Veronica texted me her address in Hollywood. By the time Coyote dropped me off at her place, it was already after nine. Since Veronica had asked me to visit on a Saturday evening, and remembering she had said earlier we'd get together for dinner, I inferred that her offer included breakfast as well. Being the optimist that I am, I brought along my overnight bag and condoms.
Her home was in a two-story four-plex in pastel green stucco. Lush grapevines, thick as quilts, draped the walls. Small balconies with wrought iron railings jutted from the upper levels. The fragrance of jasmine shrubs and orange trees wafted through the night air like incense.
I scoped the area with my contacts out to check one last time for suspicious auras. The coast clear, I put my contacts back in and climbed the short concrete steps.
Veronica's address was curiously 5l8 1/4. I entered a tiled breezeway and stepped around small palms and ficus plants growing in terra-cotta pots. Newspapers wrapped in plastic bags and junk mail were piled in one corner.
Her apartment was to the left at the top of the stairs. I rapped on a scuffed and tarnished wooden door. Veronica peeked through the small window at eye level. The dead bolt clicked and the door opened. An aroma of apricot-scented shampoo escaped.
Veronica wore white shorts and a loose short-sleeve blouse with a jungle print and stood barefoot on the oak floor. She had the burnished, muscular legs of a dancer.
With a nod, she beckoned me in. Expecting a hearty embrace and a lusty kiss, I was surprised when she kept a cool distance when she led me inside.
The floor creaked as we walked under a Moorish arch separating the front room from a dining area. I set my bag on a dinette table. There wasn't much furniture. Some mismatched chairs and a couple of end tables with flowering planters on top. The corners and walls were crooked from where the building had settled over the years.
Veronica's mood puzzled me. She didn't act nervous, the way someone would if anticipating trouble. Not that I suspected her, since my vampire sixth sense detected no threat. Just to make sure, I examined the room again. Nothing out of the ordinary.
So why the frosty act? Maybe Veronica had heard bad news. Maybe she didn't feel well. Or maybe she was being fickle in the way women can be and resented my intrusion into her life. In any case, I'd peruse Roxy's files and leave. Good thing condoms have an expiration date.
Veronica waved that I follow her into the kitchen. She pointed to a document box sitting on the counter by the refrigerator.
Her expression stiffened, her face a protective mask. "Felix," she said without prompting, "lo siento." I'm sorry.
"For what?" I replied. We both spoke in Spanish.
"I was eager to see you. To invite you into my home," Veronica explained. "But when I put the box there for you, it hit me what your visit was really about."
"You mean Roxy's murder?"
Veronica stared at the floor and nodded. She gathered stray hair behind one ear. It was a gesture that betrayed her struggle to maintain composure. "After Roxy was killed and I knew no one was serious about investigating her murder, I promised myself that she would get justice."
Veronica looked out the kitchen window. I wanted to remove my contacts so I could witness the animated display of her aura expressing her inner turmoil. I expected to see her lower lip quiver and the shine of tears in her eyes.
Instead, her jaw hardened, and that was it. This was the limit of sadness she would allow herself to show. My attention in this case had been so centered on Roxy Bronze that I had forgotten she was Veronica's lieutenant in the campaign to stop Project Eleven. Veronica picked the fight with the Los Angeles City Council and its millionaire patrons not only out of principle but also to win. She was no one's wallflower. Veronica jumped into the fray like a tough, seasoned paratrooper.
Roxy had provided money, and the sexy, scandalous angle the media craved, but it was Veronica's nerve and drive that marshaled the community and turned the city council on its heels.
"I haven't thought about those files since I brought them here." Veronica said this in a monotone, as if testifying under oath. "Despite my best intentions, my duties at Barrios Unidos, my family obligations…"
"I understand," I replied. "Life gets in the way. A murder investigation isn't a hobby, especially this one. That's why people hire me."
Veronica gave a smile of thanks. She stood beside me, close enough that she brushed my arm. I could feel the heat of her skin.
I removed the box's lid. Thick hanging folders were braced from the sides. "How long have you had this?"
"Since a couple of weeks before Roxy was killed."
Several months, then. "This could be considered withholding evidence from a murder investigation," I said.
Veronica shook her head. "I'm not withholding anything."
"What do you mean?"
"After her death-her murder rather-the cops raided Barrios Unidos to look for evidence," Veronica replied. "All they said was 'Show us Roxy's desk.' They emptied the drawers. They took everything: personal photos, pens, even a box of paper clips." In the excitement of telling me the story, Veronica returned to her quickstep Spanish. "I was surprised the detectives didn't scrape the gum stuck under her chair."
"What about Roxy's computer?" I asked.
"They confiscated that. And we had to give them permission to go to our Internet service provider and dig through our emails. The assholes deleted half of our archives just to be pricks." Veronica turned away and rubbed her forehead, as if the memory hurt.
"How did you end up with the box?"
"After we stopped Project Eleven and got done celebrating," Veronica said, "Roxy and I decided to consolidate the files, which at the time were scattered all over the office. We'd see what to keep or toss out. I took the box, thinking I would go through it when I got the chance. But I never did."
"Where was the box when the police searched Barrios Unidos?"
"In the trunk of my car. Had they asked, I would've given it to them." Veronica shared a look troubled by anxiety. "Roxy was dead. A lot of rich people were happy about that. The cops were only there to purge anything that could further embarrass the politicos behind Project Eleven."
I ran my thumb along the thick stacks of papers inside the hanging folders. "It'll take a while to go through this. Good thing I brought my toothbrush and jammies."
"Your jammies?" The anguish in her eyes gave way to a twinkle. She gave a sardonic laugh. "Okay, you want to stay up all night and play detective, that's your business. You are the professional. But first we get dinner. I'm starving. There's a place down the street that stays open late. We'll talk about something else besides this." She pointed to the box.
Veronica put on sequined flip-flops. We went out and stood in line at a restaurant decorated with bamboo awnings and tiki torches. She chewed a tablet of Nicorette gum and clasped my hand. Her silver rings singed me and I repositioned her hand so that her forearm rested on mine.
I had to skip the first table the maitre d' offered, as she wanted to sit us with my back against a mirror. How long would it have taken Veronica to notice in the reflection that she dined alone?
I settled for a corner booth. No mirrors. One candle.
Veronica asked for margaritas. We split an order of swordfish with mango chutney and potato cakes. I tried my best to match her appetite, but without a drenching of blood, even a gourmet offering like this tasted as bland as cold, unsalted oatmeal.
Veronica kept with the margaritas while we chatted about life, her family, and movies. I didn't mention it, but my thoughts kept rolling back to what might be in Roxy's files.
Veronica stopped midway through her third drink and pushed the glass away. "I surrender. Coffee?"
We had the house blend, which sans blood, tasted like muddy water. Veronica nibbled on cheesecake.
On the way back to her place, I kept her on my left side so when we walked arm in arm, her silver wouldn't touch my bare skin. Climbing the stairs to her apartment, she slipped and I caught her.
Veronica clung to the banister. "Give me a minute. My stomach is sorting through this love-hate relationship I have with tequila."
Closing her eyes for a moment, she took a deep breath and exhaled. I helped her trudge up the stairs. We paused at her door while she dug keys from her shorts pocket.
She fumbled with the dead bolt. "Felix, are you enjoying yourself?"
"Of course. Why?"
"You picked at your food. I practically swam in my margaritas. You barely sipped yours. Now you hold me like I could give you cooties."
"Maybe it's me who has cooties."
Veronica slurred a laugh. "You don't have cooties." She pecked my cheek. "See. No cooties. Was that so complicated?"
Being an undead bloodsucker makes everything complicated.
With my hand steadying her shoulder, she guided me into the apartment and her bedroom. Veronica plunked face first onto the mattress. Her feet dangled off the edge of the bed and her flip-flops dropped to the floor.
Veronica's right hand came up and pointed to the hall. "Felix, be my hero," she mumbled, "and bring some water."
I went to the bathroom and filled a glass. When I returned to the bedroom, Veronica had turned onto one side and gathered a pillow under her head. The little screen of an iPod on the nightstand gave an inert glow.
I set the glass beside the iPod, took off my shoes, and lay next to Veronica to spoon. Her firm rump pressed along my pelvis. I pushed one hand under the pillow and laid the other on her hip.
The music playing was a woman crooning about frustrated love. She must've cribbed my notes.
Up close, Veronica was a cascade of smells: sweat, tequila, mango chutney, shampoo, aloe vera lotion, and her delicious pheromones. This beautiful, healthy-albeit pickled to a hundred proof-creature that I rested against was a reservoir of savory blood and sexual release.
I could zap Veronica and enjoy the ride. What would prevent me?
A junkie going cold turkey and finding a syringe loaded with smack, a pyromaniac with matches, gasoline, and an empty house, their temptations were trivial whims compared to the roiling hunger that stoked my desire.
Her heart thumped a beaconing tempo.
My fangs pushed out from my gums.
The valves in her veins ticked like stopwatches, counting the seconds before my attack.
My kundalini noir coiled as it prepared me to strike and feed.