Samantha Moon: First Eight Novels, Plus One Novella (9 page)

Does it worry you that he tasted so good?

Not really,
I wrote.
But I do realize now how much I’m missing. Cow blood is disgusting.

I bet. Can you still control yourself, Moon Dance?

Yes. I’ve never lost control of myself. As long as I’m satiated each night on the blood stored in my refrigerator.

What would happen if you ran out of blood?

I don’t want to think about it,
I wrote.
It’s never happened, nor do I plan on it happening.

Sounds like a plan,
he wrote.

I laughed a little and
sat back in my chair and drank some water. I typed,
I met a werewolf.

No shit?

No shit,
I wrote.

What’s a werewolf like?

I don’t really know just yet. Mysterious. Obsessed with the moon.

Stands to reason.

He’s a practicing attorney,
I wrote.
And a very good one.

Well, we all need a day gig.

Or a night gig,
I added.

Haha. Well, Moon Dance, it’s late. Let me know how it goes with the werewolf. When will be the next full moon?

A few days. I already checked.

Have there been any unsolved murders resembling animals attacks?
he asked.

Not to my knowledge.

Might want to stay alert for that,
he said.

True,
I wrote.

Goodnight, Moon Dance.

Goodnight, Fang.

22.

I was driving south on the 57 Freeway when my cell phone rang. It was Kingsley.

“Have you heard the news?” he asked excitedly.

“
That you’re a werewolf?” I suggested.

“
Tsk, tsk, tsk, dear girl. Not over the phone lines. You never know who might be listening.”

“
Big Brother? Aliens? Homeland Security?”

“
Hewlett Jackson’s dead.”

I blinked. “Your client.”

“Now my ex-client.”

“
Murder?” I asked.

“
Yes. Shot.”

“
Let me guess,” I said. “Five times in the head.”

“
Close. Nine.”

“
Appears our killer wasn’t going to take any chances this time.”

“
Find them,” said Kingsley.

“
That’s my job,” I said.

“
You have any leads?”

“
One.”

“
Just one?”

“
That’s all I need,” I said.

“
I see,” he said. “Well, the police say you’re the best. So I trust you.”

There was some static, followed by a long pause. Too long.

“You there?” I asked.

“
I’m here,” he said, then added, “Tomorrow’s a full moon, you know.”

“
I know,” I said. “So, can I watch?”

“
Watch?” he asked.

“
You know, the transformation.”

“
No,” he said. “And you’re a sick girl.”

“
Not sick,” I said. “Just were-curious.”

He snorted and I could almost see him shaking his great, shaggy head. He said, “So I heard they found a corpse in Fullerton,” he said, pausing. “Drained of blood.”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” I said. “Not over the phone. But if it puts you at ease,no, I didn’t kill him.”

“
Good.”

More static. More pausing. With some people, gaps in the conversation can feel uncomfortable. With Kingsley, gaps felt natural. Then again, we were immortal. Technically, we could wait forever.

Kingsley un-gapped the conversation. “So where you headed at this late hour?”

“
It’s early for me, and I’m following up on my one lead.”

“
Tell me about your lead.”

So I did.

When I was finished, Kingsley said, “Yeah, I remember him. Rick Horton. His brother was dead and the only suspect was walking free because of a police screw up.”

“
Why, Kingsley, if I didn’t know you better I would almost say you sound sympathetic.”

“
I wouldn’t go
that
far.”

“
Tell me about the incident in the court,” I said.

“
He lunged at me, but it was sort of a half-ass effort. Mostly he called me a stream of obscenities.”

“
You must be used to them.”

“
Like they say, sticks and stones,” he said. “He didn’t seem the type for violence, though.”

“
Some never do.”

“
True,” he said. “You know where he lives?”

“
I’ve got his address. I still happen to have friends in high places.”

“
Good, let me know how it goes.”

“
Have fun tomorrow night,” I said. “
Arr Arr Arrrooooo!
”

“
Not funny,” he said, but laughed anyway.

I disconnected the line, giggling.

23.

I took the 22 East, then headed south on the 55 and exited on Seventeenth Street. Rick Horton lived in an upscale neighborhood in the city of Tustin, about ten miles south of Fullerton. I continued following the Yahoo driving directions until I pulled up in front of a two-story Gothic revival. A house fit for a vampire.

From its triangular arches, to its cast-iron roof crestings, from its diamond-patterned slate shingles, to its multiple stacked chimneys, the Horton house was as creepy and menacing and haunted-looking as any house in Orange County. It was set well back from the road on a corner lot, surrounded by a massive ivy-covered brick and mortar fence. The fence was topped with the kind of iron spikes that would have made Vlad the Impaler proud. The entire house was composed of a sort of squared building stone.

I used the call box by the front gate. A man answered. I gave him my name and told him I was a private investigator and that I would like to speak to Rick Horton. There was a moment of silence, then the gate clicked open. I pushed it open all the way and followed a red brick path through a neat St. Augustine lawn. All in all, this brooding and romantic Victorian-era home seemed a little out of place in Tustin, California.

Just as I stepped up onto the entry porch, the door swung open. A small man with wire-rim glasses leaned through the open door. “Please come in,” he said. “I’m Rick Horton.”

I did and found myself in the main hall. To my right was a curving stairway. The ceiling was vaulted and there were many lit candles. The house was probably dark as hell during the day, perfect for a slumbering vampire.

I followed the little man through an arched doorway and into a drawing room. I’ve only been in a few formal drawing rooms, and, unlike the name suggests, there wasn’t a single drawing in the place. Instead, it was covered in landscape oils. I was asked to sit on a dusty Chippendale camelback sofa, which I did. The sofa faced a three-sided bay window with diamond-pane glass. The window overlooked the front lawn and a marble fountain. The fountain was of a mermaid spouting water. She easily had double-D breasts, which were probably a distinct disadvantage for real mermaids. Just outside the window three classic fluted Doric columns supported a wide veranda.

He sat opposite me in a leather chair-and-a-half, which was perfect for cuddling. I wasn’t in the cuddling mood. Rick Horton wore single gold studs in each ear. He seemed about twenty years too old to be wearing single gold studs. Call me old-fashioned. He was dressed in green-plaid pajamas, with matching top and bottom. He had the air of a recluse. Maybe he was a famous author or something.

“
Do you have a license I can see?” he asked. As he spoke, he looked a bit confused and out of sorts, blinking rapidly as if I were shining a high-powered light into his eyes.

I held out my license and he studied it briefly. I hated the picture. I looked deathly ill: face white, hair back, cheeks sallow. I looked like a vampire. The make-up I had been wearing that day seemed to have evaporated with the camera’s flash. The picture was also a little blurry, the lines of my face amorphous.

He sat back. “So what can I do for you, Ms. Moon?”

It was actually
Mrs.
, but you choose your battles. “I’m looking into a shooting.”

“
Oh? Who was shot?”

“
My client; shot five times in the face.” Horton didn’t budge. Not even a facial twitch. “And I think you shot him, Mr. Horton.”

That was a conversation killer. Somewhere in the house a grandfather clock ticked away, echoing along the empty hallways, filling the heavy silence.

“You come into my house and accuse me of murder?” he said.

“
Attempted murder,” I said. “My client did not die, which is how he was able to hire me in the first place.”

“
Who’s your client?”

His attempt at moral outrage was laughable. His heart just didn’t seem into it.

“Kingsley Fulcrum,” I said.

“
Yes, of course, the defense attorney. It was on the news. Watched him hide behind a tree. It was very amusing. I wished he had died. But I didn’t shoot him.”

I analyzed his every word and mannerism on both a conscious and subconscious level. I waited for that psychic-something to kick in, that extra-sensory perception that gives me my edge over mere mortals, that clarity of truth that tells me on an intuitive level that
he’s our man
. Frustratingly, I got nothing; just the fuzziness of uncertainty. His words had the ring of truth. And yet he still felt dirty to me. There was something wrong here.

“
Did you hire someone to shoot Kingsley?” I asked.

“
Maybe I should have an attorney present.”

“
I’m not a cop.”

“
Maybe you’re wired.”

“
I’m not wired.” Weird, but not wired.

He shrugged and sat back. “I can’t express to you how happy I was to see that son-of-a-bitch get what he deserved. Trust me, if I had shot him I would be proud to say I had. But, alas, I cannot claim credit for what I didn’t do.”

“Did you hire someone to kill him, Mr. Horton?”

“
If I had, would I tell you?”

“
Most likely not, but never hurts to ask. Sometimes a reaction to a question speaks volumes.” More than he realized.

“
Fine. To answer your question: I did not hire someone to kill Kingsley Fulcrum.”

“
Where were you on the day he was shot?”

“
What day was it?”

I told him.

“I was here, as usual. My father left me a sizable inheritance. I don’t work. Mostly I read and watch TV. I’m not what you would call a go-getter.”

“
You have no alibi?”

“
None.”

“
Do you own a .22 pistol?”

He jerked his head up.
Bingo.
“I think this interview is over, Ms. Moon. I did not shoot Mr. Fulcrum. If the police wish to question me further, then they can do so in the presence of my attorney. Good night.”

I stood to leave, then paused. “Hewlett Jackson was found dead today, shot nine times in the head.”

Horton inhaled and the faintest glimmer of a smile touched his lips. The look on his face was one of profound relief. “Like I said, the police can interview me with my attorney present.”

I found my way out of the creepy old house. I love creepy old houses. Must be the vampire in me.

24.

You there, Fang?

I’m here, Moon Dance
.

I visited a suspect tonight,
I wrote. When I instant message, I tend to get right to the point.

The one you thought might be the shooter?

Yeah, that one, but now I’m not so sure he was the shooter.

Fang paused, then wrote:
Doesn’t feel right?

I’m not sure.

You’re getting mixed signals.