Fearless in High Heels Page 4

  “For starters, what is your relationship to Alexa?”

  “Alexa was an employee of mine,” he answered.

  “In what capacity?” Dana asked.

  “She was an actress.”

  “So, you’re a producer?” I asked.

  Confusion must have been clear in my voice as he turned to me with that half smile pulling at his lips again. “Of sorts. I produce events. Parties, I supposed you could call them. Specialty parties for a special set of clientele.”

  “That’s very vague,” I pointed out.

  Sebastian’s smile bloomed into a full fang-ed affair. “Yes. It is.”

  Again, I felt my inner kindergartener shifting uncomfortably.

  “What kind of parties are we talking here?” Dana asked.

  “Oh,” Marco said piping up. “Are they…” he leaned in, stage whispering, “sex parties?”

  Sebastian shook his head, amusement lighting his pale eyes. “No. Fantasy parties.”

  “Like, vampire fantasies?” I asked, the pieces falling into place as I eyed the teeth again.

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “What goes on at these parties?” Marco asked, his eyes glinting with a light that said he was fishing for an invitation.

  Sebastian cocked his head at Marco, answering slowly. “The usual. Dining, dancing, drinking.”

  “Drinking…?” I let the question hang in the air.

  He smiled at me, a lopsided thing ripe with amusement. “Cocktails. Like I said, the parties are fantasies. They’re an escape from the everyday. A chance to live in a different world, if only for one evening. A world where the fantasy of immortality reigns. Everyone stays young, and there is no death, no disease. No hangovers,” he added winking at me.

  “And there are people willing to pay for this fantasy?” Dana asked.

  “Oh, yes,” he answered. “You’d be surprised at the guest lists. Doctors, lawyers, politicians. The people who live the most mundane, upstanding lives are the ones with the richest cravings for escape.”

  His eyes went to me on that last note, lips curling into a half smile again that hinted at some sort of shared secret.

  I shifted in my seat, studiously looking away.

  “And Alexa worked at these parties as what?” I asked, steering the conversation back to our purpose for being here.

  “As a vampire, of course.”

  Of course.

  “So it’s all make believe,” I said (watching Marco’s shoulders slump with disappointment out of the corner of my eye). “The fangs are fake?” I said.

  Sebastian’s eyes leveled on me again. “Mine? No, these are real.”

  I paused. I wasn’t sure if this guy was putting me on or putting himself on.

  “When was the last time you saw Alexa?” Dana jumped in.

  Sebastian sat back in his chair, a small frown marring his otherwise smooth features. Incredibly smooth, I noticed. Suddenly I wondered how old he was. His demeanor would have me putting him somewhere close to my own early thirties, possibly older, but unless he was using some really amazing night cream the absence of lines on his face spoke to someone much younger.

  “Alexa worked a private party for me two nights ago,” he answered. “That was the last time I saw her.”

  “Did she leave alone?” I asked.

  Sebastian paused, and I could see him carefully formulating his answer. “My actresses always leave alone. What they do once they leave here, I have no idea. That’s beyond my control as an employer.”

  I raised an eyebrow. Why did I get the feeling he was being purposefully vague again?

  “Did Alexa have any enemies?” Marco cut in. “Anyone who would want her dead?’

  Sebastian shook his head. “Not that I know of. Then again I wasn’t on personal terms with her. She was an employee.”

  “How long had she worked for you?” Dana asked.

  “A few weeks.”

  “And how deep into the vampire fantasy was she?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “She was very good at her job. Beyond that, I can’t tell you what her preferences were, whether or not she chose to live the lifestyle outside of work.”

  Whether she chose to live it or not, it had certainly been a part of her death. Which brought me to my next question…

  “What do you know about sanguinarians?” I asked, pulling the term from my Moonlight education.

  Sebastian turned to me, the twinkle of amusement shining in his unnaturally pale eyes again. “You mean drinking blood?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite.” He paused, then grinned. “No pun intended,” he added with a wink. “Sanguinarian is the technical term for a person who has an inherent thirst or physical need, that lies outside of eroticism or fetish, to drink blood. Los Angeles has the largest recorded number of sanguinarians in the United States. According to the 2010 census more than two-hundred and seventy-five thousand of them reside in southern California. Is that what you wanted to know?”

  I bit my lip. And slowly nodded. Though I noticed he the use of the world “them” to describe the blood drinkers and not “we”. I wondered if it was intentional or a slip of the tongue.

  “Was Alexa involved with anyone at your parties who was a sanguinarian?” I asked.

  Sebastian frowned. “May I ask why you’d like to know?”

  “Because she was killed last night,” Dana pointed out.

  I could see thought churning behind Sebastian’s eyes, but his face was impassive enough that I couldn’t read them. “And this has to do with my parties because…?”

  “She bled to death. From a pair of bite marks on her neck.”

  “Messy,” he answered, his face still impassive.

  “You’d think. But there actually wasn’t much blood at the scene at all.”

  “So, what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that…” I paused. I wasn’t really sure what I was saying. It seemed silly now that I was voicing our theory out loud.

  “That a vampire bit her, drank her blood, and killed her,” Marco finished for me, never one to worry about looking silly.

  Sebastian looked from Marco to me to Dana, then back to me again. “And you’re here to accuse me?”

  “If the fangs fit,” Marco said, with a lot more bravado than I currently felt, pinned to my seat by those intensely pale eyes.

  But while I might have expected Sebastian to get defensive when being accused of sucking the life out of a person, he seemed as cool and calm as he had since we entered his modern lair.

  “I’m sorry, but you’re way off track,” he told Marco.

  “So point us to the right one,” I offered. “Who might have done this to Alexa?”

  He shook his head. “Like I said, I wasn’t privy to her personal life.”

  “Do you know who might have been?” I asked. “She had a friend with her last night. A redhead?”

  “Becca?” Sebastian asked.

  Bingo. “Do you have a last name for Becca?”

  “Diamond. She worked for me as well. Why?” he asked.

  I hesitated to tell him that she was as of now suspect nurermo uno. “She may have been the last one to see Alexa alive.”

  Sebastian frowned. “That’s troubling.”

  I’ll say.

  “So, Becca is one of your vampires, too?” Dana clarified.

  “Actress. But, yes, she plays that role.”

  Maybe one Becca took too seriously. Had she fought with Alexa over something? Had she bitten her and – my stomach rolled at the thought – actually drained her friend of blood? “Do you know where we can find her?” I asked.

  Sebastian nodded. “I can look up her personnel file. Excuse me for a movement.” He got up and moved from the room.

  As soon as the three of us were alone, Marco leaned forward. “Did you see how he floated out of here?”

  “He didn’t float. He walked. Gracefully,” I added.

  “Did anyone no
tice if he had a reflection as he walked past the artwork? Did you see him in the glass?”

  I rolled my eyes. “He is not a vampire, Marco.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes!” Mostly.

  Marco opened his mouth to argue, but before he could make another case for the undead, Sebastian returned, a slip of paper in hand.

  “Here’s the phone number and address we have on file for Becca,” he said handing the paper to me. I cringed in anticipation of a cold, clammy hand but was met with normal flesh. I gave myself a mental shake. I’d been watching too much Moonlight.

  “Thanks,” I said, slipping it into my purse as I rose.

  “I would appreciate it if you would keep me apprised of your findings,” Sebastian said as he led us back toward the front door. “And please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  I nodded, thanking him for his time, even though I had the distinct feeling that last offer was a hollow one.

  Especially if he was the blood drinker we were after.

  Chapter Six

  The first thing I did when we got back to the car was dial Becca’s number. It rang seven times, then unfortunately went to voicemail, where I left her a message with my name and number, asking her if she could please call me back.

  “So, what do we think of Fang?” Dana asked as I hung up.

  That was a loaded question. I thought he was hiding something, for certain. But whether it was about Alexa’s death or his own unique drinking problem, I wasn’t sure. And adding to that uncertainty was the shiver still sitting mid-spine that his icy blue eyes had created. Dangerous, intense, seductive. Totally unnerving.

  So instead I shrugged. “Question mark?”

  “Good way of putting it,” Marco said, nodding in the passenger seat. “You can never be sure what vampires are capable of.”

  Dana and I did a synchronized eye roll. “Seriously, Marco?” I said. “You can’t really believe there are vampires among us?”

  Marco blinked at me in the rearview mirror. “Hello? Did you not hear the man? There are two-hundred and seventy-five thousand real vampires among us.”

  “Two-hundred and seventy-five thousand weirdoes that claim to drink blood,” Dana clarified.

  “Po-tay-toe, po-tah-toe,” he annunciated, waving me off. “I’m still glad I’m wearing a turtleneck, because that guy - Hey, did you guys just roll your eyes at me?”

  * * *

  After all that eye-rolling and vampire questioning, I’d worked up an appetite. Luckily, there was an In-N-Out Burger conveniently situated just off Laurel Canyon, after a minimum of whining on my part about my starving baby, Dana agreed to stop.

  Marco ordered a protein burger – meat, lettuce, tomato, no bun – saying he was watching his carb intake now that he was seeing Gunnar. Dana ordered water, saying that everything on the menu was loaded with fat and non-organic pesticides. I ordered a double, double with extra cheese, a side of animal style fries and a Neapolitan shake, saying nothing.

  Marco looked at my tray. Back up at me. Back to the tray, then down at The Bump.

  “Hey, the burger and fries are for the baby,” I explained. “I’m only eating the shake.”

  He shrugged. “Fair enough.”

  Once we’d fully consumed our lunch (me and Marco making little yummy sounds throughout and Dana making little disgusted sounds throughout), I stopped for a quick pee break, then we were back in Dana’s mustang.

  I tried dialing Becca’s number again, but again got voicemail. This time I didn’t leave a message. Instead, I plugged the address into Dana’s GPS and we hit the freeway.

  The address on the paper Sebastian had given us was just off Sunset, east of the 101. While Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood proper was full of souvenir stands and tourist stops, the east side was full of crumbling apartment buildings and trash can fires. The architecture here was mid-century modern meets eighties crack house, the glamorous homes of the semi-famous from Hollywood’s heyday having deteriorated into tenements that now housed rats the size of purse-dogs. If this is where Becca was living, it was clear that the vampire gig wasn’t a big money maker.

  Becca’s building was a square block of concrete set between an adult film shop and a liquor store having a sale on Marlborough cartons. We circled the block, then found a spot on the street two buildings down. Dana beeped the car alarm twice, just for good measure, and said a small prayer that her baby would still be there when we got back, before following Marco and me into the lobby of Becca’s building.

  The floor was a cracked linoleum, the walls a dull grey, and the scent a mix of urine and Chinese take-out. A set of stairs sat to the right and an elevator to the left. Unfortunately, the elevator held a cardboard sign with the words “Out of order” written across it in sharpie. Fab.

  “What floor does Becca live on?” I asked, eyeing the stairs versus my wedges.

  Dana checked the paper again. “Unit Four-seventeen.”

  Fourth floor. Sigh.

  “Okay, let’s get this over with,” I huffed, taking the first flight just a step behind Dana and Marco.

  By flight number two, I was feeling the burden of carrying fifteen extra pounds. By flight number three, I was getting winded. By flight number four, I felt like a hippo was sitting on my chest, and I was carrying hundred pound barbells on my shoulders.

  “I (pant) hate (pant) stairs (pant, pant).”

  “You okay?” Dana asked, concern puckering her brow.

  “You’re not gonna drop a baby on us here. Are you?” Marco asked, panic in his eyes.

  I shook my head. “I’m fine. I just need (pant, pant) a second.”

  “I think it’s just down here,” Dana reassured me, indicating a hallway to our right filled with closed doors and painted-on numbers.

  I did a couple of deep Lamaze breaths to slow my panting, then followed her until she stopped at four-seventeen, a unit at the end of the corridor near a garbage chute that reeked of diapers and rotting food. I quickly plugged my nose. It nature’s cruel trick on the pregnant that just when you’re the most queasy you’ve ever been in your life, your sense of smell suddenly goes into hyper drive, picking up every lovely nuance of scent.

  Dana shot me another look. “You okay?”

  “I’b fine,” I said, sounding like I had the mother of all colds. “Let’s do dis.”

  Dana nodded, knocking on the door. We waited, listening to silence on the other side. Nothing.

  Dana knocked again, as I breathed heavily through my mouth, willing my gag reflex not to engage.

  Again, no answer.

  “Maybe she’s not home,” Dana suggested, putting an ear to the door to listen for sounds.

  But I wasn’t ready to give up that easily. I’d just climbed up four flights of stairs. I was not going home empty-handed. I knocked with my free hand, waited a two-count, then tried the door handle.

  What do you know, it turned easily in my hand.

  Dana and Marco both registered my own mix of surprise and concern on their faces. This was not a good sign. No one in this neighborhood would leave their front door unlocked. In fact, no one I knew in L.A. left the door unlocked at all – even when they were home.

  I carefully pushed it open a crack.

  “Hello?” I called out. “Becca?”

  No one answered.

  “Becca? Are you here?” I opened the door all the way, taking a tentative step into the room.

  And froze.

  The place was trashed. Sofa cushions tossed, tables upended, lamps knocked over, kitchen cupboard contents littered all over the floor.

  Someone had clearly beaten us here.

  Chapter Seven

  “Becca?” I called out again, noting the panic edging into my voice.

  I moved into the apartment, stepping over the mess as I heard Dana and Marco do the same behind me.

  Marco whistled low. “Oh, honey, someone has done a number on this place.”

  No kidding.
>
  The living room was small, roughly the size of my closet, with an equally doll-house sized kitchen attached at one end. A stove, refrigerator and oven took up the entire kitchen, looking rusted and worse for the wear above more ripped linoleum to match the lobby. Beyond the living space sat a doorway leading to what I guessed was a bedroom. I gingerly stepped over a couple of broken picture frames and sofa cushions toward it.

  “Becca?” I called out again. “Are you here?” Though, honestly, I didn’t expect an answer. If she was here, she clearly would have heard us in the shoebox apartment by now. But I found myself holding my breath anyway as I peeked my head around the doorframe.

  As expected it was a bedroom, holding a twin bed and a scarred wooden dresser. Only the bed had been stripped of its linens, the contents left in a heap on the floor along with a couple of pillows that were molting down feathers from their busted seams. The dresser drawers were open, clothes spilling onto the floor.

  “She in here?” Dana called, coming into the room behind me.

  I shook my head. “No. It’s empty.” And so was, I noticed, her closet. The tiny cubby hole held a single wooden bar where only a couple of wire hangers sat. Someone had cleaned out Becca’s belongings in a hurry.

  “The bathroom is empty,” Marco called, his head popping into the doorway. “And her make-up is gone, too.”

  Which all added up to one thing, I realized with a sinking sensation in my stomach: our number one suspect was MIA.

  * * *

  I arrived home to a note on the kitchen table saying Ramirez would be out late (bummer), but that his mother had brought over some enchiladas that were in the fridge. (yay!) I immediately pulled out a casserole dish that smelled like chilies, cumin, and cilantro and popped it into the microwave to reheat. A little sour cream and a mashed up avocado later, and I was in heaven. I was just going into a food orgasm when the doorbell trilled.

  I reluctantly left my feast and opened the door to find my mom and step-dad on the other side.

  “How’s my grandbaby doing?” Mom asked my belly, immediately putting two hands on The Bump.