Praise for the novels of P.D. MARTIN

“Readers who enjoy hard-nosed police drama or CSI-style television shows will find [Sophie] an engaging character.”

—Fresh Fiction

“A clever concoction.”

—The Age on Kiss of Death

“Martin provides solid entertainment as she takes a high-concept premise and runs with it. The narrative is fast-moving, the protagonists likable, the police detail and dialogue believable and the serial killers just as evil as they need to be.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Murderers’ Club

“As always, Martin delivers a cleverly plotted and entertaining read, chockablock with fascinating procedural details and flashes of dark humor.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Killing Hands

“A gripping read.”

—Herald Sun on Fan Mail

“Well-structured and unusually imaginative.”

—The Mystery Reader on Fan Mail

“Martin is a real find.”

—Women’s Weekly

Kiss of Death
P.D. Martin

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Extra Resources

Acknowledgments

One

Saturday night

A narrow trail snakes in front of me, lit only by the full moon. If I can make it to the road…or hide…

Low-hanging branches scrape across my face, breaking through my raised arms and drawing blood. But I can’t stop. I have to keep running. Can he smell my blood?

I stumble and fall to the ground. For a moment all I can hear is the deafening thud of my heart. But then I notice it. Silence. No more footsteps hurtling down the path behind me. I pick myself up and keep running, not convinced I’ve really lost them.

Finally I stop, resting my hands on my thighs to try to slow my breathing. I look around at the houses perched on the hilltops to the right. They’re too far away to hear or see me.

The crack of a branch on the far side of the trail frightens me. I back away. My eyes, even though fully adjusted to the night, strain to decipher my surroundings. Is someone behind that tree? I keep moving backward, but then another branch snaps behind me. I run.

Soon I hear the footsteps again. I push myself harder, run harder. I glance back, hoping they’re farther away than they sound. But they’re not. Slamming into something, I come to an abrupt stop. I fall backward. I look up. His face is in shadows, but I can see glistening white teeth as he smiles.

Fangs dig deep into my neck, accompanied by searing pain.

I wake up with a start, rubbing my neck. The very last part of the dream flashes back to me…what the…? But then I realize I’ve fallen asleep on the couch to a rerun of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Obviously its imagery spilled into my subconscious as I was dropping off.

I drag myself over to the TV and turn it off, moving my head from side to side to stretch my neck. Someone in Buffy may have got fangs in the neck, but all I’ve got is a crick in mine. Serves me right for falling asleep in front of the box. Flicking off the lights, I make my way into the bathroom for the usual nightly ritual—cleanse and moisturize my face and brush my teeth. I complete it all on remote, watching the process in the mirror like a third-party observer.

Before going to bed I decide to do a final sweep of my apartment. I’m always security conscious; my job and my past make me extra careful and I often find the only way I can sleep is to search my apartment before I turn in for the night. I grab my gun and start at the front door, looking through the peephole. The coast is clear outside. From my front door I can see most of the open-plan space of my living room and kitchen. White walls and downlights are made warmer by rich hardwood floors and two French doors that lead to a large balcony—one of my favorite features during hot summer nights. Like half of the complex’s balconies, mine overlooks the swimming pool and well-landscaped gardens.

The open-plan space has few potential hiding spots, so I move straight to the large hall closet. Once that’s checked I head for the bathroom, even though I was in there less than a minute ago. I pull the shower curtain back with my left hand, aiming my gun low into the small bathtub. It’s empty, and I move quickly to the next door—my bedroom, and the only room in the house with carpet…I love the feel of the squishy warmth under my bare feet. Dark wood furniture with a Japanese feel offsets the cream carpet, again creating warmth in what could be a stark room. I check behind my three-panel Japanese screen, before moving to the built-in wardrobe. Opening one door at a time, I scan the clothes and also squat down to make sure only my shoes, facing away from me, occupy the closet. Like the rest of the place, it’s all clear. As my final check I flick on the outside light and make sure no one’s on the balcony.

Looking down at the Buddha that sits in the corner of the room, I say: “All clear.” But I’m talking to myself, not the deity. Maybe I need a pet.

Sunday, 11:00 a.m.

On my way home from Bikram yoga—something I’ve discovered since moving to L.A.—my BlackBerry buzzes with an incoming call. There are only a handful of people who could be calling me on a Sunday, and when I see the number is withheld I jump to the logical conclusion—work. Still, while all special agents are always on call, as a profiler most of my work is initiated in the office Monday to Friday.

“Agent Sophie Anderson.”

“Anderson, it’s Rosen.” George Rosen is the head of the L.A. office’s Criminal Division and many of my cases come through his department. “What’s up?”

“Murder.”

“Go on,” I say.

“Do you know Temescal Gateway Park?”

“Uh-huh.” Temescal Gateway Park is about twenty minutes from where I live and work—Westwood, L.A. I’ve even done a few of the park’s walks.

“A body was found there an hour ago. Right on the border of Topanga State Park.”

“And we’ve got a call already?” Police rarely call in the FBI so quickly in a homicide case, unless there’s something strange about the death or the area is rural with no local expertise in murder cases—and nothing twenty minutes in any direction of L.A. is rural. There must be some other reason why the Bureau’s being pulled in early. Could be jurisdiction if they suspect the killer’s been active in other states or, given they’re calling a profiler, it’s also possible there’s something unusual about the murder or the scene.

Rosen’s tone softens. “You’re going to love this one, Anderson.”

“Really?” I lean back into the car seat and am met with the sticky sensation of sweat-drenched hair on the back of my neck. When you do yoga poses in nearly 104 degrees for an hour and a half, your body takes a while to cool down.

“It’s gold.” Rosen pauses again and I get the feeling he’s enjoying keeping me in suspense.

I play along. “Come on. Spill it.”

“Where to start… Female vic, reported missing early this morning…and there are two puncture marks on her neck.”

Puncture marks? I immediately think of last night’s dream, but say, “Like a snakebite?”

“Maybe. But there’s another line of inquiry, too. Rumor has it a group of self-proclaimed vampires uses Temescal Park for rituals from time to time. The group’s called After Dark and apparently its leader is a charismatic male, which fits the cult pattern. If we are dealing with a cult and it’s suddenly turned violent…”

“Gotcha.” I take a deep breath. Cults, or NRMs—new religious movements—if we’re being politically correct, aren’t my usual area of expertise, but I have studied the psychology behind NRM behavior and some of the more spectacular examples of cults gone terribly wrong in America’s past. But is vampirism a religion? Maybe some people treat it like one.

Rosen continues. “Couple of months back they arrested two people who were in the park illegally, after hours. That’ll be your starting point.”

“Two people…that’s hardly a cult.”

“No, but they are part of After Dark. The two guys said they were in the park by themselves and stuck to that story, but rangers saw a much larger group dispersing.” He takes a breath. “Come into the office and I’ll brief you fully, then I want you to get your ass down to the crime scene.”

“Yes, sir.” I look down at my yoga gear. “It’ll be half an hour. I’m not at home.” Normally I’d head straight to work, but given my current state I need to shower and get some proper clothes on first. No way am I showing up at a crime scene in tiny shorts and a midriff top, both partially see-through from sweat.

Rosen pauses. “What the heck. It’s a nice day out. Let’s just meet at the scene. See you at Temescal Park in forty minutes or so.”

“Yes, sir.”

Interstate 5 is busy as usual, but it’s moving well and I make good time back home. Within ten minutes of Rosen calling, I’m pulling into a parking spot on the street and racing up the stairs to my apartment. My shower is rushed, but while I’m shampooing and rinsing I think about the case—what little I know at this stage. A cult of vampires? This could be big. Whatever happens, it’ll certainly be interesting. And how many “vampires” are there in L.A.? I’ve got lots of questions and no answers.

Within fifteen minutes I’m showered and dressed in gray pants and a black scoop-neck top. To this I add my shoulder holster and Smith & Wesson before popping the suit jacket over the top. Time to hit the road.

I drive north on Veteran, past the massive veteran cemetery, up to Sunset. On the corner of Veteran and Sunset a guy with a board slung over his body advertises maps to celebrity homes, reminding me that I’m passing through that part of town. I take a left, traveling west.

The drive along Sunset is peaceful, and as the road winds through wealthy suburbia, with large blocks and beautifully kept houses and gardens, I try to recall last night’s dream. I was running through a wooded area and there were at least two people running after me, maybe three because I had people on my tail when I slammed into the “vampire.” I visualize Temescal Park and try to imagine it in the dark—the area certainly fits the bill, fits my dream.

As I round a bend just near Chautauqua Boulevard, a row of tall gum trees reminds me of home. In some ways America and Australia are so different, yet you could take small sections of each country and cross-transplant them without really noticing much discrepancy. The gum trees remind me of similarities, but one trip on the I-5 would remind me of the differences. And the drive-through Starbucks here…I could have done with a few drive-through coffee shops when I was on the force in Melbourne.

I hit Pacific Palisades, and the group of shops on Sunset gives the suburb a homely, almost rural feel. I’m close, and sure enough a few cross-streets later I come to Temescal Canyon Road. I turn right into the park’s entrance and am immediately met with an LAPD car.

I hold my ID against the driver-side window and the officer waves me through. “Drive on up to the top, ma’am.”

I follow his instructions and drive past a couple of parking turnoffs, until I see more cop cars and a Chevy Impala with the coroner’s emblem on the door. I pull my car onto the side of the road, just after the Temescal Camp Store. A sign says Park Vehicles Only, but today it’s overrun by law-enforcement cars. Rosen is holding a file in his hands and leaning on his car—obviously waiting for me.

Once I’m parked next to him, I open the door. “Is she up one of the trails?”

“Yup.” Rosen moves toward me and waits while I quickly change into the runners I keep in my car.

I tie my laces. “Beautiful spot, huh?”

“Sure is.”

Problem is now this park will be forever tainted with murder and with memories of last night’s dream. Not all my dreams come true, but obviously last night’s must have had a psychic nature.

I stand up and take a deep breath of the spring air. The temperature isn’t anywhere near the daily maximum yet but it’s a pleasant and fresh sixty-one degrees.

Rosen hands me the file.

I take the white manila folder. “You spoke to the homicide detective?”

“Yup. Detective Sloan from LAPD. She said to take the Temescal Ridge Trail about a mile up.”

I nod and flip the file open. The first photo is a close-up of a woman’s neck, with two puncture marks. “Crime-scene photos already.” I raise my eyebrows.

“We are in the digital age.”

I smile. “Quite.”

I’d like to flick through the file’s contents now, but I’m also eager to get to the crime scene. “I’ll check this out later.” I close the file but keep a hold of it. “Let’s head up.” I don’t want to keep the LAPD waiting any longer—not when they’ve invited us onto their turf.

We make a beeline for a lone cop who seems to be on point. He stands next to a flagpole and an American flag twitches in the slight breeze above him. Around this bitumen area stand large trees—firs, oaks and sycamores—as well as smaller shrubs and a very young willow tree. Extending up behind the cop is a steep hill.

We show him our ID and he waves us through. “Take the left-hand trail, ma’am, sir.”

We both thank him and follow his directions. Within three hundred feet we come to brown tourist signs indicating the different trails. We climb the couple of steps made from stone and take the left fork at the next round of trail signs, which tell us that the Temescal Ridge/Temescal Canyon trail is a 2.6 mile loop. So far the area is peaceful, but I know darkness waits for us. A woman has come to a grisly end at the hands of a murderer…or two…and it’s up to us to give her justice. I know it’s cliché but that’s still how I see my job—bringing justice to the dead.

“Do you know Detective Sloan?” I ask Rosen as we walk up the steady incline.

“Sure. She’s an old-timer. Did her stint in the Sheriff’s Department but couldn’t give up the chase.” He lets out a little laugh. “LAPD decided to give the old gal a second running.”

“Is she a fan of the Bureau?”

“I don’t think she’s particularly pro or anti. But she knows this case could be tricky. It’s certainly unusual.”

“I’ll say.”

Given the uphill and windy nature of the gravel trail, coupled with the dense brush, we could be a minute’s walk from the scene and wouldn’t necessarily see it. I tread carefully and keep to the main pathway so as not to disturb anything that may turn out to be evidence. I also keep my eye out for anything unusual. No point looking for footprints, because the area’s covered in them. If the perps left their own mark on the trail last night, they would just blend in with the hundreds of others. Hopefully there’ll be some more telling prints near the body.

We get to a bend in the pathway and take the turn. The path extends up for another three hundred feet in front of us to a ridge, where the trail turns again…but still no body.

I look up the hill. “Maybe it’s around the next bend.”

“Sloan said they’re in a clearing off the trail, but that we’d be able to see them from the main path.”

I nod and we keep moving upward. My heart rate increases slightly and I can feel my fatigued muscles working on the steep incline. On either side of the trail are smaller shrubs scattered amongst the trees. There are also several cacti dotted around the patches of vegetation. The path is obvious; however, it wouldn’t be that hard to move off the trail and through the denser brush.

Finally, at the next corner, I hear voices. It’s still hard to work out how far away they are, with the wind and mountain slope carrying the sound and distorting distance, but we’re close.

Both the victim and killer, or killers, probably came up this path. There’s only one way up, unless they hiked in from the neighboring Will Rogers State Park to the east or Topanga State Park from the north. But it’s much more likely they parked on the street somewhere, jumped the park’s nighttime barrier and made their way to the trail. The park is only open from sunrise to sunset, but I doubt the security is heavy.

“Who found the body?” I ask.

“One of the park rangers. They had a call at nine this morning from a resident who overlooks the park. He spotted what looked like torches around midnight last night and then lights again just after two. Called it in this morning.”

I look around for any houses that might have a good view. From here there are only a few houses in the distance to the east, too far away to see much.

Rosen’s starting to puff. “The ranger didn’t think much of it, but decided to check it out anyway. It was about ten when he found the body.”

Rosen called me around eleven, so things moved pretty quickly. An LAPD officer would have come down immediately to secure the scene and wait for the homicide detectives, Forensics and crime-scene photographers. The specialists would have arrived about 10:30 a.m., and the forensic pathologist from the coroner’s office probably only just beat us.

Within a few minutes I can see another row of houses in the distance—one of these homes must be our witness’s. I look around, taking in the surrounding area more closely. To the south is the ocean, and to the north, east and west are hills, some of which are claimed only by nature, while other slopes hold large residences or clusters of smaller houses. The views would be magnificent and I imagine it’s prime real estate. Certainly nothing I would ever be able to afford on a government salary. So, the witness saw into this clearing, saw activity, but did he see anything that will help us further? All the houses are too far away for the naked eye, but if the resident has binoculars or a telescope, he may have seen much more than I glimpsed in last night’s dream.

We round another bend and run into a hive of activity. Most are uniformed police officers from the LAPD, but I can also make out the forensic pathologist Belinda Frost from the coroner’s office and a few plainclothes officers. Only one female in plainclothes, presumably Sloan.

In her mid to late fifties, she wears her graying hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. She’s about fifteen to twenty kilograms overweight, and well-defined lines across her brow, eyes and around her lips help me peg her age. She wears a well-cut navy suit, with pants that flare slightly at the ankle. The suit’s color brings out bright blue eyes and naturally rosy cheeks.

Rosen strides over to her. “Detective Sloan, nice to see you again.”

“You, too, Agent Rosen.”

Rosen introduces me.

“Ah, yeah. My head girl.” She taps her head.

“That’s me.” I smile and take her outstretched hand.

She gives me two firm pumps. “Thanks for coming out so quickly.”

“Thanks for calling us in.”

She gives me a forced smile. While some law-enforcement officers jump at the chance to get a helping hand from the FBI, others avoid us like the plague. Sloan requested Bureau involvement but it doesn’t look like she’s exactly overjoyed by our presence. She’s probably just covering all bases.

“So…there’s our gal.” She steps to one side giving us a view of the body next to Frost’s crouching figure. The victim looks to be in her late teens or early twenties and is slim but curvy—a fact accentuated by her nakedness.

Frost turns around. “Hi. It’s…Anderson, right?” She and I met at a conference six months ago.

“Yup. Agent Sophie Anderson.” She’s several feet away, so we give each other a nod rather than going in for a handshake.

“And good to see you, Agent Rosen. Out in the field, huh?”

Rosen shrugs. “Well, it was a nice day, and this case sounded intriguing.”

Frost nods. “It is.”

I move closer. “Any chance it’s just a simple snakebite?”

“Unlikely.” Frost stands up. “Snakes usually leave residual venom around the wound. I swabbed the area and my preliminary tests were clear. I’ll run full tests back in the lab to be sure, but at this stage it doesn’t look like we’re looking at a snake.”

“Was there any saliva?” Is DNA too much to ask for?

She shakes her head. “No saliva showed up under ALS, but we might get something from deeper inside the wound.”

Whether the murder was premeditated or an impulsive act, the killer may have had the good sense to wipe the girl’s wound clean of saliva—assuming she was, indeed, bitten as the fanglike puncture marks might suggest. Still, we might find something he missed, hiding in a crevice of the wound.

“Any sign of sexual assault?” Rosen asks.

“Rape kit was positive for semen, but at a guess I’d say we’re looking at consensual sex. No bruising or tearing. And no restraint marks.”

I nod, but I know it’s inconclusive. Rape comes in all shapes and sizes and just because her body doesn’t show signs of violent or rough sex, doesn’t mean it was consensual. A gun or knife to the head—or some other threat of violence—usually ensures the victim doesn’t struggle.

“Any defensive wounds?”

Frost squats back down and picks up the dead woman’s arm with a gloved hand. “We’ve got a few scratches on her arms, hands and face, but if she ran along this trail or in this area they’re probably from the tree branches rather than an attacker.”

Last night’s dream comes flashing back. The victim was running all right, with branches hitting her face despite her attempts to shield herself.

“I should be able to confirm that under the microscope. There’ll be particles of wood or leaves.”

I squat down next to her. “And cause of death?”

“Not sure at this stage.”

I peer more closely at the neck wound. The two puncture marks are perfectly cylindrical and very neat, with no obvious tearing of the surrounding skin. However, the skin is red, and looks almost like a small hickey—like someone sucked on the wound. “Could it be blood loss? If we are dealing with someone from this vampire group, that’s likely, yes?”

Frost screws up her face. “She looks a little pale but if she died of blood loss it’s going to be a tricky one to prove.”

“Really?”

“There’s no way to test at autopsy how much blood is in the body and we’ve only got a few drops here.” She points to roughly six drops of blood next to the body.

I’m surprised, but when I think about it I’ve never worked a case of blood loss where the surrounding area wasn’t covered in blood. And the experts always specify how much blood was lost at the scene, from which they can conclude blood loss as the cause of death.

Sloan bends down next to the corpse, too. “Someone sure has made it look like a vampire, though.”

“Not necessarily look.” I scan the rest of the victim’s body. “There are people who truly believe they are vampires. That they need blood to survive.”

While it’s possible someone wants us to think we’ve got a vampire on our hands and is recreating that scene, it’s also possible that we’re dealing with people who believe they are modern-day vampires. If that’s the case the murder and crime scene hasn’t been purposely staged, the killer has just murdered the victim in what he’d consider a “natural” way. And psychologically there’s a big difference, especially in terms of a profile.

I stand up again. “Time of death?”

“Based on her liver temp and the current outside temperature, between one and four.”

Frost would have inserted a metal probe through the skin and into the victim’s liver to get the all-important core body temperature. While some forensic pathologists prefer to take the rectal temperature so they’re not piercing the skin and organs, obviously Frost is in the liver-temperature camp.

“That time ties in with our caller.” Sloan pulls herself to standing with some effort.

“What did the witness see?” I ask her.

“Lights, like torches, moving, and then later on a circle of smaller lights. I haven’t been to interview him yet, but he’s next on my list.”

I flick the ring on my little finger. “Sure does sound ritualistic.”

“Yup. Why do you think I called you in?” Her response is a little terse.

I look around at the scene. “What else have you got?”

“The ranger who found her is over there.” Sloan nods at a tall bearded man in his early thirties. “He was careful with the crime scene, careful trekking in and out, and we’ve managed to find quite a few distinct footprints nearer to the body.”

“Any idea how many sets?”

“Too early to tell. But apparently this clearing is a common stopover point for walkers. It’ll be hard to tell if the prints are from last night or earlier in the week.”

“Any in a circle?”

She shrugs. “We’ll know more in an hour or two.”

“You ID’d the girl?” Rosen bends down to take a closer look at her face.

“Yes. Sherry Taylor.” Sloan leans over the body. “There was an APB put out for her earlier today. She’s twenty years old, and lived in Brentwood with her parents, who reported her missing this morning.”

I chew on my bottom lip. “You’ve done the death knock?”

She sighs and nods. “Just got back. The parents were too distraught to talk, so I’m giving them an hour or two before we start questioning them. I’m hoping they’ll give us the formal ID this evening or early tomorrow. But I did take a head shot for them. It’s their girl, all right.”

“I’d like to sit in on any meetings you have with them, if that’s okay, Detective. I need to know as much as possible about Sherry.”

She nods. “I know the drill, Anderson.”

“Great.”

I take another look at the body, noticing her nakedness in every sense of the word—no makeup and no nail polish, which is unusual for a young woman. Did the killer or killers remove these things? It might tie in with the sacrifice angle—she had to be pure.

Sloan moves us away from the body.

“Ever seen anything like this before?” I ask her.

“No. I’ve seen a lot of bizarre things in my time, but nothing that implicates vampires. You?”

“My vampire viewing’s limited to Buffy.”

She gives a brief chuckle before letting out a heavy sigh. “The vampire mythology has always held a sense of intrigue, but it’s everywhere now.”

I nod. “And vampires are part of our consciousness from an early age. Even Sesame Street has The Count.”

“Humph…I never thought of that.” She looks back at the body. “Young women like Sherry…they think vampires are cool.”

I stare at the body, too. “I bet Sherry Taylor didn’t think it was cool when she was running for her life.”

Two

Sunday, 12:30 p.m.

Our caller lives on El Medio Avenue, overlooking both Topanga State Park and Temescal Gateway Park. Sloan and I pay him a visit together, leaving the crime-scene techs and Sloan’s partner, Detective Carey, to finish processing the scene. Rosen also leaves, opting to go back to the office and finish some paperwork, and Frost will be heading off with the body soon, too. Every forensic pathologist is different, but an hour or so at the scene is plenty for most.

Sloan and I take my car, and I turn off Sunset onto El Medio Avenue. The incline starts immediately, and within less than half a mile we’re on the crest of a large hill. From the road, the houses seem like larger suburban blocks, and their impressive views are hidden behind their bulk. It’d be nice to have a state park in your backyard. Especially so close to downtown L.A.

“What do you think one of these would go for?”

Sloan lets out a whistle. “Dunno…not exactly in my budget.” She peers out the window for a second look. “You’d have to be talking five to ten million, maybe more.”

“Ouch.”

“Uh-huh.” She pauses, looking at the street numbers. “We’re almost there. Third house on the right.”

I pull into the curb outside number 922.

Sloan unbuckles her seat belt. “We’re looking for Mr. Heeler.”

The house is a gray weatherboard, with white easels and window frames. It’s set back from the road a little more than some of the other houses, with a large concrete driveway leading to a double garage under the main residence. We walk along the driveway, up the two porch steps and knock on the white door.

A man in his late fifties answers. “Yes?” With one word, one breath, the stench of stale alcohol hits me. Great.

“This is Agent Anderson, and I’m Detective Sloan from the LAPD.” We both show our IDs.

“Of course.” He gives them a cursory glance with bloodshot eyes. “I’m Andrew Heeler. Please come in.”

Heeler is wearing khaki pants, a black shirt and bare feet. His graying hair is short, accentuating his round face and dark brown eyes. He takes us past a staircase and a living room on the right, into a large kitchen and open-plan space that looks out onto a deck…and the park.

“Wow,” I say. “What a view.”

He stops and looks out the windows. “Yes. It’s magnificent.” He sighs. “Except when kids are fooling around down there.”

“The people you saw were young?” Sloan asks.

“I don’t know. I’m just assuming.” He turns around to us. “Tea, coffee?”

Sloan and I both accept the offer of a coffee.

“Take a seat if you like.” Heeler motions toward a large black leather couch.

Once we’re both sitting, Sloan asks Heeler how long he’s lived here.

“Over fifteen years now.”

We start off with idle chitchat, ready to move to the more serious questions as soon as is polite and strategic. There’s no reason why Mr. Heeler would be on edge, but it doesn’t do any harm to make sure he feels at ease despite the official presence.

Sloan leans back into the couch. “You married, Mr. Heeler? Kids?”

“Widowed.” He flicks the brewer on and comes over to sit opposite us. “And I’ve got one son who’s twenty-five.”

I eye the telescope on the deck. “You’re a star-gazer?”

“Sometimes, yes. Although it only tends to be a couple of times a month these days. Just laziness, I guess.”

I smile. “Is that what you were doing last night?”

A few beats of silence go by before he responds. “Yeah.” He seems uncertain, like he’s trying to piece the events together. “I think it was around midnight…I went out to use the telescope, but then the lights in the park caught my attention.”

“Can you take us through exactly what you saw, Mr. Heeler?” Sloan asks.

“Um.” He stares out the window. “I went out to have a look at the stars—” he points toward the balcony “—and was adjusting my telescope’s position when I saw something out the corner of my eye.” He waves his left hand off to the side. “There were about six or seven lights.” Another pause. “Looked like torches. They were moving. I went to take a closer look, but it was too dark, despite the full moon. All I could see were lights and shapes…figures.”

“Your telescope looks pretty powerful, Mr. Heeler,” I say. “You couldn’t see any more detail?” The telescope is very thick, and my understanding is that the larger the diameter the more magnification.

“Oh, I wasn’t looking with my telescope. It’s far too powerful for that. I got out my binoculars.” He moves back into the kitchen. “I can’t believe…” He pauses midsentence, a cupboard door open and one coffee mug in his hand. “I can’t believe a girl was murdered.” He shakes his head and gets another two coffee cups out. “I thought it was kids, fooling around. I never thought…”

“Of course, Mr. Heeler. We understand.”

We wait in silence for a few minutes while he organizes the coffee and then heads back over to us.

Sloan takes the cup he hands her. “So could you see if the figures were male or female?”

He hands me my coffee. “No. Too dark, too far away.” He starts to sit down but then bounces back up. “Sorry, cream and sugar?”

“Cream for me,” I reply.

“Both for me.”

He places his cup on the coffee table and grabs a bowl of sugar and some milk from the kitchen, putting them both out on the table. “Where was I?”

Sloan empties a heaped teaspoon into her coffee and stirs. “You couldn’t see if the figures were male or female. It was too dark, too far away.”

“Ah, yes.” He takes a sip of coffee. “I figured there was no point calling the police just for some kids playing around in the park. I gave up on the stars because of the cloud cover, but finished my drink on the deck before coming back inside to watch TV.”

“What were you drinking last night, Mr. Heeler?”

Sloan’s question seems to take him by surprise. Eventually he tells us it was vodka.

Sloan leaves it for the time being. “You told the park ranger that you saw a circle of lights?”

“Yeah, that’s right. I fell asleep on the couch and woke up around quarter after two. When I was locking the balcony door I saw the lights. I actually think it was candles rather than torches the second time.”

Candles? A circle of candles is an instant, striking visual.

He stares at his coffee, mesmerized. “Although I was half asleep at that point.”

We have to ask ourselves the question a defense lawyer would ask Heeler if we put him on the stand—half asleep or in a drunken stupor?

He takes another sip of coffee. “This morning I started thinking about the lights and decided maybe I should call the park and let them know.” He shakes his head. “But I didn’t think it was serious. I thought maybe there’d be beer bottles or other trash that the rangers might want to clean up.”

Sloan gives him a nod. “Mind if we have a look from your deck?”

“Sure.”

The view is even more spectacular when we make our way out, with an expanse of trees and greenery stretching for miles. Just looking at the valley makes me take a deep breath—clean air in L.A. At least, it feels clean.

“That’s where I saw the lights.” Heeler points down, right about where I’d expect our crime scene to be from this angle. Maybe he wasn’t that drunk after all.

“Have you got those binoculars, Mr. Heeler?” Sloan asks. “I’d like to see what you saw.”

“Sure,” he says and heads inside.

Sloan leans on the deck railing, facing me. “What do you make of him?”

I wince. “Not exactly the most reliable witness.”

“Did he fall asleep on the couch or pass out?”

“He has got the spot about right, though.” I point to the area.

“True.” Sloan pauses. “If it was a circle of lights, what do you think that means? For the investigation?”

I raise my eyebrows. “I’m sure we’ve come to the same conclusions…some sort of a ritual or sacrifice. Could be that Sherry was in the center of that circle, dying or dead when Mr. Heeler saw the lights—candles or not.”

Sloan is silent but gives a small nod. I know she’s at least entertaining this possibility, otherwise she wouldn’t have requested a Bureau profiler.

A minute or so later, Heeler returns with the binoculars. He holds them out, not sure who to pass them to.

Sloan tips her head to one side. “You go.”

I take the binoculars and scan the terrain, looking for the crime scene. Within less than ten seconds I’ve found it, but I can see what Heeler means. While I can see there are people moving around and I’d be able to count them and even determine their gender, if it was dark that would be impossible. Even assuming they were holding torches or candles. “It’s a good view, a good vantage point, but in the dark…” I hand the binoculars to Sloan.

She focuses them on the scene. “I see what you mean. It was a full moon last night, but lots of cloud cover.”

Back inside, Sloan asks Heeler if he’s ever seen anything suspicious before.

He shakes his head. “Not like that. I know the park is closed from dusk to dawn, but people do get in. Occasionally I might hear something—people yelling, that sort of thing. I imagine it’s frequently underage drinkers…maybe teenagers looking to have sex?” He turns the last part into a question.

“Yes, that’s right, Mr. Heeler,” Sloan answers. “The park rangers often find empty bottles, but mostly around the entrance, not this deep into the park. And they have also interrupted a few…passionate moments.” She drains the rest of her coffee. “I think that’s it.” She looks to me for confirmation.

I nod and we head for the door.

At the door, Sloan turns back to Heeler. “There is one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“How much do you think you drank last night, Mr. Heeler?”

He looks at his feet and kicks the ground. “I did see something.”

“You admitted to being half asleep and under the influence. How can you be sure you saw a circle and candles last night?” Sloan’s pushing him, like a lawyer would.

Leaning one hand on the door frame he stares at the ground. “I guess…I guess I can’t be one hundred percent sure, can I?” It didn’t take much for Heeler to cave.

We both thank him for his time.

Back in the car, I start the engine. “Doesn’t look too good.”

Sloan shakes her head. “He’d be hopeless in court, and that’s if we buy his story.”

“He was obviously a little drunk last night, but he did pick the right spot.”

“Mmm…” Sloan’s not convinced. “His call did lead to the body, but I think a healthy amount of skepticism is warranted about the other details.”

Sloan may not believe Heeler, but I do. After all, I have the added benefit of last night’s dream. I have to assume I was Sherry, running away from multiple perps and I definitely saw lights and vampire fangs.

“Let’s say he’s right.” I pull the wheel hard and U-turn, heading back down El Medio Avenue toward Sunset Boulevard. I’d programmed the Taylors’ address into my navigation system before we left the park, so now I follow the directions to their Brentwood house. “He thought there were about seven or eight torches, so that could be the number of perps we’re dealing with. And that could tie in with this group, After Dark.”

“Do you think After Dark could be a cult?”

“Maybe. It’ll be interesting to see the dynamics. Is it a cult or just a group of like-minded individuals? Did the cops who worked the trespass case interview any of the other members besides the two they caught? Or get some other names, even?”

“They got the leader’s, one Anton Ward. Someone should have sent that stuff across to Rosen. You didn’t get it?”

“Sorry, yeah. I haven’t had a chance to look through it yet. It’s on the backseat.”

“The two offenders were Larry Davidson and Walter Riley of WestHo. They were fined for trespassing, but that was the end of it. The investigating officers flagged the possible wider vampire angle but felt that both Davidson and Riley were harmless, and there’s nothing illegal about ‘being’ a vampire. The two admitted to being part of a group called After Dark, run by Anton Ward, but stuck to their original story—that they were in the park alone.”

“Even though the ranger saw other people running off?”

Sloan nods. “Yup.”

“So they were protecting the group. Either of their own volition or under orders.”

“Yeah.” Sloan’s thoughtful. “A single leader makes it more likely it’s a cult, yes?”

“Not necessarily. While one of the characteristics of new religious movements is an enigmatic leader who has complete control over his followers, most everyday groups have some sort of leadership hierarchy. A school has a principal, a board of directors has a chairman and even a group of hobbyists will have one main person who directs the action.”

Sloan turns to me. “We’re hardly talking schools, corporations or hobbies here, Anderson.”

“I know. The cult angle is a definite possibility.”

Silence for a beat before Sloan says, “Even if After Dark is a cult, it doesn’t mean they’re involved in anything illegal, let alone murder.”

I stop at traffic lights on Sunset. “Point taken. And I have to admit I don’t know much about the vampire subculture, although I know it’s associated with the Goth culture.”

“Me, neither. Nightlife in L.A. is always interesting.” She smiles. “According to the files, Davidson and Riley had been to a Goth nightclub before they were arrested.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Maybe we should check it out…check out their nightclub scene.” I stifle a smile, imagining Sloan and I dressed like we are now and flashing our badges at a Goth club.

Sloan smoothes down the fabric on her pants. “I know we’ve got the so-called fang marks, but I’m more interested in her love life as a starting point.”

Sloan’s going for the most common angle—the boyfriend or husband did it. She’s also not putting much faith in Heeler as an eyewitness, but she could be right about him.

“I agree we need to check out any boyfriends or exes, but I’d still like to know more about this scene. We could talk to the managers or bar staff at these clubs. See what they know about After Dark.” I pause, my mind jumping ahead to the evening. “Maybe even drop by tonight, when they’re setting up…”

Sloan’s nose crinkles. “Maybe. But like I said, I’m more interested in the men in Sherry’s life, not to mention building a timeline of her movements last night. What happened between 9:00 p.m., when she left her family home, and her entrance into Temescal Gateway Park?”

Sloan’s thinking of the case like most cops would—trace the victim’s last known movements. And while we do need to do that, my interest as a profiler focuses more on human behavior, including group dynamics and the lifestyle of a subculture our victim may have been involved in.

“What if Sherry Taylor was a Goth? Could be she was at one of the clubs herself last night.”

Sloan shakes her head. “Not if the family photos I saw this morning are anything to go by.”

“She could have been hiding it from her parents, or maybe it was recent.” I’m starting to feel like I’m flogging a dead horse, but my dream points toward multiple perps, not a boyfriend.

We sit in silence for a bit before I say, “The parents reported her missing this morning, right? Shortly before the ranger found her body?”

“Uh-huh. It was logged at eight this morning. An officer took the report over the phone, and issued an APB for Sherry and her car. But it would have been a few days before the report made its way to the Missing Persons Unit.”

I nod. The procedure for a missing persons case varies depending on the situation. If Sherry had been five years old or if there had been evidence of a struggle in her home, resources would have been thrown at the case immediately. But as a twenty-year-old woman, chances were that she simply stayed over at a friend’s or boyfriend’s house and didn’t tell her parents. Her name would have been in the system; but only if the parents were insistent enough would someone have checked the hospitals and police system this morning to make sure Sherry hadn’t been hospitalized or arrested. And then if Sherry still hadn’t turned up, the case would have been assigned to someone in the LAPD’s Missing Persons Unit within a couple of days. Their next move would have been to interview the parents and close friends, start making inquiries at her workplace and maybe on Wednesday or Thursday they would have started with credit card traces and phone records. Now, with Sherry dead, Sloan will start the ball rolling on all of those things, though, sadly, toward a different end than finding her.

The navigation system prompts me to take a right, and within a few minutes we’re pulling up at the Brentwood home of Mr. and Mrs. Taylor. As we drive up to the gated entrance, the house is visible in the distance. It’s a large two-story home, bagged white with a distinctive Mediterranean feel, wood-stained window- and door-frames and an outside timber shutter on each window.

Sloan presses the buzzer at the gate and after only a few seconds a male voice answers.

“It’s Detective Sloan from LAPD again, sir.”

“Right…come on in.” The voice is distracted; I assume it’s Mr. Taylor’s.

A brick-paved driveway snakes toward the house, past beautifully landscaped gardens. We follow the driveway and park near the front door, opposite a small fountain. The water feature is blue-tiled, with white mosaic-style images of mermaids on the internal walls. Small umbrella palms line a path from the driveway to the front door.

We’re not even up the two steps when a man in his mid to late forties opens the door. He wears thick but trendy framed glasses, a red T-shirt and black jeans. His face is plagued with despair and I know instantly that I’m looking at Sherry’s father.

Sloan clears her throat. “Thanks for seeing me again, Mr. Taylor.”

He nods.

“This is Special Agent Anderson from the FBI.”

He tries to force a polite smile, but it comes out more like a grimace as he shakes our hands. “Come in.”

He leads the way through a foyer section of the house. I’ve changed back into my regular work shoes, and they make a loud clipping sound on the slate, the noise triggering a vision.

Sherry opens the front door, takes off a pair of high heels and tiptoes along the hallway.

The vision is probably an accurate insight of Sherry coming home late one night, or perhaps it was a regular Friday and Saturday night routine for her. Regardless, I doubt it’s of consequence to the case. It certainly doesn’t give me a sense of what might have happened to her last night.

The house is very light and mostly open—a staircase to the right, almost immediately at the entrance, and to the left the space is barely separated into rooms. From here I can see a living room, dining room and expansive kitchen. Mr. Taylor takes us through the first room, which seems like a formal living room or sitting room, through the dining room and into the kitchen. To the right of the kitchen is another living space, which opens up onto a large deck with double doors and a swimming pool. He takes a seat on one of the leather couches and we sit on the couch opposite him.

Sloan props on the edge of the couch. “Is your wife here, Mr. Taylor?”

“Um…yes. She’s upstairs…lying down.”

“It would be better if we could talk to you together.”

He rubs his hands up and down his thighs. “I don’t know if Mandy’s up to it, Detective.”

“Please…it is important. Would you mind asking her if she could come down? Even for a little while.” Sloan’s voice is both sympathetic and authoritative. She realizes it’s much more likely for a mother to know about a young woman’s comings and goings than a father.

Taylor nods in an absent manner and he heads up the stairs.

“Still in shock.” Sloan leans back on the couch.

“Yes.” I look around at a few family portraits. “Looks like there are two girls. Wonder where the other one is.”

“College age, so chances are…”

I nod. “I don’t know if we’re going to get anything useful out of them in this state.”

Sloan shrugs. “I’d like to get this moving sooner rather than later.” She looks at her watch. “And we’ve still got a few visits to get through today.”

Footsteps are audible coming down the stairs and we’re both silent.

Mr. and Mrs. Taylor enter arm in arm, although it’s obvious she’s leaning heavily on him. She’s dressed in expensive-looking casual wear that could double as gym gear. A common look in L.A. Black leggings show off her slender but muscular frame, accompanied by a halter-neck top and sweater. Her mass of red curls is pulled into a ponytail and a few stray curls hang at her face. A glance at her eyes tells me she’s had something to take the edge off the pain or to help her get closer to oblivion—perhaps Valium or she could have knocked back a few drinks.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Taylor says, “it’s Detective Sloan and…”

Sloan introduces me again, this time adding in my role in the investigation as a behavioral analyst.

“Behavioral analyst? A profiler, right?” Mr. Taylor leads his wife over to the couch opposite us.

“Yes, sir.”

They take a seat.

Mrs. Taylor turns blurry eyes our way. “So you’ll help catch the…the monster who did this to our baby girl?”

Sloan jumps in. “We’ve asked Agent Anderson to consult on the case. She will draft what’s called an offender profile and help us interrogate suspects. We’ll also use her expertise for our media strategy.”

“Media strategy?” Mr. Taylor seems confused.

The services a profiler offers law enforcement cover four areas—media strategy, offender profile, interrogation strategy and prosecution strategy. We may be asked to consult on all or just one of these areas.

“The way the media portrays the case may affect the killer’s behavior, and thus how we track him or her down,” I explain. “I’ll liaise with the media to help contain their reports as much as possible. Try to control how Sherry and her murder are reported to the public.”

Mrs. Taylor lets out a large sigh. “Can we just get this over with?” Her speech is slurred.

“I’m sorry. My wife’s just taken a sleeping pill.”

“That’s okay, Mr. Taylor. We understand.”

He nods, seemingly relieved that we’re not judging his wife for popping a tablet at lunchtime.

I smile at them both and try to gauge how much time we’ll get with Mrs. Taylor veering toward the incoherent. We should get at least a few minutes out of her, maybe ten.

“Can you tell us a bit about Sherry?”

He looks at a photo of her on the mantelpiece. “What do you want to know?”

“Did Sherry work?” I ask. According to Sloan there was no employer noted on the missing persons report but I’d like to confirm it with the Taylors. We need to talk to as many people who knew Sherry as possible, and place of employment is usually a good start.

“No. She was at UCLA. Drama.”

“An actress.” Sloan doesn’t seem surprised. Then again, in L.A. lots of people are hoping to become actresses, especially pretty young women like Sherry Taylor.

“That’s correct, yes. She has some talent, too.” Mr. Taylor has none of the usual parental bragging in his voice. He seems detached, more like he’s making a professional observation.

“You’re in the industry?” I ask.

“Yes. I’m the lead writer and producer on Stars Like Us.”

Impressive…I don’t watch much TV, but I know the half-hour sitcom is doing very well in the ratings and I see billboards for it everywhere.

“So Sherry grew up with it. I presume she’s already appeared on TV?” Sloan still hasn’t taken out her notebook. I doubt she’s relying on my notes so she must have a superb memory.

“No.” Mrs. Taylor’s voice floats. “Brian won’t let either of the girls act until they’ve finished college.” It’s hard to tell from Mrs. Taylor’s tone if she has any strong feelings about her husband’s rule. Perhaps there’s a slight exasperation in her voice.

“I’ve seen what acting does to children…adolescents. Especially girls. And that’s not what I wanted for Sherry or Misha.”

College isn’t exactly the most wholesome environment, either, but I keep my mouth shut. Mr. Taylor doesn’t strike me as particularly strict, certainly not authoritarian, so I’m guessing this was one of his few rules—something he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, bend on.

“She was only a couple of months away…from finishing college and being able to fulfill her dream.” Silent tears fall down Mrs. Taylor’s cheeks. Before the sleeping tablet they probably would have been hysterical tears but now they’re masked by medication and numbness. She’s been beaten—by life, by God, by whatever you believe in. Although I try not to, I can’t help but think of my mother. Even though I was nine years old, I don’t remember the day they told us that my brother John’s body had been found. It was a year after his disappearance and I already knew he was dead anyway…I saw it in a nightmare. But I have managed to block the death knock from my memory.

“What about Misha? How old is she?”

Sloan’s question brings me back to the present.

“She’s eighteen.” Mr. Taylor rests his hand on his wife’s knee. “There’s only nineteen months between the girls.” He stands up and takes the photo he looked at earlier from the mantelpiece. “This was taken at Christmas.” He hands it to Sloan.

The family sits around a table, with a turkey in the center. I also notice a bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal in an ice bucket, and that Sherry has on full makeup and nail polish.

“Just the four of you?” I ask.

“Yes.” Mr. Taylor nods. “I’m an only child and my parents are both dead, and Mandy’s parents spend Thanksgiving with us and Christmas with Mandy’s brother in New York.”

I take another look at the photo. “Sherry lived here with you, correct?”

“Yes. She would have loved to live on campus, but I didn’t see the point…not when UCLA is a five-minute drive.”

“And Misha?” Sloan passes the photo back to Mr. Taylor.

“Misha’s studying music…in New York.” He stares at the photo.

“I see.”

“Have you told her yet?” Sloan asks softly.

The question brings another onslaught of tears from Mrs. Taylor, and this time not even the medication can control them. “I can’t…I can’t do it.”

“We can’t wait any longer, Mandy.” Mr. Taylor turns to us. “I was just about to call Misha when you arrived.”

“Without me?” Mrs. Taylor stands up and pulls at her hair with one hand. “How could you?”

“We have to tell her.” Taylor’s voice is soft.

Mrs. Taylor hesitates for a moment before sinking back into the couch and holding her head in her hands. “Maybe you’re right. She has to know, and Lord knows I can’t bring myself to say those words.”

We’re all silent for a few beats.

“It’s not going to be on the news or anything, is it?” Mr. Taylor gently places the photo back on the mantelpiece. “Misha can’t find out like that.”

Sloan shakes her head. “Not Sherry’s name, no. We won’t release those details until you’ve made a formal identification at the coroner’s office.” She pauses. “Perhaps tomorrow?”

“No, I need to see her as soon as possible.” He’s still looking at the Christmas photo. “Need to see my baby to believe it’s really her.”

We nod, and Sloan says, “I understand.”

Silence again.

“Sherry…” I pause. “Was she outgoing? Shy?”

“More outgoing, I guess. She certainly had a lot of friends.”

“She was an extrovert.” Mrs. Taylor looks up. “She drew people to her and was loved by everyone. Sherry and her friends often spent time over here—I always opened our house to them.”

“Did she have a best friend? Someone she was particularly close to?”

“Desiree Jones. They’ve known each other since high school. Both charming, social girls.”

“We’d like her details. And the contact details of anyone else close to Sherry.”

Mrs. Taylor manages to stand up. “Of course. I’ll get my address book.” She strides out of the room, but I can tell the deliberate movement and poise take her full concentration.

When she returns, she reads out a few names and we take down the details.

“Anyone else? Perhaps that you don’t have contact details for?”

“I know all Sherry’s friends. Sherry and I are very close.”

I haven’t decided yet if Mandy Taylor is a more open, progressive mum, or if she’s one of those mums who live their lives through their children. Could be she had to be part of Sherry’s social life, almost think of Sherry’s friends as her friends.

“What about a boyfriend? Was she seeing anyone?” Sloan asks.

“No.” Mrs. Taylor fiddles with her address book, which now sits closed on her lap. “She dated Todd Fischer for three years, but they split up just before Christmas.”

Sloan leans on the couch’s arm. “She still in contact with him?”

“No. It was a clean break.”

“You know who broke it off?”

“She did. Told me it just didn’t feel right anymore.”

“Anyone new on the scene?” Sloan asks.

“No.”

“But she wouldn’t bring a new guy home to meet the folks. Not if she’d only been with him a few weeks,” Sloan says.

Mrs. Taylor’s eyes move slowly from Sloan to me. “Maybe not. But she would have told her mom.” She takes a few quick breaths, holding back tears. “I told the police officer when I reported her missing this morning that something was wrong, seriously wrong. My baby girl wouldn’t just not come home one night. But he didn’t take me seriously.” The tears come again.

“There was an APB put out for Sherry and her car. He certainly did take you seriously, Mrs. Taylor.” Sloan’s voice is soft.

Mr. Taylor looks at his wife, then back at Sloan. “Why weren’t you out there, looking for her?”

“We were, Mr. Taylor.” Sloan edges forward on the couch. “The APB meant that every LAPD officer on the street was on the lookout for Sherry and her car.”

While that’s true, in reality there would have been several APBs out during any one shift, and one for a missing twenty-year-old girl wouldn’t have taken priority. The LAPD would have been too busy with shootings, rapes, active arrest warrants, drugs and their normal urgent duties. In fact, the Taylors were lucky to get an APB at all. A twenty-year-old on a Friday or Saturday night with no evidence of foul play…no police department in the world was going to be genuinely concerned. And 99.9 times out of 100 they’d be right.

“It was the APB that allowed us to identify the victim as Sherry so quickly,” Sloan continues.

After a few minutes of silence I try to move us on. “Did Sherry have any new friends that you met or that she spoke about?”

Mrs. Taylor looks up and shakes her head. “No.”

“Any changes in her behavior?”

“Not that I noticed.” Mr. Taylor looks to his wife for confirmation. Maybe he’s an absent daddy—too busy at the office to get to know his kids. Not that unusual.

“She was her normal happy self. Looking forward to finishing college, spending the summer in Europe and then coming back to break into the acting business. She had it all ahead of her.” A few more sobs escape from Mrs. Taylor. “She was really happy.” The last sentence is particularly slurred, perhaps from the sedatives kicking in or perhaps from grief. Either way, our time with Mrs. Taylor is coming to an end.

“Just a few more questions now,” Sloan reassures.

“Was Sherry part of the Goth subculture?” I ask. “Interested in that scene at all?”

“No.” Mr. Taylor manages an amused snort. “She was into designer labels…and I’ve got the credit card bills to prove it.”

“What about her friends? Anyone she knows a Goth?”

“No.” Mrs. Taylor’s brow furrows. “What’s this got to do with Sherry or…what happened?”

“It’s just a line of inquiry we’re pursuing.” Sloan clasps her hands together.

Mr. Taylor sits next to his wife again. “Do you suspect someone? Someone from this group?” He says it with distaste.

“We’re not sure at this stage. As soon as we have more, I’ll let you know, I promise.” Sloan’s voice is casual, almost dismissive.

“What about makeup? Did Sherry usually wear much of it?”

Mrs. Taylor shrugs. “Just the normal amount for her age. Base and a bit of lipstick during the day, and if she was going out at night she’d wear eye makeup, too.”

I nod. “And what about her nails?” Judging from the photos I’ve seen at the house, I can easily envisage Sherry as a regular for manicures and pedicures.

Mrs. Taylor confirms my suspicions, telling me her daughter nearly always wore polish on both hands and feet.

“Do you happen to recall if she was wearing any last night?”

“Um…” Mrs. Taylor stares at her lap. “I’m not sure…I can’t remember.”

“That’s okay.” I put my hand out to her, even though I’m not within reach. “There is one other thing, Mr. and Mrs. Taylor.”

They both look at me.

“I’d like to see Sherry’s room. It’ll help me get a better understanding of your daughter.”

Mr. Taylor stands up. “Of course.” He looks at his wife. “You wait here, honey.”

Good call—I’m not sure Mrs. Taylor could cope with being in the girl’s room at the moment.

We follow Mr. Taylor back toward the front door and then up the stairs. The second story of the house is decorated in a similar fashion to downstairs, although carpets and a few paintings give it a homier feel. Taylor leads us into a bedroom toward the back of the house.

“This is Sherry’s room.” He looks into the room but then looks away. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to wait with my wife.”

Sloan gives him a small smile. “Sure. And don’t worry…we’ll be very careful in here.”

“Thank you.”

Once Taylor’s gone, Sloan and I start snooping.

Sherry’s bedroom is covered in posters, with one wall dedicated to photos of Sherry and her friends and family. The room looks busy and lived-in, but still tidy.

Sloan studies the posters and photos. “Nothing Goth-looking.”

“No.” I move over to Sherry’s desk. “We should get some computer techs onto this.” I glance at Sherry’s laptop, which is plugged in but switched off.

“I’ll log a request this afternoon.”

A glance at the bookshelf reveals that Sherry is into mostly fantasy and sci-fi, but there are also a couple of paranormal titles on the shelves. A closer look reveals two books set in the vampire world.

“Check this out.” I hand Sloan a copy of Kerri Arthur’s Full Moon Rising. “Maybe Sherry was secretly part of the Goth world.”

Sloan reads the back of the book. “Doesn’t mean a thing, Anderson. Vampire fiction is in. And Sesame Street, remember? You said it yourself.”

Sloan’s right, but it’s still interesting that we found something from the vampire world in Sherry’s room. I make a move for her wardrobe. If Sherry was involved in the scene, she’d have to keep her clothes somewhere. I flick through the hangers, but find nothing except top-line designer clothes of the commercial variety. “Nothing in here.”

Sloan pulls out the second-last drawer of Sherry’s chest of drawers. “I haven’t found anything yet, either.”

I look around the room, soaking it in, while Sloan finishes going through the drawers.

“Nope.” She closes the bottom drawer. “Nothing unusual, and no Goth, either.”

I sigh. “And nothing else that gives us an idea of how Sherry might have wound up at Temescal Gateway Park last night.”

“No.” Sloan leans on the chest of drawers for a moment, also looking around. After a few seconds she says, “Guess we’re done here, at least for the moment.”

“Yeah. Do you mind if I soak up the atmosphere for another couple of minutes? I’ll join you in a sec.”

“You gonna get into her head?” Sloan gives me a slightly teasing smile.

“Something like that.”

“Good luck.” She moves toward the door. “I’ll let the Taylors know not to touch Sherry’s laptop and that someone will come by in the next day or two to pick it up.”

I nod. “Thanks.”

Profilers always try to walk in the victim’s and killer’s shoes, but obviously for me I want time alone to try to induce a vision. I had my first experience of seeing something that was about to happen when I was eight, but then this ability of mine went underground…until I was working the D.C. Slasher case nearly two years ago. Since then it’s been a bumpy road, fueled first by my own denial and then my acceptance. I can nearly always induce something, but the usefulness of what I see is often questionable. Like Sherry sneaking home one night—every young woman’s done that. Still, I always use my gift on a case and sometimes it does help.

Sitting on Sherry’s bed and staring at the collage of photos on her wall, I’m conscious that I don’t want to be long, but I try to push that sense of hurriedness away. Instead I take long and deep breaths, close my eyes and concentrate on relaxing.

I’m tired and my vision is blurred. People gather around me, but I can’t make out any faces…everything is so hazy. There’s a voice, a deep voice, but I can no longer focus on the words.

The vision is brief, but the sense of wooziness makes me wonder if Sherry was drugged. The routine tox screen will answer that question. However, there was nothing in the vision that indicates time. While it may be related to her murder or the unaccounted hours prior, it could also be something entirely different. Maybe she took some recreational drugs at a party weeks, months or years ago and for some reason I tuned into that. Plus, there’s nothing that can definitively tell me this vision was necessarily about Sherry. Logic suggests that it was—I am in her room, after all—but I’ve learned over the past couple of years not to take anything for granted when it comes to my visions.

I head back downstairs, not entirely sure how long they may have been waiting for me. Usually the length of my vision is in line with how long I’m “out” for, but sometimes it can take me several minutes to experience a ten-second flash.

As I’m coming down the stairs I hear Mr. Taylor saying, “I’d like to go now.”

When he comes into view, I can tell by his slight rocking motion that he’s agitated; he shifts his weight from side to side. Sloan’s card is in his hand.

“Of course, Mr. Taylor. Whatever you’d like.”

He takes a deep breath. “But I need to ring Mish first.”

“The coroner’s office is on Mission Street and me or my partner will meet you there, but it may be best if you don’t drive.”

“I haven’t…I haven’t taken anything, Detective.”

“I know, sir.” Sloan puts a hand on his shoulder. “But you’re not yourself…no one can be under these circumstances. Most people get someone to drive them.” Again, Sloan pulls together just the right tone of voice—sympathetic yet somehow commanding. “How’s 3:00 p.m.? That’ll give you time to call Misha.”

He nods and takes a deep breath. “Thank you.”

On the way back to the car, Sloan says to me, “Mom’s real confident she knows her girl’s social life.”

“Yes. But it’ll be interesting to speak to Sherry’s friends, especially the best friend.”

Sloan nods. “And you think the makeup and nail polish thing is significant?”

“Maybe. It could tie in with the human sacrifice theory—perhaps our perps felt the need to cleanse her as part of the ritual.”

“And if it’s not a sacrificial death?”

I shrug. “If the killer removed the polish and make up, could be he wanted his victim to look more natural for some reason, or it could even be a sign of remorse.”

“Remorse?”

“It’s possible he felt guilty and needed to care for the body in some way.”

Sloan’s brow crinkles. “Guess I can see that.” She pauses. “You said if the killer did it…who else could have removed the polish and makeup?”

“Sherry. She may have been a willing participant…up to a point.”

Sloan nods and punches a number into her mobile phone. “How’s it going there? Uh-huh…yup. We’ve just finished with the Taylors. Can you meet Mr. Taylor at the coroner’s office to identify the body at 3:00 p.m.? Great. Thanks.”

“Any news from the crime scene?” I unlock the car while Sloan walks around to the passenger side.

“Not really. Body was only released an hour ago.” She opens the door and we both climb in together before she continues. “Photographs are complete but the Forensics guys are still looking over the area. And they’re still casting and cataloging the footprints.”

“I wonder if we’ll have a better idea of how many people were involved in Sherry’s death once they’re done.” I start the car, unsure where we’re going next.

“I’m not hopeful. The ranger said that most walkers take the detour for the view, which means a lot of non-relevant data.”

“But did our perps know that?” I pause. “They certainly didn’t try to hide the body.”

“True.”

We’re both silent, focused on the evidence.

“So where to?” I ask. “The ex-boyfriend.”

“We should also speak to the best friend, and I’d like to check out a Goth club and the two guys who were done for trespassing, Riley and Davidson.”

Sloan lets out a sigh. “Busy day. I’ve also got a load of paperwork I need to start on. Credit card and bank account information for Sherry, plus I’ll put a request in for phone records.”

“I hear you.” Sloan’s not the only one with paperwork. I still haven’t read the file and I’m keen to get more info on Anton Ward and the L.A. vampire scene.

“Maybe we should split up. You can do the FBI-profiler thing, and I can look after the LAPD’s interests.” There’s a hint of frustration in her voice, but that ties in with the occasional vibe I’m getting off Sloan—like maybe she’s regretting calling the FBI to her turf.

The problem is I want to be there when she questions the ex-boyfriend and the best friend. They’ll give me a good insight into Sherry, and victimology is always my starting point.

“Let’s see how we go. The best friend is around the corner, so we could visit her first, then the ex, and after that I’ll get caught up on the file and you can log your paperwork,” I suggest.

“Sounds like a plan.” Sloan fastens her seat belt.

I pull into the traffic and head for Desiree’s address. I don’t mind if we don’t get time for Riley and Davidson today, because I’d like to soak up the atmosphere at one of the Goth clubs—that would be a better introduction to the scene than interviewing two members in their homes.

“I’m actually considering going to one of the clubs tonight…dressed up.” I need to look like one of them, otherwise I’ll be too conspicuous.

“Really?” Sloan gives me a sideways glance. “You’re thorough.”

“If After Dark is involved, I need to get an insight into the culture.”

She shrugs. “I’ll definitely pass on that one. Besides, I’m guessing the Goth scene doesn’t have too many men or women in their fifties.”

I laugh. “How old are Riley and Davidson?”

“Riley’s twenty-two and Davidson’s twenty.”

I wince. “Maybe I’m too old.”

“Ward’s in his thirties.” Sloan takes out her mobile phone. “I’m just going to check in with the officer who took the missing persons call this morning.” She dials a number and after a few minutes on hold she’s redirected to his mobile—he’s off duty. She places her phone on the center console between us.

“Is this Detective Saporo?” Sloan asks.

“Yup.”

“It’s Detective Sloan calling from Homicide. I believe you took a missing persons report on Sherry Taylor this morning.”

“That’s right.” A heartbeat of silence while recognition hits…he’s getting a call from a homicide detective. “Oh, shit. You’re friggin’ joking.”

“Sherry Taylor’s body was found in Temescal Gateway Park this morning.”

“Dammit.” Saporo draws the word out forcefully. “I thought…I mean she’s twenty and lived with her parents. Shit! She told me her daughter wouldn’t just stay out all night.”

“No one would have handled the call any differently given the circumstances. In fact, you read the situation well to even issue the APB.” Sloan moves on quickly. “Where’s the missing persons report at now?”

“I presume it’s in the Missing Persons Unit’s queue.” He swallows loudly.

“Okay, thanks. I’ll let them know. You followed procedure, it’s just this was the one in a thousand.”

Three

Sunday, 2:00 p.m.

Like Sherry Taylor, Desiree Jones lives with affluent parents in Brentwood. The house is significantly smaller, but in a much more ornate, almost Tuscan-villa style with wrought-iron window fittings and bright ceramic patterned tiles running beneath each window. While set back from the road and with a tall fence, the property doesn’t have a security gate.

An older Mexican woman answers the door.

“Hola.” Sloan smiles.

“Hola.”

In my eight months in California, I’ve noticed the influence of the Latino culture on the city. With over twenty-eight percent of the population Latino, guess I’d better learn a few words in Spanish.

Sloan flashes her badge. “We’re here to see Desiree Jones.”

“Sí. Come in.” She looks concerned, but also curious, and I wonder if Desiree and her family have been contacted by the Taylors. When we left them fifteen minutes ago they hadn’t told their other daughter about Sherry’s death, so I doubt Desiree knows. Still, she likely knows Sherry’s parents were concerned about her.

The woman beckons us inside and takes us through to the first door on the left. Unlike the Taylors’, this house has more traditional rooms—one door in and out.

“Coffee? A cold drink?”

Sloan and I both accept the offer of a coffee and a couple of minutes later Desiree and her mother appear at the doorway. Mrs. Jones is a tall, striking African-American woman and while Desiree has inherited her mother’s beauty, she’s more than a head shorter.

Sloan does the introductions and Mrs. Jones and Desiree both look uncertain rather than devastated. This is definitely a death knock. I’ve made my fair share of them working homicide in Melbourne, but it doesn’t get any easier. How do you prepare someone for this type of news?

“Have you found Sherry?” Mrs. Jones asks.

“You haven’t spoken to the Taylors today, ma’am?” Sloan confirms.

“No. Is…is everything okay?”

“I’m afraid we’ve got some bad news…”

“Yes?” Mrs. Jones wraps her arms around her daughter.

Sloan takes a breath. “Sherry Taylor was found murdered this morning in Temescal Gateway Park.”

Desiree immediately bursts into tears and turns to bury her face into her mother’s chest.

Mrs. Jones pulls her daughter closer and strokes her hair. “No, that’s not possible.” She bites her lip. “Are you sure it was Sherry?”

“Mr. Taylor is making the formal identification at three, but I’m afraid we’re quite certain it’s her. I’m sorry.”

The maid enters, with a tray in hand. She immediately parks the tray on the coffee table and speaks in rapid Spanish to Mrs. Jones.

“It’s Sherry, Gabriella. She’s…dead. Murdered.”

Gabriella responds in Spanish and makes the sign of the cross before moving to Desiree and stroking her cheek gently. She’s obviously close to the family, close to Desiree.

Desiree manages to speak. “How…how was she killed?” She turns around.

“We’re still waiting for an official cause of death from the coroner.”

While the statement is true, Sloan is purposefully leaving out the details of blood loss and puncture marks.

“Was she…” Desiree takes an audible gulp. “Was she raped?”

“Again, we’re not able to say conclusively at this stage.”

We sit out the silence until Desiree and her mum both manage to sit down.

“Please, your coffees.” Mrs. Jones motions to the tray. A good host, even in distressing times.

“I’m sorry we have to give you this news.” I sit down. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

They both nod and after several seconds of silence Mrs. Jones motions to the coffee again.

I take a cup and add a generous amount of milk. “How long have you known Sherry, Desiree?”

“We met in middle school.” She bites her middle fingernail. “At Edna Hill Middle School. And we’ve been best friends ever since.”

“How often did you see her?” Sloan scoots back on the couch and takes a sip of the coffee she’s just poured.

“Pretty much every day.”

“The girls were inseparable. They were either over here with me or at the Taylors’ with Mandy most days. Plus the girls are at college together, too.”

“UCLA?”

“Yes.” Desiree nods her head, but she’s barely present in the conversation. “We’re both studying theater…acting.”

Mrs. Jones bites her lip. “I can’t believe…can’t believe she’s gone. She was such an amazing young woman. Vivacious, kind, charismatic.” She gives Desiree a squeeze.

“When did you last see Sherry?” I ask Desiree.

“Friday afternoon.”

“You didn’t see her last night?”

“Desiree was here.” Mrs. Jones shakes her head. “My husband just got back from a one-week business trip and I wanted the family to be together. Maybe if I hadn’t insisted…”

Desiree puts her hand on her mother’s knee. “Mom, Sherry didn’t ask me to go out with her or anything.”

Mrs. Jones nods and strokes her daughter’s cheek.

“So, what did you do Friday?” I ask.

Desiree rests her elbow on the couch arm, moving closer to her mother, who’s sitting on the arm with her hand resting on Desiree’s shoulder. “We met at UCLA and rehearsed for a performance we’ve got coming up. After that we went for a bite to eat at Noah’s and then came back here and hung out for a bit.”

I nod. There’s a Noah’s Bagels in Westwood Village, close to both UCLA and the FBI building. On the odd occasion that I go there for a bagel, the place is packed with students. “What time did she leave here?”

“About eight.”

“And what about last night?” Sloan takes a sip of her coffee. “Sherry went out…do you know where? Or who with?”

“She had a date.”

“What?” There’s a hint of annoyance in Sloan’s voice. “Did you tell Mr. and Mrs. Taylor this?”

Desiree hangs her head. “No. Sherry swore me to secrecy. Told me it was someone new and it was just a date.”

“Honey, why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell Mandy and Brian when they called this morning?” Mrs. Jones stands up and starts pacing.

I keep my voice even so Desiree doesn’t have all three of us coming down on her. “Do you know who the date was with?”

“No. It was some guy she met recently.”

“Where did she meet him?”

Desiree lets out a tearful sigh. “I’m sorry, I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me.” She looks up at her mum. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

“But she didn’t come home, Desiree. What were you thinking?”

Desiree bursts into tears. “I thought she must have stayed over at this guy’s house, and I couldn’t tell her parents that….” She takes a gasping breath between sobs. “And…now…Sherry’s…dead.”

Mrs. Jones lets out an exasperated sigh but then kneels down next to her daughter, holding her hand. “It’s all right, honey. You weren’t to know.”

“And the Taylors called you at seven-thirty this morning?” Sloan asks.

The phone call must have been part of the missing persons report, because it’s not something we discussed with the Taylors.

“Yes. But it was so early. If she’d stayed the night with this guy…”

It’s fair enough. A Saturday-night date could easily run into the early hours of the morning.

“So you weren’t worried when her parents told you they couldn’t get her on her cell?” Sloan crosses her legs.

“No.” Desiree sweeps a chunk of hair off her face and tucks it behind her ear. “I figured she forgot to charge her cell or turned it off for, you know, privacy.”

There’s something Desiree’s not telling us and I don’t know if she’s hiding it from her mum or from us. I contemplate the direct approach. I could just ask Mrs. Jones to leave the room, tell her I want to talk to her daughter alone. But it may backfire and make Desiree clam up.

“Do you know if this guy went to UCLA?” Sloan asks.

“I don’t think so.”

I lean forward. “Did you ever see him?”

Again she shakes her head. “I’m sorry.”

The two girls seemed to tell each other everything, so it’s unlikely that Sherry would hide a date from Desiree without good reason. A married man, perhaps? Or someone from the Goth world that Sherry was hiding from her friends and family.

I take out my card. “If you can think of anything else, Desiree, about Sherry or her mystery date, please call us. It’s very important.”

Sloan and I offer our condolences again and thank Mrs. Jones for her hospitality before heading back to the street and my car.

“She’s hiding something,” I say to Sloan once we’re inside.

“Agreed. But what? And is it something that could get Sherry killed?”

Sunday, 3:30 p.m.

Todd Fischer lives with his mum in E 219th Street, Merit-Carson. Their small house is nestled between two much larger and newer properties. And while the houses on either side show off new paint jobs, new roofs and are both double-story, the Fischer residence is single-story with a pebble-mix finish that was once perhaps a high contrast of white, black and gray stones, but is now decidedly gray all over. The red tiled roof is in need of repair; however, the small front garden is neat and well kept. The house is very different from the Taylor residence.

I look at the house. “I wonder how Todd and Sherry met. Doesn’t seem to me like they’d move in the same circles.”

“No.” Sloan gets out of the car and pulls down her suit jacket, which has ridden up. “Do you think he knows?”

“Not unless the Taylors have started the ring-around. Or got someone else to start it.”

Sloan moves to my side of the car. “Let’s have a chat before we tell him then, huh?”

I nod, but feel a little torn. If Todd is our man, it makes sense to hold back and see if he hangs himself. An innocent man wouldn’t know Sherry was dead, and wouldn’t hide anything. At the same time, if he is in the clear, it’s pretty cruel to question him for God knows how long without telling him his ex-girlfriend’s dead. Still, it goes with the territory. Our duty is to Sherry Taylor.

We cross the road and knock on the door. After a minute or so a woman in her forties, dressed like she’s twenty, answers.

“Yeah?” She chews gum loudly.

We take out our ID and identify ourselves.

She narrows her eyes. “What do you want?” There’s a hint of both annoyance and concern in her voice.

“We’d like to talk to Todd Fischer. Is he home?” Carson is a long drive if Fischer’s not in, but unannounced visits are always more effective in this game.

“Todd!” the woman yells without moving farther into the house.

After a few seconds with no response she yells again. “Todd! Get your ass down here.”

Heavy footsteps sound above us, moving toward the stairs. “Mom, I told you not to disturb me.” Todd’s feet appear on the steps. “What is it?”

“Cops are here to see you.”

“Oh… Okay.” He doesn’t seem surprised.

Once he’s halfway down the stairs he comes into full view. Todd Fischer is about six-one, tall and lanky, with black hair and pale skin that looks paler against his red lips and rosy cheeks.

“Is this about Sherry?” He moves off the stairs and toward us.

His mother turns to him. “Told you no good would come out of dating some rich bitch.”

He gives his mother a scathing look. “Give it a rest, Mom.”

“Whatever.” She pops the gum in her mouth.

He turns back to us, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “She’s really missing then?”

We don’t have a chance to answer before his mum blurts, “You don’t have to talk to them, Todd.”

“I’ll handle this, Mom. You go back to…whatever you were doing.”

She gives us a sneer. “Whatever.” She chews her gum noisily and moves off to the left and the background hum of a TV set.

“We can talk in the kitchen.” Todd leads us in the opposite direction, through an extremely messy room that is presumably the dining area but is sparsely furnished and covered in old newspapers and bric-a-brac.

Following him through a swinging door, we move into a seventies-style kitchen. The decor is red and white, which makes it look almost retro rather than dated. A splash of paint and new appliances and it could look good. Certainly a few less dishes in the sink would help.

Todd looks around and sighs. “Sorry about the mess.” He shakes his head. “Can I get you a drink? Coffee?”

At the rate we’re going, I’ll be getting the caffeine shakes soon.

“Sure,” I say politely.

Todd flicks on the kettle and then starts opening cupboards, obviously searching for clean cups. “I can’t believe Sherry’s really missing.”

“Have you spoken to the Taylors recently?” Sloan takes a seat at the kitchen table. The chairs are metal-framed with patterned vinyl for your butt and a curved, thin backrest. They remind me of our kitchen set during my childhood. But ours was brand-new, and the Fischers’ is over thirty years old.

“They rang this morning. To see if Sherry was with me.” He takes three cups from the pile of dirty dishes, squirts dishwashing liquid into each of them and runs the hot-water tap for a minute before half filling each cup.

“When did you see her last?” Sloan asks.

He takes a dish brush to the cups. “Last night.”

Last night? Could Todd have been the mystery date? It seems unlikely Sherry would lie to her best friend if she was going out with her ex.

“The Taylors didn’t know that, did they?”

He shakes his head. “Sherry doesn’t want them to know.”

“Why?” Sloan leans her elbow on the table.

“She doesn’t want her mom getting her hopes up.”

“So you get on well with the Taylors?”

“Real well. Mrs. Taylor is, was, like a mom to me. It’s been hard not seeing them for the past few months.” He takes a chair, puts it beside the counter and stands on it. Reaching into the very top cupboard he withdraws a packet of Oreos and a small plate.

“Your hiding spot?” I give him a smile.

“Uh-huh. Mom would eat them in one sitting if she knew they were here.”

“Really?” Todd’s mum is less than ten pounds overweight.

“Don’t let her fool you. She binges for a few days, then hardly eats for days on end.” He shakes his head. “It’s crazy.”

Sloan moves around, unable to get comfy in the chair. “Was last night the first time you’ve seen Sherry since you broke up?”

He gives a little snort. “Hardly. Sherry and I split up four months ago, but we’ve still been seeing each other.”

“Sexually?” Sloan’s tone is harsh.

Todd winces. “I love Sherry, Detective. And I always will.”

“Was the feeling mutual?” Sloan’s voice is softer now.

He sighs. “Not exactly.” He rinses the cups and pulls a plunger down from a high cupboard before leaning on the sink. His shoulders rise and fall in a labored breath. “She was obsessed with that professor of hers.”

“Professor?” Sloan’s voice is casual, but I know her curiosity is truly piqued—as is mine.

“Yes. She had a crush on him. It’s why she broke it off with me.” He places three scoops of coffee into the plunger and fills it with boiling water. “She said if we were meant to be together she wouldn’t have feelings for any other guy.”

“Do you know his name?”

Todd turns around. “Carrington. He’s her acting professor.” He stares at his shoes. “I guess she could be with him.”

No, she’s not with Carrington…she’s in the morgue.

So far I’m only getting a good vibe off Todd and I’m finding it hard not to tell him that Sherry’s dead.

Sloan, on the other hand, doesn’t seem bothered. “Tell us about last night. What time did you see her?”

“Late. About midnight.”

“Did you have a fight?” I ask.

“No.” He slowly pushes the plunger down. “But she was…different.” He looks up again. “She called me around midnight and she was upset.”

“Go on.”

“We arranged to meet in Santa Monica.” He pours out three cups of coffee and places them on the kitchen table before opening the fridge and peering inside. “Dammit.” Closing the fridge he looks around, his eyes finally resting on a carton of milk on the counter. He shakes his head. “How many times do I have to tell her to put the milk away?” He picks it up from the counter and smells it before looking up at us. “I’m sorry, but it is fine.” He puts the milk on the table.

I get the distinct impression that this mother-son relationship doesn’t have a mother in it. I often wonder how women like Todd’s mum get their babies past the first two years of life. Then again, sometimes they don’t.

“Whereabouts did you meet in Santa Monica?” I ask, curious as to how close they were to Temescal Gateway Park.

“There’s a little spot we used to go, right where the oceanfront walk starts.”

I look at Sloan, hoping she’ll know the area.

She nods for both my benefit and Todd’s. “I know it. Not too far from Temescal Gateway Park.”

That places Todd and our victim right near the crime scene. Could I be wrong about him?

Todd doesn’t pick up on the reference. If he’s seen today’s news he’d know a woman’s body was found in the park this morning, but so far the reports haven’t carried her name.

“Go on.” I give him a generic prompt rather than asking a question that would lead us down a specific path.

“She wouldn’t tell me what was wrong. I comforted her, held her and told her I loved her. And then about ten minutes later she was all hot and heavy.” He looks down and stares into his coffee cup. “I knew she wasn’t herself and I did try to stop things a few times to make sure she was okay. But she was insistent. Voracious even. I’d never seen her like that.”

“Do you know where she’d been earlier in the night?”

“At some Goth club. Researching an acting piece for class.”

“Really?” I keep my voice casual, even though the link between the victim and the Goth culture is big news. It could place her right in After Dark with vampires.

He smiles. “She was all decked out in the gear. I didn’t even recognize her at first…but she was in her car, so I knew it must have been Sherry. I wondered if that was why she was so…you know. The outfit sure was sexy.”

“What else did she say?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Not much. We were busy.”

“Did she behave differently during sex? Besides being more assertive?”

“Not really—um, what do you mean?” His face reddens slightly.

I take us down the Goth and vampire path. “You know, anything kinky? Like a desire to drink blood?”

“No!” His coffee cup connects heavily with the table and he scrunches his face up. “It was just research. She wasn’t into that scene.”

“So,” Sloan says, “you had sex, then what?”

“She said she was tired and wanted to go home. I tried to find out what had upset her, but she said she was fine.”

“And do you think she was?” Todd and Sherry were together for a long time. Hopefully he knew his girlfriend well enough to know if she was hiding her true feelings.

“I’m not sure, to be honest. She seemed okay, but Sherry’s an exceptional actress.”

“So what time did she head off?”

“About one.”

We’ve filled in part of Sherry’s timeline for last night at least from midnight to 1:00 a.m.—assuming Todd is telling us the truth. And we’ve probably found the source of the semen from the postmortem rape kit.

“Did you use a condom, Todd?” I ask.

“No.” He looks down. “Stupid, I know. But neither of us had one and Sherry assured me the timing was safe…you know, in terms of her cycle.” He looks up again. “Hang on, what’s with the question about condoms?”

I take a deep breath. I give Sloan a quick glance and once I have a little nod from her I start. “I’m afraid we’ve got some bad news, Todd.”

His brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

I lean toward him. “We found Sherry, but she’s dead. Murdered.”

“What?” He stands up, sending his chair flying backward. “No, you’ve got it wrong! She can’t be dead.”

I stand up, too, and rest my hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, but it is Sherry.”

He’s silent for a bit. “Do her parents know?”

“Yes. We informed them a couple of hours ago.”

He blows out a breath and runs his hand through his hair. “I can’t…I can’t believe it. I was with her like twelve hours ago.” He paces.

Sloan and I are both silent and the silence gives Todd enough time to get up to speed. He stops pacing abruptly.

“Oh my God…you think—” he swallows hard “—you think I had something to do with this? That’s why you didn’t tell me straight away.”

Sloan looks up. “So far you were the last person to see her.”

“But I didn’t kill her! I loved Sherry.”

Unfortunately in our line of work, love is often the reason people kill, not the reason they don’t. As a behavioral analyst my cases tend to be more complex—serial killers, serial rapists, cold cases—but Sloan would be lapping up the circumstantial and physical evidence. After all, if Sherry’s got Todd’s DNA in her and he admits to seeing her at 1:00 a.m., right near Temescal Gateway Park…

Sloan stands up. “We’d like to take a DNA sample for comparison. It’s just a swab inside your cheek.”

“Just because I had sex with her doesn’t mean I killed her.”

“Of course not, Mr. Fischer. And your cooperation with the DNA certainly indicates you’ve got nothing to hide.”

He nods slowly. “Okay.”

Sloan turns to me. “I’ve got a kit in the car. I’ll be back in a sec.” She walks out, quickly, perhaps worried Todd will change his mind.

“You’ll do the DNA now?”

“Yes, Todd. Like Detective Sloan said, it’s just a little swab from the inside of your cheek. It’s quick and painless.”

He nods. After a minute or so he says, “What time was Sherry killed?”

“We’re not sure yet.”

Sloan enters, paper and evidence bag in one hand and a small plastic vial in the other. She puts the paper on the table in front of Todd. “Have a read through that, Mr. Fischer, and then sign at the bottom.”

Sloan and I both take a seat. I purposely avert my gaze from Todd, and Sloan follows suit. Keep it nice and relaxed in case he suddenly gets jumpy. But our fears are unfounded—he quickly reads the form and signs it.

Sloan unscrews the vial. “Open wide please, Mr. Fischer.”

Todd does as instructed and Sloan uses the cotton-bud end to scrape the inside of his cheek, before slipping it back inside the container, sealing it and placing it in the evidence bag.

“That’s it.” She gives him a quick smile.

He looks at Sloan, then me. “Now what?”

“We’ll take this to the lab for comparison with the evidence we found on Sherry’s body and we’ll be in touch.”

“I still can’t believe she’s…dead.” He takes a deep breath and his body tenses with grief. “You will find whoever did this, won’t you?”

“We hope so, yes.” Sloan knows better than to make guarantees or to tell him that he’s still one of our prime suspects. Agreeing to give his DNA and admitting he saw Sherry last night don’t make him innocent.

“So, as far as you knew, she was heading home at 1:00 a.m.?” I confirm.

“Yes. That’s what she said, and she drove off in that direction.”

“And she never mentioned what she was upset about?”

“No.”

We thank Todd Fischer for his time, give him our cards and leave, picking our way over the piles of old papers and magazines that cover the floor between kitchen and front door.

“Sorry about the mess,” Todd says at the door. “I’ve given up trying to keep it even half-decent looking.”

“That’s fine, Todd.” I hold my hand out. “Thanks for your help.”

He shakes my hand and Sloan’s before closing the door.

In the car, Sloan buckles up. “So we’ve got an ex-boyfriend who admits to having sex with her only a couple of miles from the crime scene. It’s not looking good for Todd Fischer.”

“I don’t know.” I start the car. “My gut instinct says he’s innocent.”

“Maybe. But it sounds like there was a new man on the scene and maybe Fischer was jealous…and angry.”

“What about the bite marks? They clearly point to someone from the vampire community. And now we’ve got confirmation that Sherry had some contact with that world. Even if it was just for research.”

Sloan raises her finger. “But Todd knew. He seems like a smart kid to me. Smart enough to make it look like a vampire attack.”

Four

Sunday, 4:30 p.m.

Once I’ve dropped Sloan, it’s on to the Federal Building and my desk. In the end we decided the professor had to wait. Sloan needs to start logging her requests and getting the DNA sample moving and I want to find out more about Anton Ward and vampires. Besides, I’d like to interview Carrington at UCLA. It’ll be interesting to see how he responds to a police and FBI visit in the middle of a class.

At my desk I open the file and turn over the first few crime-scene photographs. Rosen printed them out on regular paper, but the digital images are high resolution. The next document in the file is on Sherry Taylor, starting with the missing persons report. According to the report, she’d told her parents she was going out with Desiree Jones last night—but Desiree was with her family and had no idea she was Sherry’s cover. I bet that shocked Mrs. Taylor. And despite this, she still seemed so confident that she knew her daughter’s associates and comings and goings. You’d think her faith would be starting to crumble a little bit. So where was Sherry from 9:00 p.m. to midnight last night? At the Goth nightclub like Todd Fischer said? Or was there some other mystery date? These are questions we need to answer, but first things first…the file.

I read through the three-page missing persons report filled out by Officer Saporo from the LAPD. Even though she’d really only been missing for a few hours when the parents reported it, Saporo still did it by the book. He wasn’t too worried about a twenty-year-old still being out at eight on a Sunday morning, but there’s no legal requirement to wait twenty-four hours or any other specified time in California. Saporo classified Sherry’s disappearance as Missing/Lost rather than as a runaway, parental abduction, stranger abduction or disaster victim. While it’s possible she was abducted by a stranger, there was no evidence to suggest that. According to the form, Sherry Taylor was last seen by her parents leaving the house at nine last night. She was wearing tight Guess jeans with an eveningwear-style, short-sleeved top—black with lots of beading—and a leather jacket. The clothing doesn’t help us much, given Sherry was found naked, although it does tell us she wasn’t dressed for a Goth nightclub…at least not when she left her parents’ house. So she either changed after she left, or Todd lied.

The next section of the form relates to any companions the missing person was with, but in the case of Sherry she left the house alone and we don’t know who she may have seen after that—except for Todd. Information covering Sherry’s car has been completed in the next spot, including the fact that her Toyota Celica hasn’t been found. I give Sloan a call to confirm.

“Sloan, it’s Anderson. Don’t suppose Sherry’s car was at our crime scene?”

“No. It doesn’t look like she drove herself to Temescal Gateway Park. Unless someone else drove the car away.”

“And her cell phone wasn’t found?”

“No,” Sloan confirms. “According to the parents, they were ringing her cell every ten minutes or so, from about seven this morning. It was going straight to voice mail.”

“Does it have a GPS unit?”

“No.” She pauses. “I do have some news.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Our footprint experts have finished on-scene and identified three different sets of footprints that could be part of a circle around the body. Two are only partials, but one is more complete.”

“Go on.”

“They’ll run them against shoe databases, but we’ve got a women’s size eight and what looks like a men’s eleven and a men’s eleven or twelve.”

“It’s a start.” Although the shoe sizes are all very common. Hopefully something more specific will come from the imprints themselves.

“Problem is these prints were found amongst a lot of others. Given how much that clearing was used, any defense attorney’s going to smash them in court.”

I grimace. If Sloan’s repeating the forensic expert’s words “could be part of a circle,” she’s right—that’s not good enough for court. “Okay, thanks.”

I hang up and move back to the form and the details of the complainant—in this case Mr. and Mrs. Taylor—and then on to the more detailed information about Sherry. Again, nothing particularly stands out. The last two sections are for forensics data, but they’re blank, as you’d expect when the report had just been logged. Soon enough they would have added credit card checks and phone records and then, if suitably concerned that foul play was a factor, they would have assigned a computer technician to start the laborious process of looking for clues on Sherry’s laptop. But for a twenty-year-old, that may have been weeks away.

Next in the file Sloan pulled together for Rosen and the Bureau is all the information on the trespass charge and the preliminary information they dug up on Anton Ward, once they made the link between the two trespassers, After Dark and Ward. The file contains a printout of Ward’s driver’s license, as well as an article LA Weekly did on him and After Dark a few months back. It’s a feature article with a large photo of Ward and on the other side of the page is the After Dark logo. It’s a pentagram enclosed in a circle with the word After written above it and Dark below it.

According to the article, Anton Ward was born Brett Simons in Virginia. He was educated at Stanford, but inherited his parents’ substantial fortune when they were both killed in a car accident when he was eighteen. Ward is thirty-two, single, with no children. A large photo for the article shows me he’s extremely good-looking, with raven-black hair that drapes across his dark blue eyes and pale skin. Could be hair dye, contacts and makeup. Or maybe the LA Weekly Photoshopped the file. Who knows?

I ring up Mercedes Diaz from the Bureau’s Cyber Crime Division. Mercedes is my workout partner and a good friend. “Hey, Mercedes.”

“Hi, Soph. What’s up?”

“Sorry to bug you on a Sunday, but do you mind running a background check for me?”

“Sure thing. Hold on a sec while I fire up my laptop.”

“You mean it’s not on?”

She laughs. “Hey, I’m not that bad.”

In my experience, most computer techs are addicted—in and out of work. Unlike the chef who never cooks at home, computer analysts seem to spend countless hours on their computers.

“Okay. What do you want?”

“Give me everything you’ve got on Anton Ward. According to an LA Weekly article he was born Brett Simons in Virginia but you better check that, too.”

“Police, travel, education, investments, newspapers?”

“All of it.”

“Okay.” She’s already typing speedily on her keyboard. “I’ll e-mail you everything I find. Give me about thirty minutes, an hour tops.”

“Man, you guys are fast.”

“It’s not us…it’s the computers.”

In reality it’s both. The computers may store the information, but techs can get in, and out, quickly.

“What you working on anyway?” she asks.

“Murder case. Temescal Gateway Park.”

“Sounds like you’re having a good weekend.”

I smile. “You could say that.”

“Keep an eye on your BlackBerry.”

“Will do.”

I hang up and decide to start by researching the different clubs before moving on to Ward and After Dark. I soon find a Web site that lists Goth clubs around the world and do a quick check for L.A. On Thursday nights it’s Perversion in Hollywood, Fridays is Ruin, Saturdays is Bar Sinister and Sundays is Malediction Society. If Todd Fischer is telling us the truth Sherry must have come directly from Bar Sinister. I ring the club and leave a message, asking for a return call as soon as possible.

Both Malediction Society and Ruin are run out of the same place on Wilshire—the Monte Cristo. Looks like I’ll be heading down there tonight—if I decide to go through with it. The clubs don’t seem to have dedicated Web sites, but they’re all on MySpace and Facebook. Malediction Society’s page features an advertisement-style layout, with posters of upcoming events and DJs that play at the club. The other clubs use a similar approach.

Next I move on to Ward and After Dark. My Google search comes up with a few articles on the group and the man himself, but nothing much that’s not already in the fledgling file. Next, I log into my minimalist profile page on Facebook and do a search for Anton Ward. Sure enough, I find a few Anton Wards and soon pinpoint the group leader. The profile image on Facebook has him dressed in tailored pants and a skintight plum sweater, leaning on a grand piano. The image is more conservative than I’d imagined—like he’s trying to show off his wealth and hide any more Gothic tendencies. It’s also a very small picture—I can’t access his full details unless I send him a friend request that he accepts. And, for the moment, I want to fly under the radar. If I decide it’s worthwhile, I may set up a fake Facebook profile to see if I can get additional info. Next I search on his group’s name, After Dark. I discover that Ward’s set up a Facebook page, which I can view without having to join. I read the main blurb:

After Dark is a group of enlightened individuals who have embraced their real calling in this world—vampirism. Based in L.A., the group is headed by the self-made Anton Ward, who saw the need to band together with his fellow vampires and give them somewhere safe to meet. After Dark meets once a week and provides a mentoring program for all its members. The organization also helps people cross over into their new lives as vampires and matches vampires with willing donors. At the moment, our exclusive group is physically based and we purposely keep numbers low. However we will shortly be launching an online group so that After Dark can have a national and global presence. For more information, e-mail anton@afterdark.com.

I have a quick look through thumbnail pictures of the page’s fans and the other basic information that Ward has posted on the page. He hasn’t included a lot of details about the group or its members; rather, he’s covered the basics and requested that people e-mail him with their interest in the forthcoming virtual group. It’s not exactly an empire, but it could feed his ego, if not his wallet.

Next I search MySpace. With no need to “friend” him first, I find Ward’s profile page quite quickly and this time have instant access to his vital statistics—at least those he self-reported. Then there’s also a longer “about me” section, a link to his blog and some more pictures. I flick through these images and find some that better fit my mental image of the man, including one in which he’s wearing contacts that make his eyes glow eerily.

He’s got two hundred and twenty friends on MySpace, including quite a few of the Goth-inspired clubs. Overall, the theme for women is definitely corsets, dark hair, pale faces and red lips.

I could spend hours clicking the friend links and reading about Ward’s online network, but I’ve got too much to get through before hooking up with Sloan again. Plus I’ve got enough initial info on him for now. While I’ll reserve final judgment until I meet Ward and his group members, at this stage I see two possibilities for Anton Ward. One, he’s a conman, someone who saw an opportunity to surround himself with devoted members who pander to his ego. Or two, he believes whatever teachings he may pass on to his members, believes he’s a vampire. Guess I’ll find out which soon.

Either way, until I discover more about Anton Ward and his group, it’ll be difficult to classify them. On the surface they seem to fit some definitions of a new religious movements—they’re a small, non-mainstream group that revolves around a single leader. NRMs are often associated with extremist behavior and their lifestyle is usually seen as unconventional in some way, and Ward and his group tick that box. Vampirism is extremist behavior, even in today’s society where it’s got a chic factor. But are they a cult? Does Anton Ward have complete control over his followers? The group didn’t come onto the law-enforcement radar until Riley and Davidson were arrested—no hint of illicit or illegal activities, no missing person reports filed by family members, and so on. And even if they are an NRM, it doesn’t mean they’re violent or capable of murder. Many NRMs function with no incident. It’s just that the ones that go spectacularly and tragically wrong get lots of media attention.

The question is, then, if After Dark is a cult, is it a destructive one?

A destructive cult tends to have one charismatic leader, uses deception in recruiting, uses thought-reform methods to effectively brainwash its members, is isolated from the rest of society, distinguishes between their kind and the rest of the world and strictly controls members’ daily routines. But from what I know so far, this group isn’t isolated, geographically at least. Riley and Davidson live in WestHo and Ward lives in Los Feliz. And having not met Riley or Davidson, it’s difficult for me to decide if they’re the “type” to be attracted to a new religious movement. From a psychological perspective, cults can give people a sense of belonging and a sense of purpose—two things people are striving for these days. Likewise, an NRM can guide people in their behavior—tell them what’s right and wrong—and some individuals would rather feel guided, controlled even, than alone. But if After Dark is a destructive cult, its members could be convinced that killing a woman in a ritualistic way is okay, even required. Members don’t usually question their leader’s instructions. Charles Manson and his “family” are a classic example. In 1969 Manson convinced four of his members to kill Sharon Tate and four of her friends. These cult members followed their leader’s directions without question, despite the fact that Tate was five months pregnant. They believed Manson represented the Second Coming and was infallible; and he convinced them that the act of killing another human being was simply releasing them from their physical bodies. Murder was not a heinous crime in their minds.

Jonestown is another famous example of the hold a charismatic leader can have on his disciples—and its disastrous results. Reverend Jim Jones founded the People’s Temple of California and even managed to rub shoulders with some of America’s most powerful individuals. Before long, nine hundred and seventeen of the cult’s members were killed in what initially looked like a suicide pact, but investigators soon realized that about two hundred died voluntarily and the rest were murdered by fellow members under the direction of Jones. Even those that killed themselves did so at Jones’ direction. Such is the power of charisma.

I check my e-mail and notice that Mercedes has sent me the full file on Ward, but before I look at that I decide to research new religious movements a little more, concentrating this time on the typical personality types of members.

An hour later, I check in with Sloan.

“How’s it going?” I ask.

“Getting there. I’ve put through all the paperwork for Sherry’s credit card records and phone records, plus I’ve logged a request for a computer forensic technician to get onto Sherry’s laptop.”

“Great. And the DNA?”

“Personally dropped it in.”

I fill in Sloan on my recent activities, including the online information I found out about the clubs.

“It’s a whole other world, huh?”

“You bet. Tonight’s Malediction Society and I thought I might pop in around seven to talk to the staff.” I’m hoping to find a manager or someone there, but if I decide to go tonight as a Goth, I’d also like to get the lay of the land before I turn up in a part of town I don’t know very well.

“You do know it’s Sunday night, Anderson?”

“I know. But the next Goth night isn’t until Thursday.”

She’s silent for a bit. “I guess it can’t hurt. If Todd is telling us the truth, it makes sense to check out the Goth angle, too.”

“Uh-huh. I’ve also got some info on Ward. I haven’t reviewed it yet myself, but I’ll e-mail it through to you.”

“Thanks.”

“If Sherry Taylor did go to a Goth club last night, it must have been Bar Sinister. Hopefully there’s surveillance footage somewhere to prove it. I’ve left a message on the club’s answering machine.”

“Good. Let’s see if Todd Fischer’s story checks out.”

Sloan’s keeping herself open, a little, to the possibility that vampires were involved in the murder, but at the same time she’s running down one of her prime suspect’s stories.

We arrange to meet at Malediction Society before hanging up. Time to find out more about Anton Ward. As I’d expect, Mercedes has been thorough. She was able to confirm many of the details in the article, including the fact that Ward was born on September 7, 1977 and his real name is Brett Simons. He changed his name to Anton Ward when he was twenty.

Her search on birth records brought up a copy of his birth certificate, which lists his parents as Laura and Jack Simons. They had no other children, and died when Ward was eighteen. She’s also e-mailed me copies of their death certificates, a few newspaper articles on the car accident that killed them, as well as the police report for the crash. The report notes that it looked like Jack Simons fell asleep and veered off the road. His wife died instantly and he was announced dead on arrival at the local hospital. Neither speed nor alcohol was involved in the accident.

Jack Simons was a wealthy entrepreneur, who ran businesses in real estate, both residential and commercial. He was responsible for several large developments on the East Coast, covering Massachusetts, New York, Rhode Island and Virginia. He was also a large player in the stock market and on his death his estate was valued at over $300 million. While ten percent went to charity, the rest went to his sole heir, Brett Simons, aka Anton Ward.

I’m just about to move onto Mercedes’ findings from the property records when my BlackBerry buzzes. I hit Answer without looking at the display. “Agent Anderson.”

“Hi, honey. It’s me.”

“Hi, Darren.” I know it’s cliché, but just hearing his voice makes me feel warm and fuzzy. Detective Darren Carter and I met on a case that took me to Arizona a year and a half ago and we’ve been doing the long-distance dating thing for just over three months now.

“I’m at the airport. Cab, given you’re not here?”

Uh-oh…I totally forgot. “Yeah, if you can grab a cab that’d be great.” I chew on my bottom lip.

There’s silence for a beat before he says, “You forgot I was coming, didn’t you?” There’s a hint of annoyance in his voice.

“No… Kinda.” I take a breath. “I’m on a case. Murder victim, found this morning.”

“You’re working on a Sunday? Thought it was just us homicide cops who worked hard.”

“Ha, ha—you’re off duty…not exactly working hard.”

“Yup. Three days off to spend with my lovely girlfriend.”

I wince, wondering how much time I’ll actually get to spend with Darren in the next seventy-two hours. I avoid that particular topic. “I’ll be home in a couple of hours. Grab a cab and let yourself in.” I take a quick glance at my watch—6:05 p.m. We say our goodbyes and hang up.

Back in the file, property records indicate Ward owns two residential houses—one here in Los Feliz and an apartment in New York. And according to Mercedes’ search of companies, Ward is on three boards, including being chairman of two of his father’s original companies. Mercedes has provided copies of the short bios posted on these companies’ Web sites, from which I glean that he attended private school and studied a Bachelor of Arts at Stanford University, taking courses in art, art history and history. The only thing on the police system for him is a DUI in Virginia shortly after his parents died. He lost his license for six months and has kept his nose clean since.

Looks like he moved to L.A. in 2001, a year and a half after he finished college. He has kept some of the family businesses running, but seems to mostly live off investments. Then again, it can’t be too hard to draw a good salary from $270 million. No gun licenses or hunting and fishing licenses and nothing else in the system.

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?

Five

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.”

Sloan stops scribbling and looks up. “Either of them ever violent?”

“Not that I know of.”

“You know who’s in Winters’ group?”

“There are twin brothers from Texas. Real thick Texan accents, and they are rough.” She finishes the limes and moves onto the strawberries, cutting little slits in them. Presumably they’ll be decoration for cocktails tonight. “Security always keeps a close eye on them. And there are a few girls who hang around Winters, too. Don’t know their names, but I assume they’re girlfriends or donors.”

“Donors?”

“The ones who like having their blood drunk by vamps.”

Sloan grimaces. “The vamps that come in here, are they more about the look, or do they really believe they’re vampires?”

“There’s some that have this romanticized idea of the Goth culture and think vampires are sexy…cool. But there are lots of true believers, too, including After Dark. And you don’t want to question their beliefs. I learned a long time ago to keep my mouth shut on the subject.”

“They get angry?”

“Not angry, defensive.” She looks up. “You walk down the street like this and you get looks, you can get picked on. Vamps often feel persecuted. Most of them believe they were born vampires, with some sort of need for blood, and that nobody understands that. Nobody but other vamps.”

I nod. “What about the other houses in L.A.?”

“Like I said, even two vamps who are friends can call themselves a house.”

“You must have some names? Some records?”

“Credit card receipts, I guess. And we’ve got a mailing list and a few of our members have bar tabs. But you’ll have to talk to the manager about that.”

Fair enough. Realistically we’d need a warrant for that information anyway.

“There’s also our MySpace and Facebook pages. Most of the friends on there are regulars.”

“I was on the club’s pages this afternoon, but I’ll take a closer look. Thanks.” I take a final sip of water. “Any of your other customers ever violent or dangerous?”

“Mmm…there’s one guy that gives me the creeps. Don’t know his name, but he’s big and always seems real aggressive—even just in the way he demands a drink. He’s always here with his girlfriend and two other guys. I don’t know if they’re a clan or just hang together.” She finishes the strawberries and stretches up to take a small blackboard on the bar’s corner off its hinges. “I’ve heard they’re really into the whole mythology. And that they’re convinced they must feed off people and turn them to increase their vamp numbers. But it could all be talk.”

“And you don’t know any of their names?” Sloan asks.

“Sorry, no.” Cheryl writes: Cocktail special: Deadly surprise, $12 on the blackboard and rehangs it before moving down to the other end of the bar and taking another small blackboard off its hinges, then returns to the center of the bar. “They usually come in on Sundays, though. I could point them out to you…” Midsentence she looks up and gives us a big smile. “You ladies got any black?” She looks back down at the board and writes in the drink special.

“Can you describe them to us?” I won’t be mentioning that I’m considering coming back tonight. I’m not sure if I want Cheryl, or anyone, knowing that I’m FBI here in disguise. And with the makeup, the clothes and a wig, I don’t think Cheryl would recognize me anyway. I grimace at the thought of me in Goth gear. All in the line of duty.

“The main guy is around five-ten, stocky and bald with a big skull tattoo on his right arm. He usually wears leather pants and a fishnet-T. The girlfriend is big, buxom. Long black hair with bright red streaks and she’s always showing a lot of flesh…and she’s got a lot to show. Then the two guys…one of them is real tall and skinny, hair down to his shoulders and he normally wears full face makeup and a suit. Think Clockwork Orange. And the other guy is kinda short, maybe five-six, but good-looking in a rough kinda way. Short black hair, not much makeup, and he goes more for the leather pants and usually nothing on top. Two nipple rings and a nose stud, too.”

I nod. “Thanks, Cheryl.”

Sloan closes her notebook. “It’s been enlightening, ma’am.”

Cheryl gives a little laugh. “Thanks.” She pauses. “We’re done?”

Sloan and I both say yes.

Cheryl wipes her hands on a tea towel. “I’ll let you out then.”

We follow her back through the club to the main entrance.

“Have you got cameras in here?” Sloan’s scanning the ceiling.

“Uh-huh.” Cheryl stops and points backward. “One in the corner there, one on the rooftop patio and one at the entrance.”

“Do you know if the manager keeps the footage?” Maybe we can find the four people Cheryl’s talking about on video footage.

“Yeah, I think so. But I don’t know for how long. I can write down the manager’s contact details for you. There’s a pen at the door.” She starts walking to the entrance again.

“Great,” Sloan says.

We get to the top of the stairs and follow Cheryl down. “I like your top.”

“Yeah, it’s cool isn’t it?” She looks back at me and gives me a once-over. “You could wear something like this with black pants and it’d look dressy, not Goth, right?”

“True. Where’d you get it?”

She goes behind the desk at the door and pulls out a pen and paper. “Place called VampIt in WestHo.” She starts writing. “So the manager’s name is Brad and he organizes all the security.”

I take the piece of paper. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” She unlocks the heavy metal door and heaves it open.

“Thanks again for your time.” Sloan holds out her hand.

Cheryl smiles and takes Sloan’s outstretched hand, then mine. “Have a good night.”

It didn’t take me long to track down VampIt and recruit Mercedes for the night’s activities. I’m bringing her along as a friend, not as an FBI employee. Not many women go to a club by themselves and I don’t want to stand out. Mercedes and I met at the store in WestHo, leaving Sloan to catch a cab back to her house. I got the distinct impression she didn’t see the point of actually going to one of the clubs in Goth attire at this early stage of the investigation, but if I’m going to profile Sherry’s killer I need to look at all angles.

It had actually been kinda fun shopping for corsets, leather and black. Mercedes and I spent a good forty minutes in the shop, much to the annoyance of the salesgirl who agreed to keep the store open for us when we guaranteed her sales and a big tip…but after twenty-five minutes I think she was regretting her decision. Even creatures of the night want to knock off work. We were lucky the store was even open.

Eventually I chose black leather pants with laces that run all the way up the sides of my legs and a red velvet bodice top—one of the few in the store that had straps. Rather than wasting money on shoes, I decided to wear some ankle boots I had at home, but I did buy an ankh choker, which is supposed to represent eternal life. Mercedes’ outfit is very different from mine. She chose a short black leather dress with an A-line flare to it and a halter neck. She also managed to pick a pair of knee-high boots that she figured would work well in her normal wardrobe, some fishnet stockings, plus a long chain and chunky pendant. The last things on our shopping list were makeup and wigs. The shop assistant suggested going a few shades paler than our own skin tones in the foundation, and then purchasing a translucent powder. Despite my stereotyped notion that I’d be going for white, apparently that’s considered a bad makeup job among Goths. Who knew?

I’m already pretty pale, especially by L.A. standards, so I go with Ivory Bisque for the foundation. But for Mercedes, whose Latin-American blood gives her a beautiful olive tone, the shop assistant recommended Light Beige Blush. We also bought one container of “ash” powder, an almost translucent powder that will set the makeup and our respective foundations, only making the overall effect slightly paler. The piece de resistance was two wigs. Mercedes went for an Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction look, and I decided on a long black do with no bangs. I reckon it was worth the sales assistant’s forty minutes, because the bill totaled $655 and we gave her a $40 cash tip for her efforts. Goth clothes are expensive and I don’t know yet if the FBI will let us write them off. Truth be told, it’s a big investment, but I need to find out more about the vampire community. The more I know, the better informed my profile will be.

By the time Mercedes and I get back to my Westwood apartment it’s 8:30 p.m. and I can’t imagine Darren’s exactly happy with me. I called from VampIt to scrap our dinner plans but I had a hard time convincing Darren that this little outing was important and couldn’t wait.

I slide my key in the door and creep in sheepishly, Mercedes in tow. The television’s on and Darren’s sitting on the couch with a beer in hand. On the kitchen counter are several takeout containers.

“I’m really sorry about dinner,” I say, straight off the bat.

Darren stands up. “Hey, Soph.” He comes over and gives me a kiss on the cheek. Not exactly our usual first kiss, but then again Mercedes is standing right next to me.

“Hi, Mercedes. Nice to see you again.”

Mercedes smiles. “Hi, Darren.”

“I saved you guys some Chinese. I presume you haven’t eaten?” It’s only half a question, because Darren knows what I’m like when I’m on a case—I often forget to eat.

“Thanks.”

“I’d love some,” Mercedes says. “We got time?”

“Sure. A quick bite.” I know it’ll take us a while to get dressed and put on the makeup, but we do need to eat.

Darren and Mercedes lean on the living room side of the kitchen counter while I get out two bowls and place a few spoonfuls of rice in each one. “Beef in black bean sauce or shrimp and vegetables?”

“I’ll take the beef, thanks.”

I spoon most of what’s left of the beef into Mercedes’ bowl and fill mine up with the prawns.

Darren grabs his beer from the coffee table and sits at the small dining table. At least he’s sitting down with us.

“You want some more?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I’m done.”

As soon as we’re seated, Darren takes a deep breath. “You really have to go tonight?”

“Yes.” I stick to my guns. “There are only four Goth nights a week around town—Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights. And it can’t wait until Thursday.”

He hesitates, but doesn’t stop himself. “Can’t wait, or won’t wait?”

Mercedes, head down, is pretending not to notice the start of a potential fight.

I give Darren a forced smile. “Let’s talk about it later.” I glance at Mercedes and he gives a reluctant nod. He knows it’s out of line to start that conversation when we’re not alone.

“So tell me about the club.” His tone is much lighter.

“Don’t know much about it yet. It’s a nightclub near downtown that has two Goth nights and one lesbian night. Guess we’ll know more in a couple of hours.”

Darren nods. “And I see you’ve got a shopping bag there.” He gives a little raise of the eyebrows. “Can’t wait to see the outfits.” The Darren I like…maybe love…returns.

Once we’ve finished eating, we start the transformation in my bedroom, leaving Darren to channel-surf in the living room.

“Looks like you’re in trouble,” Mercedes whispers.

“It’s not exactly the best start to our few days together, but it can’t be helped.”

“Are you sure about that? Why don’t we just wait until Thursday?”

“Darren will cope. Besides, I need to get on top of this angle ASAP. I get the feeling the lead detective isn’t too sure about her decision to call in the Bureau.”

“And you want to prove yourself?” She frowns.

“Not prove myself…I just want to be thorough.”

Mercedes rolls her eyes. “You’re always thorough.”

“My job’s important to me.” I sound defensive, but I can’t help it.

“I know.” Mercedes puts her hand on mine. “But you need a life outside of the job. And Darren…he’s a good guy.”

I sigh. “You’re right. I need to get better at the whole balance thing.” Generally speaking, if I’m not working I’m exercising, and vice versa. And my kung fu takes up a big chunk of time each week too, especially now that I’m working toward my second dan black belt. “This will only take us a few hours and Darren will be fine.” I don’t know if I’m convincing Mercedes or myself.

Mercedes takes the leather pants I bought out of the VampIt bag. “Most men would forgive anything if they saw their girl in this outfit.” She gives me a big smile and passes the pants to me.

“Good.” I lay my clothes out on the bed and Mercedes does the same. Looking at the clothes makes me feel like a teenager dressing up for a nightclub or a high school dance. “We need music.”

“I don’t have anything Goth in my music collection. You?” Mercedes is in her underwear and we both stand at my full-length mirror about to start our makeup.

“I used to listen to Madonna when I was getting ready in my teens.”

She shrugs. “I’m up for Madonna. But I don’t think it would help us get into character.”

I laugh. “Let’s see how we go without any mood music then.”

We both start with regular moisturizer before applying the base, smoothing it over our faces and necks.

I check out Mercedes. “That looks nice.” She’s definitely a few shades paler than normal, but doesn’t look like she’s putting on a clown face, either. I take my dressing gown off and mix the foundation with regular moisturizer to tone it down. My arms and décolletage are already pale and won’t need much work, but I want to blend the effect across my upper body, given I’ll be wearing a corset. Once I’ve smoothed the blend over my arms and chest, I use the ash powder to dust my face, arms and chest. It creates an even, velvetlike finish and, just like the girl said, it only lightens the tone of the base by one or two shades.

I pass the powder to Mercedes. “Knock yourself out.”

“Thanks.” Mercedes looks at her reflection. “Man, how do you stand being this pale all the time?”

I give her a light push. “Don’t get me started. I’d trade skin tones any day.” Mercedes’ skin is beautifully smooth and olive. No need for fake tan, or solariums or even a body bronzer.

She smiles. “Pity you’re not really a Goth.”

When I’m done, my face, décolletage and arms are Nicole Kidman pale. Mercedes, on the other hand, looks more like my natural skin tone but it’s still enough to give a Goth pallor, especially once we add dark eye shadow and lipstick.

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