give us some facts…we have a right to know.”

“Is SWAT going in?”

“How come BHPD is here?”

“It’s gotta be the Cinema Slayer, right?”

“Has the Slayer struck again?”

I locked the car and approached Chris Miller, who was standing outside the door with a clipboard in his hand. Chris is a twenty-year veteran of the L.A. County Sheriff’s Department; they handle police protection for West Hollywood. He was signing officers in as they entered the crime scene. His coffee-colored skin looked gray.

“Bad?” I asked, holding up my badge for Chris to copy the numbers.

“Real bad,” he said, eyes meeting mine for a moment. “One of the worst I’ve seen.” And that told me all I needed to know.

Before I even stepped inside the first door, I stopped to pull on my gloves and cover my shoes. The floor was flooded with blood. It looked like it had been hosed down by an open artery. I was standing in a long, narrow hallway leading to a second door that should have been on a submarine: three-inch-thick metal, studded with round-headed bolts, with a small circular porthole window at head height. Normally this door would have been the second line of defense against uninvited visitors, but now it hung off one hinge with a large indentation dimpling it just above the handle.

I studied the indentation for thirty seconds before I recognized the shape of what might have made it. Not a sledgehammer, not a battering ram. I closed my hand into a fist and shoved it into the hole. Without the bandage across my knuckles, it would have been a perfect fit.

The smell hit me before I even walked through the second door: the unmistakable odor of blood, guts, vomit, urine, and feces. Not something I ever get used to. I snagged a face mask from a surprisingly verbose CSI tech who advised me that so far they thought they recognized a judge, a pro basketball player, two rappers, a TV weather girl, a fire-and-brimstone pastor…and a movie producer That’s when they decided to call me in. I pulled on the face mask, grateful for its clean antiseptic odor. There were six other techs in the room and I recognized two other cops from the West Hollywood detail. No one was talking. You keep your mouth shut when there’s that kind of foulness in the air. A taste of that filth stays with you for days.

Just like the hallway, there was blood on the floor. Only this floor was carpeted and the blood formed dozens of bubbles that popped with every step I took. It was harder to see the spatter patterns on the walls in this room because the walls had originally been black. Now they were red with tissue and gore.

This room must have been the reception area. There was a dark rosewood desk in the middle of the far wall with the lower torso of a body seated neatly in the chair behind it. The upper torso was sprawled face down across the desk, but it wasn’t connected to the bottom. The skin where the body had been separated was shredded horizontally, as though something had hooked into the flesh and ripped the two parts apart. The upper part had long blond hair. Without moving it, I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman.

To the right of the desk, on the side wall, was a small built-in bar, again dark rosewood. No bar stools, just a discreet service area where a bartender could mix chocolate martinis or dean martinis or SuzieQ’s favorite, screaming orgasms. I’ll bet that one had gone over big here at Rough Trade, that and slippery nipples and every other double-entendre drink they could think of.

The rest of the room was filled with overstuffed chairs, a sofa, and two chaise lounges, all upholstered in purple velvet and black and white animal skins. Blood and hunks of flesh made it hard to tell just what animals they’d come from.

A second body was draped across one of the chaise lounges. All across it. In pieces. Half the skull of a bald head had rolled underneath and the rest of the head, the part with a sparse goatee, lay atop a tattooed upper bicep at the foot of the chaise. I felt a flash of recognition but couldn’t come up with a name. The heart and kidneys—giblets, as my mother would call them—were nestled in the seam of the chaise. That was a stain they were never going to get out.

The rest of the bodies were divided up into four smaller rooms that opened onto the reception area. And I mean divided. Human parts covered the floors. It looked like each of the rooms had been designed for a specific type of BDSM pleasure and the killer had put them all to good use. Body parts hung from a strappado; a cat-o’-nine-tails was wrapped around a severed leg; a woman’s head and neck were still manacled to a wall while the rest of her lay in a heap below.

A cop I vaguely recognized from the West Hollywood Division came out of the room farthest from me.

“You’re King, right?” he asked.

I nodded and he handed me a bloodstained business card.

“One of yours?”

Under the blood and what might have been a sliver of brain tissue, I saw my name and officer number. “It’s mine.”

“We found two of these. One on the couch out front amongst the meat. This one we found on the guy in the back. His license says Thomas DeWitte. Wanna take a look, see if you recognize him?”

I looked, but I didn’t recognize him. Even though I’d been hassling him less than twelve hours ago, there was nothing about what I was looking at that was even slightly recognizable. But now I realized who was spread out on the chaise—DeWitte’s brainless bodyguard, Anthony. Well, he’d lived up to the name. I wondered if Travis was here, also.

DeWitte was dangling from a cinder-block wall, pinned to it by a railroad spike that had been driven between his eyes and right into the stone behind. At first I thought his clothes had been ripped off in strips, but as the photographer lit up the scene with his strobe I realized I was looking at skin. Strips of skin somehow still attached to what was left of him. He’d been flayed from neck to waist, his ribs pulled apart, and there was a hole where his heart should have been. Then, just for good measure, he’d been set on fire. The smoke alarm activated the sprinkler system, but the water came way too late for Thomas DeWitte. Parts of the body were seared to the bone. The CSIs were talking about having to chip away the wall to release him.

The West Hollywood cop came up beside me. “Looks like a scene from a horror movie,” he said. And he was right.

Someone was making the ultimate horror movie, with real blood and real corpses.