The Undead Kama Sutra (9 page)

I
dabbed my lips with
a cloth napkin. After a good meal, I felt much better.

A chalice lay across the picnic table. She was naked except for a striped bedsheet covering her body from the waist to her ankles. Bruised puncture marks dotted her neck. An expression of ecstasy faded from the chalice’s face; many chalices swooned and achieved orgasm when vampires dined on their blood. The chalice relaxed and sighed, content and sleepy.

Carmen and I sat on benches on opposite sides of the table. We had taken turns enjoying the chalice’s rich blood.

A thatched awning provided shade from the noon sun. We were alone in the pavilion of Carmen’s resort. The other vampires and chalices were either asleep in their cabins or playing cannibals and missionaries somewhere else on the island.

Carmen pulled the bedsheet to the chalice’s neck. “Don’t want the poor girl to catch cold.” Despite the hedonistic ambience of the resort and her predilection for walking around topless, Carmen wore a T-shirt and had pulled on beach trunks over her bikini bottoms.

She had wanted me to wear Speedos—an orange banana hammock—but I had put on camouflaged cutoffs and a tank top. I grabbed a plastic bottle from the table and squirted aloe vera lotion into the palm of my hand. After rubbing the lotion on my body, I stretched my legs from the shade and into the warm sunlight. “How did your corpse heist go?”

Carmen smirked. “Stealing ice from an Eskimo would’ve been more of a challenge.”

“Where’s the body?”

“Antoine, Jolie, and I gave Marissa a proper burial at sea. Bothers me that I have to cover up her death when I had nothing to do with it.”

The sea breeze mussed my hair. A rock placed on a sheaf of papers kept them from blowing off the table. I had told Carmen how I followed Johnson, what happened to him on the island, and how I discovered Dan Goodman’s business card. Earlier today we had gotten on the Internet, using the resort’s satellite link, and printed Goodman’s photos and a bio. Considering how much trouble it had been to find him, it was now laughably ironic how simple it was to get all this information.

I took the papers and perused them. “Talk about skating through life. Goodman got his officer’s commission from West Point and spent his career golfing for the army.”

“That’s possible?” Carmen raised an eyebrow.

“Apparently so. After retiring as a colonel, he hired on as the head golf pro with the Sapphire Grand Atlantic Resort at Hilton Head Island. It’s so high-end it’s where the owners of four-star hotels go for pampering.”

“The lap of luxury,” Carmen noted.

“Lap hell, it’s the moist crotch.”

In the photo accompanying his bio, Goodman looked the prosperous, middle-aged country squire with one foot perched on the front bumper of a golf cart, his hands clasping the grip of a nine iron. He wore shorts that showed off well-muscled legs. Unlike with most retired men, there was no hint of a roll around his waist. The logo of the hotel decorated the left breast of his polo shirt. One tip of his collar was flipped up as if to express his carefree attitude.

Goodman projected the confident air of a man with few regrets. Friendly eyes squinted into a bright, inviting sun. An admirably healthy shock of blond hair—cut moderately short on the sides—framed his angular, handsome face.

I handed Carmen the picture of Goodman.

She asked, “This is the man who murdered my chalice and killed your alien friend?” Her voice was skeptical. She returned the photo.

“The trail leads to him,” I said. “Gilbert Odin tells me to find Goodman. Johnson turns up with a dead woman, your guest, with a blaster wound identical to the one that knocked off Odin.”

The chalice on the table started to snore.

Carmen stroked her hair and shushed her as one would a baby. “Why Marissa?”

“You said she was a private investigator,” I replied. “Are you sure she wasn’t here on a case?”

“I don’t know.” Carmen’s aura tightened and dimmed with doubt.

“So why kill her?” I asked. “With an alien weapon?”

Carmen crossed her hands on the table and kept quiet. One finger tapped the opposite wrist and stopped. “What if no one was supposed to find her body? Then it didn’t matter how she was murdered.”

“Good point but it doesn’t answer the question,” I said. “Why kill her?”

Goodman’s face stared back at me from the photo. I couldn’t believe that this man who had slummed his way through an army career as a duffer was my prey.

Carmen must have sensed my dilemma. “Johnson was human, right?”

“Definitely.”

Carmen kept quiet and let her silence raise the next question.

“You’re suggesting that Goodman might not be?” I asked.

“Gilbert Odin did a good job masquerading as human when you first met him,” Carmen said. “Fooled even you.”

I folded the papers and slipped them into a pocket. “Or this golf pro could be a decoy to hide the identity of the one I’m looking for.” I remembered the terrible wounds that
killed Odin and Marissa. They must have suffered. And the warning: save the Earth women. From what? Was the murderer human—an earthling traitor—or an alien?

Carmen slipped off her bench and stood in the sand. “There’s only one way to find out, Felix. Let’s go rattle some cages. When do we leave?”

“There’s no ‘we,’ Carmen.”

“Like hell. Marissa was mine.” Carmen wasn’t a big vampire. Standing barefoot, she almost reached my nose. But though I outweighed her by at least fifty pounds, there were lions I’d rather tangle with.

Her lips twitched and the tips of her fangs started to protrude. “You’re saying I can’t handle this investigation?”

“Carmen, don’t put words in my mouth.”

Her forehead remained furrowed while her mouth curved into a malicious grin. “It’s not words I’d like to put in your mouth.”

“Settle down, Carmen. The answer is no.”

“To what? The investigation or putting things in your mouth?”

“Both. We can’t rattle cages, not yet anyway. We start clomping around and we’ll give ourselves away. This investigation is going to require more subtlety than zapping Goodman and munching on his neck.”

Carmen’s fingernails extended into talons. Her aura brightened like a flame. “I’d gladly do that interrogation.”

I couldn’t back down, not if I wanted to stay in control of the investigation. “The murders were to protect some big
plan and Goodman is the key. Until I find out what that plan is, I go alone.”

“On one condition,” Carmen demanded.

“I’m not negotiating.”

“Well, I am. I let you go alone, for now, and in return, you owe me two hours of
Kama Sutra
sex.”

“No, Carmen.”

She grinned and tapped her foot. “Five hours.”

“Nothing doing.”

“Eight hours. You better load up on oysters.”

I raised my hands in surrender. “Okay, five hours.” If I had to, I’d borrow Thorne’s ice pack.

Carmen’s victory pulled her grin into a pearly smile. “I’ll put you on my calendar.”

H
ow to go after
Goodman? I could either circle like a shark, moving closer until I knew enough about him to strike. Or I could go straight after him, like a cruise missile.

Why waste time then? Why not go after him directly?

Because, as a vampire, despite my superpowers, I only had to make one mistake. What if Goodman was bait? Who or what protected him? If humans caught me and discovered I was a vampire, the best I could expect was a quick execution by the Araneum. To protect the secrets of the undead, they’d strike to destroy any evidence of a supernatural creature. Felix Gomez would be a pile of ash scattered to the winds.

I’d investigate Goodman by hiding in plain sight. First, I had Deputy Johnson’s money, a hundred and fifty grand in hundred-dollar bills, that wasn’t doing me much good as cold
cash. I went to Key West, got my car, and cruised up the Intercoastal Highway to Miami to visit a dozen check-cashing stores and buy money orders. As long as each cash transaction was under ten thousand dollars, I should stay off the government’s radar. I mailed the money orders with deposit slips from my checkbook to my credit union in Denver. Despite an afternoon of stopping in one seedy strip mall after another, I still had a third of the money left. Laundering drug money was tedious work. I converted a bunch of the hundreds into twenties, which were easier to spend.

I made reservations at the Sapphire Grand Atlantic Resort, where Goodman worked. Fortunately, I had stashed most of Johnson’s money into my bank account. A few days in even the cheapest suite—the hotel had nothing for the budget-minded—would’ve maxed out my credit card. I transferred funds to cover the difference.

I drove straight from Florida through Georgia to South Carolina and arrived at Hilton Head in mid-afternoon. The drive on Highway 278 snaked around the island developments: shopping centers, restaurants, houses, golf courses, and lots of condos. I navigated a traffic circle and pulled up to a guardhouse done in pink stucco.

The guard wore the uniform of a private security firm and he carried a pistol. I told him I had reservations at the hotel. He gave me a onetime in-and-out pass that I had to exchange for a guest pass from the hotel.

The two-lane street curved under a tunnel of live oaks draped with Spanish moss. A bike path ran parallel to the
street. I drove past more condos, some tennis courts, and plenty of fairways. Hilton Head seemed like one giant golf course where people happened to live. I had to stop twice to let golf carts cross the street. Groundskeepers in teal overalls tended the flower beds and shrubs along the shoulders.

The street looped past a second guardhouse, this one vacant, and turned into a roundabout in front of the hotel entrance. Dozens of tall palms lined the street and sidewalks. Considering its exclusive clientele, the Sapphire Grand Atlantic Resort looked understated. I expected a gargantuan edifice of Las Vegas proportions that screamed: Look at me.

The main hotel building was only four stories tall, the rows of dark windows flanking a simple portico. Yet the architecture remained thoughtfully constructed. Its pink marble façade curved toward me, as if leaning forward for an expensive hug.

A sign pointed to guest parking on the north side of the building. I entered a parking garage, left my Cadillac on the second level, and dragged my roll-along bags inside.

Once in the hotel, the pretense of austerity stopped. The enormous atrium could’ve been used as a hangar for the space shuttle. The sun’s rays filtered through skylights high above. Terraced gardens with café tables faced the central corridor with its artificial lagoon and schools of koi. Ubiquitous black spheres housing security cameras peeked from the foliage and the corners. Nautical trim and prints of sailing ships decorated the walls and furniture.

The corridor led into the lobby. Gigantic chandeliers of
amber glass hung from the vaulted ceiling. The carpet was plush enough to hoe and sow corn.

I checked in and went looking for Goodman. I followed a map of the resort, which took me through the lobby mezzanine, across a glassed-in corridor that bridged over the outside sidewalks, and to the adjacent clubhouse.

The corridor emptied into a foyer. Arrows on the wall read:
PRO SHOP, LEFT. GOLF COURSE ADMINISTRATION AND TRAINING, RIGHT
.

I went right, down a hall to an arched threshold with double doors and beveled glass inserts. Both doors were open, revealing a round vestibule lined with office doors. In the middle of the room squatted a wide, circular desk of teak trimmed with brushed aluminum.

Behind the desk sat a slender black woman, who looked to be in her early thirties. The brushed aluminum nameplate on the desk said that she was Mrs. Mikala Jamison. Sitting perfectly upright, dressed in a tailored business suit that matched the room décor, Jamison looked like she’d been ordered out of an office-supply catalog. She stared at a thin monitor screen. A headset boom jutted around her left cheek. Her manicured fingernails clicked across the keyboard. She had a gold wedding set so heavy and ornate that it would have been the envy of any Babylonian queen.

Large paintings of fairways at famous golf courses hung along the walls around us. Corporate plaques and trophies filled the spaces between the paintings and office doors.

The only golf pro I had ever known before, my uncle
Pancho, would have found such sumptuous digs beyond comprehension. His office was a plastic crate behind the pro shop at the Fresno public links, where he used to sit, smoke, and hold court.

I announced myself to Mrs. Jamison and added, “I’d like to see Dan Goodman.”

She nodded and raised a hand, gesturing that I wait. Her fingers tapped on the keyboard while she muttered in business-speak, as if talking to herself. She clicked some buttons and turned toward me. “And your business, sir?”

I raised my sunglasses.

Her eyes popped open, the whites broad, concentric circles around the caramel rings surrounding the dilated pupils. Her aura lit with a luminescent burst of crimson.

I closed and locked the doors.

I stepped next to Jamison and swiveled her chair toward me. Cupping her chin, I stared deep into her eyes to strengthen my hold. Her chin was sharp and delicate. Her skin had the texture of a fresh rose petal.

I gave her another stare. “Is Goodman here?”

Jamison didn’t answer. She held her breath. I stroked her cheek with my thumb.

She slowly exhaled. “The colonel is not in.”

Colonel?
Interesting. Goodman was vain enough to use his rank despite being retired.

“Where is he?”

Another pause and a breath. I took Jamison’s hand and massaged the web of flesh between her thumb and index finger, to deepen the hypnosis.

I repeated my question.

She answered in a whisper: “Chicago.”

“When is he expected back?”

Jamison’s jaw muscles tightened. Hypnotic interrogation wasn’t a simple process. Press a reluctant victim too hard and her subconscious could tighten into a protective ball, like an armadillo’s hide. Better to gently coax the answers from her.

I let go of her hand and touched her neck. My fingertips traced across the tender spots of her throat. Her aura simmered into a low burn of contentment.

She said, “I don’t know.”

I looked about the vestibule. “Where’s his office?”

“Over there.” Jamison lifted a finger in the direction of the widest door on the opposite side of the entrance.

Figuring the door might be locked, I asked Jamison for a key. She groped in a desk drawer and brought out a key on a ring with the logo of the resort.

I took the key and was about to tell Jamison to close her eyes when I thought to ask: “Is his room under surveillance?” I hadn’t seen a security camera in here.

Jamison shook her head. Good.

I told her to fold her arms on her desk, close her eyes, and lay her head down. I kissed the back of her taut, delicious neck. “Be a nice girl and take a nap.”

I entered Goodman’s office, a cavernous, opulent space. I expected to find a throne. Tall windows along the far wall overlooked palmettos, myrtle, and a green fairway. His desk was to the right and matched the materials and design of the other furnishings in the hotel.

The nameplate on his desk read:
COL. DAN GOODMAN, RET. U.S. ARMY
. Laminated diplomas and certificates hung behind his desk. To the left was Goodman’s “me” wall: photos of himself with other people. The photos were of Goodman in various stages of his life, always a group shot with other golfers. In some of the photos he wore a polo shirt or windbreaker with
U.S. ARMY
written across the front. He shared the lens with dozens of celebrities: entertainment, business, sports, political. It was as if he had served his military career on the pages of
People
magazine. In one older color print, a boyish Dan Goodman—in the dress uniform of a West Point cadet—received a trophy from Arnold Palmer.

At the far end of the photos was a framed certificate of his commission as an officer into the regular army. Next to that was a shadow box displaying awards and decorations. Along the top were rank insignia arranged left to right, from second lieutenant to colonel. Under those were his decorations, two of which surprised me: Bronze Star and Purple Heart.

How did a career duffer end up with a medal for bravery and another for wounds as the result of enemy action? Who had he played against? Did the Taliban field a golf team?

His cabinets were unlocked. I thumbed through the files and found tournament invitations, resort brochures, invoices for lessons and equipment, nothing out of the ordinary for a golf pro. Instead of a computer, he had a docking station for a laptop, which was missing. I searched his desk drawers and looked for a note, a business card, a scrap of paper, anything that could point the way forward.

Nothing.

I set the door lock from the inside and left the office.

Jamison snored like a hibernating bear. Her arms dangled to the floor. Both of her feet had twisted out of her pumps and wrinkled the panty hose around her ankles.

I stroked the top of her head and commanded her to wake up.

Jamison’s eyes fluttered open. She smacked her lips and straightened in her chair. Her eyes turned toward mine and I gave her a hard stare, to refresh my hypnotic hold.

“When did Goodman leave for Chicago?”

“Yesterday.”

“What’s he doing there?”

Her eyes blinked lazily. “Consulting.”

“For whom?”

“RKW.”

I knew enough about current events to recognize the initials. RKW stood for Rockville Kamza Worthington, the military and security subsidiary of Cress Tech International. Cress Tech built oil wells, highways, shipyards, bridges, airports, pretty much any project measured in the billions of government dollars. The running joke on late-night TV was that the White House was the marketing branch of Cress Tech.

“What was Goodman consulting for?”

“Government work.”

“What kind of government work?”

“I don’t know.”

I had to trust Jamison. Victims couldn’t lie under hypnosis. “Where’s he staying?”

Another “I don’t know.”

“You have an itinerary?”

Jamison turned her eyes to her computer monitor. She tapped robotically on the keyboard.

Goodman’s calendar came on the screen. This week he was in Chicago. Last week…

I brought my face closer to the monitor to make sure I read the calendar correctly.

Last week Goodman was in Key West, Florida. And last week Marissa Albert arrived in Key West and disappeared.

I knew what to do next. I was going to Chicago.