The Vampire Murders

By C.S. Torres

Sometimes...she needs blood. In the middle of New Orleans, people are turning up dead, their blood removed, and two holes in the neck. The vampires are back! Well one is, a so-called vamp who fancies herself an artist, drains each victim’s blood and paints with it. But why?

A Christmas Eve ferry crossing the Mississippi dishes up a drug bust that turns into a bloodbath. After his partner is gunned down, Detective Dex LaSalle transfers from narcotics to homicide, then teams up with Detective Al St. Germaine to solve a series of murders dubbed “The Vampire Murders" by the media because the killer leaves two puncture holes in each victim’s neck after draining their blood. While investigating this Mardi Gras murder spree, Dex and Al discover that the failed Christmas drug bust is connected to the serial murders and to one of their own, Detective Claude Devine.

The vampire murderer, Judy, kills Claude Devine in the ultimate act of revenge, revealing to him that he is her biological father moments before she commits patricide. That’s not all she has to dish up that fateful night: her other revelation is that she drove the getaway boat on the night of the Christmas drug bust. Judy later kidnaps Detective Dex LaSalle's love interest, Delia, then holds her captive in Harry’s uptown mansion, and Harry harbors the vampire murderer and her hostage after the serial killer makes a few missteps and blows her cover. While in Harry’s nest, Judy becomes pregnant and, instead of killing Delia, Judy keeps her on as a confidante.

Once the vampire murderer gives birth, Harry dumps her hemorrhaging body outside the Royal Street Police Station in the French Quarter. Judy nearly dies, but recovers and escapes. After Dex rescues Delia, Harry breaks into her home to murder her so she can’t identify him. Delia shoots Harry in the leg, and he hobbles off. Harry returns to his lair and Judy, whom he thought was dead, lays in wait to kill him. She then sets the mansion ablaze, uses Harry’s pickup truck to dump his body outside the French Quarter Police Station, and skips town.

Judy gets a new identity thanks to plastic surgery, returns to New Orleans and the murders begin again. She now divides her time not only between murder and art, but shows up at Harry’s mother’s doorstep to take an interest in her daughter, Lily. One day Judy surprises Lily with a toy tea set. Lily spies Judy pouring her poison concoction in the grandmother’s afternoon tea and innocently mimics her mother, mixing Judy’s poison concoction with soda to make “tea.” Judy swallows her daughter’s concoction and dies, but detectives Al and Dex arrive in time to save the young daughter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.S. Torres
• Release date: Dec 8, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301965915

C.S. Torres

Check out my three ebooks on Smashwords: Mattie's Compass, a Young Adult Novel that combines Sci-Fi as well as Adventure elements; Shortcomingz, an eclectic short story collection (misspelled on purpose...call it one of my shortcomings); and The Vampire Murders, a Thriller set in my hometown of New Orleans. (What better setting for a wicked little Goth Nouveau tale?) I recently finished my fourth book and third novel; I am not uploading it to Smashwords because I am querying prospective agent(s)/publisher(s). This recently completed novel is the story of siblings experiencing a certain haunting by family ghosts. So far, my latest novel became a 2023 Killer Nashville Claymore Award Finalist as well as earned placement on the 2023 Nervous Ghost Press Longlist for Prose. I am waiting for a WIN and a traditional publisher!My foray into the world of screenwriting also includes ten feature screenplays (two are adapted from my books and two are co-authored) and, all of which have placed from Quarterfinalist to Finalist in numerous screenplay contests.Like many writers, I'm an introvert and take the road less traveled. Maybe, if you want to know more about me, you might find clues in my fiction, where some writers hide facts and truths . . . because via my novels, screenplays, and short stories, I hope to speak truth about the human condition - yours, mine, and even those other sometimes under-heard voices, speaking to our existential dilemmas.

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The Vampire Murders

by C.S. Torres

Copyright 2012 by C.S. Torres

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Part One

River Runs Red

Chapter One

Lieutenant Detective Claude Devine, dressed as a chauffeur, drives with the windows open under a full moon on a mild and balmy Christmas Eve. Close to midnight, he steers the limo past the casinos on Canal Street and onto the ferry ramp. Undercover narcotics detectives, Jim O’ Riley and Dex LaSalle, sit in the compartment behind him and Claude rolls the privacy panel down to listen to their chatter.

I don’t see why you have to go it alone, Dex says.

García wants it this way – mano a mano, Jim answers.

Yeah, but I’m your partner. I should be out there covering you.

I’ve seen García in action, Jim says. He doesn’t make sudden moves.

Watch you don’t go doin’ nothin’ foolish. Hand him the money, get the heroin and haul your butt back to the limo ‘cause the swat team is gonna’ be comin’ from the cap’ins’ quarters, the engine room and the upper deck. Jus’ be sure you get back to the limo lightnin’ fast, Claude says.

Been there, done that, guys.

What sa’ matter? You nervous? Claude asks.

Man, he’s busted more dealers than you, Claude, Dex says, gazing out the window, at pedestrians disembarking from the Algiers Ferry.

Look at that, there goes Santa Claus, Claude points and honks.

Probably working the graveyard shift in one of the casinos tonight, Dex observes.

Could be. I heard that the new floating casino, the Flamingo, has a midnight cruise with dinner, drinks and Christmas presents. But there’s not much money in playing Santa Claus, Jim says.

Not much more in playing policeman, Dex counters.

Santa’s job is safer, Jim says.

The cars are done unloadin’ and we’re ready to roll, Claude announces, as he drives the black limo onto the ferry. The only other vehicles onboard are a white utility van and a silver Mercedes – García’s car.

Good, it’s practically deserted down here, Dex says.

Ain’t no fools travelin’ ‘cross the river at midnight on Chris’mas Eve, save cops and killers, Claude quips, while pressing a button and raising all the windows.

And drug dealers, Dex says. Beads of sweat collect on his forehead. If Jim isn’t nervous, Dex worries for him.

García’s got two men with him, what we agreed to – a driver and a security guard. But I don’t like that van between us, Jim says.

No problem, Jim, Claude says.

Still and all, if there’s any shooting, I don’t want any innocent bystanders caught in the crossfire.

Ain’t gonna be no shootin,’ Jim. Listen, the engine's idlin’ and they’re closin’ the ramp. There’s only García, we three crackpots with a swat team to back us up, and a van – piece o’ cake.

Crackpots? Speak for yourself, Claude, Dex says, bringing some levity to the tedious small talk. He and Jim exchange bemused glances. While their eyes are in sync, Jim goes serious.

I'm getting tired of undercover life, Jim says, and grabs Dex’s attention. I might be better off playing Santa in a casino. You never know if someone’s gonna’ recognize you or blow your cover or blow your head off.

Yeah, but it’s so exciting, Dex says, in a tone laced with sarcasm.

Seriously, man, I’m gonna’ quit working undercover narcotics. That’s my New Year’s resolution.

When did this happen?

I’ve been thinking about it for a long time, Jim answers. The bellowing ferryboat horn punctuates his sentence. After this din, one can hear water splashing the hull of the boat as it crosses the Mighty Mississippi.

What will you do?

I was talking to Al St. Germaine last week. What with Garrison getting promoted, he’s looking for a new partner.

He’s in homicide, isn’t he?

Yeah.

Might be an interesting change, but I don’t see how it’s safer. And, a perplexed expression passes over Dex’s face, then, I won’t have a partner.

Dex, who is fit and youthful, studies Jim. Although Dex is four years older than his partner, the signs of aging are less evident on him, at least tonight. The creases on Jim’s broad forehead run deep, as do the furrowing lines between his rust-colored eyebrows. Jim turns his head and stares out the window. Dex can’t see those mercurial eyes that seem to change colors depending on Jim’s mood – gray for gloomy, blue for dreamy, and turquoise for upbeat.

Claude breaks the silence. We’re almost there. García said to meet him at the bow, when the ferry is midway ‘cross the river.

Okay, I’ve got the backpack of money, half a mil. I’m ready, Jim says.

Now’s the time. Go now, Claude barks.

Jim gets out, strides to the appointed meeting spot, joins García and makes the exchange. As he turns back, the limo in his sights, Jim screams a warning, but his words are drowned out by the horn of a passing barge. An army of gunmen jump out of the van and open fire on Jim as well as the limo which, with its bullet proof windows, offer a large measure of protection for Dex and Claude. The swat team dash out into the fray when they hear the gunfire and bombard García’s mercenaries with a counter attack. Dex jumps out into the battle. In the confusion of the moment, amidst the whirring and zinging of bullets flying through the air and ricocheting off the metal hull, García makes his escape, diving off the ferryboat with the $500,000 backpack, toward a speedboat hidden on the starboard side of the ferry. García aims for the river, but gets spear-headed on the brass flagstaff of his getaway boat, pierced through the heart. The impaled kingpin and his drug money would go for one last ride on his boat, Carga.

As the shooting subsides, Dex rushes to his partner’s side. Blood spurts, gushes and pours out of dozens of bullet holes in Jim’s torn up body.

Jim struggles to speak. There’s a boat, man. We were set up.

Hold on, Jim. We’re gonna’ get ya to the hospital. Hold on.

Dex cradles Jim. His partner’s eyes roll back in their sockets and he lets out a gurgling sound that Dex has heard before, the death rattle. The ferryboat bobs midway between the Canal Street Wharf and the Algiers Landing, the engine idling in neutral. García’s getaway boat speeds up, piloted toward the Mississippi River Bridge by an unknown accomplice. The sound of the motorboat grows dim and, for a few moments, silence reigns over the army of dead and wounded bodies sprawled out on the lower deck. The bells of St. Louis Cathedral begin ringing, angelic chimes to herald the Catholics’ Midnight Mass. But, to Dex, they are tolling the death knell.

What just happened? Dex screams.

We didn’t get the signal, the swat team leader answers.

What?

Another swat team member shouts. Check on Rod and Steve. What happened to them?

Check the engine room and the cap’ain’s quarters, Claude yells.

Two scouts scamper about, following his orders.

Rod and his team are all down – injured or dead, one of the swats yells back, as he races across the lower deck. Most of those left standing are running around in a panic, some to check for survivors, others to corral the passengers on the upper deck.

What about Steve? He was with the captain, Dex gasps.

Steve and the captain are dead.

No! No! No! Dex riffs, in disturbing disbelief.

The last communication we got from Steve was when he radioed us to say he was in position, the swat team leader says.

Then that’s why you didn’t get the signal, Claude explains. "Steve and the captain musta been killed before the dope deal. Before they could signal anyone.

Dex holds his dead partner in his arms, his clothes drenched with Jim’s blood.

Radio the Coast Guard, Claude instructs. We need someone to bring this boat in. And call for ambulances.

A starry sky is revealed as the gun smoke clears. City lights shimmer on the river. One can see Christmas lights gracing French Quarter businesses in the distance.

I guess you won’t be transferring. But I’m left without a partner, after all. I’m gonna miss you, Jim. Dex LaSalle slumps his head as he gently lays his partner’s body on the deck and covers Jim’s face and torso with his jacket. He stands up and surveys the corpses and the injured on deck. Dex hates the smell of blood – the stench of death. He fantasizes about playing Santa on a floating casino. He tries to breathe, but the heavy burden in his chest makes it laborious, haunted as he is by Jim’s last words: We were set up.

Maybe it’s time to transfer, Dex thinks. Yes, Jim was right: you never know if someone’s gonna’ recognize you or blow your cover or blow your head off.

Chapter Two

Iggi’s Saloon is a rundown barroom in the French Quarter frequented by locals and the occasional tourist. The atmosphere is more than comfortable or ambient – it’s potently addictive. The regulars at Iggi’s are a mélange of drunks and dreamers, would’a beens and could’a beens, whose element is a diaphanous liquid. Leon tends bar this Thursday evening in late January.

I’m hungry, Jude says. When’s Ruby getting here?

She’s running late, but called to say she’d make it by 6:30. Anyway, our reservation isn’t until 7:00. We’re cool.

Leon places a bowl of pretzels in front of his cranky girlfriend at the same moment Ruby Rodrigue, a large woman dressed in garish-colored, loose fitting clothes, rushes in.

Oh, my God!

What’s wrong, Jude? Leon asks.

Those colors...where does that woman get her fashion sense?

Hi, darlin,’ the effusive Ruby says, greeting Leon. Sorry I’m late. I was getting a haircut and a perm and it took longer than I thought.

Has no one, Jude speaks disdainfully, and pauses melodramatically, ever taught you about the importance of color?

At first, Ruby’s black pupils angrily flare against her pale blue irises, but she resists the urge to respond to Jude’s remarks, knowing this would only give the little witch some sick sense of satisfaction.

Tia, a bohemian-styled tarot card reader and astrologer, glances up from a reading and glares at Jude with her dark, intense eyes.

You’ve recently had a medical problem, Tia says, refocusing on a stunning young woman. You’re in remission from cancer.

The young woman anxiously nods.

The cards indicate that you will have a long life. I also see a man. You’ll be married within eighteen months and, later, you’ll have a daughter and a son. The marriage will last.

A long life, marriage, children, she says, blinking back tears.

I can see him, Tia says, and further grabs the young woman’s interest. He’s tall, with dark hair, and handsome.

The young lady flings her head back and flutters her eyelashes.

You’ll meet him soon, Tia pauses, in late March. I’m getting the letter D.

My name’s Delia.

No, it’s his name. Or, I should say, both of your names. The letter D figures prominently.

Leon listens, intrigued.

Tia, can you do a reading for me?

Don’t waste your money, Jude scolds.

Leon gets his reading free, Tia says, flashing a deadpan facade.

Then don’t waste your time, Jude counters.

But Leon is intent on having a reading. He wipes his hands on a bar rag and when Delia stands, he bee dives for the chair. He sits across from Tia and solemnly holds the cards between his palms. His curly hair frames his ruggedly handsome features as he picks ten cards and Tia arranges them in a Celtic cross.

Roland Hebert, an unshaven roustabout, stumbles over to the table, thumps his beer down and plops into a chair beside Tia.

Holy shit, he exclaims, when he sees Leon’s draw. That’s one hell of a hand, Death, the Devil, and the Nine of Pentacles, all inverted. Hey, Tia, isn’t that a pretty scary hand? Not to mention the….

It’s a new deck. Tia cuts Roland off. I forgot to shuffle. She quickly gathers the cards, but instead of shuffling, places them back into the the case. I’m not up for another reading tonight.

Leon gently rests his hand on Tia’s wrist. Some weird shit’s been happening. Give it another shot.

Tia relents and pulls out another deck. She shuffles the cards and forces a smile.

Yeah, that’s her lucky deck, Ruby yells from behind the bar. Last week she told me my income would increase and I won $500 in Black Jack.

Cool, Roland yells back.

I can’t believe you believe this nonsense, Jude snaps, and glares at Leon.

If you want your luck to change my friend, Tia says, as she places the deck in his palms, shooting him a stern but friendly gaze, you must give up your clandestine activities. Money isn’t everything.

Soon. I will. Soon.

Time is growing short.

Leon clasps the deck in his sweaty palms for several moments before he sets the cards down and slowly, deliberately, precisely, chooses ten. Tia places them on the table and studies them.

I can’t do this reading. My energies are not, no the vibe is not, the connection is gone.

Jude laughs derisively and spouts off. Cheap melodrama. C’mon Leon, let’s get out of here.

Leon is silent as Jude leads him out of the raucous bar, but a stunned expression passes over his face. He glances back at Tia.

Jude turns back, throws Tia a victorious glare, and locks eyes with the intoxicated roustabout. She calls out, Roland, we’re going to Antoine’s with some of the gang. Phyllis will be there. She’s been asking about you.

Not tonight, Roland says, his few words slurred after an eighteen-hour stretch of beer and whiskey chasers. It’s hardly seven o’clock on a foggy, winter’s eve in the French Quarter, but Ruby will soon be calling a cab so Roland can go home and pass out.

The following January day dazzles under a brilliant blue sky. The mixture of sunlight and a gentle, Gulf breeze wafts through winter’s fossilized leaves as Detective Dex LaSalle strides down Chartres Street, past the tree-lined and azalea-filled backyard of St. Louis Cathedral. He turns into Pirate’s Alley and walks past a drunk who slides into an alcoholic stupor in the gutter where a stench hovers around the ageless, haggardly man in his ragged and dirty clothes. Dex quickens his already brisk pace and emerges into the splendor of Jackson Square, filled with artists committing tourists to canvas, musicians compelling their saxophones to sing or their guitars to hum. A mime challenges his audience right beside the wrought iron gate to Jackson Square, mocking the religious zealot who stands but twenty feet away, near the cathedral, entreating sinners to repent. While Dex watches the intense interplay between the mime and the evangelist evolve, he catches a glimpse of Jude, seated in front of the Cabildo, drawing a caricature of a willing tourist. He lingers and watches the mime in his virtual caricature before he wanders over to Jude’s corner of Jackson Square. Dex stands behind her, among a group of curious onlookers. Jude doesn’t see the detective yet. She immortalizes a tourist’s visit to the Crescent City – not a very flattering rendering of a forty-something-year-old woman, a woman with little to distinguish her from millions of other women her age, whose youth is fading and swiftly turning her into someone else’s mother, someone she hardly recognizes herself. But perhaps the caricature might render her distinct, capture a fleeting personality trait or attitude to set her apart from the anonymous heap of other women her age. As she sits still, posing for posterity, her husband gazes upon the artist’s palette and canvas with bemusement. Jude charcoals in the finishing touches, collects her due and catches sight of Dex.

Oh, detective, you again. Did you want to have your caricature done?

No, no, no, I look strange enough already, Dex says, and chuckles. But would you like me to do one?

I didn’t know you were an artist, too.

I’m not, but I paint pictures inside my head, you know, characterizations of murderers. Right now, I’m painting a picture of Leon’s killer. What do you think he looks like?

I wouldn’t know, Jude says, with a curious annoyance. That’s your job, detective.

It’s in the job description, for sure.

Did you want yours done? Jude asks again, perhaps to say that if Detective Dex LaSalle doesn’t want to have his caricature done, he ought to move on.

No thanks. I never understood why anyone would pay for their caricature. I’d probably get more bang for my buck if I went to a tarot card reader, Dex says and glances at the human circus that encompasses Jackson Square, finally resting his eyes on Tia, one of several tarot card readers mixed in with the mimes, musicians and artists.

Tia, Jude shakes her head in disbelief. Surely you don’t believe that stuff.

You know, the N’Awlins Police Department has consulted psychics on several occasions and, a few times, it’s helped solve cases.

Then go consult Tia, or any of the half dozen self-appointed psychics you’ll find hanging around Jackson Square on any given day."

I think I will, Dex says. Jude seems pleased to hear this. But, first, I have some questions.

Listen, I told you everything I knew when you knocked on my door at 3 a.m.

Since, then, Ms. Parimev, I’ve heard that you and Leon were an item.

We were friends and enjoyed each other’s company, but an item – not. We had some dinner dates and hung out together, that’s all, Jude curtly replies.

Where’d ya’ go to dinner?

Antoine’s and Tujague’s and, on Sunday’s, we went to Brennan’s. But mostly, we hung out at Leon’s place, listened to music and talked.

Takes a lot of money to indulge such expensive taste buds on a regular basis, and on a bartender’s salary. Imagine that.

If you’re implying that I have any inside information on Leon’s dope deals, you’re wrong. All I know is that he was dealing, Jude says. I don’t do drugs myself, and I encouraged him to stop. I would have been happy with an order of fries from a fast food joint. I liked to be with Leon. We were friends. End of subject.

Did Leon have a lot of visitors?

Of course. Traffic in and out all the time, junkies and recreational users.

Really? Dealing out of his apartment? Didn’t you mind hanging out with that crowd?

That crowd, Jude says disparagingly, that crowd included lawyers, policemen, city council members – you know, the crowd you hang out with.

You make it sound like all cops and lawyers are corrupt.

Aren’t they?

No, Dex says. He peers into Jude Parimev’s eyes.

Jude flicks her sandy blonde locks back with a cavalier toss of her head.

What about Leon’s enemies?

I really don't think I know anything that might be helpful. Like I said, I don't have any specific knowledge of Leon's drug deals.

I understand. But, you know, sometimes people think they don't know anything that would help the police when they’re sitting on a wealth of information.

No, really, detective, I made it a point not to know.

No names, faces?

Nothing, Jude answers.

Dex squats down and picks up a quarter from the ground. Then, his