Blood Harvest by Michael Weinberger Read Free Book Online Page A

Phillip’s knees, which had been weak from fear the moment the sound turned off, were suddenly bolstered with strength born of anger and adrenaline.
    “Are you responsible for this you bastard!?!”
    “You want to know what happened?” the man calmly responded.
    “What have you done!?!”
    After a brief, yet incredibly uncomfortable pause the man said in a frighteningly deep hiss: “You’ll never know.”
    “What…?” Suddenly fear returned full force along with confusion as the man raised the camera up and into Phillip’s face. “What the hell are you doing?”
    “Nothing…Smile.” The deep voice sang the word out in the same manner a grandmother would while taking pictures of her grandkids. The man quivered with what seemed to be orgasmic delight as the red eye reduction strobe illuminated Phillip’s face.
    Phillip saw the strobe and began to speak when he suddenly realized he couldn’t get any words out. He tried to protectively raise his arms, but his muscles failed him and they fell slack to his sides. He began to feel himself lose his balance; he couldn’t use his legs to catch himself as he began to drop. As he fell he was still able to control his eyes enough to look at the man who stood before him. He had lowered the camera from his face and was smiling with an ugly, wide-toothed grin. Phillip’s mind raced. All thoughts, words, memories, emotions flashed through his consciousness with such speed he couldn’t register or comprehend anything. His vision began to blur and fade to dark with the last sight he would ever see being that of the lanky figure with the wide-toothed grin.

    Chapter 6
    Los Angeles. 2:30 A.M.

    California weather never fails to disappoint in its ability to be spontaneous. The cool, dry night had developed into an unseasonable downpour three minutes earlier. By the time Steve Jacobs arrived on the scene at The Inferno the rain had stopped, leaving a clean but humid feeling to the surrounding area. Steve was not the first investigator from the LAPD to arrive. He may have, in fact, been the very last as the immediate surroundings were now at least two cars deep in rows of flashing red and blue siren lights. The accumulation of ambulances along with marked and unmarked police cars forced Steve to park his old (or as he liked to say “unpretentious”) Toyota Celica over a block away. At least this way he didn’t have to worry about any of the city vehicles scraping its faded but still good looking paint job.
    Steve parked in an alleyway perfumed with the garlic smell of the Korean restaurant whose back door was left open to the alley, not as an entrance for customers as much as a reprieve from the heat of the kitchen for the staff. Above the door a yellow electric sign cast a sulfurous glow.
    Steve ran his fingers through his wavy dark brown hair which hadn’t been combed since he got out of bed half an hour ago. He had received the call a couple of minutes before 2:00 A.M. and was shocked to hear the Captain call him personally. Despite enjoying a close, and more often than not, supportive relationship with his superior, the Captain had other experienced detectives who he communicated with in a more official manner. It was the strain and unease in the Captain’s voice that concerned Steve and which preempted any of his questions about the call. Without a second thought he raced from his desk and arrived at The Inferno on the Sunset Strip in a record 30 minutes.
    Exiting his car, Steve did a quick inventory of the detective gear he had so rapidly pushed into his pockets before rushing out the door. His firearm was securely in its holster attached to his belt at his side; his gold detective’s badge was clipped to the front of his belt so he wouldn’t have to constantly flash it from his pocket as every uniformed officer tried to block his entrance on the way into the scene. Not that he would blame them, of course, since he was dressed in the very civilian looking apparel so