Dead Spots (Scarlett Bernard #1)(38)
“No. And I wasn’t involved in the La Brea Park thing, either.”
“If you say so.”
I didn’t like that everyone seemed to think I was capable of what had happened in that clearing, but I would worry about that later. I glanced at Cruz, who picked up his cue.
“Did you know the victims?” he asked.
Gregory frowned. “Abraham I knew, of course. Most of the vampires in LA know of Abraham. I’d seen the other two around occasionally, but I don’t think we’d ever spoken.” He looked disdainful. “Those two were very reckless. Joanna, especially. She liked to drink from children.”
Cruz’s eyes bugged out, and I saw him struggling not to comment on that. Almost all vampires refrain from feeding off kids. There’s no sport or sex to it, unless you’re extremely sick in the head, and those vampires don’t last long in a shadowy society that depends on discretion. But it does happen.
“Can you think of anyone who might want to harm any of them?” I jumped in before Cruz’s head exploded.
“I have no idea why someone would want to kill the couple, other than just general annoyance. They fancied themselves a modern-day Sid and Nancy, so perhaps they just irritated the wrong people. I heard that the scene of the crime was quite grisly”—I thought I saw Gregory lick his lips a little—“so perhaps it was witches. Some of their spells require quite the sacrifice.”
Hmm. I hadn’t even thought of that. I’d never heard of witch magic involving that kind of darkness, but maybe it was worth asking Kirsten.
“And Abraham?” Cruz asked.
Gregory tapped his fingers to his lower lip, looking thoughtful. “Abraham is a different matter. Taking him out of the picture hurts Dashiell, so it could be any one of Dashiell’s enemies. Another vampire, wanting to take over some territory. The wolves, if Dashiell’s diplomacy has been less than ideal.”
I remembered Hugo putting the silver handcuffs on Eli, and thought that Dashiell’s diplomacy with the wolves was pretty goddamned far from ideal.
“Gregory, we’d like to talk to the three vampires’ human servants. Do you have any idea where we can find them?” I asked.
He looked disgusted for a moment, as if I’d asked him where his hamburger comes from, and then his face stilled as he remembered something. “There is a human servant who organizes things for their little community—he does these parties, and I think he runs some other events as well. His name is James Rucker.” Gregory pulled out a cell phone and scrolled through the contact list, leaning over so Cruz could copy down a number. “I believe he also spends quite a bit of time at the Copper Room. Bald, with a beard.”
“Thank you, Gregory,” I said deferentially, and nodded to Cruz. We stood up. “If you’ll excuse us, we’ll be on our way.”
He stood up, too. “Of course. But, Scarlett?”
I looked back at him, and that same complicated look shadowed his face.
“Next time? Call first.”
Chapter 14
The Copper Room is sort of the ugly, unwanted stepchild of the LA vamp hangouts. A lot of the pathetic vamparazzi show up there every night, telling stories and drinking cranberry-vodkas. (Get it?) The actual vampires consider it incredibly uncool—it’s in Long Beach, for crying out loud—but if they’re desperate for a pickup, they occasionally show, one or two a night. If a vamp does work up the courage to show his face at the Copper Room, he’ll have his pick of the vampire hangers-on, which isn’t saying much, but whatever. Blood is blood, I guess. Suddenly, I wondered if that was true—did different people taste different? It hadn’t occurred to me. I’d have to ask Beatrice sometime.
Meanwhile, for everyone else, the food is crappy and the failed actors/waitstaff have all crossed the line into bitter and hostile. On the bright side, I had no trouble finding street parking.
“Whoa,” Cruz said under his breath as I led him toward the door. A neon Bar and Grill sign flickered unsteadily in the window, and it was hard to avoid the carpet of cigarette butts in the entryway. “This is it? This is...wow.”
I shrugged, pulling open the door. “It can’t all be glamour and roses, cupcake, even with the fanged set.”
We walked into the dim entryway, and I told the bored-looking waitress we’d be in the bar area. It was big and dingy, with those extra-tall tables and stools surrounding a beaten-up pool table and a filmy big-screen TV. There were six or seven people scattered about, and when we walked in, seven pairs of eyes glanced up, hoping for a vampire, before returning to their drinks. Apparently, something about Cruz and me screamed, Still alive! When I got a little farther into the room, I understood the desperation. There wasn’t a single vampire in the bar.
It was after midnight now, and they were all looking a little defensive and drunk, like the homely girl who’s sat on the bleachers for the entire school dance.
“Díos,” Cruz said under his breath. “You’re right. This is depressing.”
We sat at one of the too-tall tables, and Cruz gave the barmaid a big grin, which had her hustling right over. I tried very hard not to roll my eyes, but to her credit, when she got a good look at my face, she did a classic double take, then glared over at Cruz. I opened my mouth to correct her assumption, but what was I going to say? Car accident? Doorknob? Anything I came up with—short of “a vampire hit me in the face”—would sound like a lame cover-up. We ordered beer and Diet Coke, and I was pretty sure the barmaid spit in his bottle of Heineken. I chose not to comment.