Bloodcircle by P.N. Elrod

  Chapter One

  "… THEN THE DOOR opened and there was this crazy-looking blond guy with a shotgun just standing there, grinning at us. Before we could do anything he swung it up and fired right at Braxton."

  "How close were you?"

  "To… ?"

  "To Braxton."

  "Pretty close; arm's length, I guess. He knocked against me when he fell. There wasn't much room."

  "And to the shotgun?"

  "About the same."

  "Goon."

  "I fell back when he hit against me and cracked my head on a sink—sort of snapped it like this—and that's when things got fuzzy." I paused, expecting him to encourage me again in spite of my faulty memory, but nothing came out. Lieutenant Blair of Homicide, Chicago P.O., had the occupational necessity of a poker face, but I could tell he wasn't swallowing what I was dishing out. He waited and the uniformed cop hunched next to him at the foot of the desk stopped scribbling on his notepad.

  I covered the awkward pause by rubbing my face. "Maybe I was dazed or something, but I ran after the blond guy, chased him downstairs and out the building. He was moving too fast and I was all shaky. I lost him. I went back and told the lobby doorman to call an ambulance. I returned to the studio, saw the crowd in the hall, and began looking for Bobbi—Miss Smythe. When I couldn't find her, I drove to her hotel, but she wasn't there, so I spent the rest of the night looking."

  "You spoke to no one at the hotel?"

  "Just Phil, their house detective. He had an envelope for me and I took it."

  "What was it? Who sent it?"

  "I don't know, I never bothered to open it I was so busy. I don't know where it is now."

  The cop wrote it all down, trying to keep a straight face.

  "I went up to Miss Smythe's rooms. Her friend Marza was there, Marza Chevreaux."

  "Chevreaux," Blair repeated, and spelled it out for his man, referring from his own notes.

  "She didn't know where Bobbi had gone, either," I continued. "At least that's what she told me."

  "You think she was lying?"

  I shrugged. "Bobbi and I had a fight earlier and Marza took her side. She doesn't like me much and wouldn't tell me anything. I got fed up with her and left."

  "Where did you go after you left the hotel?"

  I talked on, telling him of a lengthy search until I found Bobbi in a diner we'd once gone to and how we went out to my car and talked the rest of the night away. When Blair asked the name of the diner, I said I couldn't remember. The cop scribbled it all down until I ran out of things to say, but Blair hadn't run out of questions to ask. We were in his office, which was better than an interrogation room, but at the end of my story he looked ready to change my status from witness to suspect.

  "When did you next see the blond man?"

  "I didn't," I lied.

  "Why did he shoot Braxton?"

  "I don't know."

  "Why was Braxton after you?"

  "I don't know."

  "You told the hotel detective, Phil Patterson, something else. You told him Braxton was a con man. Why?"

  "Mostly so Phil would be sure to keep a watch out for him and keep him from bothering Miss Smythe. I thought that if Phil thought the guy was a troublemaker he'd be extra careful." At least that was the truth, and Blair seemed to know it. "Braxton was crazy, too. Who knows why he was after me? I never got the chance to find out."

  He paused with his questions and I wondered if I'd tipped things too far. He looked at the cop and with a subtle head-and-eyebrow movement told him to leave, then settled in to stare at me. I stared back, attempting a poker face and failing. I'm a lousy liar.

  Blair was a handsome man, a little past forty, with gray temples trimming his dark wavy hair, and full, dark brows setting off his olive skin. Too well dressed to be a cop, he was either on the take or had some income other than his salary. His upper lip tightened. He was smiling, but not quite ready to show his teeth yet.

  "Okay," he said easily and with vast confidence. My back hairs went up. "This is off the record. You can talk, now."

  I looked baffled, it wasn't hard.

  "All I want is the truth," he said reasonably.

  "I've been telling—"

  "Bits and pieces of it, Mr. Fleming, but I want to hear it all. For instance, tell me why you waited so long to come in."

  "I came when I saw the story in the papers."

  "Where had Miss Smythe gone?"

  "To some diner, I forget—"

  "Why did she leave the studio?"

  "She wanted to avoid trouble."

  "What trouble?"

  "This kind of trouble. She used to sing at the Nightcrawler Club, got a bellyful of the gang there, and quit to do radio work."

  "Yes. She quit right after someone put a lead slug into her boss. It's interesting to me how death seems to follow that young woman around."

  "You think she was involved with that mess?" It was meant to rattle me, but I was on to that one.

  He just smiled.

  "Then think something else," I said, leaning back in my chair. "Her boss gets scragged and she quits, there's no surprise to that. A couple of the other girls did the same thing. You can check."

  "I have. She was Morelli's girl as well as his employee… And now she's your girl."

  It wasn't a question, so it didn't need an answer.

  "Did you tell her to leave the studio?" he asked.

  "No, I-"

  "Why were you at the studio? You said you'd had a fight with her."

  "It wasn't much of a fight. I went there to make up with her."

  "And Braxton followed you…"

  We walked through the whole thing again and I told the truth about what happened, but left out the motivations. Blair didn't like it. but he wasn't quite ready to get tough yet. He kept shifting around with his questions, trying to trip me somewhere.

  "And then you went looking for her instead of—"

  It was time to show a little anger. "Yeah, so I didn't stay put— I wasn't thinking straight. I see a man cut in two practically under my nose, maybe come that close to it myself, and I'm supposed to hang around to make a statement?"

  "No, but you did go chasing after an armed man and disappeared for two days."

  "Stop dancing and tell me what you're getting at."

  He continued as though I hadn't spoken. "In the mean-time, the man turns up in his car near his home, peppered with wooden pellets—"

  "Huh?"

  "—as though from a shotgun wound. Instead of rock salt or lead, someone loaded the cartridge with small wooden beads. Can you explain that?"

  I shook my head.

  "The man was half-dead from numerous other injuries and in a mental state one might charitably describe as shock. How did he get that way?"

  "I don't know. Ask him, why don't you?" I was on firm ground here. That blond bastard would never put together two coherent words ever again. I'd made very sure of it.

  Blair shifted the subject again. "Who was the woman in his house?"

  "What woman?"

  He pulled out a photo and tossed it to me. A sincere pang of nausea flashed through me as I looked at the starkly lit image on the paper. The harsh blacks and whites had their full-color match in my memory of the scene. I tossed it back onto the desk. "God, what happened to her?"

  "Someone took her head off—with a shotgun; maybe the same weapon that killed Braxton."

  "The blond guy must have done it."

  Then who did it for the blond guy? his expression seemed to ask me. "Why was this woman wearing Miss Smythe's red dress?" he asked aloud.

  "What?"

  "Miss Smythe wore a bright red dress to the broadcast; many people remember it. Somehow it ends up on this corpse. Why?"

  "There must be a mix-up. Bobbi still had that dress when I found her. It must have come from the same store."

  His eyes were ice cold, like chips of polished onyx. "Come along with me." He got to his feet and walked smoothly around the desk.

  "Where?"

  He didn't answer but opened his door and motioned for me to go out first. We walked down a green-painted hall and went into another, smaller room. It had a scarred table, three utilitarian chairs, and one bright overhead light, its bulb protected by a metal grille. On the table was a sawed-off shotgun, tagged and still bearing traces of fingerprint dust.

  "Recognize it?"

  "Looks like it could be the one the crazy used on Braxton, except when I saw it the barrels seemed about that big." I held my hands a foot apart to indicate the size.

  "And what about this?" From the back of a chair he picked up a dark bundle that unrolled into the shape of a coat. The front lapels were ragged and an uneven hole the size of my fist decorated the middle of its back where the blast had exited. The edges were stiff with crusted blood.

  "Looks like mine," I admitted, not liking this turn of evidence.

  "We found it at Miss Smythe's hotel."

  "I keep some clothes there so she can have them cleaned for me; she insists on it. I changed to another coat—I couldn't hunt for her looking like a scarecrow."

  "Are you sure it's yours? Put it on."

  I shot him a disgusted look, but decided to go through the farce.

  "It fits you."

  "All right, so it's mine."

  He was busy examining the hole in the back. "Looks like the shot must have gone right through you."

  "I

had the coat draped over my arm at the time. Maybe it got between Braxton and the gun at just the right moment."

  He shook his head. "The physical evidence we have doesn't support that, Fleming."

  "What does it matter? You have the killer."

  "Take that off and have a seat. We're going to discuss how it matters."

  "You charging me with anything?"

  "That depends on your willingness to cooperate…"

  He'd moved to one side so I could get to a chair, and stopped dead, his dark eyes flicking from something behind me to my face and back again, his jaw sagging. I could hear his heart thumping, though his breathing seemed to have stopped. Turning around I saw a mirror set in the wall behind me; a one-way job so someone next door could keep an eye on things. From Blair's new angle he could see the whole interrogation room reflected in it, and as far as the mirror was concerned, he was alone.

  "Something wrong?" I asked, changing coats. I tossed the old one onto the table. As it left my hand its reflection appeared in the mirror, having jumped out of nowhere. That was interesting.

  Blair had lost his voice as well as his calm confidence and hadn't moved a muscle except for his widening eyes. They kept twitching from me to the mirror. They settled on me one last time and he took a quick breath, reaching instinctively for the gun bolstered in the small of his back. A shoulder harness would have been faster, but it would have also ruined the lines of his suit.

  I shook my head, maintaining a steady eye contact. "Don't do that."

  His movement ceased. Completely.

  I gulped. It wasn't easy because my mouth was bone dry. After a moment I was calm enough to work up enough spit to talk. "Let's go back to your office," I suggested. "You lead the way."

  We went. I sat down; he remained standing until I told him to sit as well. He slipped automatically behind his desk, his face blank and waiting.

  "About what happened in the other room… you hear me, Blair?"

  "Yes." His voice was flat, distant.

  "I identified the gun and coat to your satisfaction. You didn't notice any problem with the mirror, understand?"

  "Yes."

  "Then we came back here. My guess is the woman in the photo was murdered by the blond man. Her red dress probably came from the same shop as Miss Smythe's. That sounds right, doesn't it?"

  "Yes."

  "In fact, you think I've been very cooperative. You have got Braxton's killer, after all."

  "Yes."

  "That's good. You can relax now and do your business as usual—we're good friends." I had other people to protect than myself, so my conscience wasn't kicking too hard.

  My hold on him melted away, but not my influence. He got on his phone and rattled off some instructions for someone to type up my statement and bring it in for signing. While he did this, I looked away and studied some framed items on the wall. A few were documents, the rest were pictures of Blair shaking hands with city-hall types. He liked to have his photo taken; he took a good one. On his desk was a studio portrait of a smiling and very pretty girl.

  "You married?" I asked by way of conversation. I wanted to pass the intervening time on neutral subjects.

  He looked where I gestured—normal again without my control—and literally brightened when he saw the girl's face. "Not yet."

  "Soon, huh?"

  "Not soon enough for me." His smile was sincere now, not the cold one calculated to put a suspect on edge. "Her name is Margaret."

  "She's a real dish. You're a lucky guy."

  We made small talk about his fiancee until the other cop returned with a typed version of my statement. I read it over and signed.

  "Sorry it took so long," said Blair. The cop gave him an odd look.

  "That's all right, I know how it is." I made to go, and Blair escorted me out of the building and even shook my hand. He liked me. Inside, I cringed a little at the power I had over the man and was glad to turn my back on him and walk away.

  Parked down the road just under a streetlight was a gleaming black Nash. A man with a beaky nose and a lot of bone in his face emerged from it as I approached. He was tall and thin and almost as well dressed as Blair, but in a quieter style.

  "How did it go?" asked Escott.

  I sighed out my relief from habit rather than a need for air, but it felt good, so I took another lungful. "As Gordy would say, 'no problem."

  "They believed you?"

  "They didn't have much of a choice. I just sometimes wish I were a better liar."

  "The way things are going, you're sure to have other opportunities to practice. Shall we go on to the hospital and see what else we can patch together?"

  "Visiting hours will be over by now."

  "We'll get in."

  Escott was sure of himself because he seemed to know almost everyone in Chicago. I didn't question him. We entered the hospital without a hitch and even the most territorial and authoritative nurses gave way before him. He knew how to turn on the charm when he felt inclined, and we left the last of the guardians of good health giggling at her station.

  "How did you do that?" I asked.

  "I'm not sure, but if it works, I shan't try to analyze it. Perhaps it's to do with my accent."

  "You mean if I learn to talk like Ronald Colman—

  "I do not speak like Ronald Colman."

  "Sure you do, like just now with Tugboat Annie back there."

  "Don't be absurd."

  Escott's English accent was more clipped and precise and less leisurely than Colman's, but I argued that the effect was the same. Getting him to bristle was a novel experience for me. The debate kept us entertained until we turned the last corner and saw the cop in a chair next to a numbered door. He regarded us with interest and stood as we approached.

  "I'm Dr. Lang," Escott told him. "Dr. Reade asked me to look in on the patient for him."

  "Ain't it kinda late?"

  "Yes, it is," he said wearily, "and this is hopefully my last call for the night."

  "I'll have to see your pass."

  "Show him my pass," he said to me.

  I got the man's full attention and flipped out my old press card. "It's all in order, officer," I told him. - He didn't even blink. "Okay, you can go in."

  "Thank you." Escott did so—all but grinning at the situation—with me right behind him.

  It was a private room, furnished in cold steel and white enamel, with one small light glowing in a corner opposite the single high bed. The slumbering occupant was obscured by rumpled sheets and a mass of bandaging around the top of his head. His breathing was slow and deep, our entrance hadn't roused him.

  Escott hung back by the door, ready to deal with the cop in case he walked in.

  "I don't want to do this," I whispered.

  He understood but shook his head, his humor gone. "But you have to do something. So far they're blaming the head wound for his story, but you can't let him continue to talk, especially if some of the more irresponsible papers get hold of it. You dare not take that chance."

  "Yeah." Damn.

  He was right. We'd been all over it before and couldn't think of any other alternatives. Indirectly, this would help protect Bobbi and Escott as well as myself, so that should have made it easier, but I'd still have to be very careful.

  I cat-footed to the bedside and looked down at the sleeping boy. He was Matheus Webber, chubby young friend to the late James Braxton, and he'd come very close to death himself that night at the radio station. Both had been hunting for me with the mistaken idea that I was a menace to society. They'd assumed my normally friendly disposition to be false and had set out to kill me with the best of intentions and a lot of misplaced zeal. Their knowledge of my true nature and needs was limited, and they'd placed a superstitious reliance on crosses and silver bullets to control and destroy me. They'd been annoying, but nothing I couldn't handle until Braxton got in the way of another, much more effective killer.

  Matheus was now telling the story of their hunt for the vampire to anyone who'd listen, but so far his parents, the medical staff, and the cops thought he was crazy from the concussion he'd suffered. But if he kept talking, someone else just might begin to believe the story in the same way as Blair. Once he'd seen a hint of the truth of things, it had all fallen into place for him, necessitating my direct influence on his mind. There were too many mirrors in the world for me to take any more risks.

  I folded back the sheet and blanket to get a better look at the kid. What I saw would have decided me if I hadn't already made up my mind. Escott craned his neck for a look to see what made me stop and frown. He frowned as well, but refrained from giving me an "I told you so" look. The patient wore a big silver cross around his neck with a couple of bulbs of whole garlic threaded together on a string. He had at least gotten someone to humor him. It was a step in the wrong direction as far as I was concerned.

 

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