P.D. Martin - Kiss of Death

I lean back. We haven’t found anything suspicious on Anton Ward, but you wouldn’t expect much from a law-abiding citizen. The LA Weekly article provides more of a personal insight into the man, and I reread it. Apparently he never watches television, comes from a Latvian background, and is into art, classical music, chess, fine dining and red wine. Of course, it had to be red wine. He spends four weeks a year in Europe and can’t stand people with poor personal hygiene or who are badly dressed. Most of the article is about vampirism and After Dark, but throughout the piece these snippets of more personal information are revealed. Then again, everything he says fits an image—the image of an old-world, well-educated European male. I mean, how many American men in their thirties are into classical music, chess and red wine these days?

Sunday, 7:00 p.m.

I head across to the Monte Cristo on Wilshire, the location of Ruin on Fridays and Malediction Society on Sundays. The bar itself doesn’t open until 10:00 p.m., but hopefully there’ll be someone there, setting up the club. It’s 7:00 p.m. by the time I arrive, spot Sloan and get a parking spot. It takes us another fifteen minutes to find the entrance, which is down a laneway, despite the club’s official address being Wilshire. The place is all shut up but we pound on the big metal door nevertheless.

“Nice neighborhood,” Sloan says sarcastically. The outside of the Monte Cristo and the surrounding area is certainly nothing to brag about, but maybe that fits in with the Gothic scene.

Three posters are plastered on the door: one for Cherry Pie on Thursdays, a lesbian night; one for Ruin on Fridays; and one for tonight. A few event-specific posters are also up, such as the next full-moon party. Looks like we’ve come to the right place.

We bang on the door again and keep at it until eventually someone opens it a crack.

“What?” A woman comes partially into view. Even with only a sliver of her face and body visible, I can make out legs and long black hair.

I hold up my FBI ID. “I’m Special Agent Sophie Anderson from the FBI and this is Detective Sloan from the LAPD.” Sloan also holds her badge up to the crack in the door while I continue. “We’d like to talk to you about the Gothic and vampire communities here in L.A. and about some of your patrons.”

The door opens fully. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you were cops.” The annoyance in her voice is gone. “Can we talk while I work? I’m running behind. I’ve got to finish setting up and get home to tuck my little girl in.”

“Sure.”

Sloan and I follow her in.

“Are you the manager here?” I ask.

She snorts. “No. But I do most of his work.” She turns around. “I’m the bar manager, Cheryl.”

Cheryl’s tall, at about six-two, although a few inches of that is high-heeled boots that come up to her thighs. She wears skimpy black hot pants and a burgundy bodice, strapped tight. Her dark black hair is long and straight, with a heavy fringe.

“Are you a vampire, Cheryl?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Nope. And personally I think it’s all crap. But we get lots of people in here who think they are vamps.”

“After Dark?” Sloan is struggling to keep up with Cheryl’s strides.

“Sure. Most of them come in here—if not every Friday and Sunday at least a couple of times a month. Including their leader, Anton Ward.”

“You know how many people are in the group?”

She shrugs. “There’s about twenty in Ward’s house.”

“House?”

“Coven, house, clan. It’s what they call themselves.” Cheryl ducks under the side of the bar. “You ladies want a drink? On the house of course.”

“Water, if you’ve got it.”

She smiles. “Guess you’re still on duty, huh?”

“Yeah.” Sloan lets out an exaggerated sigh. “I’ll have a water, too.”

“Two waters coming up.” Cheryl bends down into a fridge directly beneath her and places two bottled waters on the bar. Sitting on the bar stools, Sloan and I open the drinks.

“Are there lots of vampire houses?”

“Sure.” Cheryl pauses, looking around the bar. “Sugar syrup.” She grabs a bag of sugar and pours some into a jug, and then takes out a kettle and plugs it in. “I guess there’s about four bigger houses that I know of for sure. But even two or three vamps just hanging out might call themselves a house.”

“You got any names?” Sloan leans forward in anticipation.

She shakes her head. “The others are small fry compared to Anton’s house. After Dark’s the most well-known because of its elite nature.”

“So tell us about Ward.” I take a sip of water.

Cheryl starts cutting lemons. “His group’s been around for ages…longer than I’ve been here.”

“How long have you worked here?” Sloan asks.

“Four years.”

“That’s a long time,” I say in between mouthfuls of water.

“Yeah. For this place and bar work in general. But it suits me. I live down the road and can pop back home to say good-night to my little girl, and the tips are good. And the boss…well, I know I said before he should be here, but I like it that he’s not on my back all the time.” She shrugs. “No reason to move on.”

“So four years ago…” Sloan takes a quick glance around the room. “Ward and After Dark much as it is now?”

“Uh-huh. Maybe a few more members, but that house is pretty stable.”

“Good leadership?” I ask.

“Guess so. Ward’s certainly…charming. And good-looking.” She stops chopping lemons for a second and looks up. “There’s something about him, he’s got…what’s that French expression?”

“Je ne sais quoi?”

“That’s the one.” She gives us a wink. “A great ass, too.”

“Sounds like you’re smitten.” Sloan smiles.

“No.” She shakes her head. “He’s not my type. Way too sure of himself. I like my men a little more submissive.” Another wink.

The kettle clicks off and she pours the boiling water into the jug and stirs while she talks. “But lots of women do like him. He’s got a few from his clan, of course, plus…well, pretty much any woman who comes in here would jump at the chance to get into bed with Ward.”

“I see.” I’m getting curious now. I know from the photos that he’s good-looking, model good-looking, but obviously there’s more to it than that. Then again, as the leader of a large group, cult or not, he’s bound to have a charismatic and magnetic personality.

“Many people leave After Dark?” I ask.

“No, not really. Like I said, it’s a stable house. And Ward’s wealthy, real wealthy, so I think the members get lots of fringe benefits.”

“Such as?” Sloan stands up and for the first time today gets out her notebook, pen and reading glasses.

“I don’t know for sure, but I’ve heard he buys them clothes and jewelry, plus he’s got a standing tab here for drinks. And I think the group meets at his house once a week and the whole thing’s catered.” She stops stirring the sugar syrup and puts it in the fridge before moving back to the last two whole lemons.

I watch her making quick, exact slices. “Does it cost money to become a member?”

“I don’t know.” She pulls out a basket of limes and a few cartons of strawberries.

“Anyone left After Dark recently?”

“Yeah, actually. Damien Winters. Used to be close to Ward, too, but he broke off a little bit ago.” She cuts the limes into quarters. “He hangs out with a different bunch of people now.”

“What’s Damien Winters like?”

She shrugs. “He’s okay. Both he and Ward have very strong personalities and I presume that’s why he left—a house with two alpha males just doesn’t work.”