Kiss of Death

“Readers who enjoy hard-nosed police drama or CSI-style television shows will find [Sophie] an engaging character.”

—Fresh Fiction

“A clever concoction.”

—The Age on Kiss of Death

“Martin provides solid entertainment as she takes a high-concept premise and runs with it. The narrative is fast-moving, the protagonists likable, the police detail and dialogue believable and the serial killers just as evil as they need to be.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Murderers’ Club

“As always, Martin delivers a cleverly plotted and entertaining read, chockablock with fascinating procedural details and flashes of dark humor.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Killing Hands

“A gripping read.”

—Herald Sun on Fan Mail

“Well-structured and unusually imaginative.”

—The Mystery Reader on Fan Mail

“Martin is a real find.”

—Women’s Weekly

Kiss of Death

P.D. Martin

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Extra Resources

Acknowledgments

One

Saturday night

A narrow trail snakes in front of me, lit only by the full moon. If I can make it to the road…or hide…

Low-hanging branches scrape across my face, breaking through my raised arms and drawing blood. But I can’t stop. I have to keep running. Can he smell my blood?

I stumble and fall to the ground. For a moment all I can hear is the deafening thud of my heart. But then I notice it. Silence. No more footsteps hurtling down the path behind me. I pick myself up and keep running, not convinced I’ve really lost them.

Finally I stop, resting my hands on my thighs to try to slow my breathing. I look around at the houses perched on the hilltops to the right. They’re too far away to hear or see me.

The crack of a branch on the far side of the trail frightens me. I back away. My eyes, even though fully adjusted to the night, strain to decipher my surroundings. Is someone behind that tree? I keep moving backward, but then another branch snaps behind me. I run.

Soon I hear the footsteps again. I push myself harder, run harder. I glance back, hoping they’re farther away than they sound. But they’re not. Slamming into something, I come to an abrupt stop. I fall backward. I look up. His face is in shadows, but I can see glistening white teeth as he smiles.

Fangs dig deep into my neck, accompanied by searing pain.

I wake up with a start, rubbing my neck. The very last part of the dream flashes back to me…what the…? But then I realize I’ve fallen asleep on the couch to a rerun of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Obviously its imagery spilled into my subconscious as I was dropping off.

I drag myself over to the TV and turn it off, moving my head from side to side to stretch my neck. Someone in Buffy may have got fangs in the neck, but all I’ve got is a crick in mine. Serves me right for falling asleep in front of the box. Flicking off the lights, I make my way into the bathroom for the usual nightly ritual—cleanse and moisturize my face and brush my teeth. I complete it all on remote, watching the process in the mirror like a third-party observer.

Before going to bed I decide to do a final sweep of my apartment. I’m always security conscious; my job and my past make me extra careful and I often find the only way I can sleep is to search my apartment before I turn in for the night. I grab my gun and start at the front door, looking through the peephole. The coast is clear outside. From my front door I can see most of the open-plan space of my living room and kitchen. White walls and downlights are made warmer by rich hardwood floors and two French doors that lead to a large balcony—one of my favorite features during hot summer nights. Like half of the complex’s balconies, mine overlooks the swimming pool and well-landscaped gardens.

The open-plan space has few potential hiding spots, so I move straight to the large hall closet. Once that’s checked I head for the bathroom, even though I was in there less than a minute ago. I pull the shower curtain back with my left hand, aiming my gun low into the small bathtub. It’s empty, and I move quickly to the next door—my bedroom, and the only room in the house with carpet…I love the feel of the squishy warmth under my bare feet. Dark wood furniture with a Japanese feel offsets the cream carpet, again creating warmth in what could be a stark room. I check behind my three-panel Japanese screen, before moving to the built-in wardrobe. Opening one door at a time, I scan the clothes and also squat down to make sure only my shoes, facing away from me, occupy the closet. Like the rest of the place, it’s all clear. As my final check I flick on the outside light and make sure no one’s on the balcony.

Looking down at the Buddha that sits in the corner of the room, I say: “All clear.” But I’m talking to myself, not the deity. Maybe I need a pet.

Sunday, 11:00 a.m.

On my way home from Bikram yoga—something I’ve discovered since moving to L.A.—my BlackBerry buzzes with an incoming call. There are only a handful of people who could be calling me on a Sunday, and when I see the number is withheld I jump to the logical conclusion—work. Still, while all special agents are always on call, as a profiler most of my work is initiated in the office Monday to Friday.

“Agent Sophie Anderson.”

“Anderson, it’s Rosen.” George Rosen is the head of the L.A. office’s Criminal Division and many of my cases come through his department. “What’s up?”

“Murder.”

“Go on,” I say.

“Do you know Temescal Gateway Park?”

“Uh-huh.” Temescal Gateway Park is about twenty minutes from where I live and work—Westwood, L.A. I’ve even done a few of the park’s walks.

“A body was found there an hour ago. Right on the border of Topanga State Park.”

“And we’ve got a call already?” Police rarely call in the FBI so quickly in a homicide case, unless there’s something strange about the death or the area is rural with no local expertise in murder cases—and nothing twenty minutes in any direction of L.A. is rural. There must be some other reason why the Bureau’s being pulled in early. Could be jurisdiction if they suspect the killer’s been active in other states or, given they’re calling a profiler, it’s also possible there’s something unusual about the murder or the scene.

Rosen’s tone softens. “You’re going to love this one, Anderson.”

“Really?” I lean back into the car seat and am met with the sticky sensation of sweat-drenched hair on the back of my neck. When you do yoga poses in nearly 104 degrees for an hour and a half, your body takes a while to cool down.

“It’s gold.” Rosen pauses again and I get the feeling he’s enjoying keeping me in suspense.

I play along. “Come on. Spill it.”

“Where to start… Female vic, reported missing early this morning…and there are two puncture marks on her neck.”

Puncture marks? I immediately think of last night’s dream, but say, “Like a snakebite?”

“Maybe. But there’s another line of inquiry, too. Rumor has it a group of self-proclaimed vampires uses Temescal Park for rituals from time to time. The group’s called After Dark and apparently its leader is a charismatic male, which fits the cult pattern. If we are dealing with a cult and it’s suddenly turned violent…”

“Gotcha.” I take a deep breath. Cults, or NRMs—new religious movements—if we’re being politically correct, aren’t my usual area of expertise, but I have studied the psychology behind NRM behavior and some of the more spectacular examples of cults gone terribly wrong in America’s past. But is vampirism a religion? Maybe some people treat it like one.

Rosen continues. “Couple of months back they arrested two people who were in the park illegally, after hours. That’ll be your starting point.”

“Two people…that’s hardly a cult.”

“No, but they are part of After Dark. The two guys said they were in the park by themselves and stuck to that story, but rangers saw a much larger group dispersing.” He takes a breath. “Come into the office and I’ll brief you fully, then I want you to get your ass down to the crime scene.”

“Yes, sir.” I look down at my yoga gear. “It’ll be half an hour. I’m not at home.” Normally I’d head straight to work, but given my current state I need to shower and get some proper clothes on first. No way am I showing up at a crime scene in tiny shorts and a midriff top, both partially see-through from sweat.

Rosen pauses. “What the heck. It’s a nice day out. Let’s just meet at the scene. See you at Temescal Park in forty minutes or so.”

“Yes, sir.”

Interstate 5 is busy as usual, but it’s moving well and I make good time back home. Within ten minutes of Rosen calling, I’m pulling into a parking spot on the street and racing up the stairs to my apartment. My shower is rushed, but while I’m shampooing and rinsing I think about the case—what little I know at this stage. A cult of vampires? This could be big. Whatever happens, it’ll certainly be interesting. And how many “vampires” are there in L.A.? I’ve got lots of questions and no answers.

Within fifteen minutes I’m showered and dressed in gray pants and a black scoop-neck top. To this I add my shoulder holster and Smith & Wesson before popping the suit jacket over the top. Time to hit the road.

I drive north on Veteran, past the massive veteran cemetery, up to Sunset. On the corner of Veteran and Sunset a guy with a board slung over his body advertises maps to celebrity homes, reminding me that I’m passing through that part of town. I take a left, traveling west.

The drive along Sunset is peaceful, and as the road winds through wealthy suburbia, with large blocks and beautifully kept houses and gardens, I try to recall last night’s dream. I was running through a wooded area and there were at least two people running after me, maybe three because I had people on my tail when I slammed into the “vampire.” I visualize Temescal Park and try to imagine it in the dark—the area certainly fits the bill, fits my dream.

As I round a bend just near Chautauqua Boulevard, a row of tall gum trees reminds me of home. In some ways America and Australia are so different, yet you could take small sections of each country and cross-transplant them without really noticing much discrepancy. The gum trees remind me of similarities, but one trip on the I-5 would remind me of the differences. And the drive-through Starbucks here…I could have done with a few drive-through coffee shops when I was on the force in Melbourne.

I hit Pacific Palisades, and the group of shops on Sunset gives the suburb a homely, almost rural feel. I’m close, and sure enough a few cross-streets later I come to Temescal Canyon Road. I turn right into the park’s entrance and am immediately met with an LAPD car.

I hold my ID against the driver-side window and the officer waves me through. “Drive on up to the top, ma’am.”

I follow his instructions and drive past a couple of parking turnoffs, until I see more cop cars and a Chevy Impala with the coroner’s emblem on the door. I pull my car onto the side of the road, just after the Temescal Camp Store. A sign says Park Vehicles Only, but today it’s overrun by law-enforcement cars. Rosen is holding a file in his hands and leaning on his car—obviously waiting for me.

Once I’m parked next to him, I open the door. “Is she up one of the trails?”

“Yup.” Rosen moves toward me and waits while I quickly change into the runners I keep in my car.

I tie my laces. “Beautiful spot, huh?”

“Sure is.”

Problem is now this park will be forever tainted with murder and with memories of last night’s dream. Not all my dreams come true, but obviously last night’s must have had a psychic nature.

I stand up and take a deep breath of the spring air. The temperature isn’t anywhere near the daily maximum yet but it’s a pleasant and fresh sixty-one degrees.

Rosen hands me the file.

I take the white manila folder. “You spoke to the homicide detective?”

“Yup. Detective Sloan from LAPD. She said to take the Temescal Ridge Trail about a mile up.”

I nod and flip the file open. The first photo is a close-up of a woman’s neck, with two puncture marks. “Crime-scene photos already.” I raise my eyebrows.

“We are in the digital age.”

I smile. “Quite.”

I’d like to flick through the file’s contents now, but I’m also eager to get to the crime scene. “I’ll check this out later.” I close the file but keep a hold of it. “Let’s head up.” I don’t want to keep the LAPD waiting any longer—not when they’ve invited us onto their turf.

We make a beeline for a lone cop who seems to be on point. He stands next to a flagpole and an American flag twitches in the slight breeze above him. Around this bitumen area stand large trees—firs, oaks and sycamores—as well as smaller shrubs and a very young willow tree. Extending up behind the cop is a steep hill.

We show him our ID and he waves us through. “Take the left-hand trail, ma’am, sir.”

We both thank him and follow his directions. Within three hundred feet we come to brown tourist signs indicating the different trails. We climb the couple of steps made from stone and take the left fork at the next round of trail signs, which tell us that the Temescal Ridge/Temescal Canyon trail is a 2.6 mile loop. So far the area is peaceful, but I know darkness waits for us. A woman has come to a grisly end at the hands of a murderer…or two…and it’s up to us to give her justice. I know it’s cliché but that’s still how I see my job—bringing justice to the dead.

“Do you know Detective Sloan?” I ask Rosen as we walk up the steady incline.

“Sure. She’s an old-timer. Did her stint in the Sheriff’s Department but couldn’t give up the chase.” He lets out a little laugh. “LAPD decided to give the old gal a second running.”

“Is she a fan of the Bureau?”

“I don’t think she’s particularly pro or anti. But she knows this case could be tricky. It’s certainly unusual.”

“I’ll say.”

Given the uphill and windy nature of the gravel trail, coupled with the dense brush, we could be a minute’s walk from the scene and wouldn’t necessarily see it. I tread carefully and keep to the main pathway so as not to disturb anything that may turn out to be evidence. I also keep my eye out for anything unusual. No point looking for footprints, because the area’s covered in them. If the perps left their own mark on the trail last night, they would just blend in with the hundreds of others. Hopefully there’ll be some more telling prints near the body.

We get to a bend in the pathway and take the turn. The path extends up for another three hundred feet in front of us to a ridge, where the trail turns again…but still no body.

I look up the hill. “Maybe it’s around the next bend.”

“Sloan said they’re in a clearing off the trail, but that we’d be able to see them from the main path.”

I nod and we keep moving upward. My heart rate increases slightly and I can feel my fatigued muscles working on the steep incline. On either side of the trail are smaller shrubs scattered amongst the trees. There are also several cacti dotted around the patches of vegetation. The path is obvious; however, it wouldn’t be that hard to move off the trail and through the denser brush.

Finally, at the next corner, I hear voices. It’s still hard to work out how far away they are, with the wind and mountain slope carrying the sound and distorting distance, but we’re close.

Both the victim and killer, or killers, probably came up this path. There’s only one way up, unless they hiked in from the neighboring Will Rogers State Park to the east or Topanga State Park from the north. But it’s much more likely they parked on the street somewhere, jumped the park’s nighttime barrier and made their way to the trail. The park is only open from sunrise to sunset, but I doubt the security is heavy.

“Who found the body?” I ask.

“One of the park rangers. They had a call at nine this morning from a resident who overlooks the park. He spotted what looked like torches around midnight last night and then lights again just after two. Called it in this morning.”

I look around for any houses that might have a good view. From here there are only a few houses in the distance to the east, too far away to see much.

Rosen’s starting to puff. “The ranger didn’t think much of it, but decided to check it out anyway. It was about ten when he found the body.”

Rosen called me around eleven, so things moved pretty quickly. An LAPD officer would have come down immediately to secure the scene and wait for the homicide detectives, Forensics and crime-scene photographers. The specialists would have arrived about 10:30 a.m., and the forensic pathologist from the coroner’s office probably only just beat us.

Within a few minutes I can see another row of houses in the distance—one of these homes must be our witness’s. I look around, taking in the surrounding area more closely. To the south is the ocean, and to the north, east and west are hills, some of which are claimed only by nature, while other slopes hold large residences or clusters of smaller houses. The views would be magnificent and I imagine it’s prime real estate. Certainly nothing I would ever be able to afford on a government salary. So, the witness saw into this clearing, saw activity, but did he see anything that will help us further? All the houses are too far away for the naked eye, but if the resident has binoculars or a telescope, he may have seen much more than I glimpsed in last night’s dream.

We round another bend and run into a hive of activity. Most are uniformed police officers from the LAPD, but I can also make out the forensic pathologist Belinda Frost from the coroner’s office and a few plainclothes officers. Only one female in plainclothes, presumably Sloan.

In her mid to late fifties, she wears her graying hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. She’s about fifteen to twenty kilograms overweight, and well-defined lines across her brow, eyes and around her lips help me peg her age. She wears a well-cut navy suit, with pants that flare slightly at the ankle. The suit’s color brings out bright blue eyes and naturally rosy cheeks.

Rosen strides over to her. “Detective Sloan, nice to see you again.”

“You, too, Agent Rosen.”

Rosen introduces me.

“Ah, yeah. My head girl.” She taps her head.

“That’s me.” I smile and take her outstretched hand.

She gives me two firm pumps. “Thanks for coming out so quickly.”

“Thanks for calling us in.”

She gives me a forced smile. While some law-enforcement officers jump at the chance to get a helping hand from the FBI, others avoid us like the plague. Sloan requested Bureau involvement but it doesn’t look like she’s exactly overjoyed by our presence. She’s probably just covering all bases.

“So…there’s our gal.” She steps to one side giving us a view of the body next to Frost’s crouching figure. The victim looks to be in her late teens or early twenties and is slim but curvy—a fact accentuated by her nakedness.

Frost turns around. “Hi. It’s…Anderson, right?” She and I met at a conference six months ago.

“Yup. Agent Sophie Anderson.” She’s several feet away, so we give each other a nod rather than going in for a handshake.

“And good to see you, Agent Rosen. Out in the field, huh?”

Rosen shrugs. “Well, it was a nice day, and this case sounded intriguing.”

Frost nods. “It is.”

I move closer. “Any chance it’s just a simple snakebite?”

“Unlikely.” Frost stands up. “Snakes usually leave residual venom around the wound. I swabbed the area and my preliminary tests were clear. I’ll run full tests back in the lab to be sure, but at this stage it doesn’t look like we’re looking at a snake.”

“Was there any saliva?” Is DNA too much to ask for?

She shakes her head. “No saliva showed up under ALS, but we might get something from deeper inside the wound.”

Whether the murder was premeditated or an impulsive act, the killer may have had the good sense to wipe the girl’s wound clean of saliva—assuming she was, indeed, bitten as the fanglike puncture marks might suggest. Still, we might find something he missed, hiding in a crevice of the wound.

“Any sign of sexual assault?” Rosen asks.

“Rape kit was positive for semen, but at a guess I’d say we’re looking at consensual sex. No bruising or tearing. And no restraint marks.”

I nod, but I know it’s inconclusive. Rape comes in all shapes and sizes and just because her body doesn’t show signs of violent or rough sex, doesn’t mean it was consensual. A gun or knife to the head—or some other threat of violence—usually ensures the victim doesn’t struggle.

“Any defensive wounds?”

Frost squats back down and picks up the dead woman’s arm with a gloved hand. “We’ve got a few scratches on her arms, hands and face, but if she ran along this trail or in this area they’re probably from the tree branches rather than an attacker.”

Last night’s dream comes flashing back. The victim was running all right, with branches hitting her face despite her attempts to shield herself.

“I should be able to confirm that under the microscope. There’ll be particles of wood or leaves.”

I squat down next to her. “And cause of death?”

“Not sure at this stage.”

I peer more closely at the neck wound. The two puncture marks are perfectly cylindrical and very neat, with no obvious tearing of the surrounding skin. However, the skin is red, and looks almost like a small hickey—like someone sucked on the wound. “Could it be blood loss? If we are dealing with someone from this vampire group, that’s likely, yes?”

Frost screws up her face. “She looks a little pale but if she died of blood loss it’s going to be a tricky one to prove.”

“Really?”

“There’s no way to test at autopsy how much blood is in the body and we’ve only got a few drops here.” She points to roughly six drops of blood next to the body.

I’m surprised, but when I think about it I’ve never worked a case of blood loss where the surrounding area wasn’t covered in blood. And the experts always specify how much blood was lost at the scene, from which they can conclude blood loss as the cause of death.

Sloan bends down next to the corpse, too. “Someone sure has made it look like a vampire, though.”

“Not necessarily look.” I scan the rest of the victim’s body. “There are people who truly believe they are vampires. That they need blood to survive.”

While it’s possible someone wants us to think we’ve got a vampire on our hands and is recreating that scene, it’s also possible that we’re dealing with people who believe they are modern-day vampires. If that’s the case the murder and crime scene hasn’t been purposely staged, the killer has just murdered the victim in what he’d consider a “natural” way. And psychologically there’s a big difference, especially in terms of a profile.

I stand up again. “Time of death?”

“Based on her liver temp and the current outside temperature, between one and four.”