The trouble with hairy, p.12
The Trouble With Hairy, page 12
part #2 of West Hollywood Vampires Series
She slammed down the phone and looked at her watch, thoroughly pissed. “Can’t even take a decent fucking lunch hour,” she snorted. She shook her head sadly. “Well, it was looking like it was gonna be a good goddamned day.”
All thoughts of whistling completely forgotten, Pamela Burman strode back into Pavilions to further terrorize the checker and to claim her groceries.
Burman arrived at Clive’s office within the half hour. She personally supervised Ty at the morgue as he withdrew an assortment of frozen meats, a huge bag of shrimp and a few pre-packaged “lite” dinners from her shopping bags and placed them in an empty drawer of the body cooler. Ty’s malicious sense of humor was lost on her as she watched him carefully print her name on a body tag to place in with the frozen food. She remained oblivious as Ty, pushing his luck, handed her the clipboard hanging next to the refrigerator and indicated she should sign her name in the space next to drawer number five.
After giving him instructions to deliver the non-perishables to her office at City Hall so her assistant, Carlos, could drive them up to her condo, she darted across the street to the Sheriff’s Station, stopping on the way only to cite the driver of a Volvo who, waiting for the light to change, had allowed his car’s front wheels to protrude eight inches into the cross walk.
She found Becky already firmly planted in her customary chair, alternately sucking with delight at a green and yellow stick of candy and mournfully nibbling at a granola bar with a nauseating-looking, light brown coating.
“How was your vacation?” Becky asked brightly. Burman’s wordless reply sounded to Becky much like the noise a water buffalo with indigestion might make.
“This better be good,” she growled, sinking into the second, vacant chair. “I was at Pavilions when you called.”
“I know Pam,” sighed Clive. “Believe me. I know. The store manager called to complain.”
Pam airily waived her hand, dismissing the complaint. “What’s so important?” she demanded.
“We had a fire two nights ago. An antique shop on Melrose.” He handed her a copy of Delaney’s report. She ignored it.
“I know. The whole frigging block went up. My first day back yesterday and the goddamned Chamber of Commerce is all over me to get Melrose Avenue declared a national disaster area so their bloodsucking members — you should excuse the expression — can all get free handouts from FEMA.”
“The West Hollywood side anyway,” Clive replied with a smile.
“There was one victim,” Becky added, “burned almost beyond recognition.” As she sought to lick the carob from where it had begun to drip down her hand onto her wrist, Clive absently removed his pocket square and handed it to her.
“I heard. Turned out to be an arson fire, right? The owner bought the farm. Yadda, yadda, yadda. So? That’s your department, isn’t it?” Burman said, with thinly disguised impatience.
“And there was an apparent suicide on Fountain and Sweetzer the night before last,” Becky told her. She wrapped the remainder of the granola bar in the handkerchief and plopped it down on Clive’s desk, the melting coating oozing out onto a stack of memos. Clive looked at it in exasperation, considered saying something, and finally contented himself with moving the reports to the other side of the desk, leaving the discarded goody to wallow in its own refuse on the polished wooden desk top.
“Apparent?” Burman was no dummy and picked up on Becky’s choice of words.
“A kid was pushed from a roof into the middle of the street. Seven stories. On the way down, he kissed the front of a moving van. It was not pretty.”
“What makes you think he was pushed?” Burman asked her.
“This,” said Clive, and with barely disguised anger, he passed her a copy of a report. At the same time, Becky reached into her briefcase and pulled out a series of snapshots from the autopsies. She passed one to Burman, who promptly turned a bilious shade of green that, ironically enough, matched her sneakers, and slammed the photos, face down, on Clive’s desk, right on top of the spreading pool of melted carob.
She fixed Becky with a harsh glare. “Do you enjoy doing that to me?” She pointed toward the discarded carob bar. “That by itself is enough to make me sick. You don’t have to add to it!”
Becky had sufficient grace to look apologetic. “I’m sorry, Pam. But we’ve got a major problem developing here. Three bodies in three days is not normal.”
“Three?” Pam asked, incredulous.
“Read the report,” Clive said grimly. “It was one of my deputies.”
Burman ran her eyes rapidly down the paper and threw the report back to him. “So? What’s your point? We’ve got a wild dog running loose. What’s that got to do with the fire and the kid on the building? For this, I had to come running in here?”
“Pam…” Clive cautioned.
“Look, Anderson,” Burman retorted, “I don’t like law enforcement people getting killed any more than you do. I understand how you feel and you have my sympathies. But my recommendation is that you get the animal control people to get out there and catch this psychotic poodle or whatever it is. I’m gonna have a big enough problem explaining this mess to the city’s insurance carrier. I’m not a dog catcher.”
Burman stood up to leave; as far as she was concerned, the subject was closed. “This city has laws against animals like that, Clive. Just enforce ’em.”
“It wasn’t a dog,” Becky said quietly as she pulled a red and blue candy stick from her pocket and unwrapped the cellophane.
“Goddammit, Becky! I already told you. My deputy said she saw a dog. The owner of the apartment building saw a dog. Everyone saw a dog. What the hell are you trying to pull here?” Clive unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and began tugging uncomfortably at his collar.
From the strength of Clive’s outburst, Pamela half suspected that he and Becky had already argued this point prior to her arrival.
“No,” Becky corrected, “the building owner didn’t see it. He just heard it.” She popped the end of the candy into her mouth.
“So did half the neighborhood,” Clive added and Becky nodded in agreement.
“Wait. Stop,” said Burman. “I’m lost.” She turned to Becky. “I thought you were on a diet.”
Becky pulled the stick from her mouth. “I am. Just sugar. No fat.” She replaced the candy in her mouth.
“Yeah, right. Now, what the hell are you two bitching at each other about?”
Clive sighed. “Just before the second death, the one on Fountain, a car hit a dog chasing the victim across the street.”
“Clive…” Becky began.
“Oh, all right,” he said in disgust. “The driver claims the dog jumped up onto the hood and, get this, deliberately smashed the windshield with its paws.”
“Some dog,” commented Burman.
“That’s not all. I wanted to wait till you got here before I showed Clive. Take a look at this.” Becky dug into her briefcase and pulled out two slim manila folders. She handed them to Clive and Burman.
Burman opened it briefly, closed it with a disgusted look and said, “How many times do I have to tell you? Do you see ‘MD’ after my name? Figures I understand. But this crap…” She practically threw the file back at Becky.
“Would it be too much trouble to ask you to translate?” Though her tone was the essence of sweetness, her glare bespoke otherwise.
Clive, whose attention had not wavered from his own document, looked up sharply.
“Teeth marks?” he asked, puzzled. “This is the fire victim.”
“I missed it the first time. But Bobby Falberg was so obvious, I went back and re-checked. By the way,” she added offhandedly, “did you know Falberg was gay? Just like the other two.”
Clive looked up in astonishment. “How the hell can you tell something like that?”
Becky shrugged, barely disguising her pride, “Low grade infection in the blood work. Stretching and slight tearing of the anus. Easy if you know what to look for. In this town, you learn to look.”
Clive looked suitably impressed.
“What the hell has that got to do with anything?” Burman demanded. “And will you two please talk in full sentences?”
“It’s something they all had in common. All gay males. Plus, all three victims had teeth marks scoring at least some of their bones,” Becky explained. “Clive’s little Huckleberry Hound seems to have been pretty busy these past few days.”
“How the hell can you miss teeth marks on a corpse?”
“I don’t normally check for fang marks on fire and accident victims, Pam.”
At Becky’s words, all the color drained from Burman’s face. “Fangs,” she whispered, flatly and then, she stood up abruptly. “Are you crazy?” she shouted at Becky. “Gay males? Fang marks?”
She strode toward the door.
“Pam, will you please sit down?” Clive fought for patience.
“No way!” Burman shot back. “Don’t you remember the last time? It took me months to repair the damage to my apartment! I’m still fighting with my frigging insurance company!”
She whirled around to face Becky. “You!” she yelled, pointing an accusing finger. “Give me heart attacks, AIDS, strokes, traffic accidents. Even axe murders are okay. Murders of people by people. But I have had enough…” Burman’s voice was rising, becoming shrill. “Enough, do you understand? Of vampires!”
Becky started to protest, but Burman held up an imperious hand to stop her.
“I don’t give a shit what’s in that report. I don’t want to know! Some of that stuff I lost last fall was irreplaceable.” She glared at Clive. “My mother’s china collection, my great aunt’s tea set. The frigging vanity table my last husband bought me on our fifth anniversary. All gone!”
The look of panic in her eyes was more pronounced. Clive was concerned that the elderly woman was about to have a heart attack or a stroke of her own.
“I’ve got Gay Pride coming up in three weeks. Four hundred thousand people are gonna be trashing the crap out of my city. And three weeks after that it’s Fourth of July.” She slammed her fist down on Clive’s desk. “At least one of us in this room does not have fond memories of last Halloween. We are not gonna go through this every fucking holiday! Do I make myself clear?”
“Pamela,” said Clive, letting a little irritation leak through his normally placid tone, “would you kindly be quiet and let her talk?”
“Fine. Just as long as we keep talking about Cujo, the Killer Cocker Spaniel. The first mention of the Creature from the Black Lagoon, and I’m out the door.” Burman folded her arms across her chest as a sign of her determination and to show the others she was serious.
Becky pulled the candy stick out of her mouth, stood up and leaned over Clive’s desk, using the candy as a pointer to indicate various paragraphs on his copy of the report, leaving sugary smears behind.
“As I said, I double checked. All the victims had scoring on the bones. It wasn’t easy. Kaiser’s were partially shattered in the explosion, and Lucas took quite a fall.” She smiled weakly. “So the conclusion seems obvious.”
“Not to me.” Clive stubbornly stuck out his lower jaw.
“Something chewed each of them. It definitely killed Falberg and probably Lucas and Kaiser.”
Burman’s head snapped forward sharply. She pointed at the coroner again and shouted at Clive, “You heard her! Did she say ‘someone’? Did she say ‘some dog’? No, she did not! She said ‘some thing’!” She turned back to Becky. “I’m warning you, young lady…”
“Pamela, please,” Clive interrupted, while Burman drew her breath for another outburst. “My officer distinctly saw a dog,” he reminded Becky firmly.
“A dog,” Becky said, disgusted. “Sure,” she continued sarcastically, “I can see Ed Larsen’s headlines now — ‘Pomeranian Pulverizes Policeman.’ ”
Pamela seemed to take solace in Clive’s last comment and, ignoring Becky’s sarcasm, let out her breath in a sigh of relief. She sank further back into her chair.
“Thank God,” she breathed, letting her head fall back with relief. “So it’s clear then. We got a trained deputy as a witness,” she said with determined satisfaction. “No ghoulies or ghosties. No Easter Parade starring Freddy Krueger. Just arson, plain and simple. And some kind of wild cannibal dog.” She turned to Becky, a weak smile on her face. “You had me going there for a minute.”
The room was silent. The smile slowly faded away
“Uh, Pam…” Becky began hesitantly, “I hate to burst your bubble but no dog’s gonna go wandering around in a blazing inferno in search of Purina People Chow. From the damage to Jeremy Lucas, we’d have to be dealing with the some kind of canine Godzilla. Bobby Falberg had his throat and groin torn out, his leg pulled off and his fucking heart ripped from his chest. All in less than forty-five seconds. Speedy Gonzales with a chain saw couldn’t do it that fast.”
Clive’s expression grew sadly mournful. “I guess not,” he said weakly. “There’s got to be another, more logical explanation,” he ventured hopefully.
“I vote for Cujo,” Burman said matter-of-factly.
Becky stood and removed the candy stick. She slammed it down on Clive’s desk, where it shattered into a half dozen pieces, spraying sugary shards everywhere. “Listen, you two. You’re both gonna have to face facts. There was NO dog! Period. End of matter.”
“Why not some lunatic then?” Clive shouted. “Jeffrey Dahmer’s kid brother? I don’t care. Anything but…” His voice trailed off as he shuddered with barely suppressed fear.
Becky dove into her purse, rooted about for a minute, and finally withdrew a crumpled, ancient-looking Twinkie. She unwrapped it with practiced expertise and thrust it into her mouth.
“Now look what you made me do! I blew my damned diet.” She munched for a minute, trying to control her temper at the closed minds of the other two.
“Look guys, I checked the almanac before I came over here. There’s a full moon tomorrow night.”
“Becky…” Clive began sternly.
“I don’t want to hear this,” Burman put her hands over her ears and began chanting “La, la, la, la, la” very loudly.
“Oh, cut the crap. Both of you,” she said testily. “You’re thinking the same thing I’m thinking.”
“No,” Clive corrected. “I am trying not to think of what you’re thinking.” He leaned forward over the desk and fixed her with an intent look. “I checked, too. And last night, the moon was not full. Nor the two nights before.”
“And Chris can sunbathe at the beach if he wants. As long as it’s cloudy and he’s not too hungry or injured. So much for the legends.”
“I don’t like what I’m hearing,” said Burman. Her curiosity had gotten the better of her, and she’d lowered her hands.
“For Christ’s sake, Pamela,” Becky said. “How many times do I have to tell you? A vampire wasn’t what killed them.”
“It wasn’t,” repeated Burman in a whisper. She took a very, very deep breath and let it out slowly. “All right,” she continued quietly in a studiously nonchalant tone. “Make my day. What did?”
“I’m not sure,” said Becky. “But from the marks, whatever it was had really long teeth. And Pam, the reason I know it wasn’t a vampire…well, vampires have only two fangs. Believe me, I know. This thing had a whole mouthful.”
The room went silent. Deadly silent. Becky opened the refrigerator and pulled out her spare can of fruit salad as the others silently gaped in shock. She ignored them, her tongue poking out of her mouth in concentration, while she tried to open the can with a can opener that was being recalcitrant.
“Here. Let me do that,” said Clive flatly, taking the can from her and deftly removing the top.
“I can’t take this, Becky,” he said earnestly as he handed the can back to her. “I really can’t.”
“That goes double for me,” added Burman.
Becky spooned the syrupy mixture into her mouth with a grimace of distaste. “Why? What’s wrong?”
Clive and Burman looked at her in astonishment. “Three murder victims that something’s tried to eat, and you’re asking me what’s wrong?” Clive’s voice began to rise. “Forty-five little doggy, kitty cat and iguana corpses, and you’re asking me what’s wrong? You’re suggesting that we’ve got a…well, you know…running around the city. And you’re asking me what’s wrong?” He was almost yelling now but Burman cut him off.
“This whole goddamned town is turning into something out of Friday the Thirteenth and you want to know what’s wrong?” She added as Clive stood up and pounded on his desk.
“I’ll tell you what’s wrong!” he shouted. “Nothing’s wrong!”
The office door opened and his secretary poked her head in.
“Captain?” she asked with concern, “Is anything wrong?”
“Get the hell out of my office!” Clive roared at her, and with a gasp of surprise at her normally even-tempered commander’s outburst, she fled back to her desk, slamming the door behind her.
Becky remained calm. “Do either of you have another explanation?”
“No, unfortunately I do not,” Clive snapped. He took a deep breath and turned to face first Burman and then Becky, pleading.
“Becky,” he began, pain in his voice, “I grew up in Louisiana. I saw things there that…” His voice trailed off.
“I know, I know,” said Pamela, impatiently. “Granny, the gypsy in the swamp. You told us.”
“There were a lot of things I saw that year that I didn’t tell you about,” he said grimly. “I don’t consider myself a particularly brave man. Last fall, well, I did what I could.” He flexed the fingers of his right hand unconsciously. They were still stiff from the injury he’d taken while trying to defend Becky and Burman from the rogue vampire back in October.
“I cannot deal with a, well, a werewolf,” he said, grimacing with distaste as he forced out the dreaded word.
“Here we go again.” Pamela hung her head in defeat.
“Ever since I was a child…” Clive continued, but voice trailed off with another shudder.
