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?
I’m already pretty pale, especially by L.A. standards, so I go with Ivory Bisque for the foundation. But for Mercedes, whose Latin-American blood gives her a beautiful olive tone, the shop assistant recommended Light Beige Blush. We also bought one container of “ash” powder, an almost translucent powder that will set the makeup and our respective foundations, only making the overall effect slightly paler. The piece de resistance was two wigs. Mercedes went for an Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction look, and I decided on a long black do with no bangs. I reckon it was worth the sales assistant’s forty minutes, because the bill totaled $655 and we gave her a $40 cash tip for her efforts. Goth clothes are expensive and I don’t know yet if the FBI will let us write them off. Truth be told, it’s a big investment, but I need to find out more about the vampire community. The more I know, the better informed my profile will be.
By the time Mercedes and I get back to my Westwood apartment it’s 8:30 p.m. and I can’t imagine Darren’s exactly happy with me. I called from VampIt to scrap our dinner plans but I had a hard time convincing Darren that this little outing was important and couldn’t wait.
I slide my key in the door and creep in sheepishly, Mercedes in tow. The television’s on and Darren’s sitting on the couch with a beer in hand. On the kitchen counter are several takeout containers.
“I’m really sorry about dinner,” I say, straight off the bat.
Darren stands up. “Hey, Soph.” He comes over and gives me a kiss on the cheek. Not exactly our usual first kiss, but then again Mercedes is standing right next to me.
“Hi, Mercedes. Nice to see you again.”
Mercedes smiles. “Hi, Darren.”
“I saved you guys some Chinese. I presume you haven’t eaten?” It’s only half a question, because Darren knows what I’m like when I’m on a case—I often forget to eat.
“Thanks.”
“I’d love some,” Mercedes says. “We got time?”
“Sure. A quick bite.” I know it’ll take us a while to get dressed and put on the makeup, but we do need to eat.
Darren and Mercedes lean on the living room side of the kitchen counter while I get out two bowls and place a few spoonfuls of rice in each one. “Beef in black bean sauce or shrimp and vegetables?”
“I’ll take the beef, thanks.”
I spoon most of what’s left of the beef into Mercedes’ bowl and fill mine up with the prawns.
Darren grabs his beer from the coffee table and sits at the small dining table. At least he’s sitting down with us.
“You want some more?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I’m done.”
As soon as we’re seated, Darren takes a deep breath. “You really have to go tonight?”
“Yes.”