I paused and thought.
"It would be symbolic. Metaphorical. If it only happened in two of the ninety-six cases, then something about those two cases was more personal for the killer. There was a reason for the killer to either spill his own blood or give that impression. Maybe something religious . . ."
I froze in mid-sentence and stared at Lieutenant Bullock.
I tried to wrap my mind around the notion of Brother Luther as the murderer of ninety-six people. The same Brother Luther I wrote off as a harmless windbag.
But if Brother Luther was the murderer, what about the bodies being drained of blood? That fit more with a vampire than a religious fanatic.
Maybe Brother Luther had a partner who was a vampire.
But, his telephone rants all centered around his hatred of vampires. None of it made any sense.
Frowning, Lieutenant Bullock stepped in front of me.
"What? Why did you stop? Did you think of something?"
I nodded and sighed.
"Yes. I think you and Special Agent Stevens and I need to get together right now for a serious talk. I want to tell you about some phone messages I've been getting, and you and Alan have to come clean with each other."
She narrowed her eyes and studied me for a few seconds, then bounded toward the exit. "This way."
Chapter Twenty-Two
The next few hours were madness.
While I was in the bathroom with Lieutenant Bullock, the police had sealed off my entire office building.
I didn't have to imagine the reactions of the other occupants to the news that their Monday morning schedules had been completely disrupted, because they informed me in no uncertain terms.
The normally sedate building manager had bolted up the stairway before the police blocked it off and he was livid.
He blustered over to me, shaking his head emphatically, wagging his index finger in the air.
"This won't do, Dr. Knight. Everyone is very upset. This is the second time in a week the police have been called to your office. This is a reputable building and I have other tenants to consider. I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to terminate your lease and ask you to vacate.
"I haven't been allowed inside your office yet, but from what I've been able to determine, the space is no longer in the same condition it was when you rented it. I hope for your sake that your insurance is up to date and sufficient."
I opened my mouth to protest, but the words died in my throat. He was right on all counts. I just stared at his red face and watched the veins pulsing on his forehead as he launched into the second act of his diatribe, and felt very sorry for myself.
Two weeks ago I was a successful, respected psychologist with a calm, predictable life. Things might have been boring, but they were sane. No vampires, religious zealots, quest-obsessed FBI agents, mausoleums, dead bodies, or ruined offices. Why couldn't I have taken up yoga or belly dancing? Something that didn't come with an outrageous dry cleaning bill.
"Are you the building manager?" Lieutenant Bullock barked from a few feet away, as she marched toward us.
He pursed his lips and nodded.
She handed him a business card. "If you have com-plaints about the way this investigation has been handled, please register them at this phone number. Dr. Knight was simply being a law-abiding citizen, reporting a crime. I think you might want to consult your attorney about the legality of evicting her."
She turned her attention to me, placed her hand on my upper arm and eased me away from the trembling manager.
"Please come this way, Dr. Knight. Some of the clients you had scheduled for this morning are waiting downstairs. One of the officers will walk down with you."
I didn't know which amazed me more: her lecture to the building manager, his barely repressed rage or the fact that she was being nice to me.
After giving an explanation to my anxious clients, telling them I'd call to reschedule as soon as I had a new location, and facilitating several mini therapy sessions to ease their concerns, I contacted the rest of the clients I'd scheduled for the afternoon to fill them in on the situation.
In the middle of making those calls, I thought about the two new vampire clients on my schedule for that night. I had no way of contacting them. They'd only left messages on my voice mail informing me of their intention to come.
Maybe I should drop by The Crypt and leave a message for Devereux. Who knew if the place was even open during the daytime?
But that would have to wait until later. First, I needed to go back upstairs to check on Midnight and Ronald.
They'd been thoroughly and persistently questioned and had the dazed appearance of abandoned puppies waiting to be rescued.
Since their interrogation was complete for the moment, Lieutenant Bullock arranged for them to be taken home. I accompanied them downstairs and suggested we meet at my home the next day.
They both nodded, and Midnight gave me a quick hug.
As they drove away in the back seat of the black and white, Lieutenant Bullock and Alan entered the lobby. He'd retrieved my burgundy purse and matching briefcase from the hallway and had draped the long strap of the purse over his shoulder. He rested his hand on the top of the bag, as if carrying a purse was a normal, everyday thing. Observing the nonchalance with which he carried the fashion accessory made me smile for the first time in hours.
An eternity later I sat in my living room, stretched out in my incredibly comfortable oversize chair, my lower body attired in the finest orange, police-issue pants, the latest in paper footwear dangling from my toes. I thought about the events of the last few hours.
My trip to the police station had been the second in as many days and I could say with complete certainty that I'd rather be sucked on by vampires than return there again. Well, one vampire, anyway.
The chief didn't intervene this time.
As soon as we reached her office, Lieutenant Bullock snagged a passing officer, pointed to my pants and ordered, “Get Dr. Knight some clean pants and shoes, show her where to change, bag what she's wearing, then bring her back here."
I caught Alan's trademark smirk as the officer guided me down the hallway.
When I returned to her office in my neon pants, Lieutenant Bullock and Alan were in the middle of a shouting match, precipitated, I gathered, by her disclosure about his notebook.
They stood nose to nose, enjoying the verbal equivalent of a pissing contest.
After they zipped up and called a truce, I recounted everything I could remember about Brother Luther's telephone calls, then forwarded copies of the toxic harangues to Lieutenant Bullock's voice mailbox.
The lab report came back verifying that the blood in my office didn't belong to Eric. As before, it couldn't be identified.
We argued for and against various theories and hypotheses, going nowhere fast, until it was obvious that we'd exhausted the productive possibilities for the day, and we were all tired and hungry.
Lieutenant Bullock waved us out, said she'd be in touch and Alan walked me to my car.
"Well, you've had a crappy couple of weeks, wouldn't you say?"
I shrugged, not sure if he was kidding or attempting to be supportive. "I'd guess the dead people have had a crappier time than me."
He nodded and grunted some version of "huh" or "hmmm."
I fished my keys out of my purse and toyed with them, checking out the asphalt near my right foot. So, can I come home with you?"
What?" I was sure my face clearly indicated I hadn't seen that coming. "Why do you want to come home with me?"
He smiled, and stepped closer. "I think we have stuff to talk about. Things to clarify. Questions to be answered. You know, the usual. Maybe you'd like to have your back scrubbed in the shower. Or maybe your front."
I barked out a laugh, then smiled and answered.
"I can't really blame you for running hot then cold, because you probably think that's what I did. And I can't say I don't find you attractive, in an obsessive-compulsive sort of way, because I do. But I spent four years with a man who kept me very low on his priority list, and something about you reminds me of him. Been there, done that."
His sapphire eyes darkened, he wrapped his arms around me and planted very soft, warm lips on mine.
I kept my arms at my sides, but felt my lips opening for his tongue as my mouth welcomed the pressure of his.
My body responded to the unexpected move by putting out the chemical welcome mat. I moaned softly.
After a few seconds, he released me and stepped back, leaning against the car next to mine.
"I've known lots of women in my life. I seem to be the kind of guy women make up stories about. They attribute my loner tendencies to some kind of yearning that only they can heal. They think if they have sex with me I'll suddenly be different. Not as work-obsessed. Not as crazy. But they all find out quickly that what you see is what you get.
"So, I've managed to have lots of experience with women, but zero experience with relationships. I just don't know how to do them. I'm not even from Mars.'1 He laughed, referring to the trendy book. "There's no name for the planet I'm from."
He studied me as if he was waiting for something, and I found myself doing the "therapist nod," the gentle, slow, up and down head motion, not unlike one of those dolls in the back window of a car, that most counsellors unconsciously perform while listening to someone's story.
I shrugged. "I'm not sure why you're telling me this."
He sighed. "'You confuse me. Sometimes I think I've blown it, and that you're already emotionally committed to Devereux, so I back off. Then other times I get the idea that our attraction is mutual, like the way you just responded to my kiss, so I take a chance. Now, I'm just asking, flat out. Do I have a chance with you?"
I decided to be as honest as I could.
"I don't know. You're right about my being emotionally connected to Devereux. I'm not sure if that's because I really care about him, or if he's zapping me with vampire juju and I'm a puppet on his string.
"'The truth is that I met Devereux before I ran into you at the hospital. I don't know why I didn't tell you. Maybe it was because I thought the whole vampire thing was bullshit and Devereux and you and all my wannabe clients were deluded and confused. It wasn't until Devereux put you to sleep and snatched me out of my living room that I actually forced myself to accept what my eyes were telling me."
"I was already a little bit in love with him before I met you. But, it's also true that I'm very attracted to you. So, I guess I can't tell you anything helpful. I simply don't know."
He pulled me into his arms again and whispered into my hair above my ear. "I'll play my hunch, then." He kissed my cheek, smiled and said, "Cover your back, Dr. Knight."
By the time I backed my car out of the space and turned to wave goodbye, he was already gone.
I tuned into the local evening news on TV for the company, poured a glass of wine and sat at my desk. It was time to make a new plan.
Even if the building manager didn't evict me, it would be quite a while before the police would let me back inside my office, and even longer for the space to be repaired. I'd have to check online for cleaning companies that specialized in bloodstains. Was there such a thing?
In the meantime, I needed to find a place to meet with my clients. Having a home office wasn't appealing at the best of times, and I certainly wasn't going to give a blanket invitation to every vampire in Denver.
Even if Devereux said the needing-to-be-invited-in thing was a myth, I wasn't taking any chances. From what I'd learned so far, just because Devereux could come and go as he pleased didn't mean that other vampires could. He seemed to be the Grand Poobah in more ways than one.
Hearing my name mentioned on the news jarred me out of my thoughts. I picked up the remote control and turned up the volume. The station was airing a story about the body found in my office. They replayed a video clip from my last trip to the police station, while the voice-over speculated about my "alleged vampire clientele." At the end of the story, the reporter gave us his best stern expression and said, "This reporter wonders how it is that Dr. Knight always seems to be involved in these murders? Maybe the police should be checking her alibi." His lips spread in a lopsided horse smile. "Wes Carter, live in Denver. Back to you in the studio, Bob."
"'Thanks, Wes. It sounds like there's more to Dr. Knight than meets the eye. We'll be following the story 24/7 until we get to the truth."
Doing my best imitation of Jack Nicholson, I bellowed, "You can't handle the truth!"
I jumped up and made sure all the doors and windows were locked and the blinds and curtains were tightly closed. Until that moment, I'd forgotten about the media. They hadn't been in front of my house when I came home, but another carnival could arrive at any moment.
My doorbell rang and I said, "Shit!" out loud, wishing my trusty intuition would've put in its two cents a bit earlier. I peered through the peephole and saw black hair and felt a tingling sensation in my midsection.
"Who is it?"
"Oh, get over yourself. Open the door."
The voice was familiar.
I cracked the door enough to see X-rated Luna standing on my front porch, unaccompanied by reporters, cameras, or microphones.
"Luna?" I swung the door open. "This is a surprise."
She was dressed in a low cut black top, tight black jeans, and black, pointy, high-heeled boots. Vampire dominatrix. The dramatic makeup artistry on her pale skin was even more striking than the first time I saw her. Her silver eyes were embellished with Cleopatra-like wings. Very exotic.