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  Later, back at my computer, I decided to look into the Los Angeles murder that Facebook user mentioned. I found one local article, and the few details provided were similar enough to what happened to Chad that my skin crawled. I made a few notes and noticing that it was now after midnight, decided to follow up on it in the morning.

  Nightmares plagued my sleep. I watched Chad die over and over again. And even though I didn’t see it, my mind created the image of Chad suffocating. I watched him struggle to find breath he never would, petechial hemorrhaging around his eyes, lips turning blue. The light left his eyes as his body, starved of oxygen, lost to the unseen force. The firecracker noise surrounded me in these dreams, taunting me with its familiarity.

  The next morning, I woke completely unrested shortly after dawn. Ugh. I was an 8-or-9-hours-of-sleep per night being; getting under six would make for a miserable day. Then I reminded myself that a young man lost his life, sobering my thoughts. Time to see what I could learn. I briefly considered reaching out to Jacob, but after the way he looked at me like a suspect, I decided to try finding something to bring him. Like I was an armchair detective. Exactly what I imagined he would not appreciate, I admitted to myself.

  I shrugged and turned on the television to the local news. There was a brief mention of Chad’s murder, but nothing new in it. I answered business emails while I had coffee and banana bread; the death of the film’s star would impact the release of my movie and there would be other fallout. Time to see what was going to happen.

  A couple of hours later, I heard the start of my favorite local morning show, Entertainment Daily. Elizabeth Addison, the normally perky brunette co-host, sounded grim as she announced the show’s top story. Usually they go for upbeat and, of course, I watched it because I was in the entertainment biz.

  I craned my head around my computer to see the screen.

  “Last night, a rising actor, on the cusp of stardom, was brutally murdered in his apartment,” she began, voice breathy yet sincere. She recapped what I already knew, but then said, “This is the second death under these circumstances. Two weeks ago, an actor in Los Angeles was found dead in his apartment, also following a social media live video. Police there are as stumped as our local Metro PD. Could these two be connected?”

  The image cut to Jacob Dawson, glaring into the camera as he growled “No comment” at Elizabeth.

  “That video was taken last night outside Chad’s apartment complex. Police are being tight-lipped about any information they may or may not have thus far in both of these cases. We’ll keep you updated.”

  I sat back in my wicker chair. Damn. Elizabeth was going hard-core. She seemed pretty interested in these cases. I wondered what else she might know that she wasn’t revealing.

  *****

  An hour later, I stood in the lobby of the station waiting for the receptionist on the other side of the glass to let Elizabeth Addison know that Mia Fynn would like to see her. “Please tell her I’m the producer on the movie Chad Johnson shot right before his untimely death.” I could tell the newscaster was hungry for information on that story. If anything would get her to see me, I was certain that was it.

  Sure enough, the receptionist smiled at me and said, “Ms. Addison will be out shortly.”

  “Thank you,” I responded and sat on the uncomfortable blue plastic chairs in the lobby, leaning my laptop bag against my leg. I glanced around at the headshots of the on-air talent while I waited. Not five minutes later, toothy smile wide, short curly brown hair perfectly coifed, Elizabeth Addison opened the locked door and strode toward me, hand outstretched. If she was taken aback by my green hair, she masked it.

  “I’m Liz Addison,” she said without preamble. “You must be Mia Fynn?”

  I nodded and shook her hand. Strong grip.

  “Let’s head back to my office.”

  I nodded again and followed her back through the door, hearing it automatically lock behind us. We walked down a narrow hallway, into and through a wide cubicle-filled noisy main floor, and back to a corner office. Floor-to-ceiling windows separated the office from the cubicle area. I was impressed by the soundproofing when utter silence remained after she closed her door.

  Liz indicated a chair opposite her utilitarian desk. “Please, have a seat.” She waited a nanosecond after my butt hit the chair before talking. “So, you’re the producer of Chad Johnson’s movie?” I nodded and she continued. “What can I do for you?” There was an odd glint to her eyes, flashed so briefly I wondered if I imagined it, and then she was back to her folksy open newscaster persona. I tilted my head for a moment, considering, before letting it go and focusing on my reason for approaching her.

  “I caught your story this morning on Chad,” I started, my voice catching on his name. I cleared my throat. “I also am aware of the LA murder and was curious what else you knew, that maybe you held back in the broadcast.”

  Liz frowned. “No, unfortunately, I don’t know any more information,” she acknowledged. “I was hoping you might, and that’s why you wanted to see me.”

  I heard the disappointment in her voice. “Right,” I responded, mainly as a delay tactic, while I thought about where to go with my questioning.

  Liz’s brown eyes sparkled. “Although…”

  I resisted the temptation to roll my eyes at her theatrics. “Yes…,” I played along.

  “I do have a source in LA,” she said with a small coy smile.

  “That’s awesome,” I reacted with more enthusiasm than warranted, because I sensed that was what she wanted.

  “But…”

  Oh, good grief. This woman would drive me batty if she kept this up. “Liz, do you or do you not have access to additional information?” I asked this sternly and it had the desired effect.

  Liz dropped the act. “Yeah, I do. She’s a detective in LA. She says she’ll give me copies of what she has on the first murder.”

  “That’s great. There must be something that will help us figure out what happened to Chad.”

  “It’s not that easy,” she warned. “She’ll only give it to me in person.”

  “Hmm,” I muttered. “Go to LA?”

  “Yep.”

  It was a likely four-hour drive there and back, and that was if traffic cooperated getting in and out of Vegas. Not to mention the nightmare that was LA traffic. Or we could fly, but then we’d have the hassle at the airport, plus needing to rent a car. My brain screamed at me about needing more sleep, but if it could help solve Chad’s murder, it’d be worth it.

  “Oh, and I need to be back in time for tomorrow morning’s broadcast,” Liz added with a wicked smile.

  I couldn’t help it but I laughed. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  She sobered briefly. “I wish it was under different circumstances. But, yeah. This is what I went into journalism to do.”

  “You didn’t do it to cover the latest It Girl’s movie?”

  Liz rolled her eyes then shrugged. “Nah, but that’s kind of fun too,” she admitted.

  I calculated in my head. “We have about sixteen hours to drive to LA, meet with your source, possibly do any follow up, and drive back.”

  “Sounds about right.” She smiled the first genuine smile I’d seen that morning. “What do you say?”

  “Road trip.” I mirrored her smile.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Liz and I left straight from the studio, although I insisted on a quick stop first. “I need an energy boost,” I explained.

  Since Liz knew I was up late last night at the crime scene, she understood. She maneuvered her white Audi R8 Coupe (clearly being a media personality in Vegas paid better than I thought!) out of the station’s parking lot and eased into traffic. We headed for the 215, watching for a Starbucks. Liz shot across three lanes of traffic when she spotted one and pulled into the drive thru. Thankfully, there were only two cars in front of us. It was amazing how often the line stretched into the street
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  “What do you want?” Liz asked this as we pulled forward to order.

  “Espresso macchiato, with an extra shot of espresso.”

  I heard the smile in her voice when she placed my order, getting a small house brew for herself. “I don’t do fancy drinks,” she tossed over her shoulder at me.

  I laughed. “Your loss.” In a few minutes, I sipped at my beverage of the gods. Appropriately caffeinated, we hit the road.

  We drove the 215 to the 15 and followed the signs to Los Angeles. We were both pleasantly surprised that the traffic was light. Soon we left Sin City behind, heading toward the City of Angels. There was a joke in there somewhere, but I was still too tired to find it.

  Our ride was uneventful as we passed through Primm, Barstow, and Victorville on our four-hour drive. Well, four-and-a-half hours. We did have to make a bathroom stop. Signs for San Bernardino informed us we were close, so Liz sent a quick text message to her contact, requesting an exact site for meeting.

  “That seems a bit cloak-and-dagger,” I commented. “Not to give us the meeting location ahead of time.”

  “She’s a cop. They’re paranoid by nature. Plus, she’s violating her department’s rules,” she reminded me with a side glance.

  I lifted my hands in a mea culpa. “That’s true.”

  Liz watched for the exit off the 210 for Highland Park, our apparent meeting place. We exited Figueroa and within another ten minutes found ourselves near the neighborhood.

  “Where are we meeting your contact?”

  Liz laughed as she turned onto York. “Starbucks.”

  Hmm. Maybe I’d have a second coffee. I pointed to the building across from a 99cent store.

  Easing the car into a space, we exited and stretched after the long drive. Liz opened the door to the squat building and a wiry Latina seated just inside lifted her chin at Liz in greeting. I followed her over to the table and we sat across from the officer.

  “I’m Selina,” she introduced herself, and I didn’t miss that she only offered her first name.

  “Mia.”

  “Do you have the files?” Liz drummed her fingers on the table in anticipation.

  Selina placed her hand flat on the table and slid it toward us. When she removed her hand, a small thumb drive remained there. Liz quickly disappeared it into her pocket. “Be careful.”

  “Of course,” Liz replied dismissively.

  Selina’s eyes darkened. “Seriously. Roger Miller was suffocated in a manner we can’t identify. If what you’re saying in Vegas is true, his killer has struck again.”

  “Thank you for the warning,” I said, cutting my eyes at Liz. She really could be more appreciative and less cavalier. “And I know it’s probably in the files. But, any suspects?” Selina shook her head. “Anything that stood out as unusual?”

  “Other than the locked room?” she asked sarcastically.

  “Yeah, other than that.”

  “There was one thing,” she began, her eyes clouding over. “It didn’t seem connected.”

  Liz and I waited for her to continue.

  “Mr. Miller had a generally clean record with one notable exception.”

  My goodness, this was like pulling teeth.

  Liz was a good deal less patient. “C’mon Selina, spit it out. We’ve got to get back to Vegas.” They stared at each other for a beat and I wondered what their relationship really was. And then Selina dropped the bombshell.

  “A year prior to his death, Roger Miller was investigated for the disappearance and possible murder of his girlfriend.”

  I sat back in the plastic chair in shock. Maybe Roger was a killer and his murder was revenge? “Wait, you said it didn’t seem connected,” I challenged.

  “Yep. We investigated that angle and nothing really seemed to come of it.” Selina unexpectedly chuckled at the matching expectant looks on our faces.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll tell you what we learned. 9-1-1 received a call from a motorist who had pulled off to the side of the road. The couple saw a damaged guardrail and the wife thought she saw light reflecting off of something metallic over the side in the bushes. The husband went down the side and found the wrecked car. Roger Miller was alone in the vehicle, unconscious and bleeding from several scrapes, but nothing that looked severe.

  “We later learned at the hospital it was a combination of alcohol and head trauma that knocked him out. The passenger door was closed. There was no evidence that anybody else was or had been recently in the vehicle. Miller did not respond to the husband’s attempts to rouse him, though it was confirmed he was breathing.

  “The husband noted a piece of the guardrail had flipped up and pierced the windshield into the front passenger seat. First responders arrived and transported Miller to the hospital. When he awoke, he kept asking for his girlfriend, Juni. He insisted she was in the car with him. If,” she stressed the word, “someone had been in that seat, he or she would have been impaled and would not have walked away from the accident.”

  My eyes widened slightly before I recovered. Vampire? That could explain a passenger who was there and then not there following an impaling. I made a mental note to check with my one and only vampire friend, Evie, when we returned to Vegas. She was an actress I met through the Paranormal Talent Agency, of course. I focused on Selina’s voice.

  “Here’s where it gets weird.”

  “You mean it wasn’t weird yet?” Liz asked with a chuckle and Selina smiled.

  “Weirder,” she amended. “Here’s where it gets weirder. The easiest way to show that the girlfriend, Juni, wasn’t in the car would be to find her, happy and whole. Right?”

  We nodded and she continued.

  “This kid, Miller, didn’t have a last name for her, said he’d only known her a couple of months, and only had a partial picture. She had no other friends he knew of, nor where she worked, or even where she lived. We blasted what little we had over the local news and social media. We asked the public if they knew who this woman was. Nothing. No missing report was ever filed in LA that matched her picture. We entered her information into the national database and never got legitimate hits. It’s like this girl popped into existence and then popped right back out.” Frustration tinged every word of her statement.

  Definitely vampire. The more Selina spoke, the more convinced I was.

  “We charged Roger Miller with driving while intoxicated and reckless driving for his likely speed and no evidence of braking before the crash. But,” she shrugged, “without a body, or any evidence this young lady even existed, there wasn’t much else to do. He got court-ordered drug therapy and six-months’ probation.”

  Liz and I sat quietly for a moment, processing all the information.

  Selina looked at her watch. “If you don’t have any other questions…” She waited half a second for Liz and me to shake our heads no and then she stood. “I’ve got to get back to work. I hope it helps,” she said sincerely. “Don’t be shy in sharing any of your information either.”

  We agreed to do so and remained seated as Selina left.

  “What do you think?” I finally asked Liz.

  “I think we need to review those files and then look into Roger Miller before we leave Los Angeles.”

  Her excitement was infectious and I smiled. “I was hoping you’d say that!”

  After grabbing more coffees, we spent the next fifteen minutes staring at my laptop screen. Selina was nothing if not thorough. She provided us with copies of Roger Miller’s autopsy report, the Facebook Live video of his murder, and scores of interviews with folks identified as his friends, family, or people of interest (although unfortunately, as Selina had stated, not as potential suspects). We reviewed the paperwork before watching the video. When we saw the side profile picture of Juni, we paused to take in the twenty-something raven-haired beauty. Oh, and vampires could have their picture taken, so this neither confirmed nor eliminated my hunch that she was a vampire.
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  “Witness protection program,” I joked.

  “Right? Who doesn’t have a single social media account or even just a basic online footprint in this day and age?” Liz agreed.

  “It is odd.”

  I brought up the Facebook Live video and made sure my sound was way down – didn’t want to frighten anybody around us. The video was almost eerily identical to Chad’s and I felt a lump in my throat at the fear both of these men had before being violently killed. We had to find something that would help solve these murders and prevent others.

  Liz and I sat in silence for a few moments following the conclusion of the video. “Next step?” Liz asked.

  “Let’s talk to Roger Miller’s mother before we head back to Vegas. Maybe her son told her something more or different than what he told the police following Juni’s disappearance.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Thirty minutes later we pulled behind a blue Honda Accord in the driveway of a modest Spanish Colonial home. I noted the well-kept lawn and bright flowers as we walked up the concrete path to the red front door. We did not call ahead, so I was hoping the car meant his mother was home. I glanced at my watch and cringed when I saw it was already 8 p.m. Liz knocked as I glanced up and down the street. Minimal traffic, no pedestrians. Definitely a suburban area. The door opened to reveal a middle-aged woman with bloodshot eyes holding a tissue.

  “May I help you?”

  Part of me wanted to back away from this clearly grieving woman – what were we thinking? – but Liz had already extended her hand. “Mrs. Miller?”

  “Yes?”