Vampire for Hire (34 page)

 
      
 
“I regret the killings,” said Fang, squeezing my hands a little tighter and reading my thoughts. “I’m not a killer, Sam.”

 
      
 
“Then why do you want to be a vampire?”

 
      
 
“Because I want to be with you,” he said, bringing my knuckles to his lips and kissing them lightly. “Forever.”

 
      
 
Chapter Forty-nine

 
      
 
The traffic out to Simi Valley was so bad that I was tempted to just pull over and take flight.

 
      
 
I resisted and two hours later, after winding my way through the foothills that connect Northridge to Simi Valley, I headed down a long incline toward the glittering lights that porn built.

 
      
 
Porn Valley. Or, as some people call it,
Silicone
Valley.

 
      
 
As a one-time federal agent, I knew that nearly 90% of all legally produced pornographic films made in the United States were produced in studios based in the San Fernando Valley, of which Simi Valley was the heart.

 
      
 
The key phrase here was “legally produced.” Other porn was produced here, as well. Some not so legal.

 
      
 
This, of course, was what made me nervous.

 
      
 
My cell rang. It was Danny. Oh, joy. Then again, he might have news about my son. Ever the cautious driver, I hooked my Bluetooth around my ear and clicked on.

 
      
 
“Hey, Sam,” he said. His voice sounded strained. Something was either obstructing his throat or he had been crying. Or was still crying.

 
      
 
Shit. “Hey.”

 
      
 
“He’s dying, isn’t he?” But Danny didn’t really get the words out. Not really. Instead, a choked, strangled sound came out, and it was a horrible sound to hear. “Please, tell me the truth, Sam. Please. I’m so scared.”

 
      
 
I closed my eyes. His pain went straight to my heart. I debated how much to tell him, until I realized he had a right to know.

 
      
 
“Yes, he is,” I said.

 
      
 
Danny wept harder than I had ever heard him weep, harder than I had ever heard any man weep, and we cried together on the phone for many, many miles.

 
      
 
* * *

 
      
 
A trail of red brake lights snaked ahead of me as far as the eye could see. Although an hour outside of L.A., traffic in Southern California knew no city boundaries.

 
      
 
When I had hung up with Danny, I was an emotional wreck. Still driving, I did my best to compose myself, wiping the tears from my cheeks. Say what you want about the guy, the man loved his kids.

 
      
 
Traffic picked up, and as I worked my way into Simi Valley, one building clearly shone brighter than all others, up on a large hill—or a mountain, as one little girl put it—the Ronald Reagan Museum.

 
      
 
Below it, near the base and about three miles south of me, glittering in a far different way, was a massive casino. The Juarez Indian Tribe, on land reserved for them, had built one of the most popular casinos in Southern California, and even from here, as I made my way off the freeway, the casino lights flashed and
strobed
and practically jiggled—anything to lure dollars away from wallets.

 
      
 
A few minutes later, with the
half moon
hanging high in the sky, I pulled up to the casino and stepped out of my minivan. I scanned the fifteen-story facade of the hotel. Some of the windows were bright, but most were dark.

 
      
 
Maddie’s
words came flooding back to me. Perhaps they had been unlocked because I was staring up at the massive hotel, or perhaps I had gotten a psychic hit. Sometimes I didn’t know. Hey, I’m still figuring this stuff out as I go.

 
      
 
Either way, I heard her words again: “We take the
vader
up.”

 
      
 
The
vader
.

 
      
 
The elevator.

 
      
 
Maddie
was here, in this hotel. Somewhere.

 
      
 
I was sure of it.

 
      
 
Chapter Fifty

 
      
 
I was dressed to kill. Or at least to seriously maim someone. I was wearing a tight black dress, fully aware of my rounded hips and thighs on the one hand, but not giving a shit on the other. It had been a while since I had worn this black dress and I had forgotten how much skin it showed.

 
      
 
How much
pale
skin, that is.

 
      
 
I’m a jeans-and-tee-shirt kind of gal, but sometimes you have to look the part. And what was the part I was looking? I didn’t know, but dressing as a slutty whore in a casino in Porn Valley seemed the best way to blend in.

 
      
 
The black man in the photographs was named Carl Luck. A known drug dealer and pornographer. And, apparently, murderer and kidnapper.

 
      
 
Allegedly, of course.

 
      
 
I parked my minivan in the back of the crowded parking lot. After huffing it across the vast lot, I strode past an epic water fountain with a stone eagle feather motif. I walked under a glittering eagle feather arch, and across an eagle feather tiled mosaic near the entry way.

 
      
 
I sensed a pattern here.

 
      
 
Inside, the Moon Feather Casino was epic. I felt lost just standing there at the entrance. Where to start? I had no clue. I had Carl Luck’s face seared, as they say, on the back of my retina. I would know the guy anywhere. Now it was just a matter of finding him without attracting attention to myself, or getting myself kicked out by the tribal police.

 
      
 
If I were a regular, where would I go in a casino?

 
      
 
I had no clue. I would have thought the bar, except the whole damn place was one big, honking bar. Waitresses crisscrossed everywhere, each carrying trays of colorful drinks. The waitresses were all middle-aged and tired-looking. They wore shiny leotards that showed a lot of
stockinged
legs. An eagle tail feather hung behind them, seemingly flapping as they walked.

 
      
 
Oh, brother.

 
      
 
Ignoring the occasionally discreet and mostly not-so-discreet stares of men old enough to be my grandfather, I made a circuit of the casino. At least, I think I did. Quite frankly, I had no clue where I ended up at. It all looked the same. Exits everywhere. Restaurants everywhere. Hallways to exotic-sounding clubs. And the games. My God, the games. Rows upon rows of video poker and slot machines, with every conceivable theme. There were elaborate and colorful ancient Egyptian-themed slots: “Play with the Pharaohs!” Rows of ancient Mayan slot machines with pictures of treasures and stepped pyramids. An ancient Troy slot machine with a flashing Trojan horse, but instead of men pouring out of its underbelly, golden coins poured free. Hell, I could receive a thumbnail history lesson all while losing my money. If anything, the casino was a “Who’s Who” of the ancient world.

 
      
 
And as I walked past a row of Easter Island slot machines, complete with megalithic-shaped heads, I decided to wait it out at what appeared to be the casino’s central bar.

 
      
 
I ordered a house white wine and noted idly that the bartender wasn’t anywhere near as cute as Fang. And as I sat there, drinking it sporadically and watching the crowd, I realized that this was a little like looking for a needle in a haystack.

 
      
 
That is, if the needle was a child-trafficking killer.

 
      
 
So I decided to pull out the big guns.

 
      
 
Chapter Fifty-one

 
      
 
I closed my eyes and did my best to clear my thoughts.

 
      
 
It’s hard to clear your thoughts with the sounds of a casino assaulting your ears. Maybe that’s the casino’s secret plan. Assault the senses.
Overstimulate
them, confuse them, and thus lead you down dark roads where pulling out gobs of money and shoving them into a machine for “credits” suddenly seems like a damn good idea.

 
      
 
Or maybe the machines were just fucking annoying.

 
      
 
Anyway, I closed my eyes and cleared my thoughts and ignored the guy who just sat next to me, reeking of alcohol and cigarettes. I tried to hone in on my guy.