Violets Are Blue Page 8

  William leaned toward Andrew Cotton and Dara Grey. “You like magic, theater, adventure?” he asked. “I’m William Alexander and this is my brother, Michael. Let’s go somewhere. Let’s get the hell out of here. We’ll have some real fun.”

  The actors rose, and as they were leaving with William and Michael, the security people arrived.

  “We want our money back,” William said to them. “Daniel and Charles are fakes.”

  Chapter 33

  “YOUR PLACE or ours?” William asked the actors, keeping the question as nonthreatening as he possibly could. He didn’t want to lose Dara and Andrew now. He had plans for them.

  “Where are you staying?” Dara asked. She was incredibly sure of herself, a goddess in her own mind, a diva. Yet another one.

  William answered, “Michael and I are at Circus Circus.”

  “We’re at the Bellagio. We’re camped out in a suite. Let’s go there, then. It’s fabulous, the best in Vegas. We have drugs,” Andrew said. “MDMA. You like?”

  “We have lots of fun toys,” Dara said, and gently brushed William’s blond hair with her fingers. He could have killed her for the affront. Instead, he took her hand and kissed it. She was so full of life, and rich, warm blood.

  The suite at the Bellagio was on a high floor and it looked out across a manmade lake with fountains that shot water hundreds of feet into the air. The fountains were choreographed to a song from A Chorus Line. William thought it was an incredible amount of water to be wasting in the desert. He glanced around the room and was surprised that he didn’t totally hate it—there were no nylon rugs or acrylic-coated walls, anyway. Bowls of fruit and fresh flowers had been left out in several places. God, he was hungry, famished, but not for grapes and apples.

  Dara slid out of her Bob Mackie party dress as soon as she pranced in the door. The young actress’s body was tanned and toned. She shrugged off an expensive bra.

  Her small breasts were pert, the nipples erect. She kept on her creamy white thong underwear. And her high heels—Jimmy Choos.

  William smiled at the actors—their primping, their practiced, shallow attempts at seduction and eroticism. He thought he wouldn’t be surprised if a makeup person popped out of a closet, and suddenly wondered what Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston were like together in bed. Probably a beautiful, blond bore.

  “Your turn,” Dara said teasingly to the brothers. “Let’s see what you have. Strut your stuff. Let’s all get in the mood.”

  “You won’t be disappointed,” William said. He smiled and began to peel off his clothes. He took his time with the thigh-high boots, then slowly unzipped his tight black leather jumpsuit. “You sure you don’t want to take this monkey suit off for me?” he asked Dara.

  Her eyes were wide. So were Andrew’s.

  William unbound Michael’s ponytail, letting his brother’s wavy blond hair flow down onto his shoulders. He kissed Michael’s cheek, then his shoulder blade. He began to undress him.

  “Oh my, my, my,” Dara whispered, “you two are beautiful.”

  They were both hard. Michael and William were large, and their penises pulsed and throbbed as they stood there naked. They weren’t shy. The brothers were used to nudity since their boyhoods. They were also accustomed to having sex with strangers.

  Dara looked around and said, “I feel outnumbered but not overmatched.” She took some coke from her purse.

  William gently stayed her hand. “You won’t need that. Lie down on the bed. Trust me a little. Trust yourself, Dara.”

  Like a magician, William produced four silk scarves—red, blue, and silver. He tied Dara to the bedposts. She struggled some, pretended to be afraid. They all enjoyed watching her act, and Michael put his arm around Andrew, who was getting lost in the shuffle. He was high too. His blue eyes were glazed.

  “Why don’t you get comfortable,” Michael whispered. “You’re among friends.”

  Andrew slid a pair of handcuffs from a black leather bag on the floor. “These are for you. Just for fun. Okay?”

  Michael obediently thrust his hands out, ready to be cuffed. “Just for fun,” he said, and laughed.

  “This is going to be so great,” Andrew said, his tongue more than a little thick. “I can feel a rush already. I think I’m starting to peak.”

  “No, you aren’t even close,” Michael told him.

  It happened so fast that it almost didn’t seem possible. Suddenly Michael had locked the handcuffs onto Andrew’s wrists. Then he took the actor down on the carpet. He was all over Andrew. He and William gagged him with silk scarves. They moved so fast. They took off Andrew’s clothes. They tied his ankles with more scarves.

  “Trust us, Andrew. This will be great. You can’t imagine,” William whispered. Then he watched Michael bite into Andrew’s throat. Just a sip. A few delicious drops. An aperitif.

  Andrew Cotton’s beautiful eyes went wild with fear and confusion. The look was priceless. He knew that he was going to die. Soon, very soon. Maybe in just a couple of minutes.

  Dara couldn’t see what was happening on the floor. “Hey. What are you men doing down there? Is it dirty? Are you buggering one another? I’m feeling neglected up here. Somebody come to bed with me. Bugger me.”

  William rose up to her, and his penis was large and beautiful, his stomach impossibly flat, his smile enchanting, irresistible, and he knew it.

  “Up popped the devil,” he said.

  “Kiss me, devil,” she whispered, and fluttered her eyelashes. “Make love to me. Forget about old Andrew. And Michael. You’re not in love with your own brother, are you?”

  “Who wouldn’t be?” William asked.

  He knelt over her and then he lowered his body very slowly. He closed his arms around her. Suddenly Dara was shaking. She knew, without really knowing. Like so many men and women William had feasted on, she wanted to die without knowing what it was that she wanted. He knew she could see herself reflected in his deep blue eyes. He knew Dara felt she had never looked more desirable.

  And he did desire her. Right now, he wanted Dara more than anything else on the earth. William inhaled Dara’s smells—flesh, soap, a citrus fragrance, the rich blood coursing through her veins. Then William’s tongue gently lapped at her earlobe. He knew that Dara felt as if she had been touched inside. It wasn’t physically possible, but she had felt William’s tongue deep inside her.

  Suddenly Michael was lifting Andrew up onto the immense bed. There was room for everyone. Andrew was bound in colorful scarves and shiny silver handcuffs. There was a harsh red mark on his neck. And blood running down his chest. The actor was already dead.

  Dara was beginning to understand everything. William was right—this was so much better without the cocaine. He was touching her everywhere and he was so warm, so hot, this was exquisite. She was writhing, ready to come already, bursting with yearning and desire.

  “This is just the beginning,” William whispered against her throat. “Your pleasure is only just starting. I promise, Dara.”

  He licked away her bittersweet perfume. He kissed her again and again. Then William bit down into her throat.

  It got better and better.

  The ecstasy of pain.

  Dying like this.

  No one understood that until the end.

  Chapter 34

  IT HAD happened again. Jesus. Two more ungodly murders. An FBI helicopter was waiting for me at the airport in Fresno. I was flown to Las Vegas, where an FBI sedan was waiting. The driver, an agent named Carl Lenards, informed me that Director in Charge Craig was already at the crime scene. Then Lenards filled me in on the rest.

  The latest murders had taken place at a five-diamond luxury hotel, the Bellagio. When it opened in 1998, the Bellagio was the most expensive hotel ever built. It was upscale and family friendly—until now, anyway. There was hardly a trace of the old Las Vegas—no naked ladies, no mobsters in shiny sharkskin suits.

  Las Vegas police cars and EMS vehicles were parked all over the
approach driveway from Boulevard South, which is Route 604. There were at least a half dozen TV vans on the property. I estimated that five to six hundred onlookers were gathered outside the hotel. Why was the crowd so large? Exactly what had happened inside? All I had so far were sketchy details of the murders. I knew that the bodies had been drained. But not hung.

  As I made my way through the onlookers, I saw something that bothered me, shook me up even more than the news of the murders.

  There were at least a dozen men and women dressed in Goth attire: black frock coats, top hats, leather pants, long boots. One of them smiled right at me. He showed off a set of sharpened, very nasty looking fangs. He had on bloodred contacts that glowed. He seemed to know who I was. “Dude.” He smirked. “Welcome to hell.”

  There was nothing I could do about the ghouls. I kept on walking toward the Bellagio. These strange role-players seemed to have no qualms about being at the crime scene. Were the killers here? Were they watching? What did they expect to see next? What did the murders mean?

  I hoped that the Vegas police or the FBI was filming the crowd gathering outside the hotel. I figured that Kyle would have taken care of that. I was here for one reason: I can put together details at a murder scene that other cops usually can’t. It was why Kyle Craig had asked for me. He understood my strengths, and probably also my weaknesses.

  The suite where the couple had been murdered was large and relatively tasteful by resort standards. The first thing anyone entering the bathroom would notice was a marble bathtub in a tinted-glass window overlooking a manmade lake and several fountains.

  Two bodies were in the tub. I could see the tops of their heads and a couple of bare feet. As I got closer, I saw that the man and woman had been bitten and also cut several times. The nude corpses were eerily white.

  There hadn’t been anywhere to hang them inside the suite.

  There wasn’t much blood in the tub itself, but it had been stoppered. The room was buzzing with police activity. Too much to suit me. There were LVPD detectives, paramedics, crime-scene scientists, a pathologist, the coroner’s investigative team, and the FBI, of course.

  I needed quiet.

  I studied the pale, pathetic bodies for several minutes. As was the case with all of the victims so far, the man and woman had been attractive.

  Perfect specimens. Chosen for that reason? If not, then why?

  The girl looked to be in her early twenties. She was petite, blond, slender, probably under a hundred pounds. The span of her shoulders was only about a ruler’s length. Her breasts were small and had been bitten, almost shredded. There were bite gouges up and down her legs. The male appeared to be in his early twenties as well. He was blond and blue eyed, with a corn-fed look; his body was toned and sculptured. He too had been bitten. His throat had been slashed and so had his wrists.

  I could see no defensive bruises on their hands.

  They hadn’t fought back, had they? They knew the attackers.

  “You saw the ghouls lurking outside?” Kyle asked. “The semihuman freak show?”

  I nodded. “It’s daylight, though. The ones out there must be harmless. The ghouls in their crypts are the ones we need to find.”

  Kyle nodded, then he walked away.

  After most of the police technicians left I wandered around the hotel suite for several hours. It’s a ritual for me, part of my own obsession. Maybe I feel I owe it to the dead. I stopped and I stared out at the view of the lake that the victims had enjoyed. I noticed everything—the creamy whites, blushing pinks, and sixties Parrish yellows that colored the room. Framed mirrors spotlighted by recessed lights. Fresh fruit and flowers.

  The victims had unpacked and put away their clothes. I went through them: Bob Mackie dresses, high-heeled shoes by Jimmy Choo and Manolo Blahnik, a couple of skirts. Expensive, chic, the best of everything.

  The last thing either of them had expected was to die.

  A stack of fifty- and hundred-dollar markers from the Venetian and New York-New York were in plain view on the dresser. The killers had left the chips. Also two full vials of cocaine in the woman’s purse. A carton of Marlboro Lights.

  Was it to tell us they weren’t interested in money and drugs? In gambling? In cigarettes? What were they interested in—murder? Blood?

  Ticket stubs were inside the woman’s purse. Souvenirs? Passes to MGM Grand Adventures. Tickets for shows at Circus Circus, the Folies Bergere in the Tropicana, the magicians Siegfried and Roy. A half-full bottle of Lolita Lempicka perfume.

  The man had kept a few restaurant receipts: Le Cirque in the Bellagio, Napa, the Palm, Spago at Caesars.

  “There are no tickets or receipts for last night,” I said to Kyle. “We need to find out where they went. Could be where they met the killers. They must have gotten friendly with them. They let the killers in here.”

  Chapter 35

  THE CELL phone in my pocket went off. Shit! Damn it! Why do I carry these infernal gadgets? Why does anybody in their right mind need to constantly be on call?

  I glanced at my watch as I took the phone in hand. It was already eleven o’clock. What a life. So far, we knew that Andrew Cotton and Dara Grey had gone to the Rum Jungle for drinks and then a magic show at the Mirage. They were seen talking to two people, but it had been dark in the theater. That was what we had so far, but it was still early.

  I had been at the Bellagio murder scene since early evening. The case was really getting under my skin. The murders were brutal, primal. I had read about similar murders in Paris and Berlin, “biting attacks,” but I had never seen anything like this with my own eyes.

  “Alex Cross,” I said into the phone. I turned toward the picture window revealing the lake and the desert in the distance. The view was soothing, an incredible contrast with what had happened in the suite.

  “It’s Jamilla, Alex. Did I wake you?”

  “No, not hardly. I wish you had. I’m at a murder scene. I’m in Las Vegas, staring out at the desert. You’re up pretty late yourself,” I said.

  It was good to hear her voice. She sounded sane and normal. She was sane and normal. I was the one in trouble.

  “Oh, I sometimes stay at the office late. That way I can get a day’s work done after everybody else goes home. Alex, I have some information to share on the biting attacks.”

  From the sound of her voice, I suspected this wasn’t going to make things any easier for me.

  “Go ahead, Jamilla. I’m listening.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ve been working with a couple of medical examiners from the other places where the bloodsuckers struck. I think we may have hit on something important in San Luis Obispo and then again in San Diego.”

  I was listening; Jam had my full attention.

  “In both of the cities, the medical examiners really got into the case, really tried to help. As you know, we exhumed in San Luis Obispo. Then Guy Millner, the M.E. in San Diego, did the same. I won’t bore you with all the details right now, though I can overnight them to your hotel.”

  “That would be great. Obviously, no faxes on any of this material.”

  “Here’s what we’ve found out. In both these murders, the teeth marks are different than in San Francisco or L.A. The marks were made by human teeth, Alex. But the killers were not the same ones. The evidence is pretty conclusive.

  “Alex, there are at least four killers out there working. At least four. We’ve identified four different sets of human teeth so far.”

  I was trying to make some sense of what I’d just heard. “These are bodies that were exhumed? Human teeth could leave bite marks on bone?”

  “Yes. The M.E.s agreed on that. The enamel on teeth is the hardest substance in the human body. Also, as you know, the killers might have been wearing enhancers.”

  “Fangs?”

  “Right. There was gnawing on the bones in San Diego. That’s another reason why there were clear marks.”

  “Gnawing?” I winced.

  “You�
��re the psychologist, not me. Gnawing entails strong, repetitive, intentional action. It could definitely account for teeth marks. The victim was in his fifties. That helped us some too. According to my sources, his bones had less density due to osteoporosis. Thus the clear marks. But why gnaw on the bones? You tell me.”

  I was thinking about it. “How about this? Inside the bone is the marrow. And the marrow is rich in blood vessels.”

  “Oh, Alex, yuck,” Jamilla said. “That could be it. How perfectly awful.”

  Chapter 36

  THE MURDERS of the two actors exploded the media awareness of the case.

  Suddenly we had hundreds of tips to check and way too many bogus leads to follow. According to the tips, Dara Grey and Andrew Cotton had been spotted in nearly every club and hotel in Vegas. It was just what we didn’t need to deal with. We had decided not to release the information that there might be more than one set of killers. California and Nevada weren’t ready for it.

  Kyle Craig decided to stay out west for the next couple of days. So did I, of course. I didn’t have much of a choice. The case was too hot and seemed to be revving up even more. Over a thousand local police and FBI agents were involved on some level.

  Then the killings simply stopped.

  The pattern that had seemed to be escalating and building ended; the killers, who had seemed to be getting bolder, just vanished. Or maybe we weren’t finding the bodies anymore.

  I was talking daily to profilers in Quantico, but none of them could discern a pattern that made sense to any of us. Jamilla Hughes couldn’t come up with interesting leads or theories either.

  Everyone was completely stumped.

  The killers just stopped killing.

  Why? What was going on? Had the publicity scared them off? Or was it something else? Where had the killers disappeared to? How many were there?

  It was time for me to go home. That was the good news, and I took it for what it was. Kyle agreed, and I headed back to Washington with the uncomfortable feeling that I had failed and that maybe the murderers would get away with what they had done.