The Vampire Who Played Dead Page 3

  I held my breath, holding the open lid, and could not have been more relieved to see that the coffin was clean. Not perfectly clean. There was some darkish stains that could have been soil or even make up. Or perhaps even hair dye. But all in all, I had gotten lucky. A good thing, too, since my pumpkin scone was hovering somewhere between my heart and throat. I swallowed hard, forcing it down and went to work examining the inside of the coffin.

  I wondered how thoroughly the interior of the coffin had been examined, and decided probably not too much. Once the coffin had been found to be empty there had probably been an initial investigation, and then the case was sent off to Hammer. A missing corpse, for a busy L. A. homicide detective, ranks fairly low on the to-do list.

  I found myself drawn to the cushions in the top half lid; that is, the part of the casket that would cover the face and upper torso. The material here was thickly padded silk, and I shortly discovered something odd. The padding here was compressed somehow. Smashed. I had no explanation for it, other than the mortician might have damaged it during the funeral preparation, or perhaps the body itself had bloated during the decaying process, or even the crane they used to lower the casket had swung about, shifting the body, causing pressure on the padding.

  I didn't know. But I knew that pressure was one thing, this was another. This was smashed. By my estimation, the area in question was directly above where her chest would have been. Most of the padding here was soft, except the small area, perhaps a diameter of six inches, where it was pressed down noticeably.

  I stood straight, hands on hips, perplexed.

  Was this simply an irregularity in the design? A place where the cushion was attached to the wood behind it, perhaps? I reached down again but could not find a seam. But I did find something else.

  I reached into my jeans pocket and extracted my key chain. And from it I selected a little light, which I turned on. I aimed the light on the depressed cushion and leaned in a little closer.

  Ah. There was a tear. Very faint. And a slight discoloration to the fabric.

  I stood straight again, frowning. I considered the ramifications of what I was seeing and feeling. Had the grave robbers caused the damage? Had the body even made it into the grave? Or had it been stolen, let's say, before the burial?

  Too many questions. Too much gorge, which I continued to fight. Damn pumpkin scone.

  A thought occurred to me. A really horrible thought that made my heart race and sweat break out on my brow. I knew what I had to do next. I had to test my theory, even if to discount it. I paced the big storage area. Hammering from the next door wood shop seemed to keep pace with my creaking footfalls.

  This is nuts, I thought.

  I continued pacing.

  Seriously nuts. I don't get paid enough for this shit.

  Hell, I'm not getting paid at all, tacos notwithstanding.

  But a young man needed help, needed answers.

  I stopped pacing and moved over to the casket. I took in a lot of air. And I mean a lot of air.

  And then I climbed inside.

  Chapter Eight

  Fifteen minutes later, I was still shaking as I drove my nondescript Camry out of the cemetery, and merged into traffic on Highway 134.

  I needed a drink. Bad.

  But I haven't touched the stuff since the accident two years earlier. Nor would I, but now, in this situation, I saw the benefit of having one or two drinks. Anything to help me come to terms what had happened back in the cemetery storage room.

  Back in the casket.

  Traffic picked up a little and I applied more gas. My arms were still shaking. I took a deep, shuddering breath. On me was a smell I couldn't shake. Soil and dirt and something else. Death.

  I needed a drink.

  The casket had been snug. Although it had clearly been built for a woman, it was surprisingly comfortable. The makers had not held back on the padding, either.

  Prior to climbing in I had examined the lid's closing mechanism. There was nothing on it that would indicate it would lock from the inside. It seemed to swing open and shut readily enough.

  Once inside the casket, I reached up and lowered the lid slowly.

  Sealing myself in.

  Traffic was backing up as the 134 East merged with the 5 South. Someone honked. Someone answered with another honk. A car nearby was thumping the bass. I ignored them all.

  As I shut the lid, an overwhelming sense of panic overcame me and immediately pushed the lid back open, relieved beyond words that the lid had opened easily enough.

  Thank God.

  Lowering it again, I lay back on the slightly dirty pillow, my skin crawling, and certain that I was going to heave at any minute. But in the meantime, I went to work. I turned on my key chain light again, casting a powerful blue-white beam into the enclosed space.

  I was all too aware that I was lying in something that was meant to be buried six feet deep. In something that was supposed to contain the corpse of a murdered young woman. I was all too aware that this disturbingly cozy box was supposed to have gone undisturbed for perhaps all eternity.

  All of it added up to some serious goosebumps, shivers, and an inability to control my breathing.

  I was on the 5 Freeway now, moving faster, but knowing the freeway could stop at any moment - as it suddenly did now. I drummed my fingers on my steering wheel as I relived those final moments in the casket.

  With my key chain light casting an eerie blue light in a setting that didn't need to be any more eerie, I noted there was just enough space for me to raise my right arm. Which I did.

  Aiming the small light with my left hand, I raised my right fist and placed it where it would have been most comfortable knocking on the inside of the casket.

  It landed, of course, in the same area of the depressed cushion. The area of the slight discoloration. Someone, I was certain, had been knocking from the inside of the casket.

  Breathing hard, I opened the blade to my small pocketknife. Hammer's evidence, be damned. I cut through the fabric of the cushion above my chest, and soon spread it open, revealing the unpolished wood beneath.

  The wood behind the cushion was split and seriously damaged.

  And when I raised the lid and sat up, gasping for fresh air, I was not too surprised to see Boyd the coffin-maker standing inside the storage room doorway, watching me.

  Chapter Nine

  Dr. Vivian Carter was recommended by a new friend of mine, an older investigator I had recently worked with on an unusual case a few weeks back.

  Aaron King, who also specialized in finding the missing, had produced her card and tucked it in my shirt pocket. He said only that she would help me, and that she was helping him, too. I hadn't asked for help and I had been mildly offended, but who was I kidding? I was a royal mess, and an old guy like Aaron saw through my feeble charade.

  Now I was sitting across from her in a lounge chair, unable to meet her direct gaze. She was a lovely woman, older than me by perhaps five or ten years. But I wasn't here to admire her loveliness. I was here because my life was spinning out of control.

  "How are you, Mr. Spinoza?"

  "I've been better. "

  The light from her desk lamp reflected off her own thick glasses. Her hands were folded neatly in front of her. She was unmoving and stoic, but also so calm that I found my shyness slipping away quickly. She tilted her head slightly to the right and some of the desk lamp light caught along her slightly upturned nose.

  "Tell me about when you've been better. "

  And so I did. Or I tried to. I told story after story of my life before the tragedies.

  Dr. Vivian listened quietly, occasionally nodding encouragingly and sometimes even writing down notes. Mostly she just watched me closely, radiating a calm intensity.

  "You keep talking about 'before the accidents'. "

  I nodded, looking away.

  "Te
ll me about the accidents. "

  And so I did that, too. I found myself going over my wife's car accident in detail. Or as much of it as I could, since I had not been there. She had been coming home from work. It had been raining. Her car, as best as anyone could figure out, had slid out of control. I knew my wife. She was a great driver. Some asshole piece of shit had probably cut her off. I knew it. I felt it in the very marrow of my bones. He had cut her off and she had swerved and lost control and went spinning across the slippery freeway. She had hit the center divider head on, only to be hit immediately after by a tour bus cruising down the carpool lane. A tour bus that had been speeding recklessly, no doubt.

  Dr. Vivian listened to all of this calmly, compassionately, making sympathetic sounds where appropriate.

  She asked me a few more questions and I found myself explaining the hate I had felt - still felt - for everything, especially God and my wife's alleged guardian angels and anyone responsible for her death. I hated the phantom car that cut her off, and I loathed the tour bus driver.

  In the past, I had always turned to drinking as an escape; after her death, my drinking got ten times worse. My employer, with a heavy heart, eventually fired me.

  I next described my utter neglect of my little boy, who was suddenly without his mother, and now without a father, too. My neglect for him led to more drinking. I was trying to kill myself, I knew it. I couldn't stand the pain of living. I couldn't stand the fact that I would never, ever see my wife again.

  "You said accidents, Mr. Spinoza," she said quietly, calmly, leading me along gently, expertly.

  I took a deep breath and plunged forward, describing the night I was to take my son to a birthday party in the Hollywood Hills. It had been the sixth month anniversary of my wife's accident, and I had taken it pretty hard. I was so drunk that I don't even remember driving along the twisty Mulholland Drive. My memory only begins when my car veered off the road and down into the trees several dozens of feet below. I had been ejected, but my son hadn't been so lucky. I was so badly hurt and drunk that I was incapable of piecing together what had just happened. It was then that I felt the fire behind me. . . and heard the strangled cries. I remember turning around on my hands and knees, in the dirt and bushes, as blood poured from a head wound, and seeing my son through the windshield.

  Still strapped in his seatbelt.

  As the fire engulfed him.

  We were silent a long, long time. I was aware of the clock ticking behind me. It just might have been the loudest clock I'd ever heard. In fact, it was nearly driving me nuts. I forced myself to calm down as I wiped the tears away.

  Without her prompting, I went on to describe the year I had spent in jail for vehicular manslaughter. And my life these past two years, sober and alone and hurting unlike anything I thought was possible.

  It was then that Dr. Vivian came to life. She stood from her chair and walked carefully around her oversized desk and sat down in front of me in a client chair. She was a professional. That much was obvious. I saw all the degrees on her walls as proof.

  But she was also human, and she leaned forward and gave me the biggest hug I'd ever been given and the tears flowed. Hers and mine.

  Finally, she pulled back, wiping her cheeks, and said, "I'll deny I ever did that, but if anyone ever needed a hug, Mr. Spinoza, it was you. See you next week. "

  Chapter Ten

 

  I was having lunch with Roxi at the Electric Lotus.

  She made me promise not to talk about any corpses, cemeteries or grave robbers. So instead I told her a little about my first therapy session, leaving out the hug. Roxi approved of anything that would help me move forward. Why she stuck it out with me, I'm still not sure. Certainly not for the laughs and giggles. One thing about shy people, we're great listeners, and when I was done recounting my early afternoon session, Roxi launched into a long story about a pitch-meeting she was going to have with Paramount Studios. I listened and nodded in all the right places, but all I could think about was the interior of the coffin, and the compressed cushion where I was certain someone had been knocking.

  Perhaps even knocking long and hard.

  The house was immaculate.

  It was a mini-mansion, as I would describe it, with Doric columns out front and marble floors in the entry way and a winding staircase that led to the second floor. The older lady who greeted me for our appointment did not smile at me. When people don't smile at me, I get more nervous. Words are harder to find and the sweat breaks out all over. Sometimes stammering ensues, too.

  James Bond I'm not.

  "Have a seat, Mr. Spinoza," said the woman. "Would you like something to drink?"

  I said I was fine.

  "Excuse me?" she asked.

  "No, thank you," I said in a strangled whisper.

  She frowned and sat across from me and I fought my nerves and pressed forward. I had a job to do, after all. It was my mantra. In fact that mantra - I have a job to do - had gotten me through many personal harrowing experiences. Harrowing, that is, for me.

  I have a job to do, I thought again and again.

  I raised my voice. "As you know, I'm here to talk about your daughter. "

  She merely nodded. Her name was Elizabeth Perkins, and she was the mother of Evelyn Drake, whose body was presently missing. The family, I knew, was wealthy. How and why they were wealthy, I didn't know. Perhaps old Hollywood money. An investor or a producer or something. Anyway, Mrs. Perkins was wearing white slacks and a red blouse that highlighted her trim figure. She was probably in her sixties. Her scowling face made her look older.

  "Has anyone contacted you about your daughter's. . . missing remains?" I asked.

  "Other than the police, no. Only Detective Hammer and now you. " Her jawline tightened. "May I ask your interest in this case, Mr. Spinoza?"

  "I'm working with the boy, her biological son. "

  She made no indication that she heard me. No nod. No frown. Nothing. She said, "I was under the impression that the boy is a runaway. "

  "He ran away from an abusive situation and is now in a better situation. "

  I was all too aware that she was his biological grandmother. That fact did not seem to please her. "Better situation, how?"

  "He's living with an aunt and uncle. "

  She made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat. I pressed forward, so uncomfortable I could barely think straight. "Has anyone unofficial contacted you, Mrs. Perkins?"

  "Unofficial in what way?"

  I took a deep breath, calmed myself. I have a job to do. I have a job to do. "Has anyone tried to blackmail you with your daughter's remains?"

  "I don't understand the question. "

  Breathe, breathe. "Has anyone demanded money for the return of your daughter's body?"

  She raised her hand to her face and looked away and the tears sprang from her eyes. The change was so sudden that I sat there, surprised. I shouldn't have been surprised. I had just asked a mother, who's daughter had been murdered a few years earlier, if a body snatcher had tried to ransom her daughter's remains.

  Jesus.

  A sick world. A sick question. A question I had to ask.

  She was shaking her head and her steely facade had crumbled completely. She kept shaking her head even while I sat there, uncomfortable, regretting my decision to come, but needing answers, nonetheless.

  "No," she finally said. "I've heard from no one. Do people really do that?"

  "It's possible. It happened to Charlie Chaplin's family. "

  She wept harder and covered her face and I heard movement from upstairs, although I saw no one at the time. I asked her if she had ever been contacted by the cemetery. If there had ever been any indication of a grave plot mix-up. The questions were difficult and painful for both of us, and all the while I kept hearing creaking above me. Someone was pacing up there, listening.

  Mrs. Perkins was beyond s
peech. She just kept shaking her head at each question and finally I decided to leave. I apologized for causing her pain and left my card on the coffee table.

  And as I turned to leave, I involuntarily gasped. From upstairs a young woman was looking down at me. Peering over the bannister from around a corner that led, I assumed, to a hallway. The woman had a strong resemblance to Evelyn Drake, but she was younger by many years. Her sister, I thought. Or perhaps a cousin. I blinked, and she blinked, and then she turned away, disappearing into the shadows.

  I let myself out.

  Chapter Eleven

  I was sitting in a Starbucks with a new friend of mine, the old detective, Aaron King.

  I had met Aaron recently through another acquaintance of mine, Jim Knighthorse, a character who worked out of Orange County. All three of us had been brought along on a case involving a missing girl, led by another Orange County detective, a young woman named Samantha Moon. Four detectives working one case, and we did eventually find the girl, with Aaron King and Samantha Moon seeing the case through to the end.

  Samantha Moon was someone I thought about often. Beautiful, perky, but shrouded in a mystery. Something haunted her. What it was, I doubt I would ever know. Aaron King and I talked a little about the case of the missing girl, and about Samantha Moon and her own possible secrets, but Aaron was keeping quiet about her. My instincts told me that he knew something he wasn't revealing. At least, not yet.

  I switched the subject to my case at hand. I needed another investigator to bounce some ideas off of, especially now that I had recently been faxed the autopsy report. A report that had been disturbing in more ways than one. I would have picked Hammer to speak with, but Hammer was fairly closed-minded. I needed someone with an open mind.

  A very open mind.

  After all, I was beginning to think that something very, very strange was going on here.

  Aaron King seemed enigmatic himself. The old guy was good looking enough, and projected a confidence that I completely lacked. He sat across from me in a wobbly outdoor chair, drinking a hot coffee, black. No frills. I decided that Aaron King looked like someone I knew, but I couldn't place him. Not now. And, really, I didn't care.