Vampyres of Hollywood (19 page)

“He’s good on television,” Maral admitted grudgingly.

“Very good,” I agreed.

Peter King was confident and self-assured; he looked directly into the camera when he answered, made sure he used the reporter’s name, and didn’t dodge any questions. He considered each question and answered it as frankly as possible—with one lie after another. He was one of the most convincing liars I’d ever come across. It was worth remembering that.

“We have no evidence at this time that Mr. DeWitte’s murder is connected to the Cinema Slayer killings,” he began. “His was just one of several bodies we took out of the club on Santa Monica. At the moment this has all the hallmarks of a drug-related crime.”

“Why are you involved, Detective?”

“This is a West Hollywood Division case. I was called in as a courtesy because one of the victims was connected with the entertainment industry.”

“So are you saying this is
not
related to the other crimes?”

“I didn’t say that. This murder is a few hours old. We are pursuing several definite lines of inquiry.”

“Why did you bring the news of DeWitte’s murder to Ovsanna Moore yourself, Detective?”

“It was just a courtesy. I thought it would be better if she heard it from the police, rather than any other source. I also wanted to assure her that we are doing everything in our power to apprehend the murderer of her business partner. She asked the same questions you did, and let me reiterate, I have no evidence at this time that this murder is related to the murders that have been dubbed the Cinema Slayer killings. This is a multiple murder—the other killings were all single slayings. Mr. DeWitte was not a movie star—the other victims were. I think Mr. DeWitte was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“How did Ovsanna take the news?”

“She was obviously upset. Mr. DeWitte has been a junior partner in her studio for a number of years.”

“Does she have a statement for the press?”

“No. Ms. Moore was just about to leave town for the holidays, and I have encouraged her to do that. There is no reason for her to stay here.”

“What about the death at Anticipation Studios yesterday? That’s two people working for Anticipation. You’re saying there’s no connection?”

“Yesterday’s killing was a crime of passion,” King said firmly. “We have a suspect in custody.”

I looked at Maral. She shook her head, obviously as surprised as I was. King had said nothing about having a suspect in custody. Maral’s cell phone warbled “Werewolves of London,” which suddenly didn’t seem so funny anymore. “I’ll change the ring tone,” she muttered, glancing at the screen. “No caller ID. Hello?” Then she handed me the phone. “Solgar,” she whispered, lips curling in distaste.

Solgar’s voice sounded even more inhuman than usual on the phone. Again he spoke in the archaic Armenian of my youth, which ensured privacy; we were probably the only two people on the planet who still spoke it.

“You are watching the news?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know how that pervert DeWitte was slain?”

“Spike through the skull, heart ripped out, body burned,” I said tightly.

“An unsubtle message.”

“It seems likely I’m next, Ernst.”

“Do not be so sure, Chatelaine. This Hunter is making a point. Displaying the kill, revealing his familiarity with the traditional ways. I believe if this Hunter wanted you dead, then you would be dead.”

Something ancient and savage must have shown on my face, because Maral involuntarily took a step away from me. “I’m not that easy to kill.”

Solgar ignored me. “No, but you’re easy to destroy. This latest death brings far too much attention to you.” There was a long pause and I could almost hear the Obour Vampyre collect his thoughts. “I understand the Vampyres of Hollywood called on you yesterday. A singular honor indeed.”

“They gave me a week to sort out the mess.”

Solgar coughed, a peculiar sucking sound. “Yesterday they gave you a week. This latest killing changes things. They’ve asked me to inform you they want a resolution within forty-eight hours.”

I watched King’s press conference come to an end. As he turned and walked back toward the house Maral pressed a button on the remote control and the gates swung closed behind him. The camera lingered on his retreating form and then cut back to the news anchor for a wrap-up. I motioned to Maral to turn the TV off.

“Do you hear me, Chatelaine?”

Solgar’s rasp brought me back to him. “I hear you, Solgar. Forty-eight hours. Then what happens?”

“Your clan will be destroyed and you will be asked to move on for a century or two.”

“And if I don’t want to move on?”

“You know what the Vampyres of Hollywood are capable of. It would be a mistake to fight them.”

“Whose side are you on?” I asked.

“The Clan Obour do not take sides,” he said immediately. “We are merely messengers, observers, bystanders.”

“Yes, I know. Like the Swiss. Would you truly stand by and watch my clan destroyed, see me killed?” I really was curious what his answer would be.

“There is a way to avoid this,” Solgar said.

Ah, he sidestepped me. Ever the lawyer. “How?” I demanded, but even as I was asking the question, I knew the answer.

“Find the hunter. Stop the killings.”

Maral had gone back to my office and I was waiting for Peter alone when he stepped inside the door. “You didn’t tell me you have someone for Eva’s murder.”

“We don’t,” he said mildly.

“But you just said you have someone in custody,” I said, confused.

“A bone to throw to the media dogs,” King admitted with a shrug. “We’re holding someone but he’s not the killer.”

“Very clever. Who’s the unfortunate suspect?”

“Eva’s sometime boyfriend. A part-time preacher, goes by the name of Biblical Benny. I had him picked up this morning when I realized DeWitte was dead. I knew we couldn’t afford to have Eva’s killing and DeWitte’s murder both chalked up to the Cinema Slayer. All hell would break out.”

I turned and walked back into the library. King followed me. “So you initiated a cover-up.” I was unable to keep the disgust out of my voice. Somehow I’d imagined something a little better from King.

“We bought ourselves a little time, that’s all. If people start believing the Cinema Slayer has killed twice more in the past twenty-four hours, this town will go crazier than it already is. We pulled in Benny for questioning on the Casale murder and right now we’re stating that the Rough Trade hits are unrelated.”

“But you believe they are related.”

King suddenly looked very tired. “Eva Casale’s murder definitely…DeWitte’s I’m not so sure of.” He slumped into a chair. “There were multiple murders, which is not the Slayer’s M.O., but they were as gruesome in their execution as your three actor friends and your effects artist. It could be unrelated or not,” he added, trying—and failing—to keep the fatigue out of his voice.

“And how long will it take the press to ferret out the details and make the connection?”

“A day, maybe two.”

So Peter King and I both had a forty-eight-hour deadline. Mine was slightly more serious and deadly than his, however. “What happens then?”

The detective’s smile was grim. “Someone else will take over the case. I’ll be reassigned and the new team will have a mandate to close the case any way they can. I’m not saying they’ll cut corners, but if someone looks good for the killings they may not investigate any further. I don’t see you as having a motive, but your friend Maral isn’t quite so clean. She’s got that murder charge in her sheet; she’s attached to you and Anticipation; I’ve heard rumors she was attached to Eva Casale. I don’t know what her story is yet, but whoever takes over from me will find out pretty quick. There’s too much pressure on the department to make this go away fast, and the time may come when they won’t care if the suspect they’ve got is the real killer or not. If they decide to press charges, then they can issue a press release. You can imagine the headlines,” he added.

Unfortunately, I could.

I couldn’t let any more suspicion fall on Maral. And I didn’t want Peter off the case. I bought myself a little time by crossing to the French doors and staring out into the garden. One of the news helicopters gave up hovering overhead and took off towards the beach—maybe they hoped to find me heading to the Malibu house. By the time it was out of sight, I knew what I was going to say. I turned back to Peter and fixed him with the most innocent, vulnerable look I could manage.

“We’re innocent.”

“I don’t believe that,” he said simply. “No one is ever entirely innocent.”

“So you think one—or both—of us killed DeWitte?”

“No,” he said, surprising me. “I saw what happened to DeWitte and the rest of the unfortunates in that club this morning. Neither of you is physically capable of doing that. Maybe someone shafted one of the South American cartels on a drug deal and the scene in Rough Trade was a warning to others. Maybe DeWitte was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or maybe the same killer who butchered Eddings, Goulart, Gordon, and Casale is upping their game.” King brushed his hair back from his forehead and leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs. “I don’t think you killed DeWitte, but you know something. I am convinced of it.”

“You are no fool, Detective.”

“Please. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that Anticipation is somehow at the center of all this. In a roundabout way that—more than anything else—convinces me of your innocence. If you were guilty, I would imagine you’d hide your tracks more cleverly.”

Solgar had been right; Detective King was not the brightest, but he was tenacious. When all of this was over—assuming I survived—I might have to do something about him. It would be regrettable but necessary.

“I didn’t kill Thomas, Peter, I can prove that, but the fact is I may be responsible for his death. I think I know
why
he was killed.”

He didn’t say anything. Just stared at me, waiting for the story I was making up on the spot. I’m a writer and an actress, used to thinking on my feet, but this was no movie I was pitching; this was life and death: mine.

“I told you I am expecting a contingent of Japanese businessmen to arrive on Saturday?”

King nodded.

“They want to invest in Anticipation. They’re offering close to fifty million dollars in cash and probably the same amount in technological investment. When that happens, Anticipation will join the big boys. We’ll become a major player overnight.”

King considered the news. He’d lived in Hollywood long enough to understand the ramifications. “Is this common knowledge?”

“No. Not at all. We’ve managed to keep it pretty quiet, which in this town is as much a coup as the deal itself. The Japanese aren’t talking, and aside from Maral and Thomas and my attorney, no one else knows.”

“And how does that tie in to DeWitte’s murder?”

“About a year ago, just a month after the Japanese approached me, I got an offer through my lawyers for fifty-one percent of my company. I wasn’t interested. I didn’t even bother to get the details, just turned it down and didn’t think about it again. The next offer came in on my private office line. A male voice, offering me top dollar for fifty-one percent of Anticipation. The guy said he thought maybe I’d misunderstood the level of their interest—that the people he represented really wanted to make a deal. Again, I refused. Three more calls came in, the last one on my home phone, each one a little more threatening. And then Jason was killed and I got a call the very next day and the caller mentioned the murder. Said he was sorry to hear about it and wondered if maybe I wasn’t so upset I’d like to reconsider the offer and get out of the business. He called again after the police found Mai and Tommy. Each time the message was less ambiguous.”

“What about yesterday?”

“Yesterday the message was real clear. I got the call shortly after you left, same voice, same offer: fifty-one percent of Anticipation. The voice asked if I wanted to end up like the special effects lady. Told me I’d better make the decision to sell or someone close to me would die for every day I refused.”

As spur-of-the-moment lies went, I thought it was pretty good. I wished I could summon tears, because right then would have been a good place to shed them. “It’s my fault,” I said, dropping my voice to a whisper and turning my back to Peter so he couldn’t see that my eyes were dry. “I killed him. I killed Thomas.”

“No, you didn’t,” he said, right on cue. “But that’s what had you so spooked yesterday when you thought someone had broken into the house.”

I nodded.

He reached out and touched my right shoulder, the merest gossamer touch, but the heat of it flowed down my arm. “Why didn’t you go to the police?”

“What could the police have done?” I said bitterly. “Up until yesterday, I had nothing concrete, an unidentified voice on a phone offering to buy a portion of my company. It’s hardly extortion and it’s only the vaguest sort of blackmail. The threat was so veiled in the beginning even I wasn’t sure there was a connection.”

“But yesterday,” he said, and I could tell there was real concern in his voice, not just a professional reprimand, “you should have called me as soon as you hung up the phone. I was here, Ovsanna, this is
my
case. You’ve got to trust me to help you. And this is information I need.”

“I’ve been in this business a long time, Peter, a very long time. I’m a genre actress and the kinds of films I do aren’t going to get me nominated for an Oscar. I’ve got a star in front of Grauman’s—which my studio paid for just like every other star there—and I get Fangoria awards and fantasy film festival awards and lifetime achievement awards for horror films, but I’m never going to be on Spielberg’s short list to star in next year’s A movie. Tarantino might rediscover me, but I doubt it. I’m getting older, so there aren’t that many lead roles in any of the interesting independents that I might be right for anymore. This studio is my life, but the last few years have been tough and getting tougher. This deal with the Japanese guarantees us a future. If I’d gone to the police with unfounded suspicions, the news of the threats would have been on the street in hours and the Japanese wouldn’t have stayed long enough to unpack their digital DVs.”