Vampire Games (17 page)

He turned into his driveway, waited a moment for his electric fence to swing open, then continued on, disappearing behind a long row of thick hedges.

I waited another half hour, then stepped out of my minivan.

Chapter Forty-one

The gate was six feet high, made of wrought iron that was curled into vines that culminated into spikes.

As far as I was aware, there weren’t any security cameras. And if there were, I wasn’t worried. Since I wasn’t wearing make-up tonight, anyone reviewing the footage would seriously question their sanity, or the equipment. They would see moving clothing, and not much else.

Yup, I’m a weirdo.

I glanced up and down the street, saw that I was alone, gripped one of the iron spikes, and jumped. I was up and over in a single leap, landing lightly on the other side.

There were no guard dogs, although a fat white cat skittered off past the BMW and clawed its way over a side fence. I decided to follow, this time hurdling the side gate in a single bound, no hands needed. I cleared it by a foot or two, and marveled again at my own athletic prowess. I wondered how I would fare in the Olympics.

Maybe Michael Phelps was really a vampire.

Or a mer-man.

Once in the backyard and away from prying eyes, I scanned the side of the house, looking for my opening. No, I wasn’t against breaking a window or smashing through a door, but if there was another opening, I would take it.

The house was Spanish colonial and epic. The plastered walls were smooth and tan, and I was beginning to wonder just how much a karate champion made. There, on the third floor, was a wide veranda with an open French door.

I gauged the jump...and realized it might be too high for even me. Thirty feet was pushing the limits of what I could do until I spotted a drainage pipe snaking down near the balcony.

Good enough.

I gathered myself, took a breath or two, then leaped as I high as I could. At just over twenty feet up, I grabbed the drainage pipe and used it to catapult myself the remaining ten feet, where I cleared the balcony railing and landed smoothly on the deck.

The balcony reminded me of a particular crime lord’s balcony out in Orange County. Same beautiful construction. Stone columns. Marble railings. Epic view of the Pacific Ocean. At the time, the crime lord’s night had not gone very well. In fact, he’d ended up dead. We’d see how Andre Fine would fare.

There was a sound behind me. A woman’s voice. Humming.

I turned in time to see the same blond woman I had seen in the passenger seat emerge from the bathroom. She was fully naked and surgically enhanced. She was working a towel through her wet hair when she saw me. Her mouth opened to scream.

I was moving. Fast.

Just as a strangled cry escaped her lips, my hand clamped around her mouth. My other hand grabbed her around her waist and now, I was dragging her quickly across the polished wooden floor and into a walk-in closet. I threw her inside and shut the door, but before I did, I saw way too much jiggling.

Far, far too much.

There was a heavy, antique dresser along the nearby wall, and I wasted no time putting a shoulder into it. Heavy was right. It took me a few seconds to move it into place in front of the closet, cleanly knocking off the door handle in the process.

The woman inside found her lungs and let loose with the mother of all wails. Andre Fine, looking cut and chiseled and very fine himself, emerged out of the bathroom with a toothbrush dripping from his mouth.

“
Jill?” he mumbled around the brush.

“
She’s presently indisposed,” I said, “but still very jiggly, which, I’m sure, is how you like her.”

He spun at the sound of my voice, the toothbrush flung out of his mouth, splattering foam across the wooden floor. He ignored the toothbrush. I figured I would, too. Instead, he stared at me and was no doubt doing his best to process what he was seeing. Instead of his bodacious and very naked girlfriend, he was looking at a spunky, dark-haired vampire with lots of attitude.

His eyes next went from me to his freshly relocated dresser now standing guard in front of his closet, a closet from which muffled cries and screams and banging could be heard. Andre Fine’s face went through a number of emotions then, the most prevalent being disbelief and shock.

I get that a lot these days.

Andre was a tad under six feet but held himself well. Like a fighter. He balanced easily on the balls of his feet. His body was extremely muscular. His six-pack undulated with each breath. His aura was a vibrant green, flashing with wild energy around him. The faster the energy, the more likely he was to spring into action. More muffled shouts came from the closet.

“
What’s going on?” he said.

“
We’re going to talk,” I said.

He scanned the room, tilting his head a little, listening hard. He was someone who trusted his senses, his instincts. I could see that. That was probably why he was such a good fighter. Except now the information that was being returned to him had to be a tad confusing. A woman alone. A house broken into. His jiggly girlfriend was imprisoned in a closet, a closet which was now barred by his heavy dresser.

“
Who’s here with you?” he asked.

“
Just little ole me.”

Without taking his eyes off me, he nodded toward the blocked closet. “Who moved that dresser?”

“
That would be me.”

He stared at me for another two seconds. “I’m calling the police,” he decided.

“
No, you’re not.”

“
Do you have a gun?”

“
No.”

This time he actually shook his head, no doubt trying to clear it. “How did you get in?”

I grinned and pointed at the balcony. I grinned because his robe had fallen open and I could see his wahoo. Not very impressive. Then again, I had been dating the hulking Kingsley.

“
Your weiner’s showing,” I said.

He ignored me. “Why are you here? What do you want?”

“
We’re going to talk about Caesar Marquez. And you’re going to put your little wee-wee away.”

He did so, absently, tying off his robe.

“
You’re here alone?” he said, clearly confused by this notion.

“
Yes.”

“
Do you have any idea who I am?”

“
Yes. You’re Andre Fine. Five-time karate  champion and, according to some, an expert at
dim mak
. Or the touch of death.”

He shook his head some more and walked out into the middle of his room. He turned and faced me. “And you broke into my house?”

“
Technically, I didn’t break anything. Think of it more as
appeared
. I appeared in your house.”

“
You have a lot of balls.”

“
I have a lot of something.”

He stared some more and the energy around him crackled, picking up. His bright green aura turned brighter. Added to the mix were some hot pinks and reds.

“
Who do you work for?” he asked.

I shook my head and walked toward him. “New rule. I ask the questions from now on.”

He watched me closely, eyes narrowing. He was also slowly getting into a fighter’s stance, perhaps unconsciously. Jill screamed again from inside the closet, banging against the sturdy door.

I stopped a few feet from him. “You’re confused as hell, aren’t you? Poor guy. A woman comes here. Rearranges the place. Makes your big-boobed girlfriend disappear. Stands here alone, unarmed and unafraid. Confusing as hell, I imagine.”

His eyes continued to narrow, even as he continued lowering into a fighting stance.

“
Makes you want to do what you do best, huh?” I said. “To fight?”

He’d had enough. He lashed out with a straight punch that was much faster than I had anticipated.

Chapter Forty-two

But he wasn’t fast enough.

I tilted my head to the right just as his punch
whooshed
past my ear. His hand snapped back immediately and he looked at me comically, blinking rapidly. He hadn’t expected to miss. He had expected, no doubt, to knock me out cold.

A woman. Nice guy.

He stepped back, cracked his neck a little and did a little dance to loosen up his limbs. His little pecker poked out again, curious.

I didn’t move. I didn’t answer. I didn’t get into a fighter’s stance. I said, “During an exhibition fight two weeks before Caesar Marquez’s death in the ring, you delivered what many thought was a cheap shot.”

Andre said nothing. With his aura crackling a neon green, he lashed out again. This time I didn’t bother moving my head; instead, I brushed off the punch with a swipe of my hand. My counter-block had been fast. Supernaturally fast, and it sent Andre’s forward momentum off to the side, where he stumbled a little, but quickly regained his balance.

“
It was supposed to be an exhibition,” I said, watching him. “I called the event organizers. No live punches. Just light stuff. Easy-to-block stuff. Entertain the crowd. Great photo ops. Three rounds of laughter and fun and good times.”

Andre was bouncing on his feet now, bouncing and kind of circling me, too. There was no confusion on his face. Just grim determination. I had seen the same look in many of his YouTube videos. He was treating me like an opponent. I felt honored.

“
But in the last twenty seconds of the third round, you punched Caesar Marquez. Hard. For no apparent reason, and against protocol. Some called it a cheap shot. I call it something else.”

Andre Fine turned into a cornered wild cat, unleashing a ferocious onslaught of kicks and punches and spinning jumps, lashing out with elbows and knees and fists and feet. It was a pretty display. I had seen him unleash similar onslaughts against his opponents during his many filmed matches. During those matches, one or more of the punches or kicks would land home, sending his opponent to the mat, and making a winner out of Andre Fine. A five-time champion, in fact.

But here in the spacious area between the foot of his bed and his adjoining bathroom, the area where his big dresser had sat but was now conveniently moved across the room, I blocked punch after punch, kick after kick. Sometimes, I didn’t block, but simply moved my head a fraction of an inch. At one point he tried a helluva fancy kick, jack-knifing his body splendidly, swinging his foot around so fast that, had I been mortal, I was certain my jaw would have been broken. I wasn’t mortal though, so I saw the kick coming a mile away. Instead, I caught his ankle and spun him around like a ballerina.

We did this dance a few more minutes until I finally found the opening I was looking for, and delivered a straight punch. Nothing fancy. Just a straight shot delivered from shoulder height, and hard enough to send him stumbling backwards where he collided into his footboard, which he held onto briefly, before sinking down to the floor.

I walked over to him, knelt down, lifted his chin with my finger and said, “Now, we’re going to talk.”

Chapter Forty-three

We were sitting on his balcony.

Jiggly Jill was long gone. It turned out that Jill wasn’t much of a girlfriend. She had been someone he’d picked up tonight at a party. I doubted she would go to the police. Truth was, she hadn’t a clue what had happened to her or what was going on, and just before she left, just as she was pulling on her clothes, I gave her a very strong suggestion to
not
go to the police.

She merely nodded, grabbed her stuff, gave Andre one last, fearful look, and headed out front to wait for her taxi.

“
Don’t look so sad,” I said. “There’s more where she came from.”

Andre was presently pressing a bag of frozen peas to his right eye and alternately smoking. It was multi-tasking at its best. I suspected the cigarette might be accelerating the rate at which the bag of peas was melting, but decided to keep my hypothesis to myself.

When we listened to a car door open and heard what we both assumed was the taxi speeding off, Andre ground out his cigarette and looked at me.

“
Who the fuck are you?”

“
A private investigator.”

He blinked. “You’re kidding.”

“
Nope.”

“
Where did you learn to fight like that?”

I shook my head and motioned to the pack of cigarettes. He reached down and shook one out for me. I plucked it out deftly. He next offered me a light and I leaned into it and inhaled. I exhaled a churning plume of blue-gray smoke, and said, “If I told you, I would have to kill you.”