This Dan Goodman, a retired U.S. Army colonel, moonlighted for a secretive defense contractor.

Now Goodman was involved in the crash investigation of a commuter airliner.

A big fat why hovered in my brain.

And even more sinister, Goodman had left for Chicago yesterday. The plane crash happened this morning.

Coincidence? Not according to my stink-o-meter.

Did that mean Goodman either knew of or was responsible for the plane crash? How?

And how did that tie into the other mission Gilbert Odin handed me, to save the Earth women? What about the Araneum’s alien connection?

My first task was to track Goodman. He sat in the middle of the bull’s eye. I’d start right where the TV showed him to be. The crash site south of Oswego, Illinois.

The Internet gave me the map grid location of the crash site. I rented a Lexus SUV because of the onboard GPS, and followed the directions southwest on I-55, then north on Highway 30 to Oswego, where I took a county road.

I looked for a column of smoke in the afternoon sky. On TV, dense smoke had risen from behind a tree line, as ominous as a death shroud. Shouldn’t be hard to find.

But the sky was clear now. Helicopters marked the spot as they orbited like flies over a picnic. A sheriff’s white patrol car with lights flashing was parked beside a portable barricade straddling the road. The barricade read: LOCAL TRAFFIC ONLY.

I rolled my window down and slowed for the deputy wearing a safety vest. I told him, “I live at the new development.” There were always new developments, anywhere you went.

He glanced into my car and waved me through.

A quarter mile from the crash site, an impromptu bivouac of news vans crowded the shoulder of the road. Masts with antennas telescoped from the van roofs. On the opposite shoulder, state troopers, federal marshals, and more deputies milled alongside a yellow barrier tape. The tape stretched for hundreds of feet on either side of a second road leading into the woods.

Journalists with microphones and video cameras waited in clusters. A black Suburban appeared in the second road. The lawmen parted for the SUV to pass and the newspeople crowded around it. The SUV turned left and headed west. The journalists relaxed with their equipment and slunk back in boredom.

I’d return later tonight. The police weren’t expecting anyone more bothersome than a persistent reporter, so I should have no problem sneaking through as a vampire.

I figured most of the local hotel and motel rooms would be taken by the news media or crash investigators. Besides, for hospitality I wanted the personal touch.

I drove north into Oswego. A brunette in black spandex jogged around the park of a residential neighborhood. She filled out her top nicely and, for proportion’s sake, had a fair amount of junk in the trunk. She stepped away from the park and went up an adjacent street. I removed my sunglasses and contacts. Her aura was calm. Nothing bothered her except for the sexual frustration that appeared in her aura like small fractures in glass.

I replaced my contacts and slowed alongside her. I could use vampire hypnosis and get my way regardless. But I never liked that-I preferred to cast the bait and see if the woman responded. I used to rely on vampire hypnosis later in the liaison, mainly to keep secret the pale, translucent skin that I didn’t cover with makeup. But I had a tan now. Would I need hypnosis at all?

I halted against the curb and gave her a “rescue me” smile. “I’m kinda lost. Can you help with directions back to the highway?”

The woman stepped off the sidewalk and braced her forearms against the window opening on the front passenger side of the Lexus. Her perspiration had activated her perfume and the scent was a tempting appetizer. “Nice car,” she said.

The hook was set. I didn’t think it would be so easy.

Her left hand dangled into view. She wore an engagement ring. Considering her lingering sexual frustration, future hubby wasn’t taking care of business.

She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Where you from?”

“Colorado.”

She twirled a lock of her hair around a finger. “What are you doing here?”

“Business.” I told her I was a talent scout for a marketing company. “I’m looking for a great pair of hands. We need them for jewelry and soap commercials.”

She spread her fingers. “I have nice hands.”

“You do,” I answered.

“How do you audition hands?”

Depends on your needs. “It’s an involved process.”

“I’ll bet it is.” She drummed her fingernails against the door. “How about a lift to my house so I can clean up? Then maybe we can talk about auditioning my hands.”

My door locks popped open. She got in and scooted across the leather upholstery. Her scent became even more tempting. We exchanged names; hers was Belinda.

If you’re a vampire, getting into a woman’s pants is easy. There’s the hunt and the conquest but without an emotional connection, after a while it’s like eating in a restaurant by yourself. It might have been the fanciest meal in town but the experience wouldn’t beat sharing a plate in a greasy spoon with a friend.

I’ve learned that I can’t have a normal relationship with a woman. I’ve tried and the result was like flying in the Hindenburg. I had concealed my undead nature but the deceit built up like hydrogen gas before exploding and tearing us apart.

What I most had to hide with hypnosis was my translucent vampire skin. Now with a tan, I was free of that masquerade.

The mystery now was how well I could get to know Belinda and how well would she get to know me.

An hour later we were in her town house, frolicking naked in the big tub like a couple of otters. I couldn’t believe my freedom. No more tricking a woman to hide my vampire persona. I had dropped my skivvies and there I was. Everything a nice shade of pecan brown. We compared tans.

I held her hand and rubbed my thumb over her engagement ring. “What about your fiancé?”

“He’s postponed the wedding twice. He’s lucky I haven’t pawned the ring for a big-screen TV.”

Belinda took the ring off and set it on the rim of the tub. “My hand doesn’t need the ring for the audition, does it, Mr. Talent Scout?”

The way she said that meant I was busted about being a talent scout, but the way she pressed her bare breasts against my chest meant it didn’t matter. We adjourned from the tub to Belinda’s bedroom. She pulled an open carton of Trojans from under the bed.

I thought about trying some of the Kama Sutra poses, but my hostess wanted only the quick basics, and gentleman that I pretended to be, I couldn’t refuse her.

The sound of a toilet flushing awoke me. Had I fallen asleep? The night’s activities had done wonders for my mood, leaving me so relaxed that my body settled against the mattress like a bag of jelly.

The digits of the clock radio read two A.M. A border of light outlined the bathroom door. The rumpled sheet on Belinda’s side of the bed conformed to her shape. Her pillow carried a pleasant damp scent. Ice melted in an empty pitcher of margaritas on the night table.

I smacked my lips and tasted B-negative. Of course I had fanged Belinda. After all, she was my dinner.

As a vampire, I fang for nourishment, to deepen my hypnotic hold, as the first step in converting a victim into a vampire, or to kill.

We vampires secrete enzymes through our fangs. One enzyme induces deep amnesia, another accelerates healing to hide our puncture wounds, yet another gives an almost hallucinogenic pleasure; without it, the victim feels like fire is surging through their veins.

Belinda might have two faint yellow bruises where I’d fanged her. The enzymes in my saliva expunged the memory of my bloodsucking.