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“Good. Let’s see if Todd Fischer’s story checks out.”
Sloan’s keeping herself open, a little, to the possibility that vampires were involved in the murder, but at the same time she’s running down one of her prime suspect’s stories.
We arrange to meet at Malediction Society before hanging up. Time to find out more about Anton Ward. As I’d expect, Mercedes has been thorough. She was able to confirm many of the details in the article, including the fact that Ward was born on September 7, 1977 and his real name is Brett Simons. He changed his name to Anton Ward when he was twenty.
Her search on birth records brought up a copy of his birth certificate, which lists his parents as Laura and Jack Simons. They had no other children, and died when Ward was eighteen. She’s also e-mailed me copies of their death certificates, a few newspaper articles on the car accident that killed them, as well as the police report for the crash. The report notes that it looked like Jack Simons fell asleep and veered off the road. His wife died instantly and he was announced dead on arrival at the local hospital. Neither speed nor alcohol was involved in the accident.
Jack Simons was a wealthy entrepreneur, who ran businesses in real estate, both residential and commercial. He was responsible for several large developments on the East Coast, covering Massachusetts, New York, Rhode Island and Virginia. He was also a large player in the stock market and on his death his estate was valued at over $300 million. While ten percent went to charity, the rest went to his sole heir, Brett Simons, aka Anton Ward.
I’m just about to move onto Mercedes’ findings from the property records when my BlackBerry buzzes. I hit Answer without looking at the display. “Agent Anderson.”
“Hi, honey. It’s me.”
“Hi, Darren.” I know it’s cliché, but just hearing his voice makes me feel warm and fuzzy. Detective Darren Carter and I met on a case that took me to Arizona a year and a half ago and we’ve been doing the long-distance dating thing for just over three months now.
“I’m at the airport. Cab, given you’re not here?”
Uh-oh…I totally forgot. “Yeah, if you can grab a cab that’d be great.” I chew on my bottom lip.
There’s silence for a beat before he says, “You forgot I was coming, didn’t you?” There’s a hint of annoyance in his voice.
“No… Kinda.” I take a breath. “I’m on a case. Murder victim, found this morning.”
“You’re working on a Sunday? Thought it was just us homicide cops who worked hard.”
“Ha, ha—you’re off duty…not exactly working hard.”
“Yup. Three days off to spend with my lovely girlfriend.”
I wince, wondering how much time I’ll actually get to spend with Darren in the next seventy-two hours. I avoid that particular topic. “I’ll be home in a couple of hours. Grab a cab and let yourself in.” I take a quick glance at my watch—6:05 p.m. We say our goodbyes and hang up.
Back in the file, property records indicate Ward owns two residential houses—one here in Los Feliz and an apartment in New York. And according to Mercedes’ search of companies, Ward is on three boards, including being chairman of two of his father’s original companies. Mercedes has provided copies of the short bios posted on these companies’ Web sites, from which I glean that he attended private school and studied a Bachelor of Arts at Stanford University, taking courses in art, art history and history. The only thing on the police system for him is a DUI in Virginia shortly after his parents died. He lost his license for six months and has kept his nose clean since.
Looks like he moved to L.A. in 2001, a year and a half after he finished college. He has kept some of the family businesses running, but seems to mostly live off investments. Then again, it can’t be too hard to draw a good salary from $270 million. No gun licenses or hunting and fishing licenses and nothing else in the system.
I lean back. We haven’t found anything suspicious on Anton Ward, but you wouldn’t expect much from a law-abiding citizen. The LA Weekly article provides more of a personal insight into the man, and I reread it. Apparently he never watches television, comes from a Latvian background, and is into art, classical music, chess, fine dining and red wine. Of course, it had to be red wine. He spends four weeks a year in Europe and can’t stand people with poor personal hygiene or who are badly dressed. Most of the article is about vampirism and After Dark, but throughout the piece these snippets of more personal information are revealed. Then again, everything he says fits an image—the image of an old-world, well-educated European male. I mean, how many American men in their thirties are into classical music, chess and red wine these days?
Five
Sunday, 7:00 p.m.
I head across to the Monte Cristo on Wilshire, the location of Ruin on Fridays and Malediction Society on Sundays. The bar itself doesn’t open until 10:00 p.m., but hopefully there’ll be someone there, setting up the club. It’s 7:00 p.m. by the time I arrive, spot Sloan and get a parking spot. It takes us another fifteen minutes to find the entrance, which is down a laneway, despite the club’s official address being Wilshire. The place is all shut up but we pound on the big metal door nevertheless.
“Nice neighborhood,” Sloan says sarcastically. The outside of the Monte Cristo and the surrounding area is certainly nothing to brag about, but maybe that fits in with the Gothic scene.
Three posters are plastered on the door: one for Cherry Pie on Thursdays, a lesbian night; one for Ruin on Fridays; and one for tonight. A few event-specific posters are also up, such as the next full-moon party. Looks like we’ve come to the right place.
We bang on the door again and keep at it until eventually someone opens it a crack.
“What?” A woman comes partially into view. Even with only a sliver of her face and body visible, I can make out legs and long black hair.
I hold up my FBI ID. “I’m Special Agent Sophie Anderson from the FBI and this is Detective Sloan from the LAPD.” Sloan also holds her badge up to the crack in the door while I continue. “We’d like to talk to you about the Gothic and vampire communities here in L.A. and about some of your patrons.”
The door opens fully. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you were cops.” The annoyance in her voice is gone. “Can we talk while I work? I’m running behind. I’ve got to finish setting up and get home to tuck my little girl in.”
“Sure.”
Sloan and I follow her in.
“Are you the manager here?” I ask.
She snorts. “No. But I do most of his work.” She turns around. “I’m the bar manager, Cheryl.”
Cheryl’s tall, at about six-two, although a few inches of that is high-heeled boots that come up to her thighs. She wears skimpy black hot pants and a burgundy bodice, strapped tight. Her dark black hair is long and straight, with a heavy fringe.
“Are you a vampire, Cheryl?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Nope. And personally I think it’s all crap. But we get lots of people in here who think they are vamps.”
“After Dark?” Sloan is struggling to keep up with Cheryl’s strides.
“Sure. Most of them come in here—if not every Friday and Sunday at least a couple of times a month. Including their leader, Anton Ward.”
“You know how many people are in the group?”
She shrugs. “There’s about twenty in Ward’s house.”
“House?”
“Coven, house, clan. It’s what they call themselves.” Cheryl ducks under the side of the bar. “You ladies want a drink? On the house of course.”
“Water, if you’ve got it.”
She smiles. “Guess you’re still on duty, huh?”
“Yeah.” Sloan lets out an exaggerated sigh. “I’ll have a water, too.”
“Two waters coming up.” Cheryl bends down into a fridge directly beneath her and places two bottled waters on the bar. Sitting on the bar stools, Sloan and I open the drinks.
“Are there lots of vampire houses?”
“Sure.” Cheryl pauses, looking around the bar. “Sugar syrup.” She grabs a bag of sugar and pours some into a jug, and then takes out a kettle and plugs it in. “I guess there’s about four bigger houses that I know of for sure. But even two or three vamps just hanging out might call themselves a house.”
“You got any names?” Sloan leans forward in anticipation.
She shakes her head. “The others are small fry compared to Anton’s house. After Dark’s the most well-known because of its elite nature.”
“So tell us about Ward.” I take a sip of water.
Cheryl starts cutting lemons. “His group’s been around for ages…longer than I’ve been here.”
“How long have you worked here?” Sloan asks.
“Four years.”
“That’s a long time,” I say in between mouthfuls of water.
“Yeah. For this place and bar work in general. But it suits me. I live down the road and can pop back home to say good-night to my little girl, and the tips are good. And the boss…well, I know I said before he should be here, but I like it that he’s not on my back all the time.” She shrugs. “No reason to move on.”
“So four years ago…” Sloan takes a quick glance around the room. “Ward and After Dark much as it is now?”
“Uh-huh. Maybe a few more members, but that house is pretty stable.”
“Good leadership?” I ask.
“Guess so. Ward’s certainly…charming. And good-looking.” She stops chopping lemons for a second and looks up. “There’s something about him, he’s got…what’s that French expression?”
“Je ne sais quoi?”
“That’s the one.” She gives us a wink. “A great ass, too.”
“Sounds like you’re smitten.” Sloan smiles.
“No.” She shakes her head. “He’s not my type. Way too sure of himself. I like my men a little more submissive.” Another wink.
The kettle clicks off and she pours the boiling water into the jug and stirs while she talks. “But lots of women do like him. He’s got a few from his clan, of course, plus…well, pretty much any woman who comes in here would jump at the chance to get into bed with Ward.”
“I see.” I’m getting curious now. I know from the photos that he’s good-looking, model good-looking, but obviously there’s more to it than that. Then again, as the leader of a large group, cult or not, he’s bound to have a charismatic and magnetic personality.
“Many people leave After Dark?” I ask.
“No, not really. Like I said, it’s a stable house. And Ward’s wealthy, real wealthy, so I think the members get lots of fringe benefits.”
“Such as?” Sloan stands up and for the first time today gets out her notebook, pen and reading glasses.
“I don’t know for sure, but I’ve heard he buys them clothes and jewelry, plus he’s got a standing tab here for drinks. And I think the group meets at his house once a week and the whole thing’s catered.” She stops stirring the sugar syrup and puts it in the fridge before moving back to the last two whole lemons.
I watch her making quick, exact slices. “Does it cost money to become a member?”
“I don’t know.” She pulls out a basket of limes and a few cartons of strawberries.
“Anyone left After Dark recently?”
“Yeah, actually. Damien Winters. Used to be close to Ward, too, but he broke off a little bit ago.” She cuts the limes into quarters. “He hangs out with a different bunch of people now.”
“What’s Damien Winters like?”
She shrugs. “He’s okay. Both he and Ward have very strong personalities and I presume that’s why he left—a house with two alpha males just doesn’t work.”
Sloan stops scribbling and looks up. “Either of them ever violent?”
“Not that I know of.”
“You know who’s in Winters’ group?”
“There are twin brothers from Texas. Real thick Texan accents, and they are rough.” She finishes the limes and moves onto the strawberries, cutting little slits in them. Presumably they’ll be decoration for cocktails tonight. “Security always keeps a close eye on them. And there are a few girls who hang around Winters, too. Don’t know their names, but I assume they’re girlfriends or donors.”
“Donors?”
“The ones who like having their blood drunk by vamps.”
Sloan grimaces. “The vamps that come in here, are they more about the look, or do they really believe they’re vampires?”
“There’s some that have this romanticized idea of the Goth culture and think vampires are sexy…cool. But there are lots of true believers, too, including After Dark. And you don’t want to question their beliefs. I learned a long time ago to keep my mouth shut on the subject.”
“They get angry?”
“Not angry, defensive.” She looks up. “You walk down the street like this and you get looks, you can get picked on. Vamps often feel persecuted. Most of them believe they were born vampires, with some sort of need for blood, and that nobody understands that. Nobody but other vamps.”
I nod. “What about the other houses in L.A.?”
“Like I said, even two vamps who are friends can call themselves a house.”
“You must have some names? Some records?”
“Credit card receipts, I guess. And we’ve got a mailing list and a few of our members have bar tabs. But you’ll have to talk to the manager about that.”
Fair enough. Realistically we’d need a warrant for that information anyway.
“There’s also our MySpace and Facebook pages. Most of the friends on there are regulars.”
“I was on the club’s pages this afternoon, but I’ll take a closer look. Thanks.” I take a final sip of water. “Any of your other customers ever violent or dangerous?”
“Mmm…there’s one guy that gives me the creeps. Don’t know his name, but he’s big and always seems real aggressive—even just in the way he demands a drink. He’s always here with his girlfriend and two other guys. I don’t know if they’re a clan or just hang together.” She finishes the strawberries and stretches up to take a small blackboard on the bar’s corner off its hinges. “I’ve heard they’re really into the whole mythology. And that they’re convinced they must feed off people and turn them to increase their vamp numbers. But it could all be talk.”
“And you don’t know any of their names?” Sloan asks.
“Sorry, no.” Cheryl writes: Cocktail special: Deadly surprise, $12 on the blackboard and rehangs it before moving down to the other end of the bar and taking another small blackboard off its hinges, then returns to the center of the bar. “They usually come in on Sundays, though. I could point them out to you…” Midsentence she looks up and gives us a big smile. “You ladies got any black?” She looks back down at the board and writes in the drink special.
“Can you describe them to us?” I won’t be mentioning that I’m considering coming back tonight. I’m not sure if I want Cheryl, or anyone, knowing that I’m FBI here in disguise. And with the makeup, the clothes and a wig, I don’t think Cheryl would recognize me anyway. I grimace at the thought of me in Goth gear. All in the line of duty.
“The main guy is around five-ten, stocky and bald with a big skull tattoo on his right arm. He usually wears leather pants and a fishnet-T. The girlfriend is big, buxom. Long black hair with bright red streaks and she’s always showing a lot of flesh…and she’s got a lot to show. Then the two guys…one of them is real tall and skinny, hair down to his shoulders and he normally wears full face makeup and a suit. Think Clockwork Orange. And the other guy is kinda short, maybe five-six, but good-looking in a rough kinda way. Short black hair, not much makeup, and he goes more for the leather pants and usually nothing on top. Two nipple rings and a nose stud, too.”
I nod. “Thanks, Cheryl.”
Sloan closes her notebook. “It’s been enlightening, ma’am.”
Cheryl gives a little laugh. “Thanks.” She pauses. “We’re done?”
