Trail of Dead (Scarlett Bernard #2)(16)
“How did you—never mind. Stupid office grapevine.”
“Hey. We’re the cops. We’re nosy by nature. Do you think she overheard us?”
“I’ll find out later. What were you going to say?”
“Oh, right.” Glory straightened her back, drawing up to her full five foot one. “When I saw the car and the blood”—she tilted her head to the writing on the windshield—“I called you first, but then I…did something.”
“Spit it out, Glory.”
She sighed. “He gave me this number, for emergencies. I called it.”
“Who ga—”
But before he even finished the word, Jesse saw the black Bentley parked on the hill across from the crime scene; a blandly handsome fortyish man stepped out from the driver’s side and sauntered toward the Jeep. His suit was expensive and fit like it had come into existence only for him, but there was something not quite modern about it too. The closest uniformed cop jogged toward him, waving a hand, but the driver just smiled, touching the cop’s shoulder and looking straight into his eyes. Jesse watched as the driver spoke a few words and continued walking toward the Jeep, while the uniform stood slack and staring forward, like a marionette hung on a peg. The driver approached the little knot of witnesses and the other uniform, speaking to them in the same calm, reassuring manner. Jesse looked away, an icy thrill of fear spreading through his chest. This was Dashiell, the master vampire of Los Angeles, and he was pressing the minds of everyone on site. Jesse had never been near him without Scarlett around for protection. He felt a flare of irritation at Glory for calling the vampire, but at the same time he could hardly blame her—Dashiell had threatened her kids. He himself wouldn’t have done any different, under the circumstances.
“Look down,” he muttered to Glory. The vampire could probably hear him, but that was a risk Jesse had to take. “When he comes close, don’t look him directly in the eyes, understand?” She nodded, hugging her clipboard even tighter.
Jesse looked around for Runa, but the photographer was on the far side of the Jeep, shielded from Dashiell. He couldn’t call to her without exposing her position, so Jesse just prayed she’d stay put.
When he was done speaking to the witnesses, Dashiell continued toward Jesse, the smile still tacked onto his face. The couple turned at a ninety-degree angle and marched back toward their home in eerie synch. The uniformed cop who had been interviewing them strode to his partner, herding him toward the patrol car. By then Dashiell was in earshot, fifteen feet away by the Jeep. “Excuse me,” he said to Benson, who looked up, surprised. Jesse had to tear his eyes away from what Dashiell was doing. He clenched his fists, but there was nothing he could do to stop the vampire, short of emptying his clip into Dashiell’s chest. Even if Jesse did succeed in destroying the vampire heart with a gun, though, he would have been left with a lot of explaining to do.
Beside him, Jesse felt Glory shiver. “This was a simple car accident,” Dashiell was saying, his voice warm and practically visible, it was so potent. With his peripheral vision Jesse saw Benson nodding mechanically. “There was nothing unusual about the bodies. You will take them directly to the morgue, where you will begin the paperwork to have them cremated.” He named a crematorium on the West Side. Dashiell paused, maybe to make sure the command had hit home, and then concluded, “You may go now.”
Jesse thought of his threat to Scarlett earlier that night. Would he really have gone through with knocking on this creature’s door? Suddenly he doubted it. As Benson stumbled away, Dashiell finally made it to Jesse.
“Detective Cruz,” Dashiell said cordially. “How nice to see you again.”
Jesse swallowed. He could have sworn he felt waves of power radiating off Dashiell, but that was probably his imagination. “Wish I could say the same,” he said, eyes on Dashiell’s loafers. He had been to enough Hollywood parties to recognize Prada. “But it does seem like there are more dead bodies when you’re around.”
There was a little surprise in Dashiell’s laugh. “Think of it as job security. Thank you for your call, Ms. Sherman.” Glory nodded again, keeping her eyes down.
“You suspect Olivia?” Dashiell asked Jesse, as though he were leading the detective toward the obvious answer.
“Yes,” Jesse said, fighting to keep an automatic “sir” out of his voice. However scary Dashiell was, Jesse still didn’t have to answer to him. At least, he hoped not. “Aside from the message, the victim’s first names were the same as Scarlett’s parents’. And the Jeep was flipped by hand.” He pointed to the dents. He was burning to look at Runa, to make sure she stayed back, but didn’t want to give her away, either. Surely Dashiell had heard her moving around the far side of the Jeep? Or were the traffic sounds enough to drown out any noise? He prayed that she wasn’t about to use the camera’s flash.
“I see,” Dashiell said thoughtfully. He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and began tapping the screen so quickly that Jesse half expected it to start smoking. He risked a glance over at Runa, now visible on the far side of the Jeep. She had been packing up her gear. She hoisted her camera bag onto her shoulder and glanced his way. She must have figured he was interviewing a witness, because she just mouthed, “Anything else?” He shook his head, fast and tight. She smiled and gave a little wave and a head tilt to say see you at the station.