What did the Araneum mean, “compromised”? Captured? Exposed as a supernatural? How could that happen? Any other vampire? What other vampire? And what about “these extraterrestrials”? The only ones I knew just left Earth. Why was the Araneum passing this information now, after I’d sent the alien Gilbert Odin on his way? If this was so damn important, why didn’t the Araneum alert me sooner?

We expect your usual thoroughness. Your investigation is to be kept confidential.

Report when completed.

Araneum

Report when completed what? Thoroughness at what? Who was I supposed to blab the investigation to? Talk radio? The Araneum knew more about this threat than I did. Why were they so stingy with information?

Rain trickled down my face and splashed onto the parchment, smearing the ink. No poof into flames.

I slipped the crow from under my armpit. It blinked and snorted indignantly.

I waved the parchment in front of its beak. “Okay, wise guy, if there’s no sunlight, what’s to keep this from getting into the wrong hands?”

Snapping faster than a mousetrap, the crow snatched the parchment from my fingers and the swatch of vampire skin disappeared down its throat. The crow swallowed, looked at me, then burped smoke.

I waved away the foul-smelling puff. “Next time give a warning.”

The crow chirped, sounding like “Ha, ha.”

I gave it a shake. “If you got anything coming out your butt, keep it to yourself.”

I unfolded the newsprint, an article about a charter airplane, a Cessna Caravan, that had crashed last week near San Diego, killing all seven aboard. What did that have to do with the aliens? Obviously the article was a clue, but for what? Okay, I am a detective but a little help was always appreciated.

Raindrops soaked the newsprint. I wadded it into a soggy ball, which I offered to the crow. “Might help with your heartburn.”

The crow squirmed, indicating that it wanted to be let go.

I pushed the wad of newsprint into the capsule, screwed the cap back on, and clipped it to the crow’s leg.

I set the crow on the sand. It shivered and remained still for a moment before starting to limp away. I expected the crow to leap upward but it didn’t, instead continuing on its trek through the rain.

A pair of headlights crossed over the bridge from the mainland. When I looked back at the beach, the crow was gone.

I returned to my Cadillac. I had my orders.

I spent the next two nights in Fort Myers, in a proper hotel more upscale than the Sarasota pit where Odin had died. I didn’t feel like sharing a place with bedbugs or hookers.

Trouble waited for me, so I needed to regroup and refresh. As a vampire, I could only last so long on a human daylight schedule before turning into a cranky and dull-minded insomniac. I had to stay sharp. The best way was a long nap in a coffin but I didn’t bring one. Too bad I couldn’t try a routine of poses from The Undead Kama Sutra to help realign my chakras.

I went online and checked the classifieds at HollowFang. com, the Internet newsletter for vampire aficionados. A funeral home in Orlando made deliveries, code for temporary sleep accommodations to traveling vampires. I requested a Majestic Imperial casket with the Sedona leather lining and hammered brass fittings. I was on vacation. Why not splurge? Besides, I got a “family” discount.

The delivery crew brought the casket up to my room, explaining to the hotel staff that it was a magic prop. I hoped to chat with the crew and touch base with the local nidus. But both humans seemed clueless about the true nature of their employer.

I pushed the bed aside and had the crew lay the casket in the middle of the floor. The casket was a vintage model, complete with a foldout crystal ashtray. Fortunately, instead of old stogies, the leather lining smelled of Vancouver Island sinsemilla. I dozed off dreaming of fanging topless Canadian women in dreadlocks. The DO NOT DISTURB sign on the room door kept the maid away and I slept-forgive me-like the dead for the next thirty-seven hours.

I started the first day awake with a mug of organic, fair-trade Bolivian coffee, a raspberry scone, and a 450-milliliter bag of whole human blood that I’d brought along in a cooler. Arterial type A-negative-the good stuff.

Since I had no idea where to start looking for this Goodman character, I continued on my original reason for coming to Florida, to find Carmen and quiz her about The Undead Kama Sutra. I drove south, as if the Florida peninsula was a drainpipe leading me to Key West.

Early evening, after the sun had set, I was on U.S. 1, midway between Islamorada and Duck Key. The fragrant sea air rolled in through my cracked window during the long drive across the intercoastal bridge connecting the Keys. The bridge was a ribbon of concrete that hopscotched from the Florida peninsula across a chain of islands that stretched into the turquoise sea. That the bridge continued to exist at all was a testament to Nature’s forbearance rather than man’s ingenuity. The ruins of the old bridge lay in pieces between the islands, where a hurricane had torn the structure apart. Small key deer picked at grass around the remaining abutments.

Traffic stopped suddenly as if the road ahead was paved with glue. In a rush of noise, a couple of women on custom choppers thundered past on my left as they white-lined between the lanes. One a brunette, the other a redhead. Tiny bikini tops barely covered their muscular, tanned torsos. Braids swirled behind their heads. Wraparound sunglasses shielded their eyes. Lean shanks of leg showed between the hems of their denim shorts and the tops of their cowboy boots, which were propped on the highway bars alongside the engines. Light flashed off the bangles on their wrists and the chrome of their bikes.

I dropped my sunglasses to peek over the lenses at these high-octane mamas.

Orange auras.

Vampires.

I immediately recognized one aura. Carmen. She wasn’t kidding about working on her tan. She sported the best makeup job I’d ever seen on the undead.

I’d’ve followed Carmen and her redheaded friend. But I was stuck behind a Dodge Caravan with a litter of snotty kids wiping their boogers on the rear window.

Carmen rode a green bike with a flame paint job. She cocked her thumb at me and shouted something to her fellow biker on a blue metal-flake chopper. They exchanged nods and sped away.

I knew Carmen had seen me. Why didn’t she stop? I texted her:

It was late evening when I finally rolled into Key West. No reply from Carmen. Along Truman Avenue, I searched the rows of motorcycles parked in front of the strip joints and dives. I found the two choppers outside a tavern called Murphy’s Scupper.

Inside, Murphy’s was a zoo of sunburned bodies and laughing drunks. I bought a beer, tucked myself into a corner, and scoped the auras by taking furtive glances over the tops of my sunglasses. Where had Carmen and her friend gone?

Two tables away, a huge, bearded gorilla of a human saw me looking at him, his buddy, and their two drunken female companions, both of whom looked like they’d used volleyballs as breast implants.

He scowled and shoved his beer into the hands of the blonde next to him. His ball cap read: WOMEN NEED ME. FISH FEAR ME.

What class. Now I knew what attracted his mate.

He stood, pushed his way through the crowd, and came straight at me. His hairy face screwed into a snarl. Beefy, tattooed arms stretched the sleeves of his Hawaiian shirt, which was tight around his beer gut. Hammer toes clutched at flip-flops.

He pointed a fat index finger at me. “You. Yeah, you, faggot. Whatta you looking at?”