I went to the alley and counted houses until I found Katz's.

Her back door faced a row of detached garages. I tugged on the handle of the garage I presumed would've been hers. Locked.

As I put on a pair of thin leather gloves, I looked about to see that no one watched. I twisted the garage door handle until metal snapped. I gave the handle another pull, and the garage door slid up.

I half expected to find Katz's corpse rotting inside. Instead, the garage yawned empty. Oil stained the concrete floor. A bicycle with a broken chain and flat tires leaned against one wall. Cardboard boxes sat in lopsided stacks on the far side. I checked the boxes and found only women's clothing.

I shut the garage door and climbed the back stoop of Katz's house. The door and windows were locked. Curtains prevented me from peeking inside. But the windows on the second floor were open.

The backs of the other townhouses faced the alley. I examined the rows of windows, concerned that I might be watched, and saw nothing to trouble me.

I scaled the wall by climbing along the gutters. I pulled back on the screen of the closest window and slipped into Katz's bedroom.

For a woman whose occupation would've earned her a dishonorable mention in both the Old and New Testaments, the bedroom was decorated in pedestrian tastes: simple pine furniture, striped linen, pictures of birds and flowers on the walls. No leather harnesses, whips, or boxes of dildos.

I checked the rest of the house. Nothing remarkable in the kitchen or bathrooms.

I found a filing cabinet in the spare bedroom closet. Katz kept receipts, bills, bank statements, contracts, even personal letters in meticulous order. Must have been the lingering mid-westerner inside of her. None of the documents provided anything useful.

What I didn't find were the usual carry-it-with-you possessions. A ring with car and house keys. Purse or wallet. Cell phone.

Nada.

It seemed Katz had walked out expecting to come back, except that she hadn't.

I went out the window the same way I'd come in. Until Katz called me, if she ever did, I'd work on the list of murder suspects, starting with her boss and the leader of the Los Angeles nidus, Cragnow Vissoom.

From Katz's house it was a quick drive west to Canoga Park, home to Cragnow's porn studio. Gomorrah Video was off Sherman Way where I turned right at a corner with a Tio Taco and a store with the sign ETHICAL PHARMACY. I passed a print shop and a plastics distributor and circled a two-story complex in white stucco.

A tall metal fence surrounded a parking lot. I entered through an open gate. At the far end of the lot, a cargo truck was backed against a loading dock. The other cars in the lot included two Sebring convertibles, an Audi, and a Hummer.

After parking the sedan, I took off my sunglasses to remove my contact lenses. Red auras surrounded the few humans down the street. I put my sunglasses on and clipped the holster and pistol into the back of my trousers.

The entrance to Gomorrah Video was a nondescript glass door flanked by windows facing the sidewalk. Mylar film covered the glass on the inside.

The door buzzed as I entered. A chest-high counter divided the reception area. An interior door opened to the right. A video camera watched from above that door.

A lanky brunette, almost as tall as my five ten, stood behind the counter. She kept her attention on papers she shuffled on the countertop. A cropped Miss Kitty T-shirt stretched over small breasts round as tangerines. Tribal tattoos curled around the biceps of her toned arms.

Vampire? I slipped my sunglasses a bit, enough to glimpse a red aura. Human.

"You're late. The audition was at two," she said, not bothering to look up. She pushed a form across the counter toward me. "Hope you brought two types of IDs like you were told."

I adjusted my sunglasses and cleared my throat.

"This ain't a babysitting service," she said. "You wanna work, then buy a goddamn watch and use it." She lifted her head. Her gaze dropped from my face to my crotch. Her forehead creased in puzzlement. "You're here for an-"

"Audition?" I replied. "No. Apparently I don't have enough of a middle leg."

She gathered the papers into a pile. "Then why are you here?"

I could zap her and walk in, but the camera would record me. Considering that at least one human had been murdered, not to mention the disappearance of vampire agents from the Araneum, I'd better be careful about drawing attention. I couldn't smash through the city like a wrecking ball and expect to sift for clues in the debris.

"I'm here to see Cragnow Vissoom."

"You got an appointment?" She tucked one strand of hair behind an ear studded with rings.

"Tell Cragnow that Felix Gomez needs to see him. Mention that it's family."

"Family," she repeated in a shocked whisper. She pulled her arms back and stepped away. Her blue eyes signaled alarm.

Unless she was a chalice, why did she cringe at the word family, code for vampire? If she was a chalice, she should be better trained than to exhibit such public telltale behavior.

She fumbled under the countertop, brought a telephone receiver to her ear, and pressed buttons. "Andy, it's Rachel. Someone's here to see Crag." A pause. "Felix Gomez. Family."

Rachel glanced at me, then to the floor. "I'm sure he is." She hung up. "Crag… Mr. Vissoom will see you. It'll be a minute."

My fingers tingled with caution. I backed against the wall. The pistol pressed into my lower spine. The entrance and front windows were to my left, the interior door to my right. In case of an ambush I'd spring to the ceiling, tear through the acoustical tile, and bash my way out the roof.

The interior door opened. Two young men entered, both shaved bald. One was Caucasian and the other Afro-American. They wore sunglasses, T-shirts, black leather vests, and jeans. Their vests were unfastened and bulged unnaturally, barely disguising the shoulder holsters tucked underneath.

I peeked over my sunglasses to catch auras simmering with suspicion. Orange auras. Vampires.

Thick muscles roped across their torsos and arms. Intricate tattoos covered the arms and neck of the white vampire like a puzzle of geometric bruises. His companion's dark skin appeared waxy despite the makeup. He was obviously a recent vampire. Squat and short, in matching outfits, they looked like they were auditioning to be Ninja Turtles.

They waited at the threshold of the door and stared from behind their sunglasses in practiced macho postures.

"We gonna sniff each other's butts or what?" I asked.

The black vampire tipped his head down the hall. "This way."

"You first," I replied.

Tattooed white vampire beckoned with his hand. "Humor us, tough guy."

We proceeded over a polished floor, past several doors and a shipping bay. Stacks of DVD boxes and computer components lined shelves inside the bay.

The hall led to stairs we climbed to the second floor. Posters of porn actresses spanned the adjacent walls. One door along the hall was open, revealing a bed and klieg lights. An antiseptic smell pervaded the air, evidence of the mopping up of love puddles accumulated in a day's work.

The hall ended at a set of wooden double doors. Fixed to one door was a brass name tag engraved with CRAGNOW VISSOOM, PRESIDENT.

The black vampire knocked once and opened the door without hesitating. "Go on in."

The room was decorated in the current retro vogue. The low ceiling emphasized the horizontal design of the furnishings. At the immediate right stood a liquor cabinet and bar in Danish modern. On the left, soft light illuminated a large aquarium.