Fearless in High Heels (4 page)

The guy raised an eyebrow at her.  “And you are?”

“Dana Dashel,” Dana said, extending a hand across the bar to him.  “My boyfriend, Ricky Montgomery is a part owner in this place.”

The bartender looked from Dana’s hand to her, then back at the hand.  “Darwin Watts.  But we’re still closed.”

“We were in here last night?” I jumped in, hoping to jog his memory into more friendly territory.

His gaze pinged to me, then narrowed.

“Yeah.  I remember you.  Cranberry juice.”

“Right” I said, pointing to The Bump.  “Anyway, we’re looking into the death of Alexa Weston,” I supplied.  Then added, “For the owners.”  Or at least one-sixteenth of them.

Up went his eyebrows again, his gaze going from Dana to me to Marco (who had, in fact, insisted on stopping by his place for a pink trench coat, a leopard printed fedora, and a black turtleneck that covered his entire neck from collarbone to chin, “just in case”), clearly not totally believing that anyone would trust an investigation to a pregnant lady, a blond in a miniskirt, and gay-lock Holmes.

“Was Alexa a regular here?” Dana asked, pressing forward. 

The bartender shrugged.  “I wouldn’t say regular.”

“But she had been in before?” I asked, jumping on that tidbit of info.

He shrugged again, turning his back to us as he grabbed another glass that was clearly already clean and started polishing away.  “Sure.”

“Sure?”

“I’ve seen her in once or twice before, I guess.”

“What about her friend?”

He gave me a blank look. 

“The girl she was with last night?  The redhead?  Had you seen her before?”

He shrugged again.  “Sorry.   A lot of people come through here every night.”

I pursed my lips.  This was getting us nowhere fast.  “Do you know how she paid?” I asked, changing tactics.  If we had the redhead’s credit card receipt, we’d at least have a name.   

Predictably he shook his head.  “Dude, how am I supposed to remember how every patron pays?”

“What if I could tell you the drink she ordered?” I asked.  “Could you look up if anyone paid with a credit card for that specific drink last night?”

He looked from Dana to me. “You sure Ricky Montgomery’s your boyfriend?  ‘Cause I thought I saw him in here with Ava Martinez last week.”

Dana’s jaw clenched, her eyes narrowed, her lips curling into a thin line.

Uh oh.

“Look, if you could just do a quick check, we’ll be out of your hair,” I said, eyeing Dana’s cheeks as they turned from sun-kissed peach to practically purple. 

“That no good, home wrecking, little slut bag of a-”

“Easy, girl,” Marco said, putting an arm around her shoulders.  “I’m sure it was just a friendly drink after work thing.” 

Darwin looked from Dana to Marco, then back to me again, his desire to get rid of us suddenly overwhelming his aversion to questions. 

“Fine.  I’ll check,” he said turning to the register behind him.  “But we sold hundreds of drinks last night.”

“She was drinking a Cosmo with a lime twist and two cherries,” I said.

Marco shot me a look.  “Wow, you’re observant, girlfriend.”

“I’ve been drinking weak decaf and herbal tea for five months.  I’m living my party life vicariously.”

The bartender turned back to the register, scanning over the charges made last night.  “Okay, Cosmo narrows it down to two hundred.”

“You have a list of names?”

He shot me a look.  “Look, even if she’s sleeping with one of the owners,” he said, gesturing to Dana, “that doesn’t give you clearance to all the receipts.  I could lose my job if I showed you this.”

“Okay how about this: any of them on the same ticket as a martini with blue at the bottom, red on top, a maraschino cherry floating in it?” I asked, remembering Alexa’s drink.

Darwin looked back at his screen.  “That would be our special Blue Blood Baby.  And, yeah.  There is one credit card charge with both.”

The three of us leaned forward.

“Name?” I asked.

“Sebastian Black.”

I felt my nose scrunch up.  “Sebastian?”  Unfortunately that didn’t seem to fit our mysterious friend.  

“Maybe Daddy’s footing the bill?” Dana suggested.

“Or a sugar daddy?” Marco supplied.

I nodded.  It was possible.  Both girls had been young, pretty, possibly pampered.  “You have an address to go with that name, by any chance?” I asked Darwin.

He nodded.  “Give me a minute and I can get it,” he said, pressing buttons on the computer screen.  Finally he grabbed a pen and jotted it down on a piece of receipt paper before handing it across the bar to Dana.

I looked over her shoulder.  “Gardenia Way?  Where’s that?” I asked.

“Let’s go find out,” Dana answered.

We thanked the bartender, and five minutes later we were in the Mustang again, firing up Dana’s GPS.  Gardenia Way, as it turned out, was located in the Hollywood Hills, just off Laurel Canyon.  And, twenty minutes and one pee stop at a Coffee Bean later, we were snaking our way up into the hills.  On a winding road.  A very winding road.

I couldn’t help a small moan escaping me.

“You okay?” Marco asked, looking at me in the rearview mirror.

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” I said.

“Lean out the window.

“Right. Fresh air is good.”

Dana frowned at me in the mirror.  “It is.  And if the fresh air doesn’t do it, can you kinda lean forward to do your business?”

“Your sympathy for my condition is overwhelming.”

“Sorry.  But I just got this thing detailed.”

As crappy as I felt, I leaned, feeling like a dog out for a joy ride as I stuck my head into the wind. 

I’m happy to say that by the time we reached Gardenia, I had managed to keep breakfast down.  Though my hair was a windblown mess.  I sighed in relief, doing a quick pat-down on my bangs as we pulled up to the address on the receipt. 

“Whoa,” Dana said, turning into a long driveway paved in sleek grey pavers.  “This place is massive.”

She was right.  As the trees parted ahead of us, a wide, brick structure appeared.  Wood beams crisscrossed over the façade, and two massive turrets rose up on either end of the building before it gave way to both east and west wings flanking the property.  An oversized mahogany door with ornate carvings stood in the center, a stone carving of a raven hovering over it just below the eaves.  It was a cross between California Spanish style architecture and a gothic fairy tale. 

Dana pulled to a stop just to the right of the building.  “Clearly our Daddy slash Sugar Daddy has money,” she said as we got out and clomped up the stone walkway.

I agreed, wondering which stick figure it was that had belonged to this place – the dead girl or the friend.

I knocked on the wooden door, hearing the sound echo through the interior.  We waited a couple of beats before the sound of footsteps on the other side indicated we’d been heard.

The door swung open and we were greeted by a guy that was tall, well over six feet, dressed in a pair of black slacks with crisp pleats and a white dress shirt.  Though the shirt was un-tucked, the top two buttons open, and his feet were bare as if we’d either caught him getting dressed or in the middle of unwinding from a long night.  

But my gaze was quickly torn from his clothing choice.  Because as he opened his mouth to ask, “May I help you?” two smooth, sharp fangs shone brightly below his upper lip. 

Chapter Five

I blinked, hardly hearing what he was saying, my eyes fixated on the fangs staring back at me.  I repeat… fangs.  Two tiny punctures wounds in Alexa’s neck, two pointy teeth staring back at me.  What were the chances they were unrelated?

Dana must have seen the same thing as she elbowed me in the ribs.  “Dude,” she whispered. 

My thoughts exactly.

“Uh, I’m sorry, what?” I asked, forcing my attention away from the guy’s teeth as I vaguely registered him talking to us.

He smiled, showing off the possible murder weapons again.  “I asked how I could help you?”

“Oh.  Right.  Um, yeah.”  I cleared my throat, trying to focus on anything but teeth.  “Uh, we’re looking for Sebastian Black.”

“You found him,” he informed me.

“Oh.”  I’ll admit, I was surprised.  He was hardly the Daddy figure I’d been envisioning.  Or the sugar daddy for that matter. 

While the fangs had clearly been the attention suckers up front, I paused to take in the rest of him.  He had jet black hair, cropped close to his head and gelled into a mass of tiny spikes that gave off a dangerous and oddly alluring vibe.  While the vampire stereotype was pale skin, his was warmly colored to a California tan.  In contrast to his dark looks, his eyes were a pale, brilliant blue, staring out at me beneath lashes that were long enough to make a make-up model jealous.  His hands were shoved in his pockets, his demeanor the type of relaxed calm that only people who lived in multi-million dollar homes without mortgages could afford. 

“So,” he said, as I silently studied him, “was there something you wanted of me?”  He punctuated the prompt with a smile.  I wished he’d stop doing that.  It was eerily distracting.  

Get a grip, they’re just fangs.
  I cleared my throat again and forced myself to focus on our reason for being here.

“We’re looking into the death of Alexa Weston,” I said.

The smile faded instantly from his face.  “You’re police officers?” he asked, his gaze flicking momentarily to Marco’s fedora.

Dana shook her head beside me.  “Not exactly.  We’re affiliated with Crush.  The nightclub where she died?”

Sebastian nodded.  “I see.”

“You knew Alexa?” I asked.

Again he nodded.  “Perhaps you’d better come in.”

I hesitated.  Wasn’t accepting an invitation to a vampire’s house one of those things that meant he could suck your blood?  Or was it inviting one into your house?  Damn, it had been too long since I’d watched
Lost Boys
.

Reluctantly, I stepped over the threshold of the open door as Sebastian held it open, feeling Dana and Marco do the same behind me. 

While the outside of the home may have resembled an old-world villa, the interior of the house was all modern Hollywood.  Clean lines, sleek furnishings in organic materials, and a muted color palate.  The floors were a cool, white marble, the walls a soft beige, and the artwork hanging in all directions done in  large scale black and white photos of abstract architectural shapes.  The overall effect was clean and crisp, yet with just enough touch of warmth to be inviting. 

We followed as Sebastian led us into a room to the right where a pair of low, modern sofas in plush chenille and a pair of arm chairs sat beside an enormous window overlooking the valley.  Sebastian sank into one of the chairs.  “Please, have a seat,” he instructed, motioning to the sofa. 

I did, perching on the edge, a little afraid that I might not be able to get up if The Bump and I sank too far in.

“Tell us about Alexa,” Dana said, jumping right in as she sat down next to me.

Sebastian lifted the corner of his mouth ever so slightly.  But instead of answering turned to me and said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

I cleared my throat, (a third time, for anyone who was counting), unnerved under his icy blue gaze.  “Maddie.  Maddie Springer.  And these are my friends, Dana and Marco,” I said gesturing beside me.

But Sebastian’s level eyes never left mine.  “Very pleased to meet you, Maddie.”

Why the sound of his voice running over my name should send a chill up my spine, I had no idea.  But the way the word rolled off his tongue was slow, soft and almost sensual.  I found myself shifting in my seat, suddenly as fidgety as a five-year-old.

“Now that the introductions are taken care of, want to answer the question?” Dana pressed.

Sebastian’s eyes lingered on me just a moment too long before slowly turning to my friend.  “What do you want to know about Alexa?”

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

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

“In what capacity?” Dana asked.

“She was an actress.”

“So, you’re a producer?” I asked.

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

“That’s very vague,” I pointed out.

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

Again, I felt my inner kindergartener shifting uncomfortably.

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

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

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

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

He nodded.  “Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I shifted in my seat, studiously looking away.

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