How to Party with a Killer Vampire (25 page)

“Don’t be ridiculous, Detective. If you know where he went, tell me.”

“He said something about digging up some dirt on someone. Then he just took off.”

“Digging up some dirt?”

“Something like that. When I mentioned that Spidey’s wallet and keys never turned up, he got this look in his eye and made the reference to digging up dirt.”

A chill shot through me. My hands started to tremble. “Detective, can you meet me at the Lawndale Cemetery? I think Brad’s in trouble.”

“What? Why the cemetery?”

“You said Brad went to dig up some dirt. I think he meant the cemetery.”

“That’s a big leap, Parker. Besides, why would he go back there? My officers covered that place.”

“Maybe to look for something belonging to Spidey. Or maybe to see Otto Gunther . . .”

“We checked Gunther out and let him go. No evidence. He’s harmless. Crazy, but harmless.”

No one’s harmless under the right circumstances, I thought. Maybe I was wrong and would have agreed with the detective after meeting Otto again.

“Well, I’m going there now. I hope you’ll meet me. Something’s seriously wrong. I feel it in my bones.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll see you there in . . . twenty.”

“Thanks, Detective,” I said.

The line went dead.

 

I drove like a vampire bat out of hell and reached the cemetery in twenty minutes. Traffic was light—most of the commuters were probably home already. I had a feeling I’d even beat Detective Melvin there—unless he used his bells and whistles.

I pulled up to the edge of the neglected cemetery, checked to make sure my car doors were locked, and glanced around for the detective’s unmarked white car.

There was no sign of him—or any other car, not even Brad’s SUV.

I decided to wait until the detective arrived before getting out of the car and exposing myself to possible danger. I wasn’t afraid of Otto anymore, now that I knew him better, but who knew who else might be around.

I hoped this was nothing more than a wild-goose chase, but I was beginning to panic about Brad.

The police had found Spidey’s car, locked, but nothing inside except fast-food wrappers and some clothes. No ID. But had they found Bodie Chase’s car? I didn’t remember anyone mentioning it. Maybe the killer drove it off a cliff or into the Black Pond. Just because I didn’t see Brad’s SUV didn’t mean he wasn’t here.

But how was I supposed to find him if he was? My psychic abilities? A corpse’s whisper? A bell-ringing coffin? I could always try screaming his name. But if something had happened to him . . .

This was nuts. Once again, I was about to make a fool of myself in front of the detective, who already thought I was a complete idiot. He’d probably take me in for a forty-eight-hour psych watch.

My cell phone rang, startling me. “Hello?” I said breathlessly.

“Presley, dear, it’s your mother. Did I happen to give you the recipe for the pumpkin cake roll your grandmother used to make? I can’t seem to find it, and there’s this nice gentleman at the hotel here I thought might enjoy it.”

“Mother, I can’t talk right now. May I call you back?”

“Certainly, dear. But don’t take too long. People around this place don’t seem to last forever.”

Her words made me shudder. I felt bad blowing her off. I promised myself I’d not only call her back, I’d help her make the pumpkin cake roll myself—when all of this was over.

I hung up the phone and held it in my trembling hand for a few seconds, wondering where the hell the detective was. I couldn’t just sit here, doing nothing.

I had an idea and dialed Duncan’s cell.

“Yo?” he answered.

“Duncan! You know that spy software you added to your cell phone?”

“Yeah?”

“Does it work?”

“Dude, I tried it out on Berk’s and Dee’s phones. It’s awesome. Heard every word they said.”

“Is it possible to use it to find someone, rather than listen in on their conversation?”

“Sure. I belong to a tracking service. I can tell where you are by just—”

I cut him off. “Not me. Brad. Can you find Brad’s cell phone?”

“As long as it’s GPS-enabled, I should be able to. What kind of phone is it?”

“A Droid.” I recited the number.

“Hold on.”

I heard him clicking away at his computer keyboard. “What are you doing?”

“Logging on to the tracking site. That’ll give me a map and the location of the cell phone. Hold on. . . .”

Lights suddenly appeared in my rearview mirror as I waited for Duncan to get back to me. A car slowly approached mine from behind. In the glare of the headlights and the surrounding darkness, I couldn’t tell what kind of car it was, or who was behind the wheel. I broke into a sweat and double-checked the door locks.

“Duncan?” I whispered into the phone. “Are you still there?”

No answer. He’d put me on hold. Or had he hung up?

I glanced back at the car behind mine. The driver’s door opened. I tried to make out the identity of the man who had stepped out of the car, but the headlights obscured my ability to see anything except an outline.

An outline that began walking to my car.

I hoped to God it was Detective Melvin.

I grabbed the Spray Fake Blood container and held it with both hands, ready to bloody up whoever was approaching my car. Although it was locked, if the guy had something heavy, such as a shovel, he could probably bash the window in.

But I was ready for him.

Sort of.

The figure stopped next to the driver’s side, his body blocking my view. I couldn’t see his face, only his waistline, and even that was in shadows.

I held up the spray can.

The figure bent over and shined a flashlight in my face.

“Parker?” came a muffled voice through the window glass.

“Detective!” I practically screamed. I lowered the window. “Thank God!”

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I was . . . waiting for you, of course.” I tucked the Spray Fake Blood under the front seat.

“It looked like you were about to spray me. What’s in the can?”

“
Uh
, mace. You know, just in case.”

“Mace,
huh
. Never seen a can of mace that big. So, you wanted me to meet you here. I’m here. So what’s this all about?”

I got out of the car. Now that the detective had arrived, my courage returned. I just hoped I wasn’t crying wolf or the detective would never help me again.

My phone rang.

“Wait a second,” I said. “Maybe that’s Brad.” The detective brushed off his tailored suit and tapped his Italian leather shoe while I took the call. It was not a good fashion choice for a cemetery, but then the detective always dressed as if he were about to appear on television rather than solve a crime.

“Hello? . . . Duncan! I thought I lost you! Did you call the number?”

One of Detective Melvin’s eyebrows rose as he listened to my side of the conversation.

“Dude,” Duncan said, “your reception is spotty. Anyway, I located Brad’s phone. Get this. It’s like, only a few feet away from yours. I checked yours too.”

My skin went cold. “What do you mean, it’s only a few feet away from mine? Where?”

“As I said, I’m getting a signal coming from the same place.”

“Duncan, where, exactly? Be more specific.”

“Hey, that’s the best I can do. Look around. He should be right there. . . .”

The phone went dead. The signal was lost again.

I looked at Detective Melvin, who was staring at me.

“What’s going on, Parker?” Melvin glanced around. “Who’s here? Where?”

“Brad! Duncan tracked him using GPS and his cell phone. Brad’s phone is here in the cemetery somewhere, supposedly only a few feet away from my own phone.”

Detective Melvin flashed his light around the darkness. “I don’t see anyone. Wait here. I’ll have a look around.”

I wasn’t waiting for anyone, not even the detective. I held up my phone, stepped a few feet away, and punched Brad’s number.

Nothing; there was only the sound of the eucalyptus trees rustling in the breeze.

I moved a few steps deeper into the cemetery and redialed. Nothing. I repeated the action, walking a few feet farther and pausing to listen for the sound of Brad’s ring tone.

“Parker . . . ,” Detective Melvin called out from the opposite direction.

“Quiet!” I snapped, temporarily forgetting I was talking to a police officer. I punched the number again. I listened. Still nothing. I kept moving past gravestones and mausoleums, listening until my ears ached.

“Parker!” he called again.

I froze. “Wait! I hear something! It sounds like music!”

The detective ran over and joined me. He listened and his eyes widened. I could tell he’d heard it too. It was the distant, muted sound of that irritating “Clean Up” song from the
Barney
TV show.

It was Brad’s ring tone.

It was coming from only a few feet away, seemingly from inside a small mausoleum the size of a kids’ two-story playhouse.

“In there!” I cried, running the few feet toward the fenced-in structure. The detective was right behind me. I yanked on the gate until I saw the chained lock.

While the gate around the mausoleum was old and rusted, the lock looked new.

Detective Melvin whipped out his radio, pushed a button, and spoke into the walkie-talkie. “Yeah, this is Detective Luke Melvin from SFPD. I have a possible two-oh-seven here, a man trapped. Request backup. Send an ambulance. And search and rescue.” He gave the address and put the radio away.

“I can’t open it,” I said, letting go of the lock in frustration.

“I’ll climb over,” Detective Melvin said without hesitation. He hooked his expensive shoe in between two wrought-iron bars, stepped onto a crossbar, and hoisted himself up. He swung his other leg over and between a couple of mean-looking spikes that were just waiting to jab him. I almost couldn’t watch.

Steadying himself, and no doubt offering up a prayer, he grabbed hold of two spikes, swung his other leg over, then jumped down to the ground.

“That was fun,” he said, brushing off his suit.

“Hurry!” I said.

The opening to the mausoleum was a metal door that also looked rusted by age and the elements. But if Brad was in there, then someone had managed to open it recently—and close it again.

There was a hole where the door handle would have been. It had either broken off at some point, or someone had cut it off. I felt sweat break out on my forehead, in spite of the cold.

Detective Melvin gripped the side of the door and tried to pull it open, but it wouldn’t budge. He needed something to pry it.

I had an idea. “Hold on! I’ll be right back.”

Remembering Otto’s toolshed, I ran up the incline. The lights were on in his trailer, so I headed for the door and pounded, calling his name. “Otto! It’s me! Presley! I need your help.”

Seconds later, Otto, wearing a bathrobe and slippers, opened the door.

“What’s going on?” he said.

“My friend—I think he’s trapped inside one of the abandoned mausoleums! We need something to pry open the door.”

He blinked, probably not used to anyone wanting to borrow his tools in the middle of the night. “Come on,” he finally said, and stepped down from the trailer onto the ground. I followed him over to his shed nearby and watched as he unlocked the bolt, then pulled open the door. Inside were enough tools to start a hardware store—everything imaginable, except a shovel.

He grabbed a small spade, a long two-pronged pry bar, and a hammer. He handed the hammer to me.

“Hurry!” I said, and led the way down the hill. We found Detective Melvin still trying to pull open the door to the mausoleum with his fingers, with no success.

Otto stopped abruptly when we reached the gate.

“Hold up,” Otto said, eyeing the officer and shaking his pry bar at him. “You didn’t tell me the police were here. This is the guy who arrested me.”

“Otto, the detective is here to help me. I think my friend Brad is locked inside. Please. Will you help us?” I searched his rheumy eyes in the moonlight. Otto had obviously had a few beers.

“Outta my way,” he said, in his cultivated-curmudgeon way. He tossed the tools over the fence, then hoisted himself over, much the same way the detective had done, only with less grace, wearing the bathrobe and boxers.

“Move!” he barked at the detective. Melvin was smart enough to know who was temporarily in charge and backed off.