“You are a lifesaver, my dear. Did you manage to dig up anything on Codex?”
She whistled. “Not yet. It’s turning out to be a bitch of a ghost. They make the CIA look like an open source project.”
“So you’re saying it’s too hard?”
“No,” she fumed, “I’m saying it’ll take a little more time. Did Lois Lane ever let Superman down? Did Penny ever let Stark fly off without his pants?”
“You are one true geek, darling,” I told her. “And I love you for it. I do have one more piece for you, though.”
“Lay it on me.”
“Dorothy Rays. She’s a college girl that went missing and fell into a black hole of nothingness. No follow-up, nothing.”
“You think it’s our guy?”
“I don’t know, but only the truly powerful can make a girl like that vanish into thin air.”
“You know it. I’ll see what I can dig up.”
“Did I ever tell you how amazing you are?”
“All the time, but it’s always good to hear. Keep breathing, Superman.”
She hung up and I leaned back in the chair. So we had a senator who had a grudge against Beth and a software wizard who owned a house in the richest part of Seattle as well as a penthouse downtown. The suspect list wasn’t long, but it sure as hell was interesting.
Time to see what Mercer Island held for me.
“I was about to come and check on you,” Fay said as I stepped out into the main library. “Management wouldn’t look kindly on a dead body in the back.” She sat in the same chair behind the main desk, except now she held Crime and Punishment in her hands. She was about a third of the way through.
“Morbid, my dear, extremely morbid,” I told her with a smile. “This was another boring day in the life of a writer. It’s not like the movies.”
“You make it sound so glamorous, it’s a wonder I still have my day job.”
“You need this job? Uh-huh. That’s like saying the crown prince of England needs to do his own socks.”
She shrugged. “I like books. I also know that Otis and I would rip each other apart if I stayed home. I love the man dearly, but he’s been a bear to live with these past few years.”
“He needs a hobby,” I said. “Maybe fishing? His people used to fish all the time.”
“His people fished in ice. I can’t see Otis being that patient anymore. Besides, neither you nor I can give him what he really needs.”
I put my hand on her arm. It was like comforting a piece of cord wood. “He’ll snap out of it one of these days.”
She patted my hand. “You’re sweet, but you know my kind doesn’t change.”
“You did.”
She gave me a sad smile and gently pulled away from my hand. In the three years I’d known Fay and her husband she had never opened up to me like that. It truly was a day of wonders. I also knew not to push it.
I started past but then stopped. “Oh, I forgot to ask you something. Do you know of a connection between an angel named Azazel and Loki?”
“That’s an odd question. Why do you ask?”
“A friend of mine thought there might be a connection. It’s for a book I’m writing.”
“You’re a bad liar when you want to be, Nick. But no, there’s no connection. The Norse gods were barely infants compared to the Ancient Ones, no matter what their aspects.”
“OK, just checking. See you around.”
“Nick,” she said. “Be careful. I see a storm coming. What you do now and what you uncover are only the outer fringes. Updrafts, my stepson would say.”
I smiled. “You’re not going to tell me any specifics, are you?”
“Why, my child, that would go against my nature,” she said with a grin. “And as I said, my kind doesn’t change.”
But that’s the rub, I thought as I stepped out into the drizzling rain. I remembered Cate’s body and the demon hunting for Beth.
We humans don’t change that much either.
<><><>
I hardly ever visit Mercer Island. Most of my trips consist of the five minutes it takes to drive across the island on the way to Bellevue from Seattle. Most of the residents made well into seven figures. My books were popular, but not that popular. So I ignored the stares as I steered my beat-up truck down the narrow streets.
I passed one house that looked like some god had ripped up the Greek Parthenon and plopped it down in a yard the size of a football field. Another could have had Scarlett O’Hara lounging on the redwood porch while her slaves toiled in the field outside. The island was a world of ambition and power, where the mighty stored their secrets behind marble columns and Olympic-sized swimming pools.
Finally I reached the address on my printed map. Henry Divita owned a modest home—if your idea of modest ran in the five-bedroom, two-story types with a front yard that could fit my entire apartment and still have room for a Winnebago. Still, compared to some of the castles I passed on the way here, it was pretty humble.
There was no electric fence, and no security cameras were perched on the doorways. I knew Henry wouldn’t leave his front door open with a big neon sign reading “All Your Clues Be Here,” but he didn’t seem as paranoid as some of his fellow Mercer Island residents. Better for me.
I drove past the house until I reached the parking lot of a nearby elementary school. The air held its breath as the day tipped over into night. The school sat in darkness, with a few houses nearby lit with the promise of dinnertime. I parked the truck next to a slumbering white van and stepped out into the crisp air.
The coming night whispered to me as I strolled down the side street. Thick conifers lined the road, and I could barely make out the mansions nestled way back out of sight. Privacy was a luxury everyone here could afford.
I strolled up to the front door of the Divita home, looking like just another friend paying the man a visit. Not a single light flickered in the windows when I rang the doorbell. It did set off a staccato of frenzied yaps, which made things trickier. Dogs were always fun when breaking into a house.
Glancing up and down the empty street, I quickly passed over the manicured lawn and stepped under the low-hanging branches of the Douglas firs that blanketed the small estate. Needles brushed against my arms as I kept close to the wall. I passed under a small herb garden that perched on a windowsill.
It seemed as if I walked a mile before coming to the back fence. Here the barking became urgent, originating from ankle height. I contemplated the height of the fence as the world’s littlest guard dog tried to tear out my throat through two inches of hardwood.
This was it, the last chance to turn around and swim back to saner waters.
I took a deep, lengthy breath while I widened my hearing, pulling at different sounds like strings of a cello. The dog scrabbled at the fence. Crickets and what sounded like a squirrel burrowed under the carpet of pine needles. A few miles off I could make out the main road as the occasional car broke the silence. No police, no alarms, and no worried neighbors.
I exhaled, and the night receded to normal.
“Geronimo,” I whispered. It was what Cate used to say before heading into the unknown. With her wry smile playing in my mind, I scrabbled over the fence.
The yard itself was surprisingly small, with evergreens lining the edges and a modest concrete pool in the center. It didn’t scream evil demon sorcerer, but that didn’t mean much. Jeffrey Dahmer was such a nice, quiet neighbor.
A light drizzle misted the air as I landed softly on nicely trimmed grass. As I did, a tiny ball of fluff yipped and jumped back a good ten feet. If the would-be guard dog was more than a foot long I’d be surprised, but his courage grew with every bark. He advanced with a growl.
I didn’t break into houses often, but I knew enough to come prepared. Dogs were always a problem, no matter what you did, but most had one major weakness.
I bent down and pulled a baggie out of my jacket pocket. I had picked up the contents on the way over, and as
the little guard dog advanced with fangs bared, I zipped open the bag and flung the gift out onto the grass in front of the tiny beast.
The terrier sniffed the thick rib bone cautiously, his barking quieted. He kept sneaking glances up at me, expecting me to flee or fight, but I just sat on my haunches and waited.
Finally the dog couldn’t withstand the temptation. Although it dwarfed him by a few inches, he grabbed the rib and darted into the bushes. I knew he would return, louder than ever, but it gave me a little time.
The Divita home didn’t have guards out front and barbed wire fences, but it was foolish to think they didn’t have security. Sure enough, I knelt down next to the back door and examined the thin silver filaments tracing their way up the glass. Divita wasn’t paranoid, but he wasn’t stupid either.
Now, there are straightforward ways to break into a man’s home, but most modern devices are unreliable. The more expensive the alarm, the bigger the chance of it ruining your whole day. In my old line of business, I found there were more reliable ways of dealing with electronics, but none you could find at Walmart.
I pulled out a cigar case and turned it over in my hand. Long and thin, it was almost a hundred years old, with the gold plating turned green around the edges and small patches of tin showing through. On the cover of the case was a raised engraving of a shamrock.
While it wasn’t a pawn shop’s dream, its true value lay in the history. An elderly lady with bleached blond hair and a crazy smile had given it to me after a routine exorcism I helped set up in LA about ten years ago. She claimed she was the lover of Arthur T. Barry, a notorious jewel thief in the 1920s. Never did find out if she was telling the truth or not, but when she pulled the cigar case out from a dusty trunk in her attic, I could feel its power from the stairs.
Called the “Gentleman’s Thief,” Barry robbed the likes of Percy Rockefeller and a cousin to King Edward VIII all without disturbing the slumbering occupants. To this day few knew how he slipped in and out of the houses, past all sorts of locks and defenses.
I carefully popped open the cigar case. On the inside of the case’s lid was an engraving that read “To my dearest, love Lucy.”
Most women in the 1920s gave their lovers pocket watches or rings or even a nice batch of Cuban cigars, but Lucy gave Barry something more practical. I gingerly reached into the case and pulled out the ancient set of lock picks.
Still kneeling in front of the back doors, I placed the straight pick into the deadbolt and then inserted the rest to engage the tumblers. I didn’t have to actually unlock the deadbolt, but instead I quickly let go and leaned back. The picks hung suspended from the lock for a moment before they began to vibrate. A sound like a tuning fork lifted the hairs on the back of my neck as the picks slowly turned counterclockwise under their own steam. I knew that touching them right now would be akin to licking the hot connector on a car battery.
Finally the lock picks finished their ghostly turn, and faint wisps of smoke traveled up and down the glass, like the trail of a burning cigarette. The acrid scent of burning electronics lingered as the door clicked open.
The metal was still warm as I pulled the picks from the lock and placed them back inside the cigar case. “Thanks, Arthur,” I whispered before standing.
Gloom drenched the inside of the Divita’s home. I closed my eyes and flicked that odd switch in my mind, and when I opened them the area lit up like an overexposed photograph.
The kitchen dwarfed my whole apartment. An island topped in black marble stretched down the middle, right on top of a spotless floor. The dark eyes of two silent ovens watched me from the far wall, each one topped with porcelain burners. Two dishtowels hung from the oven door handles, each one embroidered with a smiling puppy waiting in a field of sunflowers. Dozens of machines lined the counters, from high-end food processors to various grills and panini makers. The cook in me drooled over these wonderful little toys while the detective in me tried to spot anything off kilter.
So far the villain once again disappointed my inner sleuth. Various memories covered the fridge: a child’s report card showed all “A”s, along with a dozen photos of the smiling family (two parents, two daughters, and a little white puffball snuggled in Mommy’s arms). A few unwashed dishes lay in the sink, right next to a stack of papers that teetered on the edge of the countertop. A quick glance showed me stock charts and newspapers and nothing more.
One thing you learn is that people bury their secrets down in places without much traffic. I hadn’t seen a storage shed in the backyard, which meant somewhere else. Attics, basements, or garages, take your pick.
I stepped into a short hallway between the kitchen and the entry room. White walls and beige carpet. A staircase climbed the left wall, leading from the front door up to the silent rooms above. I stepped over to a doorway under the stairs and took note of a large eight-by-ten photo on the wall.
A blond teenage girl dressed in pink gym shorts holding a red tennis racket smiled to the camera. Her white T-shirt had a faded picture of a stylized raven’s head with the words “Jefferson High School” across the top. I looked closer and took note of what looked like an eyebrow piercing and a nose ring. The rebellion begins.
I smiled at that and opened the door. I expected a coat closet or a random storage room, but instead a staircase descended into darkness so deep even my enhanced vision had a hard time making out the bottom. Now most people in Washington don’t have basements. The rocky ground doesn’t really make it economically feasible, but I do know that a lot of the rich really don’t care about pesky things like that.
I started down the stairs.
Even with my augmented sight the blackness was so thick I could only make out indistinct shapes and blurs. I flipped the switch and a single bulb flared to life. It took a moment for my night eyes to close down, leaving pale afterimages behind. I took a breath and listened, but the only sound outside was the rain tapping against the tiny basement windows up by the ceiling.
The basement itself wasn’t fancy, with cinder blocks for walls and the single swinging bulb. A rusted workbench slumbered against the far wall, the various tools covered in dust. A plastic Christmas tree stood in the corner waiting for the winter to come, right next to a forlorn weight bench that doubled as a storage shelf. The walls were damp from the rain outside, and an odor of forgotten things lingered in the air.
Yet I noticed something else. Someone had been down here recently. There were fresh tracks across the fine dust that blanketed the floor.
The bread crumbs all led to a door on the other side of the basement. It was your standard household door made of wood, with no sign of alarms. Time for Arthur's mojo again. After another five minutes of waiting, it swung open.
The room beyond was probably a closet at one point, and the objects inside made the cramped space even smaller. A small black desk guarded a giant hanging corkboard crowded with newspaper clippings and photos, all strung together in an orderly timeline. Thumbtacks hastily nailed up articles about the rising tide of prostitutes in downtown, right next to photos of different women in various outfits of the trade. Sultry gestures and looks masked the youth and the scars underneath. They weren’t magazine photos, either. Nope, our good Henry had become quite an amateur voyeur over the years. Unless, of course, this all belonged to the wife. I couldn’t rule out either at this point.
A series of articles featuring Senator Helms caught my attention. Three articles that all said how much the good senator was cleaning up the streets and how petty crime was down for the first time in years. A sticky note with two question marks scribbled in pencil hung under a picture of Helms at yet another campaign rally.
I pulled my cell phone out and quickly began taking my own photos. With my own modest lifestyle, the one thing I splurged on was the cell phone. I guess old habits die hard, because I always bought the phones with the best cameras, even though I had left the PI life back in San Diego. The irony wasn’t lost on me as I snapped pictures of the arti
cles.
It was only after framing the third photo that I realized something. I studied each photograph and after a moment confirmed my suspicion.
They were all the same woman.
Long black hair in one, with matching stockings. A red halter top clung to her braless figure in another, her bright orange hair cut close to the skull. The other photos were the same, with each hairstyle and outfit different, but the face stayed the same.
“Oh Mr. Divita,” I whispered to the gloom, “I do say you have an obsession.” I didn’t play the odds, but I’d bet my whole bank account that this was the dead prostitute found with Cate. Some big shot has a little fling going with a prostitute downtown and decides to clean up some loose ends by making it look like an accident.
Sounded good, except it still didn’t explain Beth’s involvement or the question marks under the picture of Helms.
The mystery deepened when I searched the top of the desk. I pushed aside more photos of the mystery woman, until one on the bottom of the heap caught my attention. The woman was dressed in jeans and a halter top, and she lounged with a cigarette outside the door of a homeless shelter. Beth’s homeless shelter, to be exact.
So the software mogul was obsessed with a hooker who hung out at Beth’s shelter. Add that to the picture of Helms, and we got a strange jigsaw puzzle with a whole lot of missing pieces.
Fluffy the guard dog began yapping again as I took a photo of the article on Senator Helms. I frowned and listened carefully.
The rain beat against the roof. Under that I didn’t hear any cars or people walking around upstairs. Yet Fluffy became more and more agitated. His barking was now frantic and primal. Then the animal yelped, and the noise cut off in mid-bark.
“Crap,” I muttered as the single light bulb flared out.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Not wanting to get caught in a deathtrap, I hurried out of the tiny office and back into the open space of the basement. Night crawled across the walls, and while my night sight could amplify light, I could only make out general shapes in the gloom. Whatever had caused the power outage could be anywhere…or anything for that matter.
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