AFTER the interview, there’s a nice, plump cactus by the lobby where we can do pictures,” said Coral Tomlinson, Lee’s faintly inbred mother. “We been posing out in front of it all week.”
The afternoon following the Milton Crockett ambush found Dawn aiming a digital camera recorder at the fiftyish widow Tomlinson. She was sitting apart from the rest of her family, in a zebra-striped chair here at the Adventure Motel off Sunset, a relic from the days of plastic-beaded entryways and turquoise shag carpeting. Stale smoke seemed like it’d worked its way into the safari wallpaper, and the atmosphere wasn’t so much a throwback as an admission that the owner didn’t have enough money to redecorate.
As Dawn watched the camera’s flip-out monitor, she noted that Coral’s hair was that bright red you could only get from a dime-store bottle, her skin tanned to the point of accelerated age spotting. She wore one of those paisley-patterned blouses that probably came from the same store as the hair supplies, plus polyester slacks. Not that Dawn was some catwalk pro herself, but she could tell this was high fashion for Coral because of the way the woman tugged at the material, as if it didn’t fit—or didn’t belong on her. Generic pink terry-cloth sweats seemed more in Coral’s ballpark, to tell the truth.
But Dawn wasn’t complaining about the company; the team was damned lucky to be here, even if talking with the Tomlinsons was no substitute for seeing the accused murderer himself.
After the Crockett confrontation, Breisi had managed to secure an interview with the family, who was visiting from Florida in support of Lee. The Limpet team had needed to fudge their reasons for being here just a tad, telling the Tomlinsons they were journalists and carrying fake press badges The Voice had somehow procured. But if questioning these people would yield another lead, who cared about telling a few white lies?
Since Lee’s attorneys were monitoring his interviews, the team assumed the lawyers were doing the same with the Tomlinson family—thus the false identities. And because Kiko was too distinctive, he was waiting outside, guarded by a contingent of invisible Friends, just in case. His part of the interview would come after Breisi and Dawn asked basic questions.
If he could handle it.
Dawn tried not to think too hard about his difficulties, but yeah, color her worried. Kiko had been sullen ever since yesterday, after his failure to read Milton Crockett. Were his pills clouding his mind? Or, even worse, was he taking more medication than the rest of them were aware of?
Breisi, who had been fetching a notepad from her equipment bag, came to stand next to Dawn. “Are you all set up?”
“Roger-roger,” Dawn said, sending her partner a subtle let’s-get-on-with-this-already look.
Clipping out an agreeable nod, Breisi turned to the Tomlinson family. She was wearing a slim beige suit and a long, curly brown wig gathered in a ponytail, plus much more makeup than usual. She could be a bitchin’ local newscaster if this whole vampire-hunting thing fell through one day.
With well-prepared charm, she said, “The cactus sounds like a lovely spot for pictures, Mrs. Tomlinson. Anything you need. We’re just happy to be able to talk with you.”
“That’s right,” Dawn chimed in, watching through her viewer. She was also wearing a disguise: a long boho skirt with fringed boots, an untucked white blouse, enough thick makeup to cover her facial scars, and a wig: long, black, and straight. Since she’d decided to play a journalist from, say, Austin, Texas—hell, if actors could do their own stunts, she could sure as shit turn the tables and act—she was using an accent. “At first, we were afraid we’d have to go through a team of lawyers to talk to you.”
“Oh.” Coral waved her hand dismissively. “They might be tellin’ Lee to keep his trap shut, but the rest of us Tomlinsons don’t take orders from anyone but ourselves.”
Damn. Maybe Milton Crockett, Esquire, didn’t think the Tomlinsons could offer much information about the Underground if he wasn’t keeping a tight rein on them. Did that mean the team was wasting its time?
One of the Tomlinson siblings spoke up, the older sister, Marg. “The lawyers came to Lee,” she drawled. “We didn’t search them out, so we don’t take orders from ’em, especially since they ain’t doing much good in making it clear that Lee couldn’t have killed that lady anyway. It’s more like they’re…well, encouraging an image. Understand? It’s like all they want to do is make him the most famous murderer ever.”
Dawn had focused the camera on Marg, a woman who looked to be as old as swamp water but was really in her midthirties. She was wearing a long-sleeved Universal Studios shirt. Since an unseasonable film of clouds was covering the sky today, everyone in the room had buttoned up more than usual for August.
Marg, with her short, dark near-mullet, had a chain smoker’s complexion. Her skin and clothing reeked almost as much as Dawn’s own garlic essence, but that didn’t seem to faze Marg’s hubby, Herb, who sat next to his wife on the jungle-leaf bedspread. He was a man who existed in his own sphere, almost literally; his wiry body seemed ready to ball up, his hunched shoulders getting a head start as he stared at the floor. Light from the nearby vanity played over his bald head, and he kept fidgeting with the seam of his faded jeans instead of adding to the conversation.
Breisi was scribbling everything down in shorthand. “Marg, why do you think Lee wouldn’t have been capable of this murder?”
Another sister cleared her throat, as if to take attention off Marg, who seemed like the loudmouth of the bunch.
Cassie. She was younger, a little more hip than most of the other Tomlinsons, with her dark cornrowed hair worn under a kerchief, hippielike. She and the other remaining sibling, older brother Lane, were the only two who didn’t appear totally at home in this tacky L.A. motel hell room. How they both managed to avoid turning out like Marg, Dawn would love to know.
She steadied the camera on Lane because he was, to put it mildly, worth staring at. He had his brother Lee’s firm jaw, chisled cheekbones, slightly tilted blue eyes, and longish black hair. But he wasn’t as pretty as Lee. Nope, he had more of an edge, a kind of car mechanic–poet vibe that could also go over really well on film, if he chose to stay in Hollywood.
Yup, he’d be a great target on any day except for the ones she’d been having lately.
At the randy thought, Dawn ignored a niggle of conscience. Matt wouldn’t be so open to her Lane lusting. And who the hell knew what The Voice would think, if he cared at all.
“I guess you would’ve had to know Lee while he was growing up,” Lane said, mouth tilting in a sad smile as he avoided looking at the camera. Dawn didn’t know if that was because of modesty or because he didn’t need to be assured that the lens was eating him up. “After our dad died, Lee got…”
“Into his own badass world,” Cassie supplied from her seat next to her brother. Hippie girl looked a little sickened at what Lee had done.
“Badass world.” Lane shook his head, obviously agreeing with his sister. “We all shared rooms, and he’d lock us out and listen to music that got angrier and angrier with each album. It seemed to encourage him to isolate himself. And he drew a lot. I can still see him sitting with his back to the wall in a corner, penciling away.”
“He was creative,” Marg said, putting an emphatic spin on the last word, a master of PR for her beloved brother. At least she wasn’t blaming Lee’s behavior on pop culture. “One of them geniuses, I’ll bet.”
Lane continued. “He drew pictures of…I guess they were dragonslayers. Then he started hanging out with the drama crowd, the artsy types. He got cocky around them because, suddenly, he stood out. He was a star in these fringe plays the group would put on in town. The powers that be would always shut down the productions because of ‘indecency.’ Lee just said the subjects were too cutting-edge for the boondocks, and he’d laugh about it and think all of us were such hicks.”
A muscle ticked in Lane’s jaw. He glanced at the carpet, just like Herb.
Mama Coral had been sucking at her teeth while listening, but she stopped at the mention of the plays. “Those other kids put such ideas in Lee’s head. They’re what got him out here to Hollywood. They come out here in a pack, like a bunch of wild dogs, and Lee kept callin’ and askin’ for money because none of ’em were makin’ enough to pay the rent on that hole they were sharin’. They were a bad influence, and Lee was like anyone else, open to what they told him.” She glanced at Breisi. “You getting all this?”
“Yes, ma’am, I am.”
Dawn tightened the focus on Coral. So that was Mama’s explanation for Lee’s fall from grace? Peer pressure?
“Ma’am,” she said, “are you saying Lee got talked into going down the wrong path—one that eventually led to…this?”
Mrs. Tomlinson wiped at one eye. Mascara had smudged beneath it. “If Lee did do that murder—which he didn’t—sure, that’s what I’d be sayin’. He’s a good kid, deep down.”
Sister Marg got off the bed to wander over to a table that was littered with vending machine snack packages. Brandless cheese puffs, peanut butter chocolate bars, cigarettes. She slipped a death stick out of a carton and tamped it against her palm. “Lee got a commercial, so he was on his way to doin’ some good. You seen it? It’s the ‘Ahhhhhhhhh, so fah-resh!’ guy swillin’ mouthwash? That’s when he stopped callin’ so much. He damned near broke Mom’s heart.”
“He didn’t mean to,” Coral said off camera.
“Of course he didn’t,” Cassie said. When Dawn caught her on film, she was glaring at Marg. “Lee just got too busy. He had a lot of auditions, I’m sure.” She turned to the camera. “He would always promise to spend his first big paycheck on a Cadillac for Mom.”
“Just like Elvis,” Lane added wryly, standing up and grabbing some chips from the table, then sitting again.
From the bed, Herb finally said something, and Dawn whipped the camera over, catching the phenomenon.
“We’re a close family.” His soft words were almost chalked away by a cough.
Dawn panned around the room, catching Marg staring at her husband. She got out another cigarette, this one clearly for him. Good medicine, those death sticks.
After sauntering back to the bed, Marg dropped the ciggie into his lap. He didn’t touch it, just remained quietly engrossed in the carpet, like he wasn’t enough a part of the family to add anything.
“A Cadillac,” Mama Coral echoed.
Dawn turned the lens to her. A reminiscent smile widened the woman’s painted lips. Red lipstick flecked her teeth.
“See how happy she is?” Marg said.
Out of the corner of her eye, Dawn saw the sister stuff a cigarette in her mouth, sit down, and gesture toward Coral. “Lee’s promises made all of us want to bring Mom a smile, just like that.”
“By coming out to Hollywood? Did you want to act, too?” Dawn zoomed over to the Universal Studios logo on Marg’s shirt. Then she traveled upward to the older sister’s choppy mullet, thinking The Voice, who was watching, might appreciate this ironic moment just as much as she did.
“Can’t anyone act?” Marg said, laughing.
Touché.
“Anyway,” Cassie said, rolling her eyes at Marg’s remark as Dawn turned to her now. “After a while, Lane and I got in touch with Lee’s roommates. They’d all gone back home, but Lee was the only one who stayed behind.”
Goosebumps rose on Dawn’s arms. Had he lingered in L.A. because of his servitude to the Underground?
Breisi jumped in. “So he pursued his career further?”
All of them just stared at Dawn and her partner.
In her chair, Mama Coral leaned forward. “I think his acting wasn’t the only reason. He had a lover.” She said it with such flair that Dawn almost wondered if she was playing to the camera, creating a sympathetic romance for the interview.
“We just found out about her,” Coral added. “Our Lee was in love.”
“Mom,” the siblings all said, obviously warning her to stay quiet. Cassie and Lane even seemed angry, as if this information wasn’t meant to be aired. Herb glanced up at Coral, eyebrows furrowed.
“What?” the mother said. “Lee has a good heart. Everybody should know that. He ain’t capable of nothin’ but love.”
“Mrs. Tomlinson,” Breisi said, “how do you know Lee was having a relationship?”
From the way her coworker asked, Dawn knew it was the Fourth of July and Christmas all rolled into one for Breisi.
A lead, Frank, Dawn thought, feeling the same adrenaline rush, too. Maybe this is it….
“I know he was involved with a significant other,” Coral said, “because the final roommate to leave California called last night and told Lane, here. That’s why.” Coral shot her family a satisfied look. “She said Lee was spendin’ a lot of recent time with someone while workin’ at a bar between auditions. He might’ve even met the light of his life on that job.”
Breisi quickly wrote something, then flashed it at an angle so Dawn could read it. WASN’T JESSICA A WAITRESS?!?
A chill zinged up Dawn’s spine. Holy crap, yes. But they hadn’t found any indication during their research that she’d worked at Bava with Lee. Then again, Dawn had come to discover that monster-affiliated bars weren’t exactly known for laying all their information out on the table, so what if Jessica had quit within the last month and no one was talking about it?
What if the Underground had erased all traces of her employment there?
“Now, you all tell me,” Coral continued, repeating her point. “How can a boy who carries on in a relationship all of a sudden do murder? Everyone should ask that.”
In a way, Dawn pitied the woman for having no imagination. People who killed could also be really great at covering it up. People weren’t always who they seemed to be—especially in L.A.
Speaking of which…Who else had Lee met in this town? Did he have any friends who were also in the Underground?
“Mrs. Tomlinson,” she asked, “did he hang out with anyone else after his roomies left, any people this last roommate might have mentioned in particular?”
Coral opened her mouth to answer, but Marg cut her off.
“Not really.” The cigarette bobbed with her tight words.
“Mom’s right,” Lane added, obviously trying to get this interview back to the whitewash job it was supposed to be. “The fact that my brother could carry on a dedicated relationship makes it obvious that he functioned normally. Even if Lee dressed weird, he wasn’t that different. He never even hurt a bird when he was a kid. He didn’t have that in him.”
Cassie was clutching the sides of her chair, staring at her mother.
And that made Dawn all the more curious.
“Are the cops aware of this lover?” Breisi asked, a polite bulldog after the real story.
“I guess they will be.” Marg plucked the still unlit ciggie out of her mouth, holding it like a security blanket to cling to.
Herb’s was still waiting like a forbidden goodie in his lap.
All the siblings were shooting mommy dearest the death eye, and she frowned at them, as if asking what she’d done wrong.
Had she revealed something she wasn’t supposed to?
There was meat here, all right. Breisi kept scribbling, so Dawn knew it.
And they obviously weren’t the only ones. Herb finally stood to his full height, thin as a matchstick. The cigarette fell to the carpet, and he absently stepped on it while moving toward the door, crushing tobacco into the shag threads. Lane followed, then Cassie.
The interview was over.
“How about those pictures?” Marg said, as if the room hadn’t just suffered a tiny mental explosion.
Breisi nodded cordially, but Dawn could still sense her disappointment.
When Herb opened the door, cloud-hued gray light slithered into the room. Head down, Cassie was the first to rush outside.
On the way to the cactus outside the lobby, Dawn saw that Breisi had written something else on her pad: LET’S FIND LOVER. MAYBE LEE SHARED SOMETHING WITH HER?
“Exactly,” Dawn said so only Breisi could hear.
Mrs. Tomlinson was the only person who agreed to pose, but the rest of the family had obviously followed her to make sure she kept her mouth shut. As the matron put on a suitably sad expression—one tailor-made for the grieving mother of a man wrongly accused—Marg sauntered over to Dawn.
“You have enough for a good story?” she asked, not seeming to mind the stench of garlic on Dawn’s skin.
“Well, we’d like more. But we can do a decent human-interest piece.” She hoped she sounded like a real reporter.
“You might wanna take Mom’s comments with a pinch of salt. She ain’t altogether here. Know what I mean?”
“I understand. These are hard times.”
This acting crap was totally easy. If Dawn wasn’t morally opposed to actually being an “actress,” she might even be dumb enough to fall into the sparkling lure of it.
If she hadn’t grown up in L.A. knowing better.
Marg put the dead cigarette between her lips again. “It’d be real nice if you respected Lee’s private love life and stuck to a story about how much his family supports him. That’s why we invited you here. That’s all we came here for—to buck up little Lee.”
At the mention of the lover, Cassie had wandered over. Her face was mottled. Boy, was Mama going to get an earful from this daughter later.
Dawn thought how she’d react in the same situation, chiding a mother who’d done wrong. But she couldn’t dredge up a connecting emotion. It sent a split of pain through her chest, reminding her of why she’d never wanted to need a mom anyway.
Swallowing away the ache, Dawn joined the daughters in watching Coral adjust her blouse, then run a finger around her mouth to absently clear away stray lipstick.
“So, now that we’re done here…” Marg said, changing the subject. “You know any hot spots?”
Hot spots? Was she kidding? She was asking about places to party? Wow, Marg was definitely in mourning.
“What kind of action are you looking for?” Dawn asked.
“Like places the celebrities hang out.”
Star screwing. God. Dawn wanted to tell Marg the reality of Tinseltown: it was all fake. From the limos driving bankrupt stars around, to the glossy magazines that crowed about family-oriented producers who held orgies in their second, off-limits mansions, Hollywood was a lie. Not even Marg would be able to find the fantasy of it if she knew everything.
“Marg,” Cassie said.
The woman held up her ciggie as she spread her hands. “You don’t wanna know, too?”
Her sister presented her back and left. Marg didn’t seem to care much as she turned to Dawn again.
“The thing is,” Dawn began, “once the public knows where the celebrities hang out, they kind of never go there again. Most of the really big stars enjoy their privacy, unless they’re in the mood for PR.”
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Where do they show up?”
Before Dawn could answer, she was saved by what looked to be a boy in a back brace dressed in a striped shirt and jeans. He’d pulled a baseball cap down so low his face was barely visible. Just above the bill, the sign of the cross blazed in full glory. He was carrying a bucket and handing out candy bars attached to small Bibles.
“Peace and love,” Kiko was saying in a modulated, higher kid voice as he gave each Tomlinson a gift, holding their hands in the process. He was so anxious to get readings this time out that he’d sacrificed the patch of hair beneath his lower lip, shaving it off so he would look years younger.
Lingering over every touch, especially Coral’s, Kiko made his rounds, then disappeared behind the motel. He’d meet the team at the SUV.
“They let their kids Bible-thump out here without parents around?” Marg asked, staring at the tiny book in her hand.
Dawn shrugged. “L.A. kids get geriatric when they’re, like, five.”
The other woman shook her head. “Poor little cripple boy. He doesn’t even have a good mom.”
Minutes later, the photo session was completed, but Breisi attempted to wheedle a few more rounds of question-and-answer from the Tomlinsons. Lane just gave her a knowing grin, then personally escorted his mother back to the room. The rest of the family trailed behind.
Ultimately, Lane was the last one in and, as he closed the door behind them all, Dawn caught a sincere glint of sadness in his gaze. It struck her that his emotion seemed much less dramatic than his own mother’s.
Wasting no time, Breisi and Dawn rushed down the street to the SUV, where Kiko had already crawled into the backseat. Wasn’t he even going to call shotgun?
The women climbed in, too, locking the doors. Breisi flicked on a dashboard switch that allowed The Voice to listen in from wherever he might be.
Even though he wasn’t here, his presence felt real and solid, a perpetual thrum in Dawn’s body.
“What did you get?” Breisi asked Kiko.
The psychic didn’t answer, not verbally anyway. Instead, he reached out to Dawn. She was wearing one of Frank’s sleeveless T’s under her blouse, and she knew exactly what he wanted to do.
Slipping the white blouse off of her shoulder, she allowed him to touch the undershirt, allowed him to close his eyes and summon whatever nightmares Frank might be having today.
But when Kiko’s mouth twitched, she knew it was out of frustration. He wasn’t getting anything, and that meant…
“No readings from the Tomlinsons,” she said.
Almost out of desperation, he darted his hand out to touch the shirt again, but Dawn grabbed his wrist.
“I just need to concentrate more,” he said, voice strangled. “Please.”
“Kiko,” Breisi said, taking his arm from Dawn. “Don’t worry. It’ll all come back.”
“When? My talents are as useless as—”
He stopped, grabbed his arm from Breisi, and fell back to the seat, where he stared out the window.
Dawn could’ve finished his sentence for him. His talents were as useless as his body.
Pressure gathered behind her eyes. Shit.
Without another word about Kiko’s difficulties—because what could they say?—Breisi started the engine and the briefing. They talked about how at least they knew that the Tomlinsons weren’t low-level vampires since they hadn’t reacted to Kiko’s cross on the hat or the blessed Bibles. The team touched on their impressions of the family, too. Breisi’s instincts matched each one of Dawn’s, and Dawn wondered what the hell was going on that she all of a sudden wasn’t arguing with the lab rat every second of the day.
“Back at the house, I’ll contact these old roommates of Lee’s,” Breisi said. “I would especially like to get in touch with the one who knew about the lover.”
Dawn was watching out the window as they drove back up to the Hills. Palm trees swished by, mocking the clouds. In the side mirror, she saw a hint of movement, and her gaze fixed there.
Kiko. His hand had arched up to his mouth to pop something into it.
Dawn’s gaze went red. “You really need one of those?”
He hesitated, like he was mortified to have been caught.
She waited, not letting him off the hook.
Finally, he chuffed. “My painkillers are safer than yours any day. So back off, okay?”
She should’ve been pissed about his reference to her habit of using sex for a cure-all. It was a weapon in her personal war against Eva, a way to make Dawn feel like she was just as attractive, even if it was only temporary.
With all her effort, she did back off, knowing he wasn’t in a receptive mood. She kept her eye on him though, and he damned well knew it.
After they parked, then walked up the path leading to the Black Dahlia dollhouse, UV lights flooded the Gothic entrance, emphasizing the iron cross hanging over the doorway. Once inside, none of them talked, just went their separate ways. Kiko headed for a bed, where he could get the rest he was required to take each day, whether he wanted it or not. Tomorrow, he had a therapy appointment, but before then, Dawn was going to talk to his counselor about those pills.
In the meantime, Breisi veered toward the huge wooden door off the parlor. She unlocked it, making Dawn wonder, once again, just what was behind the barrier. Previously, she’d seen blue lights, heard a metallic buzzing. Breisi guarded the sanctuary like her life depended on it, and every time she got all secretive, Dawn got even more curious.
With a squirrelly look, Breisi disappeared into the dungeon, leaving Dawn alone.
Hell. What to do?
She decided to head up to the computer room to see if she could research any info about Lee’s roomies and then dial up Kiko’s keepers to ask about his meds.
With a sigh, she climbed the stairs, gradually consumed by the dimness of the upper story. The eerie silence was like perpetual twilight, an unexplained place between all the worlds crashing in on her daily.
As always, she came to the first portrait hanging on the wall. A desert spanned the canvas: sandy, desolate, warm in its emptiness.
Barely glancing at it, she began to pass by on her way to the computers.
But when the picture suddenly filled with the image of a beautiful woman, Dawn froze.