“Lap hell, it’s the moist crotch.”

In the photo accompanying his bio, Goodman looked the prosperous, middle-aged country squire with one foot perched on the front bumper of a golf cart, his hands clasping the grip of a nine iron. He wore shorts that showed off well-muscled legs. Unlike with most retired men, there was no hint of a roll around his waist. The logo of the hotel decorated the left breast of his polo shirt. One tip of his collar was flipped up as if to express his carefree attitude.

Goodman projected the confident air of a man with few regrets. Friendly eyes squinted into a bright, inviting sun. An admirably healthy shock of blond hair-cut moderately short on the sides-framed his angular, handsome face.

I handed Carmen the picture of Goodman.

She asked, “This is the man who murdered my chalice and killed your alien friend?” Her voice was skeptical. She returned the photo.

“The trail leads to him,” I said. “Gilbert Odin tells me to find Goodman. Johnson turns up with a dead woman, your guest, with a blaster wound identical to the one that knocked off Odin.”

The chalice on the table started to snore.

Carmen stroked her hair and shushed her as one would a baby. “Why Marissa?”

“You said she was a private investigator,” I replied. “Are you sure she wasn’t here on a case?”

“I don’t know.” Carmen’s aura tightened and dimmed with doubt.

“So why kill her?” I asked. “With an alien weapon?”

Carmen crossed her hands on the table and kept quiet. One finger tapped the opposite wrist and stopped. “What if no one was supposed to find her body? Then it didn’t matter how she was murdered.”

“Good point but it doesn’t answer the question,” I said. “Why kill her?”

Goodman’s face stared back at me from the photo. I couldn’t believe that this man who had slummed his way through an army career as a duffer was my prey.

Carmen must have sensed my dilemma. “Johnson was human, right?”

“Definitely.”

Carmen kept quiet and let her silence raise the next question.

“You’re suggesting that Goodman might not be?” I asked.

“Gilbert Odin did a good job masquerading as human when you first met him,” Carmen said. “Fooled even you.”

I folded the papers and slipped them into a pocket. “Or this golf pro could be a decoy to hide the identity of the one I’m looking for.” I remembered the terrible wounds that killed Odin and Marissa. They must have suffered. And the warning: save the Earth women. From what? Was the murderer human-an earthling traitor-or an alien?

Carmen slipped off her bench and stood in the sand. “There’s only one way to find out, Felix. Let’s go rattle some cages. When do we leave?”

“There’s no ‘we,’ Carmen.”

“Like hell. Marissa was mine.” Carmen wasn’t a big vampire. Standing barefoot, she almost reached my nose. But though I outweighed her by at least fifty pounds, there were lions I’d rather tangle with.

Her lips twitched and the tips of her fangs started to protrude. “You’re saying I can’t handle this investigation?”

“Carmen, don’t put words in my mouth.”

Her forehead remained furrowed while her mouth curved into a malicious grin. “It’s not words I’d like to put in your mouth.”

“Settle down, Carmen. The answer is no.”

“To what? The investigation or putting things in your mouth?”

“Both. We can’t rattle cages, not yet anyway. We start clomping around and we’ll give ourselves away. This investigation is going to require more subtlety than zapping Goodman and munching on his neck.”

Carmen’s fingernails extended into talons. Her aura brightened like a flame. “I’d gladly do that interrogation.”

I couldn’t back down, not if I wanted to stay in control of the investigation. “The murders were to protect some big plan and Goodman is the key. Until I find out what that plan is, I go alone.”

“On one condition,” Carmen demanded.

“I’m not negotiating.”

“Well, I am. I let you go alone, for now, and in return, you owe me two hours of Kama Sutra sex.”

“No, Carmen.”

She grinned and tapped her foot. “Five hours.”

“Nothing doing.”

“Eight hours. You better load up on oysters.”

I raised my hands in surrender. “Okay, five hours.” If I had to, I’d borrow Thorne’s ice pack.

Carmen’s victory pulled her grin into a pearly smile. “I’ll put you on my calendar.”

How to go after Goodman? I could either circle like a shark, moving closer until I knew enough about him to strike. Or I could go straight after him, like a cruise missile.

Why waste time then? Why not go after him directly?

Because, as a vampire, despite my superpowers, I only had to make one mistake. What if Goodman was bait? Who or what protected him? If humans caught me and discovered I was a vampire, the best I could expect was a quick execution by the Araneum. To protect the secrets of the undead, they’d strike to destroy any evidence of a supernatural creature. Felix Gomez would be a pile of ash scattered to the winds.

I’d investigate Goodman by hiding in plain sight. First, I had Deputy Johnson’s money, a hundred and fifty grand in hundred-dollar bills, that wasn’t doing me much good as cold cash. I went to Key West, got my car, and cruised up the Intercoastal Highway to Miami to visit a dozen check-cashing stores and buy money orders. As long as each cash transaction was under ten thousand dollars, I should stay off the government’s radar. I mailed the money orders with deposit slips from my checkbook to my credit union in Denver. Despite an afternoon of stopping in one seedy strip mall after another, I still had a third of the money left. Laundering drug money was tedious work. I converted a bunch of the hundreds into twenties, which were easier to spend.

I made reservations at the Sapphire Grand Atlantic Resort, where Goodman worked. Fortunately, I had stashed most of Johnson’s money into my bank account. A few days in even the cheapest suite-the hotel had nothing for the budget-minded-would’ve maxed out my credit card. I transferred funds to cover the difference.

I drove straight from Florida through Georgia to South Carolina and arrived at Hilton Head in mid-afternoon. The drive on Highway 278 snaked around the island developments: shopping centers, restaurants, houses, golf courses, and lots of condos. I navigated a traffic circle and pulled up to a guardhouse done in pink stucco.

The guard wore the uniform of a private security firm and he carried a pistol. I told him I had reservations at the hotel. He gave me a onetime in-and-out pass that I had to exchange for a guest pass from the hotel.

The two-lane street curved under a tunnel of live oaks draped with Spanish moss. A bike path ran parallel to the street. I drove past more condos, some tennis courts, and plenty of fairways. Hilton Head seemed like one giant golf course where people happened to live. I had to stop twice to let golf carts cross the street. Groundskeepers in teal overalls tended the flower beds and shrubs along the shoulders.

The street looped past a second guardhouse, this one vacant, and turned into a roundabout in front of the hotel entrance. Dozens of tall palms lined the street and sidewalks. Considering its exclusive clientele, the Sapphire Grand Atlantic Resort looked understated. I expected a gargantuan edifice of Las Vegas proportions that screamed: Look at me.

The main hotel building was only four stories tall, the rows of dark windows flanking a simple portico. Yet the architecture remained thoughtfully constructed. Its pink marble façade curved toward me, as if leaning forward for an expensive hug.

A sign pointed to guest parking on the north side of the building. I entered a parking garage, left my Cadillac on the second level, and dragged my roll-along bags inside.