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?
Five
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?”