Moon Dance
Chapter 23-24
23.
I took the 22 East, then headed south on the 55 and exited on Seventeenth Street. Rick Horton lived in an upscale neighborhood in the city of Tustin, about ten miles south of Fullerton. I continued following the Yahoo driving directions until I pulled up in front of a two-story Gothic revival. A house fit for a vampire.
From its triangular arches, to its cast-iron roof crestings, from its diamond-patterned slate shingles, to its multiple stacked chimneys, the Horton house was as creepy and menacing and haunted-looking as any house in Orange County. It was set well back from the road on a corner lot, surrounded by a massive ivy-covered brick and mortar fence. The fence was topped with the kind of iron spikes that would have made Vlad the Impaler proud. The entire house was composed of a sort of squared building stone.
I used the call box by the front gate. A man answered. I gave him my name and told him I was a private investigator and that I would like to speak to Rick Horton. There was a moment of silence, then the gate clicked open. I pushed it open all the way and followed a red brick path through a neat St. Augustine lawn. All in all, this brooding and romantic Victorian-era home seemed a little out of place in Tustin, California.
Just as I stepped up onto the entry porch, the door swung open. A small man with wire-rim glasses leaned through the open door. "Please come in," he said. "I'm Rick Horton."
I did and found myself in the main hall. To my right was a curving stairway. The ceiling was vaulted and there were many lit candles. The house was probably dark as hell during the day, perfect for a slumbering vampire.
I followed the little man through an arched doorway and into a drawing room. I've only been in a few formal drawing rooms, and, unlike the name suggests, there wasn't a single drawing in the place. Instead, it was covered in landscape oils. I was asked to sit on a dusty Chippendale camelback sofa, which I did. The sofa faced a three-sided bay window with diamond-pane glass. The window overlooked the front lawn and a marble fountain. The fountain was of a mermaid spouting water. She easily had double-D breasts, which were probably a distinct disadvantage for real mermaids. Just outside the window three classic fluted Doric columns supported a wide veranda.
He sat opposite me in a leather chair-and-a-half, which was perfect for cuddling. I wasn't in the cuddling mood. Rick Horton wore single gold studs in each ear. He seemed about twenty years too old to be wearing single gold studs. Call me old-fashioned. He was dressed in green-plaid pajamas, with matching top and bottom. He had the air of a recluse. Maybe he was a famous author or something.
"Do you have a license I can see?" he asked. As he spoke, he looked a bit confused and out of sorts, blinking rapidly as if I were shining a high-powered light into his eyes.
I held out my license and he studied it briefly. I hated the picture. I looked deathly ill: face white, hair back, cheeks sallow. I looked like a vampire. The make-up I had been wearing that day seemed to have evaporated with the camera's flash. The picture was also a little blurry, the lines of my face amorphous.
He sat back. "So what can I do for you, Ms. Moon?"
It was actually Mrs., but you choose your battles. "I'm looking into a shooting."
"Oh? Who was shot?"
"My client; shot five times in the face." Horton didn't budge. Not even a facial twitch. "And I think you shot him, Mr. Horton."
That was a conversation killer. Somewhere in the house a grandfather clock ticked away, echoing along the empty hallways, filling the heavy silence.
"You come into my house and accuse me of murder?" he said.
"Attempted murder," I said. "My client did not die, which is how he was able to hire me in the first place."
"Who's your client?"
His attempt at moral outrage was laughable. His heart just didn't seem into it.
"Kingsley Fulcrum," I said.
"Yes, of course, the defense attorney. It was on the news. Watched him hide behind a tree. It was very amusing. I wished he had died. But I didn't shoot him."
I analyzed his every word and mannerism on both a conscious and subconscious level. I waited for that psychic-something to kick in, that extra-sensory perception that gives me my edge over mere mortals, that clarity of truth that tells me on an intuitive level that he's our man. Frustratingly, I got nothing; just the fuzziness of uncertainty. His words had the ring of truth. And yet he still felt dirty to me. There was something wrong here.
"Did you hire someone to shoot Kingsley?" I asked.
"Maybe I should have an attorney present."
"I'm not a cop."
"Maybe you're wired."
"I'm not wired." Weird, but not wired.
He shrugged and sat back. "I can't express to you how happy I was to see that son-of-a-bitch get what he deserved. Trust me, if I had shot him I would be proud to say I had. But, alas, I cannot claim credit for what I didn't do."
"Did you hire someone to kill him, Mr. Horton?"
"If I had, would I tell you?"
"Most likely not, but never hurts to ask. Sometimes a reaction to a question speaks volumes." More than he realized.
"Fine. To answer your question: I did not hire someone to kill Kingsley Fulcrum."
"Where were you on the day he was shot?"
"What day was it?"
I told him.
"I was here, as usual. My father left me a sizable inheritance. I don't work. Mostly I read and watch TV. I'm not what you would call a go-getter."
"You have no alibi?"
"None."
"Do you own a .22 pistol?"
He jerked his head up. Bingo. "I think this interview is over, Ms. Moon. I did not shoot Mr. Fulcrum. If the police wish to question me further, then they can do so in the presence of my attorney. Good night."
I stood to leave, then paused. "Hewlett Jackson was found dead today, shot nine times in the head."
Horton inhaled and the faintest glimmer of a smile touched his lips. The look on his face was one of profound relief. "Like I said, the police can interview me with my attorney present."
I found my way out of the creepy old house. I love creepy old houses. Must be the vampire in me.
24.
You there, Fang?
I'm here, Moon Dance.
I visited a suspect tonight, I wrote. When I instant message, I tend to get right to the point.
The one you thought might be the shooter?
Yeah, that one, but now I'm not so sure he was the shooter.
Fang paused, then wrote: Doesn't feel right?
I'm not sure.
You're getting mixed signals.
Yes, I wrote. Fang was damn intuitive himself, and often very accurate in his assessments of my situations. I loved that about him. But he feels dirty, though.
Well, maybe he's connected somehow.
Maybe. When I mentioned the gun, I got the reaction I was looking for.
There you go. Maybe his gun was used, but he wasn't the killer.
Maybe.
There was a much longer pause. Typically, Fang and I chatted through the internet as fast as two people would talk. Perhaps even faster.
I have a woman here, he wrote. She wants my attention.
I grinned, then wrote: Have fun.
I plan to. Talk to you soon.
* * *
It was time for my feeding.
I checked on my children; both were sound asleep. I even looked in on Danny. He once slept only in boxers. Now he sleeps in full sweats and a tee-shirt. His explanation was simple: He didn't like brushing up against my cold flesh.
Screw my cold flesh. I never asked for this.
I walked quietly through the dark house. I didn't bother with the lights because a) I didn't need them and b) I didn't want to disturb the others. Danny recently commented that the thought of me wandering through the house at night creeped him out. Yeah, he said creeped. My own husband.
Screw him, too.
In the kitchen, I paused before the pantry. After a moment's hesitation, I opened the cupboard and reached for what I knew would be there: A box of Hostess Ding Dongs. I opened the box flap. Inside, two rows of silver disks flashed back at me. There was something very beautiful about the simplicity of the paper-thin tinfoil wrappings.
As I removed three of them, saliva filled my mouth. My heart began to race.
I sat at the kitchen table and unwrapped the first Ding Dong, wadding the foil wrapping tightly into a little silver ball. Before me, the chocolate puck gleamed dully in the moonlight. My stomach churned, seemed to turn in on itself, roiling like an ocean wave.
The first bite was small and exploratory. Christ, the chocolate tasted so damn good I could have had an orgasm. Maybe I did. Rich and complex and probably fake, the cocoa flavor lingered long after the first bite has been swallowed.
There was no turning back now.
I quickly ate the first Ding Dong and tore into the second. When I finished it, the third. Finally, I sat back in the wooden chair and felt like a royal glutton. Granted, most of my tastebuds were gone, but chocolate somehow made it through loud and clear.
Outside, through an opening in the curtained window over the sink, the sky was awash with moonlight. Tomorrow was a full moon. Tonight it was almost there, but not quite. I wondered if the almost-but-not-quite full moon had any affect on Kingsley. Maybe a few extra whiskers here and there. Teeth and nails a bit longer than usual.
I giggled about that and considered calling and teasing him, but it was two in the morning. Life is lonely at two in the morning.
My stomach gurgled.
Here it comes, I thought.
I wondered again how long Kingsley had been a werewolf. I also realized he never really admitted to being one. Perhaps he was some variant of a werewolf. Perhaps a were-something else. Maybe a were-kitty.
I shifted in the chair to ease the pain growing in my stomach. Some serious cramping was setting in.
How old was he? Where was he from?
I suddenly lurched forward, gasping. I heaved myself out of the chair and over to the kitchen sink. I turned on the faucet just as the Ding Dongs came up with a vengeance, gushing north along my esophagus with alarming ferocity.
When done, I wiped my mouth and sat on the kitchen floor. I checked my watch. I had kept the Ding Dongs down for all of ninety-three seconds.
I wanted to cry.
I took the 22 East, then headed south on the 55 and exited on Seventeenth Street. Rick Horton lived in an upscale neighborhood in the city of Tustin, about ten miles south of Fullerton. I continued following the Yahoo driving directions until I pulled up in front of a two-story Gothic revival. A house fit for a vampire.
From its triangular arches, to its cast-iron roof crestings, from its diamond-patterned slate shingles, to its multiple stacked chimneys, the Horton house was as creepy and menacing and haunted-looking as any house in Orange County. It was set well back from the road on a corner lot, surrounded by a massive ivy-covered brick and mortar fence. The fence was topped with the kind of iron spikes that would have made Vlad the Impaler proud. The entire house was composed of a sort of squared building stone.
I used the call box by the front gate. A man answered. I gave him my name and told him I was a private investigator and that I would like to speak to Rick Horton. There was a moment of silence, then the gate clicked open. I pushed it open all the way and followed a red brick path through a neat St. Augustine lawn. All in all, this brooding and romantic Victorian-era home seemed a little out of place in Tustin, California.
Just as I stepped up onto the entry porch, the door swung open. A small man with wire-rim glasses leaned through the open door. "Please come in," he said. "I'm Rick Horton."
I did and found myself in the main hall. To my right was a curving stairway. The ceiling was vaulted and there were many lit candles. The house was probably dark as hell during the day, perfect for a slumbering vampire.
I followed the little man through an arched doorway and into a drawing room. I've only been in a few formal drawing rooms, and, unlike the name suggests, there wasn't a single drawing in the place. Instead, it was covered in landscape oils. I was asked to sit on a dusty Chippendale camelback sofa, which I did. The sofa faced a three-sided bay window with diamond-pane glass. The window overlooked the front lawn and a marble fountain. The fountain was of a mermaid spouting water. She easily had double-D breasts, which were probably a distinct disadvantage for real mermaids. Just outside the window three classic fluted Doric columns supported a wide veranda.
He sat opposite me in a leather chair-and-a-half, which was perfect for cuddling. I wasn't in the cuddling mood. Rick Horton wore single gold studs in each ear. He seemed about twenty years too old to be wearing single gold studs. Call me old-fashioned. He was dressed in green-plaid pajamas, with matching top and bottom. He had the air of a recluse. Maybe he was a famous author or something.
"Do you have a license I can see?" he asked. As he spoke, he looked a bit confused and out of sorts, blinking rapidly as if I were shining a high-powered light into his eyes.
I held out my license and he studied it briefly. I hated the picture. I looked deathly ill: face white, hair back, cheeks sallow. I looked like a vampire. The make-up I had been wearing that day seemed to have evaporated with the camera's flash. The picture was also a little blurry, the lines of my face amorphous.
He sat back. "So what can I do for you, Ms. Moon?"
It was actually Mrs., but you choose your battles. "I'm looking into a shooting."
"Oh? Who was shot?"
"My client; shot five times in the face." Horton didn't budge. Not even a facial twitch. "And I think you shot him, Mr. Horton."
That was a conversation killer. Somewhere in the house a grandfather clock ticked away, echoing along the empty hallways, filling the heavy silence.
"You come into my house and accuse me of murder?" he said.
"Attempted murder," I said. "My client did not die, which is how he was able to hire me in the first place."
"Who's your client?"
His attempt at moral outrage was laughable. His heart just didn't seem into it.
"Kingsley Fulcrum," I said.
"Yes, of course, the defense attorney. It was on the news. Watched him hide behind a tree. It was very amusing. I wished he had died. But I didn't shoot him."
I analyzed his every word and mannerism on both a conscious and subconscious level. I waited for that psychic-something to kick in, that extra-sensory perception that gives me my edge over mere mortals, that clarity of truth that tells me on an intuitive level that he's our man. Frustratingly, I got nothing; just the fuzziness of uncertainty. His words had the ring of truth. And yet he still felt dirty to me. There was something wrong here.
"Did you hire someone to shoot Kingsley?" I asked.
"Maybe I should have an attorney present."
"I'm not a cop."
"Maybe you're wired."
"I'm not wired." Weird, but not wired.
He shrugged and sat back. "I can't express to you how happy I was to see that son-of-a-bitch get what he deserved. Trust me, if I had shot him I would be proud to say I had. But, alas, I cannot claim credit for what I didn't do."
"Did you hire someone to kill him, Mr. Horton?"
"If I had, would I tell you?"
"Most likely not, but never hurts to ask. Sometimes a reaction to a question speaks volumes." More than he realized.
"Fine. To answer your question: I did not hire someone to kill Kingsley Fulcrum."
"Where were you on the day he was shot?"
"What day was it?"
I told him.
"I was here, as usual. My father left me a sizable inheritance. I don't work. Mostly I read and watch TV. I'm not what you would call a go-getter."
"You have no alibi?"
"None."
"Do you own a .22 pistol?"
He jerked his head up. Bingo. "I think this interview is over, Ms. Moon. I did not shoot Mr. Fulcrum. If the police wish to question me further, then they can do so in the presence of my attorney. Good night."
I stood to leave, then paused. "Hewlett Jackson was found dead today, shot nine times in the head."
Horton inhaled and the faintest glimmer of a smile touched his lips. The look on his face was one of profound relief. "Like I said, the police can interview me with my attorney present."
I found my way out of the creepy old house. I love creepy old houses. Must be the vampire in me.
24.
You there, Fang?
I'm here, Moon Dance.
I visited a suspect tonight, I wrote. When I instant message, I tend to get right to the point.
The one you thought might be the shooter?
Yeah, that one, but now I'm not so sure he was the shooter.
Fang paused, then wrote: Doesn't feel right?
I'm not sure.
You're getting mixed signals.
Yes, I wrote. Fang was damn intuitive himself, and often very accurate in his assessments of my situations. I loved that about him. But he feels dirty, though.
Well, maybe he's connected somehow.
Maybe. When I mentioned the gun, I got the reaction I was looking for.
There you go. Maybe his gun was used, but he wasn't the killer.
Maybe.
There was a much longer pause. Typically, Fang and I chatted through the internet as fast as two people would talk. Perhaps even faster.
I have a woman here, he wrote. She wants my attention.
I grinned, then wrote: Have fun.
I plan to. Talk to you soon.
* * *
It was time for my feeding.
I checked on my children; both were sound asleep. I even looked in on Danny. He once slept only in boxers. Now he sleeps in full sweats and a tee-shirt. His explanation was simple: He didn't like brushing up against my cold flesh.
Screw my cold flesh. I never asked for this.
I walked quietly through the dark house. I didn't bother with the lights because a) I didn't need them and b) I didn't want to disturb the others. Danny recently commented that the thought of me wandering through the house at night creeped him out. Yeah, he said creeped. My own husband.
Screw him, too.
In the kitchen, I paused before the pantry. After a moment's hesitation, I opened the cupboard and reached for what I knew would be there: A box of Hostess Ding Dongs. I opened the box flap. Inside, two rows of silver disks flashed back at me. There was something very beautiful about the simplicity of the paper-thin tinfoil wrappings.
As I removed three of them, saliva filled my mouth. My heart began to race.
I sat at the kitchen table and unwrapped the first Ding Dong, wadding the foil wrapping tightly into a little silver ball. Before me, the chocolate puck gleamed dully in the moonlight. My stomach churned, seemed to turn in on itself, roiling like an ocean wave.
The first bite was small and exploratory. Christ, the chocolate tasted so damn good I could have had an orgasm. Maybe I did. Rich and complex and probably fake, the cocoa flavor lingered long after the first bite has been swallowed.
There was no turning back now.
I quickly ate the first Ding Dong and tore into the second. When I finished it, the third. Finally, I sat back in the wooden chair and felt like a royal glutton. Granted, most of my tastebuds were gone, but chocolate somehow made it through loud and clear.
Outside, through an opening in the curtained window over the sink, the sky was awash with moonlight. Tomorrow was a full moon. Tonight it was almost there, but not quite. I wondered if the almost-but-not-quite full moon had any affect on Kingsley. Maybe a few extra whiskers here and there. Teeth and nails a bit longer than usual.
I giggled about that and considered calling and teasing him, but it was two in the morning. Life is lonely at two in the morning.
My stomach gurgled.
Here it comes, I thought.
I wondered again how long Kingsley had been a werewolf. I also realized he never really admitted to being one. Perhaps he was some variant of a werewolf. Perhaps a were-something else. Maybe a were-kitty.
I shifted in the chair to ease the pain growing in my stomach. Some serious cramping was setting in.
How old was he? Where was he from?
I suddenly lurched forward, gasping. I heaved myself out of the chair and over to the kitchen sink. I turned on the faucet just as the Ding Dongs came up with a vengeance, gushing north along my esophagus with alarming ferocity.
When done, I wiped my mouth and sat on the kitchen floor. I checked my watch. I had kept the Ding Dongs down for all of ninety-three seconds.
I wanted to cry.
