They were back in the bull pen early the next morning. Nikki Heat added a solid line from eight o’clock to 11:30, labeled “with Stuart Mallory.” He had his own column added to the board. Rook had added “Obsessive-compulsive” to the description of him.
“What makes you say that?” asked Heat.
“His bookshelves,” said Rook. “They were organized like a mini library, with books sorted by category: mysteries on one shelf, fantasy on another, SF on a third, and that was just his fiction. He had his non-fiction sorted by its Dewey Decimal classification. And then there was the way he had all his mail sorted, and the box he had all his receipts in. Is he a suspect?”
“At this point, everyone is a suspect, but Mallory isn’t a very good one. I don’t think he knew she was dead, until I told him. He kept referring to her in the present tense. Of course, he could be a better actor than I think he is.”
Raley hung up his phone. “Cabbie confirms that he picked up Mallory and Winston just after 11:30, and dropped her off at the Tepes Club in the East Village, just after midnight. Then dropped Mallory at his apartment building fifteen minutes later.”
Nikki added that to her timeline. “What do we know about the Tepes Club?”
“It’s a new, Goth themed, club. It just opened a couple of weeks ago, about the time that Winston stopped hanging out in her old haunts.”
“Named for Vlad Tepes, more commonly known as Vlad the Impaler, or Dracula,” added Rook. “Just the sort of place a vampire would hang out.”
“There’s no such thing as vampires, Rook,” said Heat.
The rest of the day was taken up by routine police work — so Rook vanished part way through it, to go off and do whatever he did when he wasn’t following Nikki around. Roach ran down Mallory’s background: it was spotlessly clean. His financial statements showed that he was living well within his means, and the only expenses that were even a little dubious were his weekly withdrawals of $400 every Tuesday afternoon, that no doubt had gone to Margaret Winston. His employer reported that he’d arrived at work at his usual time on Wednesday morning, and that he hadn’t noticed anything unusual in his behaviour that day.
The report from INTERPOL about the murders that had taken place in Rome arrived. The method of decapitation matched what had happened to Margaret Winston, and there weren’t just the two cases from Rome. There had been a dozen cases like it, spread around Europe. Two or three prostitutes’ bodies would be found in a particular city or country, without heads or blood, spaced a month or two apart. Then nothing would happen for the next four to six months before it happened again, in a different country. No connection between the murders had been noticed the first couple of times it happened. The authorities in Rome hadn’t been aware, at first, that they were dealing with a killer who had done the same thing in Germany, and France. It was only the international publicity that came when a sixteen year old French exchange student became the second victim in Rome that made European authorities realize that they were dealing with a serial killer who kept jumping between jurisdictions in order to avoid notice.
The international angle, and the fact that they were dealing with a serial killer put Nikki Heat on a deadline. If she didn’t solve this case soon, the Feebs would be showing up to take it away from her.
There was some good news in the package from INTERPOL. Someone in London had seen the last victim there with a man, just half an hour before her death. They had given Scotland Yard a good description, and they now had a police composite drawing of a suspect. Their description said that he was white, about thirty years old, six feet tall, with a muscular physique. The drawing showed a man with wavy dark hair, a moustache, and a couple days’ stubble on his chin.
The Tepes Club was only a couple of blocks south from Heat’s Gramercy Park apartment, so Rook had met her there, where she had gone to change into something that would look less conspicuous in the club than her work clothes. He had shown up wearing a black sport coat over a red button-down shirt, and black jeans.
They arrived at the club a little after ten o’clock. There was a line of people — most of them dressed in goth clothes, with dark makeup — waiting to be admitted. Heat went straight to the head of the line, flashed her badge at the bouncer, and walked right past him, with Rook trailing behind her.
The interior of the club was noisy, and crowded. The overall lighting was dim, and red, with a few brighter islands scattered around, mainly in places where the staff needed to be able to see what they were doing. The place was primarily decorated in black and red as well. Rook fit right in. Surprisingly for a club like this, there was a lack of anything in chrome or glass.
Rook disappeared in the direction of the bar almost as soon as they were in the door. Heat spent the first few minutes just getting a feel for the place, watching the interplay between the people. There was a dynamic to crowds like this. People just naturally sorted themselves out into various hierarchies. A few minutes of watching would tell you who was important in a room, and who wasn’t.
Rook reappeared a Heat’s elbow, carrying a couple of drinks. He held one out to her.
She frowned at him. “I’m on duty.”
“I know,” said Rook. “It’s a Virgin Mary. I thought we should at least try to blend in a bit, while we scoped the place out.”
Heat took the glass, and cautiously tasted it. She didn’t detect any trace of alcohol, but she still didn’t do more than take an occasional sip while she watched the room.
Most of the tables in the club were occupied by unimportant patrons. Serving staff circulated amongst them, taking orders and bringing drinks, without showing much favouritism. A few got the extra attention of repeat customers, who had tipped well in the past. A couple of other tables getting a bit less attention probably belonged to repeat customers who hadn’t tipped well.
There was a crowded dance floor on which many people were gyrating to the music. Some of the dancers were clearly couples, and others were solo. Sometimes one of the solo dancers would try to cut in on a couple, with varying levels of success. Watching over the club floor were half a dozen men, with very serious expressions on their faces. Put them in bland suits, and cut off most of their hair and they could pass for Secret Service agents, but these guys were dressed like they’d stepped out of a Laurell K. Hamilton novel, in poofy shirts, and leather pants.
The centre of power in the room was a corner booth with a good view of the entire club floor. A man was seated there who was dressed in an outfit that could have come out of Rook’s closet. He was flanked by a couple of pretty girls in skimpy outfits. Neither of them looked old enough to be in the club. There were also a couple of the security men dancing attendance on him. Mostly they just stood and glared at anyone who dared approach the table without being invited. Sometimes he’d send one of them off to run an errand, usually approaching patrons in the club, and inviting them to come join him at his table for a time. Invitations went to the young and good looking, or older people who looked like they had money. He didn’t seem to have a preference for what sex they were.
There was a stairway by the table, leading up to a balcony overlooking the dance floor. It had a velvet wrapped chain across the foot of it, and another bouncer standing guard. Sometimes the people who had been invited to the table were allowed to go upstairs.
Once she had developed a good feel for the dynamics of the club Heat started to ask around about Peggy Winston, starting with the bartenders, and servers. Several people said that they recognized her as a regular at the club since it had opened. A couple of them even remembered seeing her on Tuesday night, but they denied having seen if she had left with anyone. More than one person had cast a nervous look at the man in the corner before answering. No one admitted recognizing the man in the sketch from Scotland Yard.
Heat decided that it was time to talk to the man in the corner. She approached his booth, with Rook following a half step behind. Only one of the attendants was at the table, the other having been sent away on some errand a minute earlier. He stepped out to block her path. “Mr. Alucard has not invited you into his presence.”
“Alucard? Really?” asked Rook. “He couldn’t come up with something better than ‘Dracula’ spelled backwards? That is so lame.”
The attendant actually growled at Rook, and it must have been a trick of the light, but for a moment Heat thought she saw his eyes change colour. She held up her badge. “Mr. Alucard will talk to me.”
Alucard raised his hand, and made a brushing away gesture. “Stand aside, Ramone. I will speak with the Detective.” He spoke with a cheesy fake eastern European accent.
Ramone stepped back, but he continued to glare at Rook with an expression that said that Rook wouldn’t want to encounter him alone, in a dark alley. Nikki stepped up to the table.
“So, Detective, how may I be of service to you?” asked Alucard.
“You can start by telling me who you are.”
His accent slipped into a much more convincing French. “Jean Dupuis, but while I am in my club, I am Mr. Alucard. It is, as your associate pointed out, a rather lame pseudonym, but it is the sort of thing that my clientele expects.”
“This is your club?” asked Heat. Their previous research into the place had only turned up a network of numbered corporations, and Cayman Island bank accounts, that they hadn’t yet been able to trace back to any individual names.
The Alucard accent came back. “I have some silent partners, who provided financing, but I run it.”
Heat produced her picture of Margaret Winston. “Do you recognize her?”
“Peggy, yes, she was a frequent patron. I was saddened to hear of her passing.” Nikki didn’t detect even a hint of unhappiness in his voice. “She was quite adept at getting other people to spend money.” That sounded sincere.
“Did she ever get invited to your table?” asked Heat.
“A time, or two,” said Alucard. “I was considering…offering her a career change.”
“You were going to ‘save’ her?” asked Rook, making air quotes around “save.”
“Oh my, no,” said Alucard. “I have no objection to her chosen profession. I just felt her talents could be better utilized.”
“On your second floor?” asked Heat.
Alucard shrugged a reply that was neither a “yes” nor a “no.”
“What’s up there?” asked Rook.
“A private, members only, section of the club,” said Alucard.
“May we see it?” asked Heat.
“Certainly, right after you show me your warrant.”
“Perhaps I should arrange for a visit from the licensing authority.” Heat looked at the two girls with Alucard. Up close they both looked to be sixteen or so. “Make sure there isn’t any underage drinking going on here.”
“Cindy, Deborah, show the nice Detective your IDs.”
Both girls had small clutch purses that they opened, and produced New York state driver’s licences from. They handed them to Detective Heat. They showed that Cindy was twenty-four, and Deborah was twenty-two. They also looked real to Detective Heat. The lighting in the club wasn’t the best, but if these IDs were fakes, they were very good ones.
The other attendent returned, carrying a DVD in a jewel case. He handed it to Alucard. Alucard passed it on to Heat. “Here is a copy of our security video from midnight to two a.m. on Tuesday night. I hope you find it useful.”
Heat was surprised that it had been produced without her even asking for it. “We’re going to want more than this.”
“You can have it, when you come back with a warrant. That video covers all of Peggy’s last visit to my club. I see no reason for you to have any more.” He produced a business card from his jacket pocket. “Here is my attorney’s card. If you wish to talk to me some more, you can arrange an appointment through him. In the meantime, enjoy your time here. Your drinks are on the house.” He waved them away.
They didn’t leave the club. Nikki Heat wanted to look around some more, observe the patrons, maybe they’d get lucky, and the man from the Scotland Yard picture would show up. She didn’t accept any of the free drinks that Alucard had offered. She made sure that everything was paid for. She also didn’t drink anything that didn’t come out of a bottle or can that she opened herself.
About half an hour after they’d left Alucard’s table, someone dressed like one of the club employees approached him, and gave him a quietly whispered message. A brief expression of fright crossed his face, and he quickly rose, and with his attendants he ascended the stairs to the private part of the club. Heat was still trying to figure out what had spooked Alucard, when Rook nudged her elbow, and pointed toward the main entrance.
Two girls had just come into the club. It was the same pair of teenagers that Nikki had seen at her crime scene, a couple of days earlier. They walked in like they owned the place, their eyes scanning the crowd. Once again the blonde’s eyes meet Nikki’s, and this time her lips quirked in a quick smile of recognition, before she went on with her survey. She didn’t seem to be either surprised, or dismayed that Heat had seen and recognized her in turn. The blonde’s scan of the room had picked out each of the club’s security people. Her gaze fixed momentarily on the security man closest to them. He held his hands up in the universal gesture of surrender and backed nervously away from her.
She just frowned and shook her head, as if she had more important things on her mind than dealing with him right now, and went straight to the bar.
The people crowding at the bar seemed to unconsciously step aside to make room for her. She leaned over the bar to speak with the bartender, while her redheaded friend turned and leaned back against the bar with her elbows resting on top of it, keeping her eyes on the rest of the room. She saw Nikki and Rook approaching across the crowded dance floor, but she took no special notice of them. Her attention was mostly on the security staff, too.
The blonde was showing something to the bartender, who shook his head, and pointed toward Detective Heat.
Heat heard a tray of drinks being dropped, and shouts of anger. She looked around, and saw a young woman barging through the crowd toward the emergency exit at the back of the club, roughly shoving anyone in her way aside as she fled. Just as she disappeared into the back hallway Heat saw the blonde and the redhead darting through the crowd, after her. Where the fleeing girl had shoved her way past anyone who might have been blocking her, her chasers nimbly dodged around any and all obstructions.
Heat and Rook attempted to follow through the chaos the three women left in their wake, but they didn’t have the reckless disregard for injuring any bystanders of the first girl, nor the agility of the other two. The alarm on the emergency door sounded before they cleared the mobbed dance floor. When they reached the door, a big, burly, security guard was just pulling it closed again. Heat flashed her badge at him when he tried to stop her, and barged through into the alley behind the club. She looked both ways, and couldn’t see anyone. She tried listening, but could only hear the sounds of the city that never slept, coming from both directions.
Rook had stayed standing in the door, not letting the guard close it, though he had turned off the alarm. Heat turned around to go back into the club. “Why didn’t you stop them?” she asked the security guard. He looked like he probably weighed as much as all three girls, combined.
“Stop a Slayer when she’s chasing someone?” asked the guard. “Do I look like I want to be dusted?”
“What’s a slayer?” asked Rook.
The guard didn’t deign to answer the question, even when Heat repeated it. He just shook his head at them while he pulled the door closed again, and re-armed the alarm on it.
Back inside the club, Heat went back to the bartender. “What was it that blonde girl showed you?”
“The same picture of that guy you showed me,” said the bartender. “I told her that she should talk to you, since you’ve been flashing it around the club all night.”
“What about the girl they chased out of here? Who was she?”
“Tequila Sunrise — that’s what she drinks. Can’t really tell you anything else about her.”
“Is she a regular?”
The bartender glanced up toward the balcony. “She’s been in here a couple of other nights. She’s one of Mr. Alucard’s special guests.”
Heat turned, and looked up to where he had glanced. There wasn’t anyone visible on the balcony, now. She thanked the bartender for his cooperation, and went to talk to the guard on the stairway. “Would you please inform Mr Alucard that I would like to speak with him, and his lawyer, at his earliest convenience.”
“Mr. Alucard has left the building,” said the guard.
“First Dracula, and now he thinks he’s Elvis?” asked Rook.
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