Violets Are Blue

these messed-up cases, Kyle? We worked Casanova down in Durham, the Dunne and Goldberg kidnapping, the bank robberies. Now this piece of shit.”
    Kyle didn’t hesitate to spell it out. “You’re the best I know, Alex. Your instincts are almost always on target. You give these investigations the best shot they could get. Sometimes you solve them, sometimes not, but you’re always close. Why don’t you come join us at the Bureau? I’m serious, and yes, this
is
an offer.”
    There it was: Kyle’s agenda for the meeting. He wanted me at Quantico with him.
    I roared with laughter, and then he did too. “To tell you the truth, I don’t feel close on this one, Kyle. I feel lost,” I finally admitted.
    “It’s still early in the game,” he said. “The offer stands, win or lose out here. I want you to come to Quantico. I want you working close to me. There’s nothing that would make me happier.”

Chapter 26

    THIS WAS a good break. Better than they could have expected or hoped for. William and Michael followed the two hotshot police
dicks
from the station house in Brentwood. They stayed a reasonable distance back in their van. The brothers didn’t particularly care if they lost them. They knew what hotel they were staying at. They knew how to find them.
    They even knew their names.
    Kyle Craig, FBI. A DIC from Quantico. A “big case” man. One of the Bureau’s best.
    Alex Cross, Washington PD. Forensic psychologist to the stars.
    There was a saying William wanted to whisper in their ears:
If you hunt for the vampire, the vampire will hunt for you
.
    That was the truth, but it also sounded too much like a rule. William fucking hated rules. Rules made you predictable, less of an individual. Rules made you less free, less authentic, less yourself. And in the end,
rules could get you caught
.
    William touched down lightly, tentatively on the van’s brake pedal. Maybe they shouldn’t hunt the two cops down, then kill them like dogs, he was thinking. Maybe they had a lot better things to do while they were in L.A.
    There was a special place here where he and Michael often went. It was called the Church of the Vampire, and it was for those who were “searching for the dragon within.” It actually was a church: vast, high-ceilinged rooms filled with funky old Victorian furniture, elaborate golden candelabras, human skulls and other bones, tapestries that portrayed stories of famous old blood seekers. The usual dreaded role-players came to the church, but also real vampires. Like William and Michael.
    Exciting, very exotic, sado-erotic things happened inside the Church of the Vampire. Excruciating pain was transformed into ecstasy. William remembered his last visit, and it sent electricity shooting through his body. He had found a blond boy of seventeen. An angel, a prince. The boy was dressed in all black that night; he even had black contact lenses—absolutely gorgeous from every angle. To show William that he was a real vampire, the darling boy punctured his own carotid artery and then drank his own blood. Then he asked William to drink, to be one with him. When he and Michael hung the boy to drain him completely, it was out of love and adoration of the angel’s perfect body. They were merely fulfilling their nature — to be sado-erotic.
    William came out of his delicious reverie as the two cops entered a bar called the Knoll. It was just off Sunset Boulevard. Very mundane, a nothing spot. Perfect for the two of them.
    “They’re going drinking together,” William said to Michael. “Cop camaraderie.”
    Michael snickered and rolled his eyes. “They’re just two old men. They’re harmless. Toothless,” he said, and laughed at his joke.
    William watched Alex Cross and Kyle Craig disappear inside. “No,” he finally said. “Let’s be careful with them. One of them is extremely dangerous. I can feel his energy.”

Chapter 27

    I FINALLY had a lead, courtesy of Tim, Jamilla’s contact at the
San Francisco Examiner
. The chase was on, or so I hoped. The next morning I drove up Route 101 to Santa Barbara, which is located approximately one hundred miles north of L.A.
    It was sobering and a little depressing to watch the sky actually grow bluer as I traveled away from Los Angeles and the copper-gray cover of smog spread thickly over the city.
    I was to meet a man named Peter Westin at the Davidson Library at the University of California, Santa Barbara. The library was supposed to contain the most