It sure didn't look like the house of a mass murderer. But then, they never did. Jeffrey Dahmer's place looked like your standard apartment until you opened the refrigerator. Tarantella had learned from experience that you can't judge anything by appearance — people or houses.
He sat across the street in his rented black Grand Prix and watched the duplex. Kind of a cute place, really. Pots of flowers by the door, wind chime hanging on the eave. Yeah, it was sure hard to believe a madman lived there. A madman who had killed 13 people, and apparently drank their blood. What a sick bastard.
A young woman came out of one side of the duplex, the side that was all phoofied up. She was petite, with a long blonde braid hanging over her shoulder. Despite the fact that she was dressed in baggy sweatpants and a faded Chargers jersey, Tarantella could tell she was attractively built. She looked healthy, fresh, wholesome. Tarantella was frankly amazed that she still had all her blood. Maybe this guy Badru chose not to hunt close to home.
Speak of the devil, and out he walks. A tall, dark-haired man strolled out of the non-phoofied side of the duplex and approached the young woman. Even though he had not yet seen a photograph of Jacob Badru, Tarantella knew in his gut that this was the man he sought. Not only because he fit the description to a T — tall, dark, exotic, impossibly good-looking, but also because the second he laid eyes on Badru, snakes started crawling around in Tarantella’s stomach. He actually shivered as gooseflesh crept over him. Yeah, this was the guy, all right. Why else would he react that way?
Tarantella sat watching as Badru and the young woman conversed animatedly. At least she was animated, her voice rising and falling as she made wild, dramatic movements with her hands. Badru stood quietly, listening to her with a solemn look on his face. Now and then he would look down at his shoes, and occasionally he nodded somberly. Whatever they were talking about seemed to make the woman angry and Badru unhappy. Maybe, thought Tarantella, she’s lecturing him on the social faux pas of being a goddamn blood sucking psychopath.
“Seriously, Jake, you need to get some professional help. In the first place, why would you even want to be a vampire, if there was such a thing? And secondly, hon, you need to get your facts straight. No vampire can go out in the sunlight, you would melt or explode into flames or turn to stone or something. You would be sleeping all day in a coffin. Also, you would not have a reflection in a mirror, which we both know you do. Most of all, you would have to have fangs to bite people with, which you most certainly do not.”
“I do,” Jacob said quietly.
“Oh, really? Show them to me, then.”
“I cannot.”
“Why not, if you really have them? Is it against vampire law or something?”
Jacob raised his head to glare at her. “It is not. But they are retracted at the present time.”
“So un-retract them.”
“I cannot. It is not a . . . voluntary thing. I cannot control their descendence.”
“Why can’t you?”
“It is not something you can do just by thinking it. It requires . . . stimulation.”
“Stimulation? What, like getting a hard-on, you mean? You have to smell blood or something?”
“Very similarly, actually.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Jake! I don't believe this. What an imagination you have! But have you forgotten the night I cut my finger? I bled all over the counter! And look, I’m still alive. No holes in my neck or anything.”
“I . . . restrained myself. With great difficulty, I might add.”
“Uh huh. I was there, dear. What you did was nearly pass out at the mere sight of my blood. Yet I’m supposed to believe you drink the stuff? I don’t think so!”
Jess shook her head in exasperation. Jacob, his jaw clenched stubbornly, continued to stare at her frustrated face.
Tarantella was aching to confront Badru, see how he played the game. He got out of his car and headed across the street without the arguing pair noticing him. They didn't even glance his way as he approached them.
“Jacob Badru? I’m Lt. Tarantella, with the King County Police Department. I’d like to ask you a few . . .”
The man slowly turned his face toward Tarantella, his dark eyes meeting Romeo’s stunned gaze. The earth’s rotation stopped. It tilted on its axis, and Tarantella felt himself falling helplessly through time and space, hurtling backward through darkness into a land of heat and sand and passion. Back to a time of a love greater than life, a joy greater than space, a completeness he had never since known. Tarantello found he could not draw breath, though his heart was pounding madly.
Jacob Badru’s eyes were the ones in his dream.
He had no memory of how he got back to his hotel room. When conscious thought returned to Romeo, he was lying on the bed in the dark, crying. He could not remember ever feeling such utter desolation, such intense grief. Not even when Simon had walked out of his life for the final time. If that had been heartbreak, this must be the pain of a shattered soul. But why?
Way to go, Romeo. You finally stand face to face with this madman you’re chasing, and then you go all to pieces because he reminds you of some guy in a dream? What the fuck is your problem?
Tarantello heaved himself up and swiped at his eyes with a pillow. He was thoroughly disgusted with himself. Christ Almighty, he hadn't even asked a single question! The guy had just looked at him, and he’d fallen apart. Hey, maybe that was the key to the mystery! Maybe Badru is using some weird kind of mind control.
Oh, get real. What do you think he is, some kind of Svengali? Man, you have definitely been watching too many Dracula movies. You’re a cop, Romeo. Now get your shit together and start acting like one. By the book, Tarantello, by the book. And you had better start by checking in with the local precinct, pronto. Which you should have done first thing.
The San Diego Municipal Police Dept. was pretty much the same as every police department Tarantella had ever seen — noisy, cluttered, chaotic. The smell of scorched coffee and stale donuts hung in the air. Tarantella seated himself in the beat-up old chair next to the desk of the detective who was assigned to the “vampire” murder case. Lt. Roger Glover was in a briefing, but would be with him shortly, according to the perky blonde clerk at the front desk. Tarantella was fully expecting some lanky, overly-tan blond with pale blue eyes, too many teeth and long hair pulled back into a ponytail. The stereotypical surfer-type. What else would a San Diego cop look like?
A door across the room opened, and a striking-looking black man entered the squad room. His skin was the color of dark chocolate, tightly-curled hair was cropped close to his finely-shaped skull, and wide friendly coffee-hued eyes turned in Tarantella’s direction. A smile spread across his face, and he lifted a finger to his forehead in mock salute. Well, thought Tarantella wryly, at least I got the teeth right. Glover extended a hand in greeting as he approached the desk.
“Lt. Tarantella? I am Roger Glover. It is good to meet you, mon ami.” There was a definite drawl in his voice, and a curious patois to his speech. Tarantella smiled in return, liking Glover immediately.
“Your mom a big Deep Purple fan?” he asked, grinning as they shook hands. Glover laughed in pleasure.
“Ah, you recognize dis name! Ma pére, he was de big fan. Wit de las’ name, I didn’t have une chance. ‘De greatest bass player ever born.’” Glover rolled his eyes, still smiling. “Heard dat all my life, me.”
“My folks are Italian, so I grew up with Ol’ Blue Eyes.”
“Ahh, de Chairman of de Board!” Glover pronounced it “share-MON.” “You cannot go wrong wit him, nu? So, Lt. Araignée, you are here to help us apprehend dis madman?”
“That’s the plan, anyway. If this is the same perp we had up north, he’s been eluding us for way too long.”
“We will need some powerful gris-gris to cotch dis vampire, pour certainment.”
“Gris-gris?”
Glover wiggled his eyebrows and gave Tarantella an impish smile. “Charm, spell, magic.”
Tarantella grinned back at him, nodding. Glover wasn’t his type, but was a damn charming guy, anyway. And that was just as well. It was never wise to get involved with your co-workers. Not that he was anywhere near ready for another relationship.
“We’ll need more than magic, paisan. We’ll need to get inside this bastard’s head.”
“Mais oui, Araignée. Voodoo gris-gris! Show us his thoughts, plain as day.”
“I’ll leave that mumbo jumbo up to you, pal. Not much of a believer myself.”
“No? Dis fils de putain, he will change your mind, vraiment.”
“That, my friend, is exactly what I’m afraid of.”
