Cajun Gothic (Blood Haven) (5 page)

Why the girl and not me?

Something other than ego insisted that Vampira was
getting off on sucking my vein, though how I could tell with my cock buried to
the hilt in a blonde cushion I’ll never know. Fangs, lips, tongue. Hands. What
were her hands doing? I couldn’t remember.

I was gripping Blondie’s hips, whaling on her, in
her. Disconnected from her. Until the blunt force trauma slicing my neck wide
open. Then and only then did I dump my life force, my seed and my hot blood,
into two very different vessels. Together.

There was a familiarity to it I couldn’t shake,
whether it was the muscle memory from when Trina violated and corrupted my
youth, or simply from an over-heated imagination.

Yes, I now had an answer.

The question remained... was it a warning or an
invitation?

When I turn mellow and moody, it’s best to call it a
night. Glancing at the clock, I was surprised it was only ten thirty. The
ambient noise had wound down, the building populated with mostly blue-hairs
already zoned out on Nyquil and boredom. And my stunning view of another filthy
brick wall carried the extra benes of cutting out traffic noise, along with providing
the laughable fire escape with the fifteen foot drop to the ground. Not exactly
code but it kept the peeping tom situation under control. And it gave me an out
if and when I needed it.

The knock on the door came as a surprise.

My visitor even more so.

I set the Sig Sauer and the shoulder holster on an
end table and opened the door to a sometime friend and ally.

“Tom. A bit late for a visit, even from you, isn’t
it?”

Detective O’Hearn grimaced and said, “Not exactly a
visit, Micah.” Since I was barring his path he asked, “Mind if I come in?”

I was going to smart mouth him but he didn’t look
like he was in a mood for banter. In fact he looked a bit like I felt: wound
too tight. And clearly he had something on his mind.

The hairs on the back of my neck prickled.

“You got anything to drink?” He was pacing around
the kitchen counter, eyes sweeping the documents and pictures arranged in
orderly stacks, missing nothing.

“Beer. Bourbon.” I opened the fridge to check on
supplies. “Make that bourbon.”

“Double. Ice if you have it.” He lifted a newspaper
clipping and examined it carefully.

In an effort to distract him, I said, “I take it
you’re not on duty.”

He shrugged. And continued reading. Apparently he
saw the same connections I had, but with a fresh set of eyes.

“Where’d you get this?”

He knew I wasn’t the brightest bulb when it came to
research or computer stuff, but Annie was ace so that seemed a logical answer.
I had no idea if he or anyone else at the precinct had cottoned onto the
Managing Editor of the Post hiring me on as added value in their relentless
pursuit of truth-for-profit.

That seemed to satisfy him for the moment. He took
the glass and sat in the ancient wingback, right leg crossed over the left,
right arm dangling. A picture of worn out and ground down.

Debating beer or bourbon, I solved that little
dilemma by chugging the dregs in the can and then pouring a generous dollop
into the only other clean glass I owned. I liked it neat but with the temps
still hovering in the too hot to sleep region, ice cubes seemed like a good
deal.

Dropping onto the couch, I leaned back, propped my
legs on the coffee table and waited for the shoe to drop.

If DNA could squirm, mine was doing a rhumba right
down at the cellular level.

Sipping quietly, my sometime friend stared at the
ancient plaster, as if the lines and cracks had a message of hope and salvation
writ small. Or a clue.

My money was on a clue. A sure bet would make that
me. He had to know I’d been there. At Haven. The night the underage girl’d been
sippy-cupped dry. The one keeping me company at the bar.

I tensed as he prepared to speak, but he surprised
me with, “I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

That got my attention. And it pulled a little Hail
Mary from the better-safe-than-sorry closet. Tom and the missus had been doing
the temporary separation tango. Bad for him. Good for me.

I said, “I’m sorry,” and meant it. “You can crash
here if you want. Couch is crap but it’s better than the floor.” That was as
far as I was willing to go.

“I, uh, don’t want to put you out…”

“Da nada.”

I went to scoot off the couch and see to some bedding,
but he held up his right hand and stopped me in my tracks.

“It’s more than just a visit, Micah. I need to ask
you some questions. About Saturday night.”

What happened in the alley beside Haven was clearly
out of his precinct, but the other three incidents weren’t. I’d guess someone
higher in the food chain was looking to departmental co-operation for the
investigation. O’Hearn wasn’t senior… but he was the best. He had instincts and
they’d led him to my doorstep.

There was no point in playing games with him. We
went back a long way, growing up in the same neighborhood, butting heads,
drinking each other under a table. He taught me to fight and then to fight
back. When he’d had enough of his old man, he’d left, taking his mother with
him. I didn’t have that option, never even considered it. That hole in my life
got filled with Catrina, to the point where nothing and nobody mattered.

Except for Tom. He was one of the reasons I cleaned
up and went straight after mustering out of the army.

O’Hearn was an older brother, not by blood, but in
all the ways that counted. And most of the time he was on my side.

He ran the same hand that stopped me cold through
graying brown hair long overdue for a trim. He was pushing forty going on fifty,
his middle showing signs of paunch and with nose and complexion testaments to
his Irish genes. Pouchy, sad eyes surveyed the living room, seeking answers
that would satisfy his bosses yet leave us with our relationship intact.

I decided to get the ball rolling because I needed
control over the questioning. I owed him answers. Just… not the truth. At least,
not the kind of truth twisting my gut in a knot.

“It’s the case I’m working on.” I pointed to the
pile of papers on the counter. “I was following a hunch. It took me to Brighton
Beach.” That wouldn’t require much explanation. If you were looking for answers,
you started where the working girls parked their stiletto heels and re-tooled
for another round.

Tom still lifted an eyebrow.

“The one in the tub, Svetlana?” Tom was the one
who’d okayed me getting up close and personal with the bizarre crime scene.
“She was into kink, big time. I figured I’d find out more if I hung out at one
of her play stations.”

“Haven.” He said it with some distaste. Apparently
he was familiar with the entertainment options.

The man was a straight-up, God-fearing, missionary
style, by-the-book kind of fellow. How he’d lasted as long as he had,
tip-toeing between homicide and vice, was a mystery to me. If he knew how far
down the rabbit hole I’d gone, I doubt we’d be speaking right now.

At least not like this. Not like almost friends.
Colleagues even.

He was all about benefit of the doubt and the load
of bull I fed him tweaked my conscience, but not enough to keep me up nights. I
had other concerns that took care of zombifying my life.

“So you meet her by chance,” meaning blondie with
the fishnet blouse and nipple rings and hot sweet cunt.

“Yeah, she parked it next to me. I bought her a few
rounds, asked questions. Who she usually saw in there. If she knew Svetlana,
usual stuff.”

I held up my glass and Tom nodded. Shuffling to the
kitchen and pouring another round, a very generous amount for both of us, gave
me a few minutes to think.

Unfortunately that delaying tactic allowed Tom to
add a few more numbers in his head. “She was underage, did you know that?”

I handed him the glass and shrugged. I’d known that
and conveniently overlooked it, but I felt the need to explain, “She was deep
into the Goth thing, knew what she was doing. I figured a year or two didn’t
make much difference. It was either me or somebody else.” I took a swallow,
embracing the lie, and said, “It turned out she knew squat,” praying he’d drop
it.

He didn’t.

“So you… what? Danced?”

“Yeah, a little. Not my thing.”

“Not what the bartender said.”

Shit.

Tom pressed on. “Then what?”

“I decided to leave.”

“With the girl?”

I really wished he’d stop calling her a
girl
.
“No. I went out the VIP section, through the back hallway.”

“Witnesses said you followed her out.”

Witnesses. That did not sound good. I had to think
fast and two double shots of bourbon weren’t greasing those gears in a helpful
way.

Acting like I didn’t care, like it was no big deal,
I said, “Well, yeah. But she took off for the ladies and I kept on going,” not
masking the surly tone.

Wait for it.
The
damn-me-to-hell question was thick on his tongue.

The bartender had to have mentioned the tall Vamp
chick fucking my ass with her crotch and thighs. And following me out in our
little parade toward the alley.

He could ask or I could volunteer.

Volunteer it was.

“There was a tall chick, late twenties, maybe older.
Black hair, leather. Never got a good look. Might have bought her a drink.
Might not. I honestly don’t remember.”

He finished the last gulp of liquor and asked,
“Why’s that?”

Sick of the twenty questions crap, I spit out, “I
was more than halfway wasted, all right? I needed air. And a decent night’s
sleep. I left. End of discussion.”

I wondered if he knew I’d been at the crime scene in
the morning. I doubted it. No one seemed awake enough to take notice of me. I’d
done a hit and run, just seeing enough to convince me I’d been right about the
Vamp chick. And what my mental lapse about what happened next might mean.

No matter how hard I tried to pull the pieces
together, there were still too many gaps in my memories.

Tom looked like he’d run out of steam. I got up and
found a couple clean sheets and a pillow and threw them on the couch.

Pointing to the bathroom, I said, “There’s spare
everything under the sink.” I held up a hand and smiled. “Not my doing. Thank
momma Annie.”

Tom lifted himself off the chair with difficulty and
sway-walked to the bathroom. Before he shut the door he said in a low voice,
“It wouldn’t have been statutory rape.”

“Wha—”

“The girl. She was a month shy of twenty.”

He shut the door and I stood rooted to the ancient
carpet, clenching and unclenching my fists, listening to the toilet flush and
then the water running in the sink. I imagined it circling down the drain, just
like what was left of my moral code, if I’d ever had one.

I thought,
Fuck me.

It seemed appropriate.

CHAPTER FIVE

Midtown Down

“Micah? Micah, wake up.”

Something… someone pinched my shoulder. I wasn’t
interested.

“I hafta go…” The voice petered out, then came back
strong. “It’s one of yours.”

Yeah, yeah, on my way.

No, I’m not at home.

Friend’s…

How long…

No, not Terrence. I want Chen.
She’s been…

I lay straddling the bed diagonally, fully dressed,
face planted in a pillow, listening. Dull ambient light shone through the
bedroom window, neither light nor dark, just… a presence. The digital alarm
clock cast a greenish glow behind me, not that I could see it. Not that I
wanted to.

I’d gone into the goodnight without an argument for
once, and whatever passed for sleep had been dreamless, and a blessing I didn’t
deserve.

“Micah, did you hear what I said?”

Yeah, I did.

“She had one of your cards on her.”

Shit.

Now I was awake, sucker-punched into awareness.

“What time is it?” Like that mattered.

I rolled off the bed and nearly went down, the
vertigo drilling me hard, driving bile in a gush up the back of my throat. I
made it to the bathroom but it was a close call.

“You okay?” O’Hearn wasn’t asking out of concern. He
wanted answers, and my state of disarray was seriously cutting into his
patience zone.