Kiss of Death (7 page)

Jonestown is another famous example of the hold a charismatic leader can have on his disciples—and its disastrous results. Reverend Jim Jones founded the People's Temple of California and even managed to rub shoulders with some of America's most powerful individuals. Before long, nine hundred and seventeen of the cult's members were killed in what initially looked like a suicide pact, but investigators soon realized that about two hundred died voluntarily and the rest were murdered by fellow members under the direction of Jones. Even those that killed themselves did so at Jones' direction. Such is the power of charisma.

I check my e-mail and notice that Mercedes has sent me the full file on Ward, but before I look at that I decide to research new religious movements a little more, concentrating this time on the typical personality types of members.

An hour later, I check in with Sloan.

“How's it going?” I ask.

“Getting there. I've put through all the paperwork for Sherry's credit card records and phone records, plus I've logged a request for a computer forensic technician to get onto Sherry's laptop.”

“Great. And the DNA?”

“Personally dropped it in.”

I fill in Sloan on my recent activities, including the online information I found out about the clubs.

“It's a whole other world, huh?”

“You bet. Tonight's Malediction Society and I thought I might pop in around seven to talk to the staff.” I'm hoping to find a manager or someone there, but if I decide to go tonight as a Goth, I'd also like to get the lay of the land before I turn up in a part of town I don't know very well.

“You do know it's Sunday night, Anderson?”

“I know. But the next Goth night isn't until Thursday.”

She's silent for a bit. “I guess it can't hurt. If Todd is telling us the truth, it makes sense to check out the Goth angle, too.”

“Uh-huh. I've also got some info on Ward. I haven't reviewed it yet myself, but I'll e-mail it through to you.”

“Thanks.”

“If Sherry Taylor did go to a Goth club last night, it must have been Bar Sinister. Hopefully there's surveillance footage somewhere to prove it. I've left a message on the club's answering machine.”

“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?

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?”

Sloan and I both say yes.

Cheryl wipes her hands on a tea towel. “I'll let you out then.”

We follow her back through the club to the main entrance.

“Have you got cameras in here?” Sloan's scanning the ceiling.

“Uh-huh.” Cheryl stops and points backward. “One in the corner there, one on the rooftop patio and one at the entrance.”

“Do you know if the manager keeps the footage?” Maybe we can find the four people Cheryl's talking about on video footage.

“Yeah, I think so. But I don't know for how long. I can write down the manager's contact details for you. There's a pen at the door.” She starts walking to the entrance again.

“Great,” Sloan says.

We get to the top of the stairs and follow Cheryl down. “I like your top.”

“Yeah, it's cool isn't it?” She looks back at me and gives me a once-over. “You could wear something like this with black pants and it'd look dressy, not Goth, right?”

“True. Where'd you get it?”

She goes behind the desk at the door and pulls out a pen and paper. “Place called VampIt in WestHo.” She starts writing. “So the manager's name is Brad and he organizes all the security.”

I take the piece of paper. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” She unlocks the heavy metal door and heaves it open.

“Thanks again for your time.” Sloan holds out her hand.

Cheryl smiles and takes Sloan's outstretched hand, then mine. “Have a good night.”

 

It didn't take me long to track down VampIt and recruit
Mercedes for the night's activities. I'm bringing her along as a friend, not as an FBI employee. Not many women go to a club by themselves and I don't want to stand out. Mercedes and I met at the store in WestHo, leaving Sloan to catch a cab back to her house. I got the distinct impression she didn't see the point of actually going to one of the clubs in Goth attire at this early stage of the investigation, but if I'm going to profile Sherry's killer I need to look at all angles.

It had actually been kinda fun shopping for corsets, leather and black. Mercedes and I spent a good forty minutes in the shop, much to the annoyance of the salesgirl who agreed to keep the store open for us when we guaranteed her sales and a big tip…but after twenty-five minutes I think she was regretting her decision. Even creatures of the night want to knock off work. We were lucky the store was even open.

Eventually I chose black leather pants with laces that run all the way up the sides of my legs and a red velvet bodice top—one of the few in the store that had straps. Rather than wasting money on shoes, I decided to wear some ankle boots I had at home, but I did buy an ankh choker, which is supposed to represent eternal life. Mercedes' outfit is very different from mine. She chose a short black leather dress with an A-line flare to it and a halter neck. She also managed to pick a pair of knee-high boots that she figured would work well in her normal wardrobe, some fishnet stockings, plus a long chain and chunky pendant. The last things on our shopping list were makeup and wigs. The shop assistant suggested going a few shades paler than our own skin tones in the foundation, and then purchasing a translucent powder. Despite my stereotyped notion that I'd be going for white, apparently that's considered a bad makeup job among Goths. Who knew?