To Catch a Vampire Page 8

  “I can show you,” she says, standing up. Ugh. A skirt halfway up her stick thighs, I should have guessed. So not professional. Okay, I know, glass house much right now? But I’m undercover, not a representative for the U.S. government. If her skirt was any shorter, my three-year-old goddaughter Flora couldn’t even wear it. As she walks over, Oliver folds his arms across his chest and doesn’t take his eyes off her butt. His eyes jump to mine for a moment, and grin Number One appears. I roll my eyes and follow the Lindsay Lohan of the FBI to the copy room.

  “Here you go,” the blonde says, gesturing to the machine.

  “Thanks,” I mutter. I pull out the sketches and start the machine.

  “So, do you like undercover work?” the blonde asks.

  “I’ve never done it before,” I say, pressing the button.

  “Oh.” She walks over to the machine, stopping at the files. “So, how long have you two worked together?”

  Subtle. “About three months. Longest three months of my life.” I put the next sketch into the machine and press the button. “If I have to hear one more word about his wife and four kids, I’m going to stick a red-hot Q-tip into my ear. I’m almost as sick of hearing about them as I am about his impotence problem. I’ve told him time and time again ‘if you put Tabasco on it, eventually it will lose all sensation.’ I mean, TMI, right? But you know men.” I put the final picture in, and the machine spits it out. “All done,” I say cheerfully. I hand her the originals and the files.

  “Um, thank you,” she says.

  When we walk out, me first, Oliver still waits by her desk, smiling. “I got everything I need here,” I say, matching his smile. “You ready to go?”

  “If you are.” He takes the hand of the blonde and raises it to his lips. “Thank you for the stimulating conversation, Hayley. I hope to see you again.”

  Darned if she doesn’t look at his crotch. “Same here.”

  “Thanks for all your help,” I say as I start toward the elevator with Oliver behind me.

  The elevator door opens right as I press the button. Love when that happens. We step in, both pressing the button. The doors close and bye-bye Hayley.

  “She was a delightful girl,” Oliver says.

  “Yeah, she really seemed to like you. Maybe you should ask her out, see what she says.”

  “Perhaps I will.”

  “You do that.”

  The doors open onto the lobby and we walk out, handing back our visitor badges as we pass. I try to gain some ground away from him, but in these frigging shoes he doesn’t need super-speed to reach me. He takes my arm, but I yank it away without even realizing it, shocking even myself.

  “I have upset you,” he says, stopping.

  “Nope,” I say, still walking toward the parking lot. For once he doesn’t follow. “Come on! We have a club to get to,” I shout back at him.

  “We have at least an hour before we should arrive,” he shouts back, still not moving.

  Crud. Having no real choice, I stop walking and face him. “Jesus Christ,”—he winces— “can we please get moving? My feet are killing me!”

  He bridges the gap between us until he’s two feet away. “I apologize if I upset you. It was not my intention.”

  “I’m not upset, I’m uncomfortable. I honestly don’t care if you and the chick were going at it Animal Planet style in front of me. Flirt with whoever you want. Not my business.”

  “You do care,” he states as cold hard fact.

  I roll my eyes. “Okay, I probably would care if you were having sex in front of me, I mean, gross, but …” I shake my head. He always does this! I want the talking to stop, but he utters a few words and it’s soliloquy time. I stop myself. “I’m not having this conversation with you again. Not when I’m dressed like a hooker in front of the FBI building. We have work to do. That is what we’re here for, right? Work? So let’s go. We can check out the Costarello condo.”

  This time we both start walking toward the parking lot, though he walks behind me. “I am sorry. I will try not to let it happen again.”

  And darned if I don’t feel a little better.

  _____

  The Costarellos lived in the trendy—read: ritzy—part of Dallas where the Dolce & Gabbana boutique is down the road from the Prada store, along with a Starbucks on every other block. Their high rise, a triangular building that’s mainly glass, is wedged between a Dean & DeLuca and Armani Exchange. Since it’s a work night and everyone but us night owls is tucked away in their beds, we manage to find a metered spot across the street. Oliver holds the helmets as I pull out my badge while we cross the street. A skeptical door man stares at the badge for a few seconds but opens the door.

  The lobby is exactly as I imagined it would be: white marble, with a fake waterfall off to the side. There’s even a little pond with koi. I keep my credentials out as I approach the middle-aged man in the burgundy vest behind the reception desk. His nametag reads “Rob.” His expression changes from confused to absolutely puzzled as we reach him.

  “Can I … help you?” Rob asks with a Texas drawl.

  “I’m Special Agent Beatrice Alexander and this is Agent Oliver Montrose with the FBI. We’re looking into the disappearance of Don and Linda Costarello in 602.”

  “Oh,” Rob says, relaxing a little.

  “Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?”

  “The police already did. I mean, I barely knew them.”

  “You work the night shift?” I ask.

  “Afternoon. I usually leave around midnight.”

  “I understand the Costarellos had many visitors at night,” Oliver says.

  Rob chuckles. “Yeah. And they usually looked like you two. Not my place to judge, though.”

  I pull out the sketches of the bad guys and lay them on the tabletop. “Do any of these people look familiar to you?”

  He studies them carefully. “I don’t think so.”

  “Okay, thank you,” I say, collecting the pictures. “Can we have the spare key to 602?”

  “Um … I’m afraid I can’t do that. We have a strict policy about warrants.”

  Oliver steps forward, meeting Rob’s eyes. Rob’s body tenses again, and his eyes turn vacant. “Hand her the key,” Oliver says.

  Without a word or blink, Rob bends down and opens a drawer. He pulls out a key, putting it in my hand. Oliver plucks it out, and starts toward the elevators. Rob just stares at nothing as I follow Oliver.

  “I hate it when you do that,” I say as the elevator doors close. “It can’t be good for them.”

  “You were complaining of foot pain. We would have spent the next five minutes arguing without achieving the desired result.”

  “Still. Taking away someone’s free will like that is wrong.”

  “I can do nothing to please you tonight.” The elevator doors open and we step into a beige hallway. “Perhaps when we retire to our room tonight, I can attempt to change that. Pleasing you, that is.”

  “Yeah, you can get your own room. That would please me to no end.”

  We reach 602 and Oliver unlocks the door but doesn’t open it. Instead he keeps his hand on the handle, looking at me. “You know, my dear, one of these days I may take one of your expressions to heart and cease all my attention on you.”

  “I live for the day. Now open the darn door.”

  Changing grins to Number One, full teeth, he opens the door. I step into the dark alcove, feeling the wall for a switch. After five steps, I find it, flicking it on. Nice place. The gray tile alcove opens onto a large living room with black and white leather furniture and silver lamps all on off-white carpeting. Simplistic. On the glass coffee table in the middle of the room rests a book of Frida Kahlo’s art, providing the only splash of color in the whole place besides the now brown flowers on the mantelpiece. I think they were lilies.

  It’s stale in here and still, almost as if the place knows its owners will never return. Homes have a feel. They pick up the energy of their owners
and hold onto it. That’s why there are some rooms that you can walk into and get a little pick-me-up. There are others that, even though the room is bare, make you feel unwelcome. This one is near null. They must not have spent a lot of time here.

  Oliver clears his throat. “Um, Trixie, dear?”

  I spin around. He’s still in the hallway. “What?”

  “I cannot come in until I am invited.”

  “It’s not my house, can I do that?”

  “Anyone who crosses the threshold can. Your energy is melded with theirs.”

  “So, I can make you stay out there if I want?” I ask with a sly smile.

  “Only if you want to explore the dark apartment yourself.”

  “Good point. Come in.”

  Oliver crosses, closing the door behind himself. “Thank you.”

  I shrug. “It’s not very homey, is it?” I ask, looking at the wedding photo on the mantle. I recognize the wedding dress Linda wore from a wedding magazine. Yes, I flip through wedding magazines sometimes. I’m a girl. It’s not as if I have a subscription. Anymore. Anyway, it’s a Vera Wang and costs as much as a small car.

  “Some prefer a clutter-free life,” Oliver says.

  “Do you?”

  “Not recently.”

  His gaze makes my cheeks flare up. “We better go to the bedroom.” His eyebrow raises and grin Number One returns. “To look for clues, creep.”

  “Of course.”

  After a histrionic eye roll, we walk down the bare hall, past the exercise room, and into the master bedroom. The bed takes up the majority of the room. Oh, bad taste alert. There’s a mirror above the bed. Besides those two features, the room’s like the rest of the place: white and dull. My first stop is the dresser, Oliver’s is the bed. He flops onto it, resting his head on his hand.

  “I wouldn’t touch that thing,” I say, opening the drawer. “Who knows how many hundreds of people have been in that exact same spot.” Nothing but expensive underwear in there. I open the next one. Designer clothes. “You could help me, you know.”

  “I try not to rifle through other people’s treasures. It is such an invasion of privacy.”

  “This coming from the man who just last week asked me my bra size.”

  There’s nothing in the dresser but at least ten thousand dollars worth of designer clothes. Next, I go over to the bed, kneeling down to get a peek underneath, which is not easy in this skirt. Nothing. After two tries I stand up, walking back to the nightstand. Nothing again but lotion, magazines, and a sleep mask. I’m about to close it when I notice a gap between the front and bottom of the bottom drawer. A hidden panel. I all but rip the drawer out, dump the contents, and watch as the false bottom gives way. As do dozens of Polaroids. Oliver sits up, suddenly interested.

  “Nancy Drew would be put to shame,” Oliver says.

  Nancy Drew would have a heart attack or join a nunnery if she found this stuff. Linda, Don, and various men and women engage in countless lewd acts with all sorts of paraphernalia. I will never look at a stapler the same way again. Eww. I pick up another one. Okay, how does that thing even fit? He must have been sore the next day.

  “Huh, um, huh,” I say.

  Oliver picks up a few photos, examining them. “Intriguing.”

  “Gross. This is just … ick. How can people, married people, do these with other people, let alone photograph it?”

  “Many couples have open relationships.”

  “Well, I couldn’t.”

  “That is because when you love, you love for eternity. You would never share that love. It is a beautiful thing.”

  I smile despite myself. He smiles back, not a grin, but a genuine smile. “What about you? How do you love?”

  “It has been so long, I do not remember,” he says with a hint of melancholy, but the smile stays in place.

  I look back down at the pictures. “How sad for you.”

  “Yes.”

  For the first time, I feel him beside me. He’s been there for seconds, but now I feel it. Bodies in close proximity and all. It makes me uncomfortable, but I won’t let him know it. “Do you think our perps are in one of these photos?”

  “I doubt it. I do not smell blood, and even if I did, they would have taken the photos with them.”

  “Thank God—” He winces. “Sorry. I so do not want to look through all of these. What do you think we should do with them?”

  “Put them back.”

  “Right.”

  Oliver and I gather up every picture, tucking them back into the drawer. Whoever ends up with this thing is in for a big surprise.

  I do a quick search of the rest of the condo but find nothing of interest. I should have known the vamps didn’t come here. Not with neighbors and thin walls. They probably have a house somewhere. Another dead end.

  “So, now what?” I ask Oliver as I close the door.

  “Now, we go to the Church.”

  Six

  The Church

  No, we don’t actually go to church. For one, we’re not dressed for it; and two, Oliver would burst into flames if he set foot in one. We pull up to the lot across the street from the Lizard Lounge, which according to Oliver becomes “the Church” every Thursday and Sunday night. This was Donna Zahn’s last known location. There’s a line halfway around the building consisting of the biggest group of Goths this side of a Marilyn Manson concert. For people who shun conformity, they sure do all look alike. Black, white, or rainbow hair. Mesh shirts, black trench coats, and dog collars as far as the eye can see. This is the first place tonight where I’m the conservative one.

  Judging from the length of the line and my limited experience at clubs, it’ll be two hours before we reach the door. By then my feet will turn gangrenous and have to be amputated. Oliver crosses the street with me close behind, but instead of joining the line, we walk right up to the linebacker at the door. The teenagers in line scoff and roll their eyes as I would too. I always hated the genetic lottery winners who get special privileges, but my feet hurt and I’ll be a hypocrite if it gets me off them sooner. Sure enough, the bouncer takes one look at Oliver and parts the velvet rope.

  “Go right in,” the bouncer says.

  “Thank you,” Oliver says, passing through. As I walk behind, the bouncer gives me the once over. He’s not impressed. I’m an impostor, and I can’t even fool a bouncer.

  The entranceway is packed with black-clad people who match the walls. Some wear capes, others miniskirts and tube tops. A girl with a purple halter top adorned with white, bats eyes at Oliver, licking her lips. This is so commonplace he doesn’t even notice. As we maneuver through the crowd, other women and even men watch him. Me they don’t even notice, except when I step on their feet. We make it to the coat check, turning over jackets and helmets. The music booms so loud I can feel each beat down to my marrow. A beautiful, tall blonde wearing a red tube dress breezes past. She winks. Oliver apprizes her, winking back and licking his lips. Then just as slut one vanishes, her evil twin does the same thing, garnering the same response from my fake husband. I see the same color red as that woman’s lips. That’s it.

  Now, I am not the possessive type. I’m really not. When women flirted with my ex Steven, I shrugged it off. I didn’t even care when he flirted back. But this time … He wants a whore, I’ll damn well give him one. I grab his arm, dragging him to the wall next to the dance floor entrance.

  “What?” he shouts over the music.

  I move in right next to him, putting his arm around my waist. He looks surprised. Not as surprised as when I put my hand in his back pocket. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right. Now, let’s have some fun, pookie.”

  A gothic mix of the Gorillaz “Dare” begins as we walk in. The club is perfect for the Goth set with black walls, chandeliers, stained glass windows, and heavy red velvet curtains on the walls. A disco ball twirls above, and off to the side nubile young things gyrate on stripper poles. On the far wall near the DJ, The Hunger plays.
Catherine Deneuve and Susan Sarandon kiss and caress on the screen. The room smells of stale sweat and a butt load of pheromones that I’m sure I’ll blame for what I do next.

  I lead my man to the dance floor, giving his gorgeous butt a pinch before pulling my hand out. Oliver looks at me as if I’m a stranger. With a grin, I start dancing—well, as best I can in these freaking heels. Everything but my feet move in time to the music. Hips pivot side to side in time to the music. I raise my arms above my head, hands swinging with my hips. Oliver doesn’t move for a few moments with that “she’s possessed by the devil” look. I swing everything: arms, hands, hair, hips. My hands find my hair, and I fan my fingers out in it. The hair falls on my exposed shoulders, tickling me. Using my knees, I bend down, still grooving side to side, and then slowly gyrate back up trailing my finger up Oliver’s leather pants, chest, and slightly parted lips. Meeting his eyes, I wink. Grin Number One.

  He bridges the small gap between us so our chests and legs touch, putting his leg between mine and placing his hands on my hips. The song changes to techno Korn. I rest my arms on his shoulders, bringing our faces closer too. Our skin is millimeters from contact. His eyes meet mine and a shiver cascades down my spine. It’s an act, it’s an act. I just haven’t had anyone touch me for awhile. I’m a method actor. Jesus, just go with it. I do look away, though.

  Our bodies sway as one, moving side to side in time. With each sway I become more and more aware of his body and mine. Hands, chest, legs, all melded. His finger making circles on my hip. My nethers separated from him only by leather and cotton panties. His neck is so close, I can kiss it.

  Think of something else. Bunnies, baseball, anything. His left hand moves south to my tush, and I damn near jump out of my skin. Grin Number Two surfaces. The jerk’s teasing me! He knew which buttons to push, and darned if he didn’t push them like a videogame controller. Anger clouds the sexy feelings. My first impulse is to step on his foot, but instead I pull away by twirling around. He just lost touching privileges. He tries inching in closer, but I dance away. We continue dancing a few inches apart for the rest of the song. That’s enough of that. I need a drink.