by Lanyon, Josh
“You’re friends, right?”
“We’re friends,” I said.
“Good friends? You’re gay, right?”
I said steadily, “Jake disapproves of my lifestyle. But we’re friendly.”
Best gave a kind of chuckle. “In fact, you see each other a couple of times a week. You vacationed together last spring in the High Sierras, right?”
I felt the pulse beating hard in my throat and hoped it wasn’t visible. I had it on authority that when I got nervous, it showed. That’s the downside of being a normally honest person.
“Not exactly. I ran into trouble up there. Jake helped me out. I’m not following what this has to do with Angus.”
“Well, you never know what’s going to prove useful,” Best informed me, reminding me of what Gabe Savant had said shortly before he disappeared on his “stress break.” “Sometimes the least likely lead turns out to be the key to the entire case.”
“What made you call Riordan?” Vidal Sassoon chimed in. “Gordon asked you to pick up his mail, didn’t he?”
“Jake wanted —”
“Jake?” repeated Best.
I slapped my forehead. “Damn, you caught me!” I gave him a disgusted look. “Didn’t I already confess to being friends?” It wasn’t a great idea to get shirty with these two, but I was starting to lose my temper despite my good intentions.
“Touchy, touchy,” Best murmured, making a note. Several notes — which I guessed was supposed to worry me. The other flatfoot snickered. “You were saying?” Best inquired of me with ultra politeness.
Apparently both sides had decided I was going to be a hostile witness.
I said, “Jake wanted to talk to Angus about a couple of unsolved murders that he believed might be tied to the Satanic underground. He thought Angus might have heard or seen something, since he was apparently on the edge of that scene. Beyond that you’d have to talk to Jake.”
“Oh, we intend to,” Best informed me.
* * * * *
I let the investigators out, locked the doors, went upstairs to call Jake on my cell phone.
He picked up on the third ring.
I said, “Can you talk?”
“No.”
“Call me when you can.”
“Fifteen minutes.” He rang off.
Thirteen minutes later my cell rang.
I didn’t waste time on chitchat. “I just had a visit from a pair of legal investigators working for Martin Grosser. I could be wrong, but the impression I get is that Angus’s defense is going to throw a lot of mud in a lot of different directions in hopes of establishing reasonable doubt.”
“Translation?”
“They show undue interest in our…us.”
Silence.
He had to have realized that was a danger. I said, “Angus has told them that you’re over here a couple of times a week. He also told them about last spring.”
“How would Angus know about last spring?”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” I said impatiently. “If you’ll remember, you asked him where I’d gone when I left town. For another, I probably mentioned some of what happened up there.” I felt a sudden rush of resentment. “I don’t advertise my personal life, but I’m not used to conducting it like an undercover operation either.”
Jake ignored my outburst. “His defense will end up subpoenaing your phone records. They’ll need them to support the argument that Angus didn’t have time to kill Kinsey and still get back in time to call you.”
We hadn’t talked that much on the phone, especially not in recent weeks. A lot of the time we used cell phones. I didn’t think Jake’s number would raise any flags, unless someone probed for a connection. Unfortunately that appeared to be the case. I wondered where he was calling from now. A pay phone?
I reflected that none of this would be a problem — let alone a threat — if Jake wasn’t paranoid about our relationship. His fear of discovery was turning something innocent into a weapon that could be used to destroy either of us.
When I didn’t answer, he asked, “What did you tell them?”
“I told them we were friends. I lied. That’s what you want, right?”
“It’s no one’s business but our own.”
I agreed with him there. I sighed. “Where are they going with this? Am I going to end up testifying about our relationship? Am I supposed to commit perjury? Is that what you’re expecting?”
He didn’t respond.
“Swell,” I said. I disconnected.
* * * * *
Once, when he was in an uncharacteristically indulgent mood, Jake told me I had that peculiar blend of attitude and ability that makes a good detective, namely, I was curious, analytical, and persistent. I liked people. I was a good listener. I was — though this pained him to admit — intuitive. I knew a lot of useless information — tangential knowledge — that frequently turned out to be helpful (or at least gave me material to chat up potential witnesses).
Of course, as Jake was quick to point out, I was also impulsive, naïve, and untrained, which made me more of a liability than a help in any investigation. But since I didn’t have Jake’s support this time, I had to rely on myself.
I spent the rest of the evening familiarizing myself with Garibaldi’s The Devil’s Disciple. Despite the lurid glossy cover depicting Hans Memling’s Hell, the book itself was a serious philosophical treatise on Satanism.
It is a popular misconception that Satanism is the worship or deification of the Christian Devil. Nothing could be further from the truth. The word “Satan” stems from Hebraic/Judaic context. It means to oppose. In opposing the ideology of the Judeo-Christian religion, by default we ally ourselves with the tenets of “Satan,” which is to oppose the dogma of state recognized church. In effect it is to rebel against the establishment and the sense of smug entitlement that seems to characterize so many so-called Christians.
Huh? I thought. I didn’t want to be close-minded, but this view didn’t sound typical of club members I’d met so far.
It is true that a small minority of Satanists are theistic and believe in a personal deity known as Satan or Lucifer, yet we reject the notion that this concept is based upon Judaic or Christian theology. In any case the aberrant behavior of a small sect is no more reflective of the overall picture of Satanism than the Plymouth Brethren were reflective of typical Christianity. The vast majority of Satanists do not indulge in the notion of a personal, all powerful being known as Satan. We do not ascribe to superstitious belief in gods, demons or superheroes. In the strictest sense, we are atheists.
So no summoning of demons to do the bidding of discontented Yuppie offspring? Were the pentagrams and black candles and ritual daggers so much stage dressing?
I flipped through the pages. Nine Satanic Statements. Nine Satanic Sins. The Eleven Satanic Rules of Earth. What did that remind me of?
One Ring to rule them all. One Ring to find them…
The basic tenets of Satanism seemed to boil down to a belief in the animal nature of man — life lived in the moment, autonomy of the individual, self-help, knowledge as power, personal responsibility, magick, and the concept of Satan.
Nothing particularly unique or original in any of that — and the whole belief in magic weakened the idea of Satanism as a serious philosophical school of thought for me. Still, I recognized what the attraction would be.
Outcast, outlaw, Satan embodies the triumph of the rebel individual. Satanism is not for the herd. Satan walks alone.
So how come all these individualists dressed in black and traveled in packs?
Your demon guide waits within you. You must turn your vision inwards; do not seek the demon outside.
Unlock your inner demon? But someone was seeking the demon outside. Pentagrams written in the blood of human sacrifice indicated that someone was doing his or her best to summon something more tangible — and a lot more dangerous.
Chapter Seventeen
I told myself that if I h
adn’t decided to trust Guy, I wouldn’t be taking a jaunt to the seaside with him, but in case my carcass wound up floating off Will Rogers State Beach, I used a bar of soap to scrawl a message on my bathroom mirror: Went to see Oliver Garibaldi in Pacific Palisades with Guy Snowden.
On the bright side, if Jake ever saw that message, I wouldn’t have to hear another lecture about butting into that which was not my business.
It was sunny and unexpectedly warm for December. A great day for the beach. Although this wasn’t a date, I took time trying to decide what to wear before settling on black jeans and a brown camp shirt with inconspicuous black polka dots, a shirt that Jake liked. Truthfully, I think he liked it for himself, had it come in jumbo size.
While I waited for Guy to show up, I went through the photos the girls next door had taken the night of Gabriel Savant’s signing. Midway through the stack of candid shots — apparently taken after the girls had a couple of glasses of champagne — I had another brainstorm and started hunting through the desk drawers for pictures of other author signings. I found a couple of snaps of Angus and slipped them into my Day Planner.
Guy walked into the bookstore a little after ten. He wore faded jeans, a loose white muslin shirt, and sandals. I tried to picture Jake in a pirate shirt — or myself, for that matter — and failed. But it suited Guy. That masculine blend of force and grace.
He smiled, I smiled. We were both slightly self-conscious, mindful of our recent awkward phone conversation.
I gave Velvet several last-minute directions — to which she almost, but not quite, rolled her eyes — and we went outside.
“I’m parked down the street,” Guy said, his hand resting briefly on the small of my back as the door closed behind us.
I said, “Can I ask you something? Did you recognize the girl behind the counter?”
“I don’t think I did more than glance her way.”
“Would you do me a favor? Step inside and see if you recognize her?”
His brows rose, but he went back inside. I followed. Velvet, in the midst of making a call on her cell phone, looked up. She clicked off and lowered her phone — which maybe meant little more than she didn’t want to be caught making a personal phone call on my dime.
She had seemed pleased, even sort of relieved when I’d told her I would be leaving her to fend for herself once again. Maybe she wanted a chance to make up for sticking her nose where it didn’t belong. Maybe she was delighted at the chance to do more snooping, but it would be a madhouse this afternoon; she wouldn’t have time for much search and seizure if that was the plan.
“I left my wallet,” I said cheerfully, walking back to the office. I opened and closed a drawer, then walked back out.
“Very cool place,” Guy said sincerely, turning from a shelf as I rejoined him. We went back outside, the glass door swinging shut behind us. “I don’t know her. Should I?”
“You’ve never had her in class?”
He laughed. “Do you have any idea of how many kids I’ve had in class over the years? I can’t say for sure. She looks like a million other girls. Why?”
“I don’t know. I’m paranoid, I guess. She’s sort of odd.”
His expression confirmed my self-diagnosis, but he humored me. “You think she may be involved in whatever is going on?”
“I don’t know. It’s pretty unlikely, but she did show up out of the blue.”
“You must have people applying for work all the time.”
“Well…true. Though I did catch her going through my desk.”
He glanced at me as we wove our way through the morning sightseers littering the sidewalks of Old Town. “That’s not good.” He added, “Had you told her your desk was off-limits?”
“No, that’s the thing. I had her scoping eBay the day before at the computer there. She may have thought the desk was community property.”
“Possibly.” He shrugged. “What is it you think she might be up to?”
I shook my head. “I have no idea. She’s not stealing from the register; I’m watching the receipts. She could do a lot of damage if she wanted to, but I’d know she was the culprit, and I’d prosecute, which she has to realize.” I concluded, “I guess she could be spying on me.”
Guy grinned wickedly, eyes catching mine. “What are you doing that would be worthy of peeping?”
I laughed, surprised to feel my face warm. “Nothing.”
“How disappointing.” He said more seriously, “Did she offer references?”
“Yes. She checked out.”
He shrugged. “Well, if you’re uncomfortable with her, why don’t you fire her?”
I’d been asking myself the same thing since I caught her with my heart meds. “Seems unfair. Besides, do you have any idea how hard it is to get good help? Especially around the holidays.” Especially since I kept leaving her to fend for herself while I ran off to play Boy Detective — this morning being a prime example.
Besides, if she was up to no good, this was one way to keep an eye on her.
We reached Guy’s car. He pulled his keys out, saying, “Do you mind if we have the top down?”
* * * * *
Pacific Palisades perches atop the Santa Monica Mountains, offering its small, affluent community breathtaking views of the coast from Malibu to Palos Verdes. The poor people get to look at Santa Monica and West Hollywood.
Towering palms and old-fashioned street lamps line winding roads that lead to charming shops and cozy cottages; there’s a small-town quaintness to the place.
Top down, wind in our hair, sun on our faces, we whipped along the winding highway, enjoying the dramatic green bluffs, sunlight sparkling on blue water dotted with sail boats.
Guy had tied his hair back. I studied his lean, brown face. It was a youthful face despite the time he’d spent in the sun. I thought he was in his forties, but he could have been a well-preserved fifty. Sixty was pushing it, unless he really had sold his soul to the Devil.
“You know, there are no photographs of Garibaldi,” I said. “I was reading The Devil’s Disciple last night. There’s not even an author photo.”
Guy, eyes on the road, inquired, “What did you make of The Devil’s Disciple?”
“Interesting. A more rational approach than I expected. Not that I’m planning to convert anytime soon.”
He smiled that superior smile. “Are you…as they say…religious?”
“Not particularly. I dig Jesus. I hope that bit’s true.”
His laugh was ironic. “Satanism has a lot to offer people like us. People of our sexual persuasion, that is.”
“That would confirm a conservative stereotype or two.”
“Think about it. Think about the Nine Satanic Sins. Stupidity, for example. Our society embraces ignorance, we celebrate and reward it — and we call those who challenge the accepted doctrine unpatriotic or ungodly.”
“I personally like the ninth sin. Lack of Aesthetics. That’s guaranteed to appeal to the gay community.”
He glanced my way, his eyes serpent green. “Try to keep an open mind, Adrien. It’s the only way you’ll discover the truth.”
Guy turned off the main drag. We drove another mile or two before coming to a pair of tall, ornate gates. He spoke into the speaker box. The gates swung open. We drove through, following a long, circular drive shaded by ancient cypress trees.
“Wow,” I said, as what appeared to be a Mediterranean estate on the bluffs swung into view.
“It was built back in the 1930s for Elias Creighton. He was a big silent film star. When talkies came in, he was reduced to doing a lot of character parts in cheesy horror films. They called him the poor man’s Lon Chaney.”
“I don’t think I’ve heard of him.”
“Probably not, but you’d recognize him if you saw his picture.”
We parked and got out, crossing the immaculate green with a panoramic view from Palos Verdes to Point Dume. The house had that Old Hollywood vibe. It was built of mellow butter-co
lored stone contrasting warmly with the red-tiled roof. There were many large, elegant windows reflecting the drifting clouds overhead.
An elderly manservant, who might have been a relic from Elias Creighton’s day, opened the door and informed us that the “master” was out by the pool.
We followed him through giant, airy rooms filled with eighteenth-century French antiques to a flagstone terrace — which led down to another terrace where the pool overlooked the ocean.
The pool was tiled in aqua, green, and indigo. Between palm trees, Grecian-style statues were strategically positioned down its length. Two red-haired women — twins — sunned themselves beside the water’s edge. In the pool, a man did laps, his powerful brown arms cutting through the water.
The manservant excused himself. We sat at a table a few feet away from the girls, waiting for our host to complete his morning constitutional. One of the girls sat up and removed her top without any apparent self-consciousness, lying back to soak up the fitful seacoast sun.
Garibaldi finished his laps and climbed the pool steps, picking up the monogrammed towel lying over a chair. He dried himself leisurely, as though unaware of us. I’m not sure what I had expected: maybe a dry, desiccated stick of an academic or the puffy savoir faire of the professional hedonist.
Garibaldi was tall, olive-skinned, and hard-bodied, with a shock of white hair. His features were severe, but rough-hewn, as though his creator hadn’t had time to finish sculpting him. He moved with deliberation, giving an illusion of power rather than grace.
I glanced Guy’s way. His mouth curved cynically, watching me.
When Garibaldi had finished drying himself, he wrapped a purple silk dressing gown around his compact body, and on cue, Guy rose. I followed suit.
“Guy, my dear,” Garibaldi greeted him. His voice was unexpectedly light. They bussed each other on their cheeks in French fashion.
