La Vida Vampire

“Etienne wasn’t there?”


“He was, but he and Yolette seemed to have had a tiff. He walked with the older ladies.”

“Did the victim and her husband leave together?”

“More or less. Etienne kissed my hand, and Yolette stalked off. He followed her.”

“And? What did the others do?”

“Stony followed the couple, and Gomer followed him, then came back and walked me home.”

“Maggie mentioned this guy. Gomer had a gun, right?”

“Plain as day, but his name is Holland Peters. I just called him Gomer.”

“He show you an ID?

“No.”

“Then Gomer will do for now. Where were you on Wednesday?”

“I slept during the day and played bridge that night.”

“What about later? Maggie said you might have gone out after midnight.”

“I rode my bicycle from about one thirty to three thirty that morning.”

“Did you see the victim at any time after Tuesday night? ” When I shook my head, Sandy asked, “Can anyone alibi you while you were riding the bike?”

“Yes. A guy at the Gate station.” I nearly bounced in the torturous chair, excited to have something new to contribute. “I ran over some glass on Anastasia Boulevard and was afraid the front tire might be leaking. I went to Gate to air it up. I bought mints, too.”

“You get a receipt?”

I nodded. “I don’t have it on me, though.”

“No problem, but save it. It’s proof of your whereabouts if the witness doesn’t remember you.” She tapped a pen on the pad twice. “As I said before, the cops have had all day to conduct interviews, so they may or may not have some surprises. I have the funny feeling they will. If I don’t nod, you don’t answer.”

“I understand, but what about my GPS tracker? That should help prove I wasn’t near Yolette again.”

“The tracker can verify where you were but not where the victim was.” She stood, and so did I. “We need to know her movements before the tracker records will be of use.”

Confidence that I’d soon be off the suspect list dimmed, but I didn ’t have time to brood. We followed March to an interview room—different yet similar to the ones I’d seen on TV or read about. A rectangular table squatted just inside the door and flush to two walls. One rolling armchair sat at the far end of the table with three armless institutional chairs angled around it. At least the padding on those looked more substantial than the one I’d just left. No one-way mirrors in the room, but I’d bet cameras were hidden somewhere.

Only the tall, tanned, gorgeous guy standing in the middle of the room was a twist on the cop-shop decor. He looked a little Latino and a lot hubba-hubba. Sun-streaked brown hair swept back from a high, broad forehead, and aviator sunglasses perched on a perfect nose.

My own nose twitched at the scent of light musk. His cologne? I swear I had a hot flash as I slid into the seat March indicated next to Sandy. In dark blue jeans, a white polo shirt, and a deep olive sports jacket, Hot Hunk seemed relaxed, but I heard the air around him hum.

“Ms. Marinelli, Ms. Krause, we called a preternatural crimes special investigator out of Daytona to sit in. This is Deke Saber.”

Deke. Pant. Saber. Double pant. Could his name be any sexier? If the rest of him matched the packaging— He didn’t sit but lowered his sunglasses to reveal cobalt blue eyes and stared at me for a long moment.

“You’re the big, bad vampire?” he snorted. “You look like a coed on a bad hair day.”





EIGHT


His voice was deep and mellow, but can you say attitude adjustment? So much for the inner man matching the outer one. Chalk it up to stress, but a piece of me snapped.

“That does it,” I said and slapped my hand on the table before I thought about it. Not all that hard, but Sandy and Detective March jumped. Sexy Deke Saber merely pushed his shades back in place.

“Francesca,” Sandy warned.

“Yeah, I know I’m not supposed to talk without your okay, but darn it, I’m ticked. It’s one thing to question me. I get that. I even get,” I said, pointing at March, “you two playing good cop, bad cop. But it’s another thing,” I said, glaring at sexy Saber, “to take cheap shots at my hair.”

Saber looked bored. Sandy groaned softly.

Detective March rocked back in his comfy chair and tapped a pencil on the white legal pad angled on the table. “Did Yolette criticize your hair?”

“Yolette?” I cocked my head at him. “No. Why would she?”

March shrugged, but Saber spoke as he took the last armless chair, turned it backward and straddled it. His hip holster and black gun handle flashed from beneath his sports coat. Probably to intimidate me. Hah! In his pathetic dreams.

“Who does criticize your hair?” he fired at me.

“Neil,” I said, feeling a touch claustrophobic with the men on my right and Sandy on my left. “I swear I’m straightening it first chance I get.”