There wasn’t much blood in the tub itself, but it had been stoppered. The room was buzzing with police activity. Too much to suit me. There were LVPD detectives, paramedics, crime-scene scientists, a pathologist, the coroner’s investigative team, and the FBI, of course.
I needed quiet.
I studied the pale, pathetic bodies for several minutes. As was the case with all of the victims so far, the man and woman had been attractive.
Perfect specimens. Chosen for that reason? If not, then why?
The girl looked to be in her early twenties. She was petite, blond, slender, probably under a hundred pounds. The span of her shoulders was only about a ruler’s length. Her breasts were small and had been bitten, almost shredded. There were bite gouges up and down her legs. The male appeared to be in his early twenties as well. He was blond and blue eyed, with a corn-fed look; his body was toned and sculptured. He too had been bitten. His throat had been slashed and so had his wrists.
I could see no defensive bruises on their hands.
They hadn’t fought back, had they? They knew the attackers.
“You saw the ghouls lurking outside?” Kyle asked. “The semihuman freak show?”
I nodded. “It’s daylight, though. The ones out there must be harmless. The ghouls in their crypts are the ones we need to find.”
Kyle nodded, then he walked away.
After most of the police technicians left I wandered around the hotel suite for several hours. It’s a ritual for me, part of my own obsession. Maybe I feel I owe it to the dead. I stopped and I stared out at the view of the lake that the victims had enjoyed. I noticed everything—the creamy whites, blushing pinks, and sixties Parrish yellows that colored the room. Framed mirrors spotlighted by recessed lights. Fresh fruit and flowers.
The victims had unpacked and put away their clothes. I went through them: Bob Mackie dresses, high-heeled shoes by Jimmy Choo and Manolo Blahnik, a couple of skirts. Expensive, chic, the best of everything.
The last thing either of them had expected was to die.
A stack of fifty- and hundred-dollar markers from the Venetian and New York-New York were in plain view on the dresser. The killers had left the chips. Also two full vials of cocaine in the woman’s purse. A carton of Marlboro Lights.
Was it to tell us they weren’t interested in money and drugs? In gambling? In cigarettes? What were they interested in—murder? Blood?
Ticket stubs were inside the woman’s purse. Souvenirs? Passes to MGM Grand Adventures. Tickets for shows at Circus Circus, the Folies Bergere in the Tropicana, the magicians Siegfried and Roy. A half-full bottle of Lolita Lempicka perfume.
The man had kept a few restaurant receipts: Le Cirque in the Bellagio, Napa, the Palm, Spago at Caesars.
“There are no tickets or receipts for last night,” I said to Kyle. “We need to find out where they went. Could be where they met the killers. They must have gotten friendly with them. They let the killers in here.”
Chapter 35
THE CELL phone in my pocket went off. Shit! Damn it! Why do I carry these infernal gadgets? Why does anybody in their right mind need to constantly be on call?
I glanced at my watch as I took the phone in hand. It was already eleven o’clock. What a life. So far, we knew that Andrew Cotton and Dara Grey had gone to the Rum Jungle for drinks and then a magic show at the Mirage. They were seen talking to two people, but it had been dark in the theater. That was what we had so far, but it was still early.
I had been at the Bellagio murder scene since early evening. The case was really getting under my skin. The murders were brutal, primal. I had read about similar murders in Paris and Berlin, “biting attacks,” but I had never seen anything like this with my own eyes.
“Alex Cross,” I said into the phone. I turned toward the picture window revealing the lake and the desert in the distance. The view was soothing, an incredible contrast with what had happened in the suite.
“It’s Jamilla, Alex. Did I wake you?”
“No, not hardly. I wish you had. I’m at a murder scene. I’m in Las Vegas, staring out at the desert. You’re up pretty late yourself,” I said.
It was good to hear her voice. She sounded sane and normal. She was sane and normal. I was the one in trouble.
“Oh, I sometimes stay at the office late. That way I can get a day’s work done after everybody else goes home. Alex, I have some information to share on the biting attacks.”
From the sound of her voice, I suspected this wasn’t going to make things any easier for me.
“Go ahead, Jamilla. I’m listening.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ve been working with a couple of medical examiners from the other places where the bloodsuckers struck. I think we may have hit on something important in San Luis Obispo and then again in San Diego.”