“Please, please, please don’t let her in here again.” His body bowed in supplication, his lips quivering in terror.
“She’s just outside, observing,” Marcus said. “What’s the problem?”
“You don’t recognize her? Of course, how could you? You aren’t one of us, you don’t understand. She’s the Bruxa. She’s Lilith, Lilitu. She came to me in the night and drank my blood, turned me into one of her kind. She was my mother. She kills me in all my lives.”
Marcus warily took the chair across from Barent.
“All your lives?”
Barent warmed to his topic with fervor. “We are the reincarnate, young one. We find each other, our spirits moving across the centuries to find safe haven in corporeal bodies. We are traditionally agents of destruction, but some of us have had a powerful reawakening, have found that love will compensate for our sadistic natures. But Lilitu kills all of that. She wishes for us to return to the Old Ways, to feast on the blood of the children and discard the code of ethics put into place by the Sanguinarium.”
“The Sanguinarium?”
“It is our ruling body. Our church. All psy and sang vampires follow a specific code of ethics. We aren’t blood-thirsty monsters driven by our desire for death and destruction. Well, not all of us, anyway. I lead the Vampyre Nation, as I told you before. We are but one subsection of the Sanguinarium-there are many families across the world.”
“Psy versus sang? What’s that?”
Barent warmed to his topic, eyes shining as he spoke. “Psychic versus sanguine. Energy versus blood. Many of us don’t drink blood anymore, we’ve evolved. We can feed off energy. But some still enjoy the sanguine lifestyle. There is precedence for it, after all.”
Marcus glanced up at the camera, the silent message sent to Taylor and McKenzie. Nut. Job.
Taylor tuned him out, turned to McKenzie. “So I’m Lilith?”
“The succubus. The rumors about you are true, apparently. I just didn’t realize men could tell that from your aura.”
“Oh, you’re just hysterical. What do we do with this guy?”
“Listen to him. I don’t know what we can glean, but you never know.”
“You chat with him then, since you speak the language. I’ll stay here. I don’t feel that great.”
“LT, what’s wrong?”
“I feel…like…all my…energy is…gone.” She collapsed into laughter, felt better immediately. There were no such things as vampires. There were strange people in the world, and she’d run into a slew of them on this case. Period, end of story.
“You’re a riot, LT.” He entered the room and she headed back to her office.
A young woman was sitting in the spare chair outside Taylor’s door. There were several other people in the small space, detectives going about their daily work, all keeping a safe distance from the woman. Sidelong glances, lots of throat clearing. When Taylor entered the room, the woman stood, her long black skirt swishing with the effort. Black hair glistened nearly to her waist, thick and coiled. She was small, no more than five foot three, and looked up at Taylor with blue eyes the color of the sea. Taylor felt oddly mesmerized, stopped, at a loss for words.
The woman smiled, held out her hand.
“I am Ariadne,” she said. “I am here to help.”
Twenty-Three
Northern Virginia June 15, 2004 Charlotte
C harlotte paced around the Fairfax County Homicide offices. God, what was taking so long? She had other things to do today.
Baldwin sat quietly, flipping through the file over and over again. She’d tried getting his attention by slipping past him and running her foot up his calf, but he cock-blocked her, clearing his throat meaningfully. She finally caught his eye, there was a combination of desire and exasperation lingering in the clear green. She winked at him, then resumed her pacing.
They’d been waiting for Max Goldman, the commander of the Fairfax County Homicide team, for the better part of an hour. He finally chugged through the door, running his hand through his wispy black hair, combing it back from his prominent forehead. Baldwin jumped to his feet, shook the outstretched hand. Goldman turned to Charlotte second, grasped the tips of her fingers in that bizarrely effeminate way some men had. She supposed it lingered on from the days when a touch of the fingers would lead to a kiss, planted softly on the top of the hand. But this was 2004, for Christ’s sake. Like a real handshake was going to give them girl cooties or something. She only took minor offense at being handed the limp fish second; Baldwin’s shake had wiped some of the sweat off Goldman’s palm.
“Sorry I’m late. Got caught up in court this morning. What can I help you with? You got something for me on this Clockwork asshole? He’s running our asses ragged, and we got nothin’. Fucking squirrel. I hate working these kiddy diddlers.” As he spoke, he ushered them into his office.
Charlotte measured people on a scale of one to ten, ten being the ones she wanted to fuck immediately, one representing the ones who she wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. Goldman fell into the latter category. He had yellow teeth, crowded together in his mouth like they were planning a jailbreak, and he’d eaten onions with his lunch-she could smell him from five feet away. Which is where she stayed, perched on the edge of a credenza near the open door, to help catch a breeze. Baldwin was sitting face-to-face with the man, God bless him.
Goldman was still chattering. “I hope you’ve got something for me, ’cause I’m getting crucified, Jesus H. Roosevelt on the cross crucified, by anyone with a microphone within a hundred miles.”
A colorful man. What a match for that breath.
Baldwin nodded. “We have more for your team to look at, yes. We’ve refined the profile, and we have someone we think could be a suspect.”
“That’s fan-fuckin’ tastic.” He looked at his watch. “Let’s go arrest him. We do it now, we can make the five- o’clock news, get little Kaylie home by dark.”
“Let’s just go over the details first, okay? Charlotte?”
Charlotte swiveled her head toward Goldman.
“His name is Harold Arlen. He’s a convicted sex offender, lives in the Great Falls area. We think you should put some eyes on him.”
Goldman looked impressed. “What was with that big song and dance you gave me about not identifying suspects, just pointing us in the direction of a type of person? You do voodoo now, too?”
Baldwin laughed briefly, then got serious. “Not exactly. We’ve been working on the profile, and he fits many of the top-line points. We believe the man who is perpetrating these crimes is a sex offender, mid-thirties, who needs the privacy of his own home to act out his fantasies. Like we talked about, he’ll have an extensive collection of child pornography. This suspect is fascinated by children, but girls only. He was probably abused in his early years, before he was ten or so, by a female babysitter or close relative. He’s controlling, manipulative and deceitful. He doesn’t have any real friends. There’s something about him that makes children unafraid, which means he has no obvious, visible physical deformities. But he’s impotent, unable to have meaningful physical relationships with adults or children. Regardless of that, he’s charming and fits into society. His car is nondescript, a sedan, probably an import. A high-end Honda, Nissan or low-end Lexus, something that wouldn’t stand out but wouldn’t look out of place. It would match the demographics of this neighborhood. The median income in this area is about $170,000, so he isn’t driving a clunker. He’s white, too.”
“That’s not a lot to go on, Doc. You’ve described half the country-club set, and three quarters of the folks who hang at the Great Falls Pub.”
Charlotte slid off the credenza. She’d had enough fore-play-it was time to get back to work. “Listen, Arlen works at Sears in the photography department, which gives him access to children. How he got the job is beyond me. Our suspect will have a history of violence in his teens, before he learned to control his temper, so I’d advise
