Violets Are Blue, Page 4

  She nodded. “I got a call from KRON-TV. They’re close to doing a story that there have been several murders in California.”

  I frowned. “How the hell did they find out?”

  She shook her head. “Who knows? I’m going to give a reporter I know at the Examiner the okay to break the story first.”

  “Hold on a second,” I said. “You sure about that?”

  “I’m sure. I trust my friend as much as I trust anybody. He’ll ground the story in reality at least. Now help me figure out if there’s anything we want the killers to read in the newspapers. It’s the least my friend can do for us.”

  When we got back to the Hall of Justice there was bad news. The killers had struck again.

  Chapter 16

  IT WAS another bad one, another hanging. Two hangings, actually.

  Jamilla and I split up as soon as we arrived at the murder scene in Mill Valley. We had different ways of doing things, different crime-scene techniques. Somehow, though, I thought we would arrive at the same conclusions about this one. I could see the signs already—all of them bad.

  The two bodies were hung upside down from a rack used to hold copper pots. The scene of the murders was a contemporary kitchen inside a large, very expensive house. Dawn and Gavin Brody looked to be in their mid-thirties. Like the other victims, they’d been drained of most of their blood.

  The first curiosity: Although the Brodys were naked, the killers had left behind their jewelry. A pair of Rolex watches, wedding bands, a large diamond engagement ring, hoop earrings studded with countless small diamonds. The killers weren’t interested in jewels or money, and possibly they wanted us to know it.

  So where were the victims’ clothes? Had they been used to clean up the mess, to sop up blood? Was that why the killers had taken the clothing with them?

  They seemed to have interrupted the Brodys, who were both successful lawyers, while they were preparing a meal. Was there some symbolism involved here? Or dark humor? Was it a coincidence, or had they purposely attacked the couple at dinnertime? Eat the rich?

  Several small-town police officers and also the FBI’s techies were crowded into the kitchen with us. I figured that the damage had already been done by the Mill Valley police. They were well intentioned but had probably never worked a major homicide before. I saw a few dusty footprints on the natural-stone kitchen floor. I doubted they belonged to the killers or the Brodys.

  Jamilla had made her way around the large kitchen and now she came up to me. She’d seen enough already. She shook her head, and really didn’t have to say what she was thinking. The local police had messed up this crime scene pretty badly.

  “This is beyond strange,” she finally said in a low whisper. “These killers have so much hatred in them. I’ve never seen anything like it. The rage. Have you, Alex?”

  I looked into Jamilla’s eyes but said nothing. Unfortunately, I had.

  Chapter 17

  THE STORY detailing a “rampage” of West Coast murders dominated the front page of the San Francisco Examiner. All hell had broken loose.

  William and Michael watched it unfold on TV that night. They were impressed with themselves, though they had expected the news story to break soon. They were counting on it, in fact. That was the plan.

  They were the special ones. The chosen team to get the job done. Now they were on their mission. On the road again.

  They were chowing down at a diner in Woodland Hills, north of L.A., off I-5. People in the restaurant noticed them. How could they not? Both were over six feet two, with blond ponytails, strapping, well-muscled bodies, and dressed completely in black. William and Michael were the archetypes of modern boyhood: wild animal meets entitled prince.

  The news was playing out on TV. The murders were the lead story, of course, and the sensationalized coverage lasted for several minutes. Frightened people in Los Angeles, Las Vegas, San Francisco, and San Diego were interviewed on camera and had the most incredibly insipid things to say.

  Michael frowned and then looked over at his brother. “They got it all wrong. Mostly wrong, anyway. What idiots, what fucking drones.”

  William took a bite of his dreary sandwich, then he stared up at the TV again. “Newspapers and TV always get it wrong, little brother. They’re part of the larger problem, what has to be fixed. Like those two lawyers in Mill Valley. You finished here?”

  Michael wolfed down the remainder of his extra-rare cheeseburger in a voracious bite. “I am, and I’m also hungry. I need to feed.” His beautiful blue eyes were glazed.

  William smiled and kissed his brother on the cheek. “C’mon, then. I have a good plan for tonight.”

  Michael held back. “Shouldn’t we be a little careful? The police are out looking for us, right? We’re a big deal now.”

  William continued to smile. He loved his brother’s naïveté. It amused him. “We are an incredibly big deal. We’re the next big thing. C’mon, little brother. We both need to feed. We deserve it. And besides, the police don’t know who we are. Always remember this: The police are incompetent fools.”

  William drove their white van back down the road they had traveled through Woodland Hills before they had stopped at the diner. He was sorry they couldn’t have brought the cat, but this trip was too long. He pulled the van into an obnoxiously lit shopping mall and studied the signs: Wal-Mart, Denny’s, Staples, Circuit City, Wells Fargo bank. He despised every one of them as well as the people who shopped there.

  “We’re not looking for prey here?” Michael asked. His bright blue eyes darted around the mall and he looked concerned.

  William shook his head. The blond ponytail wagged. “No, of course not. These people aren’t worthy of us, Michael. Well, maybe that blond girl in the tight blue jeans over there is marginally worthy.”

  Michael cocked his head sideways, then licked his lips. “She’ll do. For an appetizer.”

  William hopped out of the van and walked to the far end of the parking lot. He was strutting a little, smiling, his head held high. Michael followed. The brothers crossed through the backyard of the Wells Fargo bank. Then the full parking lot of the Denny’s restaurant, which William thought smelled of bacon grease and fat people.

  Michael began to smile when he saw what his brother was up to. They had done this kind of thing before.

  A somber black-and-white sign loomed straight ahead of them. It was backlit. Sorel Funeral Home.

  Chapter 18

  THE BACK door to the funeral home took William less than a minute to crack open. It wasn’t a problem since security was minimal.

  “Now, we feed,” he said to Michael. He was starting to get excited, and his sense of smell led him to the embalming room. He discovered three bodies stored in the refrigerators. “Two males and a female,” he whispered.

  William quickly examined the bodies. They were fresh. Two had been embalmed, one hadn’t. William knew about necrology, including what went on in funeral homes. The embalming process involved draining blood from the veins, then injecting a formaldehyde-based fluid. Tubes connected to pumps were inserted into the carotid artery and the jugular vein. The next step involved emptying the internal organs of their fluids. After that, much of the work was cosmetic. The jaws of the dead were wired shut. The lips were arranged and sealed with some kind of glue. Eye caps were placed under each eyelid to prevent the eyeballs from sinking into the head.

  William pointed to a centrifuge, which was used to drain bodies of blood and other fluids. He laughed. “We won’t be needing that tonight.”

  All his senses were heightened. He felt larger than life. His night vision was excellent. Nothing more than the illumination from a table lamp would be needed.

  He opened a refrigerator and took the unembalmed body in his arms. He carried the corpse, a woman in her early forties, to a nearby porcelain table.

  William looked at his brother and gently rubbed his hands together. He took a deep breath. They had raided funeral homes before, and though it
didn’t compare to a fresh kill, prey was prey.

  Besides, the dead woman was a fairly good physical specimen for her age. She was attractive and compared favorably to the female they had attacked and fed upon in San Francisco. There was a name tag on the body: Diana Ginn.

  “I hope some funeral director didn’t have Diana first,” William said to his brother. Pathetic geeks sometimes took jobs at funeral homes so that they could ravage the dead at their leisure. They’d do unnecessary searches into vaginal and anal cavities. Another kinky pastime was to have sex with the dead in a coffin. It happened more than people could imagine.

  William found that he was excited. There was nothing to compare to this. He climbed up onto the embalming table and poised himself above the woman.

  Diana Ginn’s naked body was ashen, but pretty enough in the dim light. Her lips were full and blue. He wondered how she had died, since she didn’t look sick. There were no obvious wounds. She hadn’t been in an accident.

  William carefully pried open the eyelids, looked into her eyes. “Hello, my sweet girl. You’re beautiful, Diana,” he whispered dreamily. “That isn’t just a cheap pickup line. I mean it. You’re extraordinary. You’re worthy of tonight, of Michael and me. And we will be worthy of you.”

  He let his fingers lightly graze her cheeks, then the woman’s long neck, her breasts, which weren’t pert now but more like sacks of pudding. He studied the intricate lines of her veins. So beautiful. He was almost dizzy with lust for Diana Ginn.

  While William crouched low over the body, his brother lightly stroked the woman’s bony feet, her thin ankles, then slowly, lovingly moved his hands up the long legs. He was moaning softly, as if he were trying to waken her from the deepest sleep.

  “We love you,” Michael whispered. “We know you can hear us. You’re still here in your body, aren’t you? We know, Diana. We know exactly how you feel. We’re the undead.”

  Chapter 19

  I CONTINUED to be impressed with the tremendous discipline and hard work of Jamilla Hughes. What drove her? Something buried in her past? Something more obvious in the present? The fact that she was one of two female homicide inspectors in the San Francisco Police Department? Maybe all of the above? Jamilla had already told me that she hadn’t taken a day of comp time in almost two years. That sounded kind of familiar.

  A couple of times during the next day at the Hall of Justice, I mentioned her incredible work ethic, but she shrugged it off. She was well respected by the other homicide inspectors. She was a regular person. No false airs. No bullshit about her. I found out that she had a nickname. It fit her—Jam.

  I spent a couple of hours in the afternoon finding out what I could about tigers. Area zoos and shelters were being canvassed in an attempt to locate every single tiger in California. The murderous cat was our best lead so far.

  I was keeping my own list of facts, different things that struck me.

  Someone was able to command and control the tiger before and after it attacked and bit Davis O’Hara in Golden Gate Park. An animal trainer? A vet?

  The jaw of a tiger is so strong that it can crush bone and then pulverize it. And yet someone was able to call the tiger off its prey.

  All tiger species are considered endangered. Their existence is being challenged by both loss of habitat and poaching. Could the killers also be environmentalists?

  Tigers are being poached for their suspected healing powers. Almost every part of the cat is considered valuable and, in some cases, sacred.

  Tigers have magical significance in some cultures, especially in parts of Africa and Asia. Could that be important to the case?

  I had lost track of the time, and when I looked up from my note-taking it was already getting dark outside. Jamilla was striding down the corridor in my direction.

  She had on her long black leather jacket and looked ready to leave. She’d put on lipstick. Maybe she had a date. She looked terrific. “‘Tyger! Tyger! burning bright,’” she recited a line from Blake’s poem.

  I answered with the only other line I could remember: “‘Did he who made the Lamb make thee?’”

  She looked pensive, then she smiled. “What a team. The poet-detectives. Let’s get a beer.”

  “I’m pretty beat and I have a few more files to check. I think I’m still jet-lagged.” Even as I was saying the words, I wasn’t sure why the hell I was saying them.

  She put up her hand. “All right already. You could have just said, No, you’re not my type. Jeez, man. I’ll see you in the morning. But thanks for all your help. I mean that.” I saw her smile as she turned, then walked away down the long hall to the elevators. But then I saw her shake her head.

  After she was gone, I sat at the desk overlooking the streets of San Francisco. I sighed and then I shook my head. I could feel a familiar weariness settling in. I was alone again and I had no one to blame. Why had I turned Jamilla down for a couple of beers? I liked her company. I didn’t have any other plans, and I wasn’t that jet-lagged.

  But I thought I knew the reason. It wasn’t too complicated. I had gotten close to my last two partners on homicide cases. Both were women I liked. Both had died.

  The Mastermind was still out there.

  Could he be in San Francisco right now?

  Was Jamilla Hughes safe in her own city?

  Chapter 20

  THE RINGING of the telephone in my hotel room woke me early the next morning. I was groggy, still half asleep when I picked up.

  It was Jamilla, and she sounded a little breathless. “I got a call late last night from my friend Tim at the Examiner,” she told me. “He’s got a lead for us. This could be good stuff.” She quickly filled me in on the sketchy details of an attempted murder, an old case. We had a witness this time. She and I were going on the road again. She didn’t ask if I wanted to go—it was apparently a done deal.

  “I’ll pick you up in half an hour—forty minutes at the latest. We’re going to L.A. Wear black. Maybe you’ll get discovered.”

  United flies an hourly shuttle between San Francisco and Los Angeles. We just made the nine o’clock and were in L.A. an hour or so later. We didn’t stop talking for the entire trip. We rented a car at Budget and headed to Brentwood, where O. J. Simpson had lived and presumably killed once upon a time. I was as pumped up about the new lead as she was. The FBI was also in on the game in L.A.

  On the way to Brentwood, she checked in with her pal at the Examiner, Tim. I wondered if Tim was a boyfriend. “You find out any more for us?” she asked. Jamilla listened, then repeated what she heard for me. Part of it we already knew.

  “Two men attacked the woman we’re going to see. She managed to get away from them. Lucky girl, incredibly lucky. They bit her severely. Chest, neck, stomach, face. She thought the perps were in their mid-forties. The attack occurred over a year ago, Alex. It was a big story in the supermarket tabloids.”

  I didn’t say anything, just listened to her, took it all in. This case was so strange. I hadn’t seen anything quite like it.

  “They were going to hang her from a tree. There was no mention of any tiger in any of the articles my friend was able to dig up. A detective from the LAPD is meeting us at the station house. I’m sure we’ll hear more details from him. He was the lead detective on the case.”

  She looked over at me. She had something here, something good. “Here’s the kicker, Alex. According to my source, the woman believes her attackers were vampires.”

  Chapter 21

  WE MET with Gloria Dos Santos at the police station in the Brentwood section of L.A. It was a one-story concrete building, about as nondescript as a post office. Detective Peter Kim joined us in a small interview room, which was about six by five feet, soundproof, with padded walls. Kim was slender, around six feet, in his late twenties. He dressed well and seemed more like an up-and-coming Los Angeles business executive than a policeman to me.

  Gloria Dos Santos obviously knew Kim, and they didn’t seem too fond of each other. She
called him “Detective Fuhrman,” and she used the name over and over until Kim told her to “can it” or he would lock her the hell up.

  Dos Santos wore a short black dress, high black boots, leather wristbands. There were about a dozen earrings in strategic locations on her body. Her frizzy black hair was piled high, but some also cascaded down to her shoulders. She was only an inch or two over five feet and had a hard face. Her lashes were thick with mascara, and she used purple eye shadow. She looked to be in good physical shape—like all the other victims so far.

  She stared at Kim, then at me, and finally at Jamilla Hughes. She shook her head and smirked. She didn’t like us, which was fine—I didn’t much like her either.

  She sneered. “Can I smoke in this rattrap? I’m going to smoke like it or not. If you don’t like it, then I’m going the hell home.”

  “So smoke,” Kim said. “But you’re not going home under any fucking circumstances.” He took out some David ranch-style sunflower seeds and started to eat them. Kim was a strange boy himself.

  Dos Santos lit up a Camel and blew out a thick stream of smoke in Kim’s face.

  “Detective Fuhrman knows everything that I know. Why don’t you just get it all from him? He’s brilliant, y’know. Just ask him about it. Graduated with some cumma honors from UCLA.”

  “There are a few things we aren’t clear about,” I said to her. “That’s why we came all the way from San Francisco to see you. Actually, I came from Washington, D.C.”

  “Long trip for nothing, Shaft,” she said. Gloria Dos Santos had a zinger for every occasion. She wiped her hand over her face a few times as if she were trying to wake herself up.

  “You’re obviously high as a kite,” Jamilla cut in. “That doesn’t matter to us. Relax, girl. These men who attacked you hurt you pretty bad.”