Violets are Blue

Chapter 80

Jamilla was remembering a line from a favorite Shirley Jackson novel, The Haunting of Hill House, which had been made into a really disappointing movie. "Whatever walked there, walked alone," Jackson had written. That pretty much summed up how she felt about the murder case. And maybe even about her life lately.

She drove her trusty, dusty Saab toward Santa Cruz. She gripped the steering wheel a little too firmly most of the way, and her hands felt numb. The kink in her neck was getting worse. This was a disturbing case, and she just couldn't let it go. The killers were out there somewhere. They were going to keep murdering until somebody stopped them. So maybe she should stop them.

She had tried to get her current boyfriend to go with her, but Tim was covering a bicyclists' protest for the Examiner. Besides, she wasn't sure that she wanted to spend the whole day with him. Tim was sweet, but, well, he wasn't Alex Cross. So here she was getting off Route 1, entering Santa Cruz all by her lonesome. All by her damn lonesome again.

At least she had alerted Tim that she was going to Santa Cruz, and of course she was a big girl, and armed to the teeth. Ugh, teeth, she thought. She cringed at the thought of fangs, and the horrible deaths of all those who had been bitten.

She had always liked Santa Cruz, though. Maybe because it was practically the epicenter of the Loma Prieta earthquake back in '89 — 6.9 on the Richter scale, sixty-three dead — but then the area had come back. The gutsy little town and the people there had refused to fold. Lots of earthquake-proof construction, nothing higher than two stories. Santa Cruz was pure California, the best.

As she drove, she watched a big blond surfer climb out of a VW with a surfboard strapped to the roof. He was finishing off a drippy slice of pizza, heading into the Bookshop Santa Cruz. Pure California.

There was quite a mix of people here — post-hippies, high-tech start-up folks, transients, surfers, college kids. She liked it an awful lot. So where were the goddamn vampires hiding? Were they here? Did they know she was here in Santa Cruz, looking for their gnarly asses? Were they among the surfers and post-hippies she was passing on the street?

Her first stop was the town's police department. The lieutenant, Harry Conover, was totally surprised to see her in the flesh. She guessed he couldn't imagine any detective going out of his or her way on the job.

"I told you I'd pass along everything I found on the Goths and wa

"Sure, I believed you. But I had today off, and this case is burning a hole right through me. So here I am, Harry. Better than E-mail, right? What do you have for me?"

She sensed that he wanted to tell her to get a life, to enjoy her day off. She'd heard it all before, and maybe he was right. But not now, not with this case still on the boards.

"I read in a couple of the reports that some of the local ghouls might be living together commune style. You have any idea where?" she asked.

Conover nodded and even pretended to be concerned. He was also checking her out, she could tell. Obviously, he was a breast man. "We never got any confirmation of that," he said. "Kids crash together, of course, but I don't know about any commune. There are a couple of hot clubs — Catalyst, Palooka-ville. And lots of kids share cribs on lower Pacific Street."

She didn't give up. Never. "But if a lot of kids wereliving together — any ideas where that might be?"

Conover sighed and actually looked a little a

"Maybe out in the foothills. Or north around Boulder Creek," Conover finally volunteered in a soft drawl. "I really don't know what to tell you."

Of course you don't, Harry. Duh.

"Where would youlook first?" she persisted. If you were worth jack shit as a cop.

"Inspector, I just wouldn't be chasing this one too hard. Yes, there have been some curious disappearances around here. But that's true of just about every town up and down the coast of California. Kids are more restless now than they used to be when we were growing up. I don't believe anybody's getting seriously hurt in Santa Cruz, and I sure don't buy that this is the freaking vampirecapital of the West Coast. It isn't. Believe me on that. There are no vampires in Santa Cruz."

She nodded, pretended to agree. "I think I'll try the foothills first," she said.

Conover saluted her. "If you're finished chasing ghouls before seven or so, give me a call. Maybe we could have a drink. It is your day off, right?"

Jamilla nodded. "I'll do that. If I'm finished before seven, Harry. Thanks for all your help." Jackass.

Chapter 81

She was pissed now. Who in their right mind wouldn't be? Here she was, working her butt off in somebody else's town. She parked the Saab on a funky side street in town, near the Metro Center, right across from the Asti bar. She had lost track of the San Lorenzo River while she was driving, but it was around here somewhere. She could smellit, anyway.

She had just gotten out of the car when two men appeared. They walked up quickly and flanked her tightly on either side.

Jamilla winced. They almost seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Blond pony tails, she thought. College kids? Surfers? She sure hoped so.

They were well built, but they didn't look like weight lifters. More like they came by it naturally. Images of Eros, Hermes, and Apollo came to mind. Muscles that were extremely well de

"Can I help you fellows out?" she asked. "Looking for the beach?"

The taller of the two spoke with tremendous confidence, or maybe it was cockiness. "Doubt it," he said. "We're not surfers, actually. Besides, we're from around here. How about you?"

Both of them had the deepest blue eyes. They were incredibly intense. One looked no older than sixteen. Their movements were deliberate and controlled. She didn't like this. There was no one else around to intervene on the side street.

"Maybe you could tell mewhere the beach is," she said.

They were crowding her physically, standing too close. She wouldn't be able to get her gun out. She couldn't move without bumping into one or the other. They wore black T-shirts, jeans, rock climber's shoes.

"You want to back off a little?" she finally said. "Just back off, okay?"

The older one smiled. The dent between his lip and nose was a sexy, round hollow. "I'm William. This is my brother, Michael. By any chance were you looking for us, Inspector Hughes?"

Oh no, oh Jesus. Jamilla tried to reach for her sidearm in the holster strapped to her back. They grabbed her. Took away her gun as easily as if she were a child. She was astonished at how fast they moved — and how strong they were. The two of them pushed her down on the sidewalk and handcuffed her. Where did they get cuffs? In New Orleans? The murdered detective?

The older one spoke again. "Don't scream or I'll snap your neck, Inspector." He said it so matter-of-factly. Snap your neck.