Mario Acevedo - X-Rated Bloodsuckers

Direct action against family and outsiders is authorized. Report when completed.

Araneum

Direct action against family and outsiders ? Rarely did the Araneum allow preemptive deadly force against family-vampires. And outsiders-humans.

I reread the message, wondering how much had been left out of the text.

The great secret was of course the existence of the supernatural.

We ask. you . Ask? The Araneum asking had the same weight as a commandment-with an implied "or else." The Araneum apparently didn't appreciate Cragnow's lack of cooperation. For him, I was the "or else."

To infiltrate ? My investigation into the murder of Roxy Bronze would be a convenient cover. But were her death, the disappearance of the Araneum's agents, and vampire-human collusion related?

The crow yanked the paper from my hand. I swatted after it. The bird flew toward the window, into the dazzling column of sunlight. The crow sat on the sill, holding the parchment in its beak.

As I reached forward, the parchment smoldered. I flinched. The crow dropped the parchment as it burst into a puff of gray smoke. A stench of burnt flesh swirled through the room. The smoke alarm above the front door went off.

The only thing that would combust in contact with sunlight like that was… vampire skin. The smell confirmed my suspicion. A clever if macabre way to destroy the message. What part of the body did the patch come from? And from whom? And why? A rogue vampire convicted by the Araneum?

The crow returned to my desk and rolled the message capsule with its beak.

The wail of the smoke alarm grated on my ears. The bird could wait. I walked up the wall to silence the noise. The crow squawked and clicked its beak against the capsule, annoyed that I ignored it.

The alarm quiet, I returned to my desk. The crow rubbed one leg against the capsule. I opened the clasp and slid it over the crow's leg. The bird shook its leg, as if testing the security of the attachment. Then it jumped to the windowsill, tapped its beak against the window, and squawked. I pried open the window screen and the crow shimmied out. The capsule rasped against the frame.

Without glancing back, the crow leapt into the air and soared over the roofs and trees. Its morose caw echoed across the neighborhood.

I lowered the sash and locked it. I slumped in my desk chair and thought about the chasm of murder and conspiracy I was about to fling myself into.

Alone.

But not powerless.

I opened the upper desk drawer. I was going into a situation greatly outnumbered. Better that I even the odds with human technology. I pulled out a Colt .380 automatic and racked the slide. A silver-tipped cartridge glittered momentarily before being rammed into the chamber.

I had a plane to catch.

After arriving at LAX,I rented a sedan and headed to my hotel in Culver City. I checked in and picked up a box marked TRAINING MATERIALS. Since 9/11, to avoid the scrutiny of traveling commercial air with a weapon, I had express-shipped my pistol from Denver.

Returning to my car, I opened the box and dug through the bubble wrap to retrieve a Ziploc bag. In it were my Colt automatic, holster, twenty-one silver bullets divided evenly among three magazines, and the remaining twenty-nine bullets that came in a box of fifty. Plenty of ammo for every conceivable scenario. If I needed more firepower, I'd steal a machine gun.

My cell phone remained quiet. Why hadn't I heard from Katz Meow? I'd called last night and left a message that I'd be here soon. She'd replied with voice mail that she expected me. My last call had been when I arrived at the airport, and still nothing from her.

Katz didn't seem the type to ignore me, especially since the trip was on her dime. Perhaps she had misplaced her phone. Or maybe there were other reasons, more sinister reasons, which were the real purpose for my investigation.

I kept an Internet hacker on retainer. I didn't know if this person was female or male, only that once a month I sent five hundred bucks to a private mailbox in Kalamazoo, Michigan. In return I had a keyhole into almost every database wired to the information grid. Some months I needed squat, so the money was a colossal drag on my overhead. Other times, what I got was worth every dollar.

Courtesy of my hacker, I carried a sheaf of background info on the principals in this case, including phone numbers, home and work addresses, photographs, and other documents.

Roxy Bronze emerged from the past as if she were a corpse washing up on a beach. She was born Freya Krieger in nearby Burbank. Her father was a marketing executive and her mother a Realtor, which provided Freya with a comfortable middle-class upbringing. A high school honor student and track star, she turned down an athletic scholarship and Olympic tryouts to pursue premed studies at the University of Southern California. She graduated magna cum laude. After that, Freya attended the Johns Hopkins School of Medicine. She returned to L.A. to intern as a cardiac specialist with La Brea Mercy Hospital. She became the victim of an operating room scandal, which destroyed her medical career. Freya Krieger had climbed to impressive heights, only to tumble off and become Roxy Bronze.

Roxy's obituary mentioned she had been cremated. That meant no more clues from her remains.

I had two mailing addresses to Katz Meow, one c/o Gomorrah Video, the other a private mailbox. Wilma Pettigrew rented a place in Encino, close to the private mailbox address. I'd start there.

One more thing. I knew from experience to keep plenty of money handy in case it wasn't wise to use plastic or visit an ATM. Cash withdrawals left a trail. I took eight thousand dollars in hundreds and tucked it into the lining of my overnight bag. I also carried a backup credit card under an alias. These precautions should keep my whereabouts hidden for a while.

Seen from the freeway, the sprawl of the San Fernando Valley stretched in relentless monotony. A line of homes clung to the surrounding hills like the ring around a bathtub.

The place in Encino was a two-story townhome on a narrow, winding street. I parked in the fire lane and got out. Enameled planters with pink and white impatiens flanked the entrance to her home. A sticky note was on the aluminum screen door. The note was written in loopy cursive letters.

Katz

Where you been??? Call!!!

Cindi

The i 's in Cindi were dotted with tiny hearts.

Who was Cindi? A friend, no doubt. Obviously she couldn't find Katz either.

I rang the doorbell. No one answered. The front door was locked. No evidence that anyone had forced it open. I looked under the doormat for a key. Nothing. I checked in the planters and along the trim above the door. Again, nothing.

I went to the alley and counted houses until I found Katz's.

Her back door faced a row of detached garages. I tugged on the handle of the garage I presumed would've been hers. Locked.

As I put on a pair of thin leather gloves, I looked about to see that no one watched. I twisted the garage door handle until metal snapped. I gave the handle another pull, and the garage door slid up.

I half expected to find Katz's corpse rotting inside. Instead, the garage yawned empty. Oil stained the concrete floor. A bicycle with a broken chain and flat tires leaned against one wall. Cardboard boxes sat in lopsided stacks on the far side. I checked the boxes and found only women's clothing.

I shut the garage door and climbed the back stoop of Katz's house. The door and windows were locked. Curtains prevented me from peeking inside. But the windows on the second floor were open.