6
Lopez was sitting slumped in a stiff-backed chair next to the makeup table. His face was turned away from me, but I could see it clearly reflected in the brightly lit mirror that ran the length of the table. His legs were stretched out in front of him, his arms and ankles crossed, his chin resting on his chest. His eyes were closed and his long, dark lashes lay against his cheeks in peaceful repose.
He was ... dozing? Here?
He flinched and lifted his head abruptly when Leischneudel, hot on my heels as he unlaced the back of my costume, bumped into my suddenly immobile body, inadvertently smashed his pert nose against the back of my head, and exclaimed, “Ow!”
“Oops!” I said.
Lopez’s dazed gaze flew to us as he sat up, blinking in startled surprise. I stepped through the doorway and turned to face Leischneudel, whose hand was clasped over his nose while his eyes watered.
“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. You should get danger pay for working with me tonight. Is it bleeding?” I said in a rush, more flustered by the sight of Lopez than of my fellow thespian staggering backward in pain (again) because of me. “Come on, Daemon might not be far behind us. Get in here before he sees it.” After what had just happened, I wasn’t as certain as I used to be that Daemon’s appetite for hemoglobin was just an act.
I dragged Leischneudel into my dressing room, slammed the door behind us, and tried to pry his hand away from his face.
“Let me see it,” I said, using the firm tone I often found it expedient to employ with him.
He removed his hand and gave a little sniff as he reached for the pocket of his elegant Regency waistcoat.
“It’s not bleeding,” I said with relief. Unlike a certain D-list celebrity who reveled in his gothic antics (my neck was really smarting, and I knew there’d be a telltale mark there by tomorrow), I had no desire to see my colleagues’ blood.
Behind me, I heard Lopez rise to his feet and shove the chair away.
Leischneudel pulled out a neatly folded handkerchief and used it to dab at his eyes. “It’s all right. It just really hurt for a second there.” He sniffed again and shook his head. “I thought things like this wouldn’t happen anymore.”
“Things like walking into me?” I said.
“Pain.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again. “I forgot you were right behind me.”
He stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket, touched his nose tenderly, and said, “I’m fine. It feels better already. And it’s a lot easier to get this thing off you when you’re standing still, anyhow.” He put his hand on my shoulder to turn me slightly as he shifted position to get his hands on the back of my dress again. That’s when he saw Lopez.
“Oh!” Leischneudel froze in surprise, his hands on the laces of my gown, as he stared at the strange man in my dressing room.
Taking in the detective’s uncharacteristically grubby appearance tonight, I suddenly realized how disreputable Lopez looked. Even intimidating. Particularly to someone who had no idea who he was or what he was doing here.
Come to think of it... “What are you doing here?” I blurted.
“You know him?” Leischneudel asked anxiously.
“We need to talk,” Lopez said to me.
“We do?”
“Right away,” he said, his gaze riveted on the sheer foundation garment exposed by my half-undone laces. Then his blue eyes shifted coldly to Leischneudel. “Hi.”
“Er . . . hello,” the actor replied, obviously wondering why Lopez looked ready to kill him.
My heart pounded with mixed emotions.
I had struggled with my desires but had remained resolute and strong since the last time we’d seen each other, that stormy night in Harlem more than two months ago. Why did Lopez have to come here now and make this even harder for me?
I had missed him so much. Why hadn’t he come sooner, damn him?
Wow, he came! He couldn’t stay away from me.
Okay, stop, I thought.
Recognizing the awkward silence that was filling the room as I stared in smitten fascination at Lopez while he and Leischneudel eyed each other, I realized that I should make introductions.
I said to Lopez, “This is Leischneudel Drysdale, one of the actors in the show.”
Calling on his good manners, Leischneudel released my laces and stepped forward to offer Lopez a courteous handshake.
I said, “Leischneudel, this is—”
“Hector,” Lopez said, giving Leischneudel’s hand a quick, curt shake. “Hector Sousa. I’m a friend of Esther’s.”
I gaped at Lopez, stunned by his use of a phony name and having no idea what to say next.
Leischneudel looked down at his hand with a slight frown, rubbing his fingers together as if trying to remove an unpleasant substance.
This caused Lopez to rub his own hand self-consciously down the front of his sweatshirt. “Um, sorry.”
Always the gentleman, Leischneudel quickly said, “No, no, not at all.” But since the cat was out of the bag, he pulled out his handkerchief again and wiped his hand. I noticed that the white fabric came away darkly smeared, which would make Fiona even crankier than usual.
I glanced at Lopez’s hands and noticed that they were rather dirty, as if smeared with crude oil. Like everything else about his appearance this evening, that was unusual for him. While not fastidious, he was generally a clean, tidy guy. Tonight, though, he looked like a street thug. Or, alternately, like a laborer at the end of a long, hard overtime shift.
An NYPD detective assigned to the Organized Crime Control Bureau, Connor Lopez (who didn’t look like a “Connor”) was in his early thirties, slightly under six feet tall, and lithe and lean, like a soccer player. The youngest of three sons, he had inherited rich blue eyes from his Irish-American mother; and maybe his lush, full lips had been another of her hereditary gifts to him. Otherwise, he (I had always assumed) resembled his Cuban-born father; his straight, shiny hair was coal black, his skin was a burnished golden olive hue, and his facial features were strong and distinct.
When on duty, he usually wore conservative, budget-conscious suits (I suspected he was a regular customer of Banana Republic). Off-duty, I had mostly seem him dressed like any regular guy trying not to scare off a woman: casual, but not sloppy.
Tonight, though, he was in a hooded gray sweatshirt that had seen better days. There was an odd yellow stain around the bottom hem, a hole in one elbow, dark smudges all over the sleeves, and more smudges on his chest and stomach, as if he’d wiped his dirty hands there a number of times before now. The rounded neckline of a T-shirt was visible above the zipped-up V-neck of the sweatshirt, and I could see, even with this limited view, that the garment was ragged and old. His legs were covered by slightly baggy military khakis—the kind of bilecolored trousers that have lots of pockets and pouches. He wore lace-up work boots that came up to his shins. They looked waterproof, sturdy, and well-made; but like the clothing, they, too, appeared to have been in his life a long time and subjected to hard use.
Lopez looked very tired, and his eyes were bloodshot. He also needed a haircut and a shave. If not for the rolled-up bandana around his head that was holding his hair off his face, it would be hanging in his eyes; and he looked as if he hadn’t used a razor in at least three days. The heavy shadow of facial hair made me notice something else: he was unusually pale. The last time I had seen him, in late summer, he’d been tan and sun-kissed. Now he looked rather sallow, as if he hadn’t been outdoors in weeks.
Wondering at the changes in him in the months since I had last seen him, a horrible thought struck me. Had he been kicked off the police force—which I felt sure would devastate him—because of me? Or because of what happened that night in Harlem? Did unemployment and depression explain his grubby, unkempt appearance?
I was appalled. I had given up Lopez because I didn’t want to ruin his life—along with the far more pressing concern of not wanting to get him killed. Had I ruined his life anyhow?
Oh, no.
“What’s happened to you?” I asked in despair.
Both men looked startled by my tone.
“Is something wrong?” Leischneudel asked uncertainly.
“He never looks like this,” I said, shaking my head.
“No?” Leischneudel said.
“No, of course not,” I replied. Lopez normally looked like the sort of man you could bring home to your mother, if your mother weren’t Jewish.
“Oh. But it’s kind of a good look for him, don’t you think?” Leischneudel said generously. “Sort of . . . the Jersey docks meet the Meatpacking District.”
“Maybe when it was a meatpacking area,” I said dismissively. “But not now, all trendy nightclubs and gay bars.”
“Well, yes, the grime might be a little much for the club scene,” Leischneudel conceded. “Even for rough trade.”
“You do know I’m standing right here?” Lopez said to us.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” Leischneudel giggled nervously. “Esther and I talk about makeup and costume so much, I guess it’s become an unconscious habit. We didn’t mean to be rude.”
“I’m not in cos . . .” A faint look of surprise crossed Lopez’s face, then he smiled wryly. “That’s okay.”
“Are you all right?” I asked him. “I mean ... you haven’t been kicked off—”
“I’m fine. Everything’s fine with me. Okay? It’s you I’m worried about.” Lopez brushed self-consciously at his ratty clothes. “I just didn’t have time to clean up before I came here.”
“So this look isn’t a whole new lifestyle for you?” I said in relief.
“Not exactly. I was in a hurry.”
“And you rushed to the theater at three o’clock in the morning from where?” I prodded. “A wildman wilderness camp near an oil refinery?”
He smiled again. “Good guess.”
I frowned and started to say, “Lop—”
“I needed to talk to you.” He glanced at Leischneudel, then gave me a meaningful look. “It’s important. I didn’t think it should wait for a shower and a change of wardrobe.”
“Why? What’s wrong?” Leischneudel asked in concern.
We both looked at him.
“Oh!” Leischneudel giggled nervously again. I thought he was blushing, but the heavy stage makeup made it hard to tell. He started backing toward the door. “That was my cue, wasn’t it? Sorry. I’ll leave you two alone to talk.” He opened the door and backed into the hallway. “Take your time.”
“Thanks. We will.” The moment the door closed, Lopez said tersely to me, “Why was he taking off your clothes?”
There was a soft knock and the door reopened. Lopez looked at Leischneudel with an expression of exaggerated patience as the actor stuck his head back into the room.
“Er, Esther. I’ll wait for you in my dressing room?”
“Okay,” I said.
“You won’t leave without me?” Leischneudel prodded, his face briefly twisting into an expression of hunted dread at the prospect of facing the vamparazzi alone tonight.
“Of course not,” I said.
As soon as the door closed again, I said to Lopez, “Why did you give him a fake name?”
“Let’s get back to my question. Are you sleeping with that guy?”
“With Leischneudel?” I felt like he’d just asked me if I was sleeping with Bambi or Winnie-the-Pooh. “Of course not.”
“Then why were his hands all over you?”
“He was helping me with this costume.” I gestured with irritation to the laces on my back. “It’s so authentic, I can’t get out of it by myself.”
Lopez choked on a startled laugh. When I gave him an exasperated look, he tried to stop.
“Sorry.” He cleared his throat and said again, “Sorry.” Then he ruined his apology by laughing some more.
“Very funny,” I said sourly. “You’re not the one who has to get into and out of this gown six nights a week.”
“Speaking of your costume—”
“No, now we do my question. Why did you use a phony name when I introduced you to Leischneudel?”
He was about to respond when we heard Daemon’s voice in the hall right outside my dressing room. “Is she in there? Ah, good!”
“But she’s got a visitor, and they don’t want . . .” Leischneudel protested as the door was flung open and banged against the wall. “. . . to be disturbed.”
“What?” Daemon sashayed through the door as he casually shook off Leischneudel’s awkward attempt to restrain him. I turned to face Daemon, annoyed by the intrusion. He came to an abrupt halt when he saw Lopez. “Oh! A visitor? Oh.” Daemon’s glance flicked past me for a moment, then he met my eyes and smirked. I felt a slight draft on my back and realized he could see in the mirror that my gown was half-unlaced. Obviously concluding that he had interrupted my visitor in the middle of undressing me, Daemon now included Lopez in his smirk. “Ohhhh . . .”
I said to my companion, “Meet Daemon Ravel, the vampire onstage.”
“And offstage, too,” Daemon added, always quick to present his creature-of-the-night credentials.
Lopez folded his arms across his chest. “I trust you have a good reason for barging into a lady’s dressing room without knocking?”
“Ooh!” Daemon grinned lasciviously at me. “You’ve found a spicy one.”
“If whatever you want isn’t really, really important,” I said to Daemon, “then it’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”
“And rugged,” Daemon added, giving Lopez an appraising look. “But maybe a touch overdone on the gutter-rat theme.”
“What do you want?” I asked wearily.
“Just returning your earring, darling.” He held up the dangling object up for me to see. I touched my earlobes and realized one earring was indeed missing. Daemon said, “It came off when I bit you.”
With my attention divided between playing my role, wanting to gut Daemon for the way he was taking advantage of me onstage, and physical pain as he actually bit and sucked, I hadn’t noticed the earring falling off—go figure.
“Thanks. If there’s nothing else . . .” I nodded toward the door as I took the earring from him.
All three men watched me put it on. Then Lopez frowned, came closer, and touched the sore spot on my neck. The skin was tender, and I flinched a little.
“What happened here?” Lopez asked me as he cast a dark glare at the two men.
Realizing he could see it, I turned around and went to look at the hickey in the mirror. Sure enough, the welt wasn’t waiting until tomorrow to become visible. It was already mottled and pink, the skin inflamed and irritated, with little dots of purple bruising starting to appear, thanks to Daemon’s teeth.
“Goddamn it, Daemon. Do you know how much makeup I’m going to have to put on this tomorrow?” I said. “Not to mention how much it hurts.”
“Did I get a little too carried away?” Daemon asked with sultry amusement. “Sorry. You bring out my hunger, Esther.”
“He did that to you?” Lopez said to me.
“You bit her?” Leischneudel exclaimed, scandalized. “That’s what happened out there tonight? Daemon! You shouldn’t really bite her.”
“He did that to you in the play?” Lopez said.
I nodded. “And if he does it again, I’m going to castrate him.” In the mirror, I met Daemon’s gaze with a cold glare.
“Surely you’re not going to pretend you didn’t enjoy it even a little?” the vampire icon purred. “The audience certainly liked it. And I must admit, so did I.”
“Out,” said Lopez. “Now.”
Daemon said, “It’s that warm, pulsing jugular vein right under my mouth that I just can’t resist when we’re—”
“That’s her carotid artery.” Lopez shoved Daemon through the door.
“Wait, I knew that,” said Daemon, stumbling backward.
“And if your teeth ever touch it again,” Lopez said, “I’ll remove them all. Are we clear?”
Daemon staggered into Leischneudel, who was asking if I was all right as Lopez slammed the door in their faces.
“This show is really taking its toll,” I grumbled, studying my reflection. “I’ve got a black eye, too, under all this makeup. One of Daemon’s crazed fans attacked me last night.”
“Yeah, I heard.”
“You heard?” I said in surprise.
“And to think my mom worried that police work would be dangerous,” he said dryly. “I guess she should just be glad that none of her sons became actors.”
“Hmph.”
Lopez crossed the room to stand behind me and look at my welt while I studied it in the mirror. “He didn’t break the skin. But disinfect it when you get home, anyhow,” he said. “I doubt that guy’s had all his shots.”
“You should have punched him,” I said grumpily. “He should be punched.”
“He should be,” Lopez agreed, meeting my eyes in the mirror. “But the cops will make him plenty miserable tonight without my help. And if we can avoid it, I’d rather they didn’t know I was here. If I break his nose, well, word might get out.”
“The cops?” I turned around to look at him directly, disquieted again. “Are you still a cop?”
“Of course.” His surprised expression changed as realization dawned. “Oh. I get it. You thought I’d lost my job and become a derelict? Do I really look that bad?” When I nodded, he grinned. It made him look a lot more like his usual self. He gazed over my shoulder, assessing his reflection in the mirror. “I guess I’ve gotten so used to it, I didn’t realize.”
“What’s going on?” I demanded. “Why do you look so scruffy? Why are you using a phony name? Why can’t the cops know you were here tonight? Why ... Oh! Oh. Oh, my God.” I had seen enough episodes of Crime and Punishment to make an educated guess. “You’re working undercover?”
He nodded. “And I shouldn’t tell you. So let’s not tell anyone else. Understood?”
I had also watched enough episodes of C&P to know that working undercover was dangerous—and being exposed while working undercover was particularly dangerous.
“I won’t tell anyone,” I assured him. “So you’re still a cop. But in theory, you’re not a cop right now?”
“In theory, I’m also not even here right now.” He picked up a makeup sponge that was lying on the table, examined it briefly, then took it over to the sink in the corner, where he turned on the water.
I turned to look at my welt again in the mirror, wondering just how much trouble it would be to conceal it for tomorrow’s performance.
As Lopez rinsed the sponge under the running tap, he said, “So don’t talk to your, um, colleagues here about me. If they ask, just say I’m an old friend and then change the subject. Okay?”
“I don’t understand,” I said as he returned to my side with the damp sponge and started dabbing gently at the welt on my neck. “If you’re not here, then what are you doing here?” I drew in a sharp breath at the feel of the cold water on my tender skin.
“This will be all right,” he said soothingly. I felt the warm clasp of his hand on my other shoulder, steadying me. The heat of his body warmed the flesh of my half-naked back as he stood close behind me. “But it’ll hurt for a couple of days.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Does he do this to you eight shows a week?” Lopez asked darkly.
“No. I mean, he likes to push his luck a little.” I sighed and half-closed my eyes, guiltily enjoying the touch I had missed. “But tonight he went way out of bounds.”
“You’re right,” he said. “I should have punched him.”
I could feel his breath on my neck.
I said, “He was . . .”
“Was . . . ?” he murmured.
“Was feeling his oats tonight ... But most shows, he just . . . just . . .”
Lopez heard the breathless distraction in my voice, and our eyes met in the mirror. My chest rose and fell with sudden vigor inside my push-up corset. His gaze drifted down to the low-cut bodice of my gown, and I felt a flush of pleasure warm my whole body as his hands tightened on me—until the pressure of the cold sponge against my welt made me wince, startling him.
“Ouch.”
“Sorry.” He gentled his touch, dabbing tentatively again. “I, uh . . .”
I think we both remembered in that moment that I had told him we shouldn’t see each other any more, and that I hadn’t returned his last phone call, the one asking me to meet him so we could talk. At any rate, I felt awkward and self-conscious now, and he didn’t look at my cleavage again. After a couple of more cold dabs at my neck, he put down the sponge and said matter-of-factly, “After you disinfect it, maybe put some ice on it for a while.”
“I will.”
“Make sure you tell the cops how you got that,” he added. “They’ll be interested.”
“The cops?” I said blankly.
“Yeah. I’d rather they didn’t find out I was here, so don’t volunteer anything about me.”
“The cops?” I repeated.
“But I don’t want you to lie to them when they question you. Do you understand? If they ask you about me, tell the truth. Just don’t talk about me in front of the other people being questioned. I’ll deal with—”
“Whoa! Back up a step. Why are the cops going to question me?”
“It’s all right,” he said. “You’re not under suspicion.”
“Of what?”
“Murder.”
“Murder?” I bleated. “Someone’s been murdered?”
Lopez blinked. “Oh. I didn’t tell you that part yet, did I?”
“No,” I snapped. “You left that part out while giving me first aid advice.”
“I’m sorry. I meant to explain this to you in an orderly, unalarming way.”
“Why am I going to be alarmed?” I asked suspiciously.
“But I’m a little tired, and this has been kind of a confusing conversation so far, what with Licenoodle—”
“Leischneudel.”
“—the Vampire Ravel, your earring, your neckline. Er, I mean, your neck.” He repeated with emphasis, “Your neck.”
“Uh-huh.”
Lopez sighed and ran a dirty hand over his beardshadowed face. “This is not going the way I intended.” He glared at me. “Which is par for the course when I’m with you.”
“Who’s been murdered?” Fear seized me. “Oh, my God! Not Max?”
“No. Not Max,” he said firmly. “This has nothing to do with Max.”
“Oh, thank God.” I took a steadying breath. “No, I suppose not. I mean, I just spoke to him tonight.”
“So you still see him regularly?”
“Yes, of course. But I haven’t stopped by his place lately, even though it’s near here. The show’s been kind of exhausting.”
“I’ll bet.”
“He’s coming to see it tomorrow night.”
“Oh? Good.”
I looked at him in surprise. Lopez had always disapproved of my friendship with Max.
In response to my expression, he said, “It might not be a . . . a completely terrible idea if . . .” He took a breath and concluded with obvious difficulty, “If Max kept an eye on you for a while.”
“Really?” I blurted. “Wow. That’s a sea change.” When he didn’t respond, I prodded, “I was ... surprised when he told me that you went to him for help when I was missing during the blackout this summer.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What changed your mind about him?”
“Nothing. But when I suspected you might be trapped with a killer, I was desperate.” Lopez avoided my gaze. “I’d have gone to Satan for help, let alone Max.”
“That’s an absurd compar—”
“And when he and I talked, I realized that, whatever else I may think about him, I could count on him to step in front of a moving train to protect you.”
“Well, yes.” Actually, although Max and I had become close friends, I knew he would risk his life for most people, not just me. That was his calling—protecting people from Evil.
Realizing the weight of what Lopez had just acknowledged, though, I smiled and said warmly, “So you finally approve of him?”
“No, of course not,” he said, spoiling the mood. “I think he probably leads you into trouble a lot more often than he protects you from it.”
“That’s not tr . . .” Well, there might be a little truth in that. So I changed the subject by pointing out, “He saved your life that night in Harlem.”
“I have a lot of questions about what happened.”
“You sound so ungrateful!” I said critically.
“Of course I was grateful. I thanked Max very nicely, and I overlooked a bunch of things I could have arrested him for.”
“Arrested? But—”
“I also bent over backward to keep both of your names out of what happened that night.”
“Oh?” I had suspected as much, since no cops ever contacted me about it. “Thank you.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t have questions about whatever did happen. A lot of questions.”
“You wouldn’t like the answers,” I said morosely. Lopez and I had waded through that kind of discussion before. Multiple times. It never went well.
“You’re probably right.” His shoulders slumped, and he suddenly looked exhausted.
I recalled that it was the middle of the night, I’d just done two shows, and he was so tired he’d dozed off while waiting here for me.
And he’d mentioned murder.
“Why are you here?” I asked. “What’s going on?”
“We got off track again, didn’t we?” he said wryly. “Sorry. Look, there’s something you need to know, and I wanted to . . . to . . .” He paused and frowned in distraction as the stentorian echo of Mad Rachel’s voice penetrated the closed door of the dressing room.
“You didn’t call me after the first show, Eric!” she shrieked. “How can I trust someone who doesn’t even call me WHEN HE SAYS HE WILL?”
Lopez stared at the door with a bemused expression as Rachel’s voice approached this room. He asked me, “What is that?”
“Mad Rachel,” I said wearily. “The other actress in the play.”
The door opened and Rachel entered the room, still in makeup and costume, bellowing into her cell phone, “Fuck you, Eric! That is not what you said today!”
“This is unbelievable.” Lopez flung himself into a chair, crossed his arms over his chest again, and said to me, “Don’t you have any privacy in this place?”
“It’s a public theater,” I pointed out. “What were you expecting?”
Rachel paused momentarily in her tirade when she saw Lopez, then said into the phone, “A strange man is in my dressing room. Yes! Right now! Where am I? In my dressing room, Eric.”
“I thought,” Lopez said to me, “that the ‘public’ nature of the place would stop at the door of your dressing room. A room where you—you know—undress.”
It was a reasonable assumption in the normal world. But in the theatrical world, dressing rooms tend to be pretty public places, and actors lose most of our modesty pretty early in our training. I had worked on any number of shows where actors and actresses all shared a large communal dressing room and had very few physical secrets left after the first few days. I had also worked various venues and gigs where I changed clothes in public rest rooms or utilities closets. When doing Shakespeare in the rain one summer, I had made my changes behind a curtain, so that the audience couldn’t see me, but where I was nonetheless in plain view of anyone who happened to be spying on us from the woods behind our set.
“I don’t know who he is, Eric.” Mad Rachel gestured to Lopez and said to me, “Do you know this guy?”
“Yes. It’s fine. He’s an old friend of mine.” After a pregnant pause, I said to Lopez, “I can’t remember your name.”
He sighed in exasperation. “Hector Sousa.”
“Well, this is my dressing room, too, Esther, and I don’t appreciate finding a strange man hanging around in here,” Rachel said. “We share this space, you know. You need to be more considerate.”
“What?”
“You shouldn’t always be thinking about just yourself,” she said primly.
“What?” I’d had enough for one night. This was a bridge too far! “What did you say to me?”
Lopez muttered, “Fire in the hole.”
“You have the nerve—the utter unmitigated gall—to lecture me about being considerate?” I snarled. “You shrieking, whiny, loud—”
Lopez slid off his chair, seized my elbow, and started dragging me toward the door. “We’re getting sidetracked again.”
“You shrill, nagging, noisy—”
“I don’t know,” Rachel said into her cell phone. “Esther’s having a cow about something. Esther Diamond. You know, that actress who they put in my dressing room.”
“Your dressing room? Yours? Why you little b—”
Lopez clapped a dirty hand over my mouth, hauled me forcibly out of the dressing room, and dragged me some distance down the hallway. He didn’t let go of me until after I stopped struggling.
I was panting hard, my blood heated with rage. He kept his hands on my arms, as if afraid I might bolt.
“Take a deep breath,” he said. “And another. That’s good. Keep breathing.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Sorry. I guess I snapped. It was just one thing too many, you know?”
“I get it.” After a moment, he asked, “Eric is her husband ?”
I shook my head. “Boyfriend.”
“Wow. Imagine what the fights will be like when they’re married.”
I remembered that, as a cop, he sometimes thought of marriage in terms of domestic violence statistics. “You think they’d ever get married?” I said doubtfully.
“Sure. People just like them get married all the time,” he said. “Ain’t love grand?”
“Okay, I’m better now. Really.” I sighed. “She just gets on my last nerve.”
“I can see why.” He smiled. “But I’ll bet people in the very last row can hear every word she utters in the play.”
I gave a puff of laughter and nodded.
“Let’s just hope she doesn’t turn up dead,” he said seriously. “If anyone besides me knows how you feel about her, it won’t look good.”
Recalling what we had been talking about before Mad Rachel interrupted us, I said, “Lopez, you’re scaring me. Who has turned up dead? What’s going on?”
“Okay, here it is.” He paused, then warned me, “This is disturbing stuff.”
“Go on.” I braced myself.
“The body of Adele Olson was found this afternoon.”
“Who?” I said blankly.
“In the, uh, vampire community, she’s known as Angeline.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think I know anyone named Angeline or Adele Olson.”
“She’s the fan who attacked you outside the theater last night.”
“What?” When he nodded, I said, “Jane’s been murdered?”
He frowned. “You knew her as Jane?”
“Huh? Oh. No. I didn’t know her at all.” I briefly explained about the Janes. “So that’s what I call anyone who dresses up like my character.”
“Exactly like your character.” He looked me over. “Right down to the shoes, earrings, and hair. She didn’t have quite the same build as you, and I don’t think her face looked anything like yours—then again, I never saw her when she was alive.”
“You mean you’ve seen her dead?”
“No, I’ve seen some postmortem photos.”
“Oh.” That sounded grisly, too.
He continued, “But despite the differences, to a casual observer, she was pretty much a ringer for you. When you’re both in costume, I mean.”
Seeing how troubled he looked, I realized why he’d come to the theater in the wee hours to speak to me, evidently against orders, and without pausing to clean up first. Appalled by what I suspected was on his mind, I said slowly, with great reluctance, “You think the resemblance is significant.”
“It might have nothing to do with you,” he said. “Initial investigation suggests she was a mixed-up girl with dangerous tastes and not much sense.”
Recalling the way she had attacked me, I wasn’t inclined to argue with that description.
“So maybe she just ran into some fatal trouble last night. But, well, yeah, I’m a little worried,” he admitted, “Someone who hung around this theater, who superficially resembled you, and who dressed exactly like you when you’re onstage has been murdered.” He nodded. “The possible implications bother me.”
I shivered. “This is your attempt not to alarm me?”
“Sorry. This all went much better in my head than it’s going in person.”
“Ah,” I said. “That never happens to me.”
He smiled briefly, then got serious again as he said, “There’s something else I need to tell you about this. Something . . . a little weird.”
“Oh, goody.”
“You’re going to hear about it, one way or another. So I’d rather you hear it from me.”
“Because you’re so good at not alarming me?”
“Okay, if you’d rather learn about it from the tabloids . . .” Lopez said a little crankily.
“The tabloids?” I repeated with dread.
“The department won’t be able to keep this quiet.” He gave a disgusted sigh. “That would’ve been for the best, but too many people already know. If it’s not on the Internet yet, it will be any minute now.”
“What?” I asked anxiously.
“The victim was exsanguinated.” He added, as if thinking that I might not be familiar with the term, “Drained of all her blood.”
I gaped at him in horrified astonishment. “You mean she was killed by a vampire?”