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"Because they want to," I told her. "This is where they look for prey."
Chapter 62
Jamilla and I watched both magic shows that night. We were amazed by the calmness and the confidence exuded by Daniel and Charles. Following the second show, the magicians went home. The agents on surveillance there said it appeared the two were home for the night. I didn't get it, and neither did Jamilla.
Eventually, around three in the morning, she and I returned to the Dauphine. Two FBI teams would stay near Daniel and Charles's place until morning. We were becoming frustrated and confused. We had a lot of manpower working their butts off.
I wanted to ask Jamilla up for a beer, but I didn't. Too complicated for right now. Or maybe I was just getting chicken-shit as I got older. Maybe I was even a little wiser. Nah.
I was up again at six, making notes in my hotel room. I was learning some things I didn't want to know, and not just about magic tricks. I now knew that in the vampire underworld, the area surrounding the main home of a sire, regent, or elder was known as the domain. The FBI and the New Orleans police had staked out the neighborhood in the Garden District where Daniel Erickson and Charles Defoe lived.
The house was located on LaSalle near Sixth. It was grey-stone and probably had as many as twenty rooms. The house sat on a hill, with a high, reinforced stone outer wall similar to the outer curtain of a castle. It also had a large, deep cellar, which wouldn't have been possible in the swampy, sea-level terrain without the elevation of the hill. No one on the task force would admit that they believed in vampires, but everyone knew that a series of brutal murders had been committed and that Daniel and Charles were the likely killers.
Jamilla and I spent the next two days surveilling the house, the domain. We worked double shifts, and nothing could relieve the tedium. A scene that sometimes comes to mind when I'm on stakeouts is the one in The French Co
At least LaSalle Street and the Garden District were pretty to watch. The sugar and cotton barons of the mid-nineteenth century had originally called this home. Most of the hundred-and two-hundred-year-old mansions were beautifully preserved. The majority were kept white, but a few were painted in Mediterranean pastels. Placards informing the frequent "walking tours" about the esteemed residents were affixed to intricate wrought-iron fences.
But it was still surveillance, even sitting side by side with Jamilla Hughes.
Chapter 63
During the stakeout on LaSalle Street, she and I found that we could talk about almost anything. That's what we did through the long hours. The topics ranged from fu
"I worked for two years as a psychologist. Hung out a shingle," I told her. "At the time, not too many people in my neighborhood in D.C. could afford treatment. I couldn't afford to give it away. Most white people didn't want to see a black shrink. So I took a job as a cop. Just temporary. I didn't expect to like it, but once I started I got hooked. Bad."
"What hooked you about being a detective?" she wanted to know. She was a good listener, interested. "Do you remember an incident, any one thing in particular?"
"As a matter of fact, I do. Two men had been shot down in Southeast, which is where I live in Washington, where I grew up. The deaths were written off as'drug related,' which meant not much time would be spent investigating them. At the time, that was SOP in D.C. Still is, actually."
Jamilla nodded. "I'm afraid that it is in parts of San Francisco too. We like to think of our city as enlightened, and it can be. But people out there are good at looking the other way. Makes me sick sometimes."
"Anyway, I knew these two men, and I was almost certain they weren't involved in selling drugs. They both had jobs at a small local music store. Maybe they smoked a little weed, but nothing worse than that."
"I know the types you're talking about."
"So I investigated the murder case on my own. A detective friend named John Sampson helped. I learned to follow my gut. Found out that one of the men had been dating a woman who a local dealer thought he owned. I kept digging, following my instincts, digging a little deeper. Turns out the dealer had murdered the two men. Once I solved that case, it was all over for me. I knew I was good at it, maybe because of all the psych training I'd had, and I liked making things right. Or maybe I just liked being right."
"Sounds like you have some balance in your life, though. The kids, your grandmother, friends," she said.
We let it go at that, didn't pursue the obvious — that Jamilla and I were both single and unattached. It had nothing to do with our jobs. If only it were that simple.
Chapter 64
One comforting reality of police work is that you rarely come up against a murder situation that you've never seen or heard about before. These killings were different: seemingly random, vicious, ongoing for more than eleven years, varying modi operandi. What made the case particularly difficult was the possibility that there were several killers.
I met with Kyle the following morning to talk about the case. He was in a foul mood, and I couldn't wait to get out of there. We shared our pet theories and whiny complaints, then I rejoined Jamilla Hughes on the stakeout in the Garden District.
I brought a box of Krispy Kremes, which got major chuckles from her, and also from the FBI agents watching the house. Everybody clamored for the tasty, air-shot doughnuts, though. The entire box was gone in a matter of minutes.
"Turns out, they're real homebodies," she said as she munched on a glazed.
"It's still daylight. They're probably in their coffins," I said.
She gri
"So maybe Daniel is the real vampire. The Sire. He's supposed to be the force behind the magicians' act."
"Charles has been on the phone a lot. He's setting up a party at the house. You'll love this — it's a fetish ball. Wear your favorite kinky things: leather, rubber, Goth, Victorian, whatever you're into. What are you into?" she asked.
I laughed, thought about it. "Mostly denim, corduroy, a little black leather. I have a leather car coat. It's a little beat up, but it's nasty looking."
She laughed. "I think you'd look dashing as a Gothic prince."
"How about you? Any fetishes we should know about?"
"Well… I'll admit to owning a couple of leather jackets, pants, one pair of long boots that I'm still paying for. I am from San Francisco, you know. A girl has to keep up with the times."
"Same for us boys."
It was another long day of surveillance. We continued to watch the house until dark. Around nine o'clock, a pair of FBI agents dropped by to relieve us. "Let's get a bite," I said to Jamilla.
"Bad choice of words, Alex." We both laughed a little too hard.
We didn't want to venture too far from the magicians' house, so we settled on the Camellia Grill on South Carroll-ton Avenue at the River Bend. The Camellia looked like a small plantation home on the outside. Inside, it was a neat diner, with a long counter and stools screwed to the floor. A waiter in a crisp white jacket and black tie served us. We ordered coffee and omelettes, which were light and fluffy, and about the size of rolled-up newspapers. Jamilla had a side order of red beans and rice. When in the Big Easy…