Smoke and sparks circled the buildings. Red flames licked from the windows. Fire alarms screamed. People bolted from the exits like frightened rabbits.

I found my motorcycle where I had left it. I raced up the block and passed the spot where Niphe's car had been.

Lara had gotten away.

I drove to Culver City and stopped in a sports bar. I needed time-and a drink-to plan my next moves.

All the televisions except one were tuned to baseball. That one television showed the burning office complex. A newsman appeared on the screen, positioning himself in front of fire trucks and the burning building. He had the pronounced jaw-line and thick, groomed hair that advertised him as a personality you could trust. He clutched a microphone and cupped his other hand over an ear. He nodded excitedly at the camera.

I could barely hear the newsman over the patrons roaring in delight at a rerun of the day's game highlights.

"Arson… sabotaged the suppression system… fire burning out of control." The newsman turned his body, pointed to the building to emphasize the obvious, and faced the camera again.

The newsman continued. "Gunfire… a government official not yet been accounted for."

I could account for her.

The waitress dropped off a Manhattan I'd ordered. Venin, Cragnow, Niphe… all dead. Who was left for Lara to kill?

Julius Paxton. And me.

With Venin and Cragnow dead I doubted Paxton would stay put for long. He lived in Granada Hills, on the northwest side of the San Fernando Valley. I'd start looking for him there.

At one o'clock in the morning, Paxton's neighborhood looked as saccharine as a Thomas Kinkade painting. I rounded the corner at low speed to mute the rumble of my V-Max. A Lincoln Navigator pulled out from Paxton's driveway and jerked to a stop in the middle of the street. The Lincoln's big front tires twisted and ground against the asphalt. Orange and red auras told me that a vampire drove and a human occupied the front passenger's seat.

The orange aura belonged to Paxton. The red, a chalice for sure.

The Lincoln accelerated away from me and took the corner at such speed it seemed about ready to tip over. I hung back one block and followed.

At the next corner, during a left turn that brought the Lincoln broadside to me, Paxton's aura flared with alarm. The Lincoln picked up speed and zoomed through a stop sign.

He must have seen me through his side window. I gunned the engine, and the Yamaha leapt forward like a hungry cheetah.

Paxton raced past traffic lights, oblivious of the cars swerving and braking to avoid him. He shot onto the access ramp for I-405 heading south.

Paxton's aura gave him away like an orange signal marker. He drove fast, the big Lincoln muscling through traffic like it owned the interstate.

We traveled east and south. Where was Paxton going?

Palm Springs? Orange County? San Diego? Didn't think so.

How about Mexico? That I'd bet on.

He would cross the border and disappear. Except he wouldn't get to Mexico. I'd stop him.

We passed the interchange of the San Diego and Long Beach freeways. Paxton accelerated to a hundred plus.

I opened the throttle to intercept speed, and the rumble of the Yamaha's four cylinders turned into a scream. The wind became an icy hand slapping my face. My clothes whipped against my limbs.

I brought the V-Max directly behind Paxton and closed the gap to within ten feet.

His brake lights illuminated in a panic stop, and the rear end of the Lincoln came at me like an enormous metal boxing glove. I let go of the handlebars and tucked my head against my chin.

The front tire of the Yamaha crashed against the rear bumper. The motorcycle flipped forward, catapulting me helmet-first through the rear window.

Glass exploded around me. I flew into the Lincoln like a spinning cannonball, lost for a moment in a maelstrom of confusion, motion, and pain. Color and light swirled around me. I slammed into a hard surface and fell sideways on something soft and yielding. A seat.

A woman screamed. The Lincoln jerked to the left and right. I fumbled for leverage, grasped a door handle, and sat upright. Boxes and stacks of suitcase crowded around me.

The Lincoln swerved across the lanes. Paxton's aura flamed with surprise and fear. A young woman, with hair and a face like a Barbie doll, beat at his arms and shrieked.

"He's inside, Julius. Shoot him. Shoot him."

I climbed into the middle seat, grabbed the chalice by her long tresses, and pulled her face toward mine. "Shut up." I gave her a glare that could knock out a squad of firemen.

Her aura puffed out and shrank to a muted glow. She sat paralyzed with hypnosis.

I pulled my Colt pistol and jabbed it against the nape of Paxton's neck. "Slow down."

The speedometer dropped below one hundred, then ninety, eighty, and held steady at seventy. A green highway sign announced the next exit as Avalon Boulevard.

"Get off the freeway here." I removed my helmet. "Go north."

"Where are we going?"

"To have a chat. I need to complete a report to the Araneum, and since you're the only one in your merry band who's still walking and talking, well, I guess you're it."

The tendrils of his aura writhed like snakes caught in a trap. Paxton didn't question what I had said about him being the only one remaining from his "merry band."

"We can work a deal."

"Paxton, you got nothing I want except information."

The Lincoln circled down the off ramp to Avalon Boulevard. I directed him into a parking lot. Raccoons scattered in front of us, their auras crimson jewels rolling across the asphalt.

"Stop here," I ordered.

We halted in the middle of the lot.

"I'll tell you everything," Paxton said. "Then let me walk. No one has to know."

The Araneum already considered him more ash. "Afraid not. It would cost me my reputation."

"I got money. I got a harem of chalices."

"And I got you by the balls." I screwed the muzzle of the pistol deeper into his skin. "Who put the bomb in Coyote's truck?"

Paxton's aura brightened like a lamp.

I jabbed the pistol against his neck. "Who?"

"My vampire cops. On Venin's orders."

I gritted my teeth in rage. I pistol-whipped Paxton's head. "Who was in charge of the investigation into Roxy's murder?"

"What's that got to do with this?"

"Answer the question."

"I was," Paxton replied.

"Cragnow didn't kill Roxy. Venin didn't. And you wouldn't wipe your nose unless they told you, so you didn't kill her either. Then who did?"

"I don't know," Paxton answered.

"Then why the cover-up?"

"Because we didn't want to know. Roxy was dead, and whoever murdered her did us all a big favor."

The chalice rolled her head and regained consciousness. She blinked, looked at me, and let out a scream that could echo to the San Gabriel Mountains and back.

I didn't see Paxton throw the punch but I did see plenty of stars. Pain clotted my thinking. I lifted myself from the seat.

Paxton jumped from the Lincoln.

I broke the side window and shot at him.

Paxton stumbled. He regained his footing and limped toward the road.

I jerked the door open, stunned and smarting from Paxton's sucker punch. The chalice lunged for me and grabbed my hair. I slapped her away and tried to zap her. She kept her eyes closed and flailed her arms. I grasped both her wrists with one hand and squeezed. She yelped in pain and opened her eyes. Finally. I left her sitting motionless and got out.