Keeper of the Night. Heather Graham

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СКАЧАТЬ the script and decided to produce it, then sell the film rights. The play was written by a friend of his, our stage manager. Name’s Joe Carrie. Nice guy, about forty—and definitely human.”

      “So you don’t think he’s our murderer?” Tony asked.

      Brodie shook his head. “No, and there’s no proof the killer’s even involved with the play itself. He could just be a theater buff. But the play does seem a solid place to start, at least. So, anyway, what makes you think our killer is responsible for this corpse?”

      “Exsanguination, for one thing.”

      Tony was an interesting guy; he looked like what you would expect a werewolf to look like in human form. He was big and muscular, with broad shoulders and an equally broad chest. He had a head full of thick, curly light brown hair, and when he was on vacation, he grew a beard that would do Santa proud.

      “And?”

      “There’s never anything obvious about the marks he leaves behind, but this time it looks like they’re on the thigh. This is one clever vampire. He makes sure that he disposes of the bodies in a way that will lead to the most decay and deterioration in the shortest time.”

      “Want to show me the body?” Brodie asked.

      “I thought you’d never ask.”

      Tony led the way down the hall to one of the autopsy rooms.

      It was a large room, big enough for several autopsies to take place at one time. Now, however, the room was quiet and dim, and only a single body lay on a gurney on the far side of the room.

      Strange, Brodie thought. He was Elven, although the Elven were pretty damned close to human in a lot of ways, maybe more human than they wanted to be. And he was a detective, often working undercover in some of the grittiest neighborhoods of a tough town where bluebloods crossed paths with derelict drug dealers. But despite both those things, he’d never gotten over the strange sensations that nearly overwhelmed him at an autopsy. Life—flesh and blood—reduced to sterile equipment and the smell of chemicals on the air. The organs that sustained life ripped from the body to be held and weighed and studied. It was just somehow…wrong, despite the fact that the work done here was some of the most important that could be done for the dead and the living both.

      Tony pulled down the sheet that covered the victim, and Brodie stared first at the face, his jaw hardening.

      “You’ve seen him before?”

      Brodie nodded. “It’s hard to tell, really, the body is so decomposed. But I think I recognize him. I think he was at the first performance of the show.”

      “Any idea who he is?” Tony asked.

      “No, he was just a face in the crowd. Second row center. Have you gotten a hit off dental records? What about fingerprints?”

      “Look at the hands,” Tony told him, pulling the sheet down farther.

      Brodie did, and he felt his stomach lurch sharply, even though he’d expected the scene that met his eyes.

      The killer had chopped off the fingers.

      Tony nodded toward the body. “Just like the other two. And here’s what I found—you’ll need that magnifier there.” He pointed.

      Brodie picked up the small magnifying glass that Tony had indicated, then walked down to join Tony by the foot of the gurney. Tony slipped on gloves and moved the thigh. The skin was mottled and bruised looking.

      “No lividity?” Brodie asked.

      “The discoloration and bloating you see are because he was dumped in a pond out by one of those housing projects they never finished off Laurel Canyon—suspiciously near your theater,” Tony said. “But use the magnifying glass and check out his thigh. There are marks. They’re tiny, and they’re practically buried in swollen flesh, but they’re there. And, of course, the body was pretty much drained of blood. There is a slash at the throat, but despite the damage and decay, I believe it was postmortem.”

      Despite his feelings about autopsy and corpses, Brodie donned gloves, shifted the dead man’s leg and peered through the microscope, searching for the telltale marks, then looked up at Tony.

      “Third body in two weeks with the same marks and same method of disposal,” Tony said.

      “And I know I’ve seen this one at the theater,” Brodie said wearily.

      “And the killer dumped them all close to that theater,” Tony told him. “Your captain seems to have been on the mark.”

      Brodie nodded. “Yeah, without his insight the victims might have fallen on to the big pile of cold cases, with no leads to go on. The captain is…a smart guy.”

      “Guess that means you stay undercover,” Tony said. “Too bad L.A.’s three best Keepers have been called to council. This is one hell of a mess.”

      Brodie thought about the stunning young auburn-haired woman with the big green eyes he had seen at the café. She’d rushed to what she thought was a crime scene like a bat out of hell. She’d been ready, he thought. But she wasn’t ready enough. She loved her music too much. In a way, he understood. It was difficult to realize that you could—had to—lead a normal life, then let it all go to hell when necessary.

      He wished to hell that Piers Gryffald, Rhiannon’s father and the previous Keeper of the Canyon vampires, was still there.

      But he wasn’t.

      And the body count was rising.

      Driving in L.A. was not like driving in Savannah. People in Savannah moved at a far more human pace. Everyone in L.A. was in a hurry, which seemed strange, because often they were hurrying just to go sit in a coffee shop and while away their time, hoping to make the right connection. Some hopefuls still believed that they could be “discovered” in an ice cream parlor, and God knew, in Hollywood, anything could happen, even if the statistics weren’t in their favor.

      At least coming home—to the house that had been her old summer home and was now her permanent base—was appealing. She had to admit, she loved the exquisite old property where she lived with Sailor and Barrie. Each of them had her own house on the estate—the compound, really—that had been left to their grandfather, Rhys Gryffald, by the great Merlin, magician extraordinaire, real name Ivan Schwartz.

      Somehow during his younger years, Merlin had learned about the Keepers. He’d longed to be one, but only those born in the bloodline, born with the telltale birthmark indicating what they were destined to become—werewolf Keeper, vampire Keeper, shapeshifter Keeper and so on—could inherit the role. Since he couldn’t be a Keeper, Ivan did the next best thing: he befriended one. In fact, he had become such good friends with Rhiannon’s grandfather that he had first built him a house on the property, opposite the guesthouse that already existed, and then, on his death, Merlin had willed the entire compound to him.

      Good old Ivan. He had loved them all so much that he had never actually left.

      The House of the Rising Sun, the main house, loomed above her as she drove along the canyon road, and she had to admit, it was magnificent. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t known the house all her life. Her grandparents СКАЧАТЬ