More Deadly Than The Male Chapter 10.
BEVERLY HILLS, CALIFORNIA
SEPTEMBER 25, 1999
(12:47 P. M./PST)
Upon being phoned, by Sykes, that the woman known as Syl was a material witness to Warren Peace's murder, Kate Lockley went back to Cordelia Chase and asked her if she knew the name of the modeling agency that the other magician's assistant worked for.
"Clothes Encounters," the latter instantly replied: "Owned by none other than William Harcourt!"
Lockley had no more trouble recognizing that name than George Francisco did. William Harcourt was the name of the Newcomer who had become the first self-made multi-millionaire among his people! So, after finishing up their meeting with Duncan Shane, the two police detectives had agreed it would be best if George called the modeling agency and asked for Harcourt, himself. . .in Tenctonese.
The ploy worked.
The Newcomer receptionist who answered told him that Harcourt was in a very private meeting and would not be available until one o'clock that afternoon. So, George treated Kate to a long, early lunch. Then, by thirteen minutes of one, they were in the outer waiting room, pretending to leaf through some fashion magazine back issues. Sure enough; at the top of the hour, a pair of well-dressed Newcomer males came marching into the waiting room. One tall, thin, and older. The other younger, burlier, and, yet, an inch or two shorter.
George and Kate jumped up to block their path while simultaneously identifying themselves.
"Which of you gentlemen is William Harcourt?" George added.
"I am," said the tall, thin one: "This is my bodyguard, Rudyard Kipling. How may we help you, detectives?"
"I'm afraid we have some bad news, sir," replied Kate: "May we discuss this further inside?"
She pointed to the door to Harcourt's private inner office, and the latter nodded. Thirty seconds later, George was asking him if he knew Warren Peace.
"Yes, I do. He works for me as a talent scout! Why? Has something happened to him?"
George immediately switched to Tenctonese.
{I am most sorry, sir. But, there is no gentler way to put this. Mr. Peace has been murdered."}
"Murdered?!" echoed Kipling (at the top of his English-speaking voice): "How? By whom?"
"That has yet to be determined," evaded Kate: "But, we think it might have been by the same person who murdered the manager of the King O' Clubs. Tell me, was Mr. Peace in any way acquainted with a human named Esteban Reyes?"
"Only indirectly," replied Harcourt (likewise in English): "You see, I'm a silent partner in the ownership of that club."
SOMEWHERE IN THE LOS ANGELES SEWER SYSTEM
Angel had lost track of the time. One moment, he seemed to have regained the scent of his quarry. The next moment, he would lose it, again. He kept on going, though. He had to; whatever this thing was, it was bound to kill again! And, God help any innocent by-standers who got in its way.
Like those three cleaning women back at the hotel.
Suddenly, he paused. He was hearing vocal reverberations of some kind. So, he started walking slower, while tilting his head this way and that, in an effort to better focus on where these voices were coming from. It took another five minutes, however, to get an approximate fix on the general direction. Followed by another five minutes of trying to make out what (if anything) the voices were saying.
And one of those now-intelligible voices made him clench both his hands into fists.
"Yo, Spike! Same target as last night?"
"Nope! We're to go after his sodding boss, instead."
"Prince Cyrus?!" gasped a strangely familiar voice: "You've got to be crazy! That guy's got half the Brujah in southern California as his bodyguards."
"Well, thank you, Captain Bloody Obvious. Like I didn't know that, already! Now, shut your sodding hole and let me think."
"Careful, Spike," said Angel (choosing to make a melodramatic entrance): "That'll set your head on fire."
Four of the vampires, standing about the sewer junction, spun about as one. Angel recognized the curly-haired blond as Andrew Wells. Younger brother of the Sunnydale High School student who had tried to unleash hellhounds on the Class of '99's senior prom! The other three (two with brown hair and one with black) were unknown to him.
"Well, well, well!" exclaimed Spike: "If it isn't my sodding grandsire. If you've come to recapture for me for that little high-tech zoo, beneath UC-Sunnydale, you can forget it, mate. Jonathan, here, neutralized that sodding micro-chip they planted in my head."
He gestured to one of the brown-haired vamps, who blushed accordingly.
"And, I don't intend to let them slip in a new one," Spike added.
"You talk like I'm going to give you a choice in the matter," replied Angel: "I mean, if I have to decide between getting you re-chipped and letting you start a gang war by killing Prince Cyrus? Well, let's just say it's a. . .no-brainer."
"Ha-bloody-ha!" countered Spike: "You're forgetting one thing, mate. You're outnumbered!"
Angel guffawed: "These Caitiff neonates? Please! The four of them, put together, couldn't raise a sweat on the Slayer!"
"What we lack in superior numbers," Warren Mears suddenly chimed in: "...we make up for in smarts. NOW!"
As soon as he had shouted that command, Warren and the other three vampires each threw a strangely opaque white crystal on to the ground. Whereupon, a field of piezo-electric force was suddenly erected around Angel! One that generated enough voltage that he could feel his un-dead heart start to beat again (albeit, for a few microseconds) every time he got shocked, trying to kick one of the crystals out of sequence.
Now, it was Spike's turn to gloat.
"As for that aforementioned Newcomer bitch with the silver battle-axes? I've got my own sodding plans for her."
"You own the King O' Clubs?" repeated George, just to make sure he had heard, correctly.
"Yes. You see, Mr. Reyes had a. . .very troubled youth. One that would have automatically disqualified him from being loaned the start-up money for this nightclub. So, it was decided that I would approach the bank instead. The arrangement worked; the loan was approved; and I appointed him general manager of the club as almost all my personal attention is focused on the fashion industry."
Kate smiled: "I've often heard it described as a 'cut-throat business'. But is the truth so literal that you have to have a bodyguard?"
Harcourt smiled back: "You'd be surprised how many of my Earther competitors are pro-Purist. So, I employ Mr. Kipling's services as a means of preventing any hate crimes. Or, at least, thwarting the successful perpetration of any."
George was about to take up the questioning when there suddenly came a shrill scream from the waiting room! Prompting both detectives to draw their handguns after only a micro-second of looking at each other. They then ran to the office door. Only to be flung backwards as it was torn off its hinges and rammed into them! This, however, proved less startling than the identity of the one responsible for the tearing and ramming.
It was a seven foot-tall creature. Just as bald as any Newcomer; though, totally spotless. . .and sporting a pair of elongated canine teeth in its upper jaw.
Somehow, Rudyard Kipling overcame his astonishment just enough to withdraw his nickel-plated .357 magnum Ruger Redhawk and open fire. Yet, for all the unerring accuracy of his first four double-action shots, all that happened was the intended target eliciting four gasps of intense pain. Otherwise, it managed to stay on its feet!
The same could not be said, a moment later, when Kipling was backhanded against the right hand wall of Harcourt's office. Followed by Harcourt, himself, being lifted off the carpeted floor in the vise-like grip of this creature's right hand.
"I am Og-Ra of Clan Nosferatu," growled the latter: "And I bring you. . ."
"Greetings, Og-Ra," interrupted a new voice: "I am your Final Death."
The seven foot-tall vampire jerked his head to his left. There, in the doorway to the waiting room, stood a figure cloaked and hooded in black. . .and wielding two silver battle axes.
Vanessa Helsing first heard about it through the California Highway Patrol. A family that had pulled over to the side of the road, near Oxnard (in order to answer a call-of-nature by their five year-old), had found nineteen bodies in a gully behind some shrubs! Eighteen Mexicans (probably illegal immigrants) and one Caucasian (probably their "coyote" or smuggler).
Every single one of whom had been exsanguinated.
The Caucasian had fingerprints on record, with the DMV, listing him as the owner-operator of a tractor-trailer truck. Yet, as the eighteen wheeler was nowhere near the crime scene, it had obviously been hijacked by the killer(s). Probably as part of a turf war between drug cartels. Or, at least, that was the line of inquiry being followed by the California Bureau of Investigation. And, when the eighteen wheeler was later found abandoned in the bed of the Los Angeles River, this hypothesis was seemingly verified.
Vanessa, however, was not so certain. By passing her DRI credentials off as the initials of a joint DEA/Interpol task force, she was able to get a Newcomer CHP officer named William Nilly to give her a ride there in his helicopter. Upon arriving at the scene, she asked one CBI Agent Lisbon how the bloodless bodies fit into her hypothesis.
"The blood was probably drained as part of some brujeria ritual," the latter had replied: "That's certainly the pattern followed by more than one Colombian cartel!"
Yet, again, Vanessa had her doubts. So she called a cab, via her cellphone, and had its driver drop her off at a nightclub known as. . .Caritas.
Its owner/host, Lorne, was an old acquaintance of Angel's. And the former's divination abilities had been recommended to her, on more than one occasion, by the re-ensouled vampire. Thus, upon arriving at the club that evening, she had been ready with what she considered an appropriate song.
"Monster Mash" by Bobby ("Boris") Pickett.
When she had finished singing, he immediately told her:
"I have good news and bad news, sweetie. The good news is. . .I know who hired them. The bad news is. . .if you want to question him, you better hurry. Because he's been targeted for elimination by the Order of Teraka!"
tbc
Caitiff: generic term for any vampire thrown out of one of the clans of the Camarilla (as opposed to the self-estranged antitribu).
Neonate: Kindred euphemism for any vampire who is newly Embraced.
Purist: any human bigot vehemently opposed to co-existence with the Newcomers.