Chapter 5.

Matt Sykes arrived on the scene before his partner.

"Hey, Bea! What've we got, here?"

Detective Beatrice Zapeda did not even bother with greeting him back.

"You are looking at the late, unlamented Esteban Reyes. Formerly, a pimp in East L. A. Now, a corpse in Beverly Hills."

"Cause of death?"

"The coroner's preliminary guess is that someone made him eat a gun. As the hole in the back of Reyes' head is an exit wound! The thing is, this office was locked from the inside. Dead bolts; remote-controlled from Reyes' desk. So, even if Reyes knew his killer and let him in, voluntarily, how did the killer re-lock everything after leaving?"

Sykes shrugged: "An easier question to answer would be; 'Are there any suspects that immediately spring to mind?' "

"How about Russell Winters?" suggested a new voice.

Sykes spun about and groaned. It was Jeff Burns; a paparazzo who preferred to think of himself as a "free-lance investigative reporter." And who preferred to call himself "Third Degree" Burns, as he always proclaimed he made it "hot" for whomever he interviewed as the subject of one of his exposes.

"What the frig are you talking about? And, how the frig did you get past the yellow tape?"

"I'm talking about the guy rumored to be the chief money launderer for 'Big Bad Cyrus' Prince!" exclaimed Burns: "Word on the street is, Winters has been trying to buy this place from Reyes for some time. But, Reyes has been saying 'no,' as he's not really the owner. Just a glorified front man!"

"Oh, really, Burns? And, just who was he fronting for?"

"I don't know. . .yet."

"Well, when you do, just let George know. Okay?"

"Where is your partner, anyway?"

"Right behind you," said George: "And I noticed you failed to answer Matthew' second question. Namely; your circumvention of the crime scene tape. So, allow me to personally 'escort' you back behind it!"

"Hey! Hands off, Francisco! The people have a right to know!"

"Maybe so," Sykes sarcastically shouted after him: "But, the real question is; how many of your so-called readers _want_ to know?"

* * * * *

When George returned a minute later, Sykes thanked him profusely.

"Another second and I might have done something I'll _never_ regret!"

"I, too, deplore his lack of journalistic ethics, Matthew. But, the fact remains, he may have a point."

"So does a dunce cap! Which is exactly what he should be wearing instead of that moth-eaten old fedora."

"I'm being serious. If Russell Winters really is trying to purchase this establishment, we should go interview him. If only to eliminate him as a suspect!"

"Fine, fine! Where does he live?"

* * * * *

BEL AIR, CALIFORNIA
(MIDNIGHT)

"Wow! I've never seen anyplace else so glamorous, Mr. Winters. And, I watched every single episode of LIFESTYLES OF THE RICH & FAMOUS as a kid!"

"Thank you, Ms. Chase," replied Russell Winters (with all the sincere modesty he could fake).

"Please! It's Cordelia."

"And, you must call me 'Russell!' Mr. Winters was my father."

The May/December couple laughed and went up the front steps to the main entrance to the mansion.

* * * * *

Yet, just as Winters was about to press on the doorbell, a far different sound suddenly rang out. The sound of gunfire. . .followed by a blood-curdling scream. Then, the door flew open.

"Stacy!" exclaimed the horrified multi-millionaire.

"Run!" said the bearded bodyguard, in an almost-inaudible whisper (his faced smeared with blood).

No sooner had he uttered that command, however, than Stacy was dragged back inside. Only to be replaced by another figure with a far more frightening face. Not to mention, a long trench coat and a spiked, peroxide-blond crew cut.

"Hello, 'ello, 'ello! Who do we have, here?"

Cordelia gasped in recognition: "Spike?!"

"Ah! The lovely prom queen from Sunnydale. So glad you remember me, love. But, don't worry; I ain't here for you. Just him!"

Whereupon, wooden stakes came springing out of each long sleeve of the trench coat. Stakes that the Cockney vampire immediately tried to thrust into Winters' heart! Unfortunately, for Spike, the latter was surprisingly quick to side-step out of the way. . .

. . .and, then, retaliate in kind.

"Surprise!" he yelled (putting on his own "game face").

He then grabbed the wooden stake from Spike's left hand. Spike, however, was quick to arc his remaining stake forward with his right hand. Winters intercepted it with his free left hand, and the reverse proved equally true for Spike! And, so, the two vampires remained for the next ten minutes. Each one of them completely and physically deadlocked, as if involved with some obscene version of an arm-wrestling match. That deadlock was finally broken by the sound of an approaching police siren. Which, in turn, distracted Russell just enough that he instinctively looked to his left. Thereby allowing Spike to knee him in the groin!

"Catch you later, mate."

Whereupon, Spike ran headlong towards the ever-approaching police car. Ultimately jumping right over it, as it simultaneously squealed on its brakes!

George and Sykes sprang out of the car as fast as possible, guns drawn. But, it was too late. Spike was already out of range and out of sight. And, Angel (watching from his perch atop the front wall of this mansion) could only glare in helpless rage.

"How the frig did he get away from the Initiative?" he muttered to himself.

tbc