Volatile Bonds

by Jaye Wells

  “Nothing sadder than paying for an apathetic handie,” Morales said in a philosophical tone.

  “Excuse me,” said a bitchy voice.

  The woman sitting in the office chair monitoring all of the TVs spun around. She had blond hair and wore too much makeup. Last time I’d seen her, she’d been dressed like the girlfriend of an up-and-coming coven member—that is to say, showing lots of skin and attitude. However, that day, she wore a tailored skirt suit in a flattering light blue. The cut bordered on being just a tad too sexy for business, but considering the woman’s business was discount hand jobs, it worked. She also wore a pair of nude heels with the tell-tale red on the sole that meant she’d paid way too much for them.

  “I’m afraid we don’t service ladies,” she quipped. Then she looked at Morales. “But if you play your cards right, handsome, you can have one on the house.”

  He smirked. “That’s so nice, but I prefer to live a hepatitis-free lifestyle.”

  She sniffed. “What do you want, then?”

  “Would you mind turning those off?” I asked.

  “Didn’t know you were a prude, Kate.”

  “That’s Detective Prospero to you, sweetheart, and I’m not a prude. That’s just the saddest porn ever.”

  She pursed her lips and hit a button. All the screens went blessedly blank.

  “There,” she said. “Now, make it quick. I’ve got a business to run.”

  I wasn’t sure how watching bored massage therapists dole out manual stimulation counted as busy, but what did I know?

  “We’ve met before,” I said. “At the Red Horse.”

  “Oh, really?” she said in a bored tone. She remembered, but she wanted me to believe she didn’t. “I don’t recall.”

  Considering she’d just called me by name, she knew exactly who the hell I was. “Yeah,” I said, “I normally don’t remember coven wizes’ arm candy, but that day was special, seeing how it had been Charm’s wake and all.”

  Her eyes had flared at my characterization of her as Puck’s flavor of the week. “Oh, that’s right,” she said, “You’re that girl who betrayed the entire coven.”

  I smiled. “That what Puck told you?”

  “No, actually, your uncle did. He also said you were nothing special. That’s why I didn’t pay much attention.”

  “You talk to Abe often?” Morales cut in.

  She shrugged.

  “Because we’ve been hearing some things about you,” he continued.

  “Oh, yeah? What kind of things?” She crossed her legs in a way she probably thought was seductive. “I didn’t catch your name, Detective—”

  “Special Agent Morales,” he said. “MEA.”

  Her eyes widened. “Impressive.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “We heard that you sold out Puck.”

  “Who?”

  “Your boyfriend. Puck Simmons. Some people called him ‘Pain.’”

  “Oh, him? What can I say? He broke the law. I couldn’t continue to associate with him.”

  I smiled at her. “We also heard that you took over the Votaries once he was gone.”

  She had a donkey’s laugh. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in ages,” she brayed. “How hilarious!”

  “According to the tax records, you opened this place up a couple of weeks after Puck was arrested.”

  “So?”

  “Where’d you get the money?” I asked.

  “Since when is it illegal to be an entrepreneur?”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I got the money the old-fashioned way—I worked for it.”

  “Hey, Morales?” I said, turning to him.

  “Yeah?”

  “What’s the start-up cost for an outfit like this, do you figure?”

  He rubbed his chin. “I’m no expert, mind you, but rents in this area have to run, what? Two grand a month? Any landlord worth their salt would demand first and last’s deposit, too. Plus there’s all the massage oil to buy.”

  “And the rubber gloves,” I added.

  “Sure, can’t forget those. Let’s call it ten grand minimum.”

  “That’s an awful lot of hand jobs.”

  “Indeed,” he said.

  “I suppose someone could get a loan from the bank,” I responded conversationally.

  “Sure, but remember? The records on file listed the business was started in cash.”

  She jumped out of her chair. “Shut up, all right! If you want to come back here with a warrant, you can try it, but you have zero PC.”

  “All evidence to the contrary,” I observed, tipping my head to the screens.

  “You’re MEA, right? There’s no potions here. It ain’t your jurisdiction.”

  “Honey, I don’t know who told you that, but they don’t know shit about how jurisdictions work.”

  “Maybe Puck taught her,” Morales said. “Or Abe.”

  “Uncle Abe knows better than that, but he does like to take young ladies under his belt, so to speak,” I said. “They still got those conjugal visit trailers at Crowley, Krystal?”

  Her cheeks had flushed red with anger. “Get the hell out of here and don’t come back without a warrant. But I’ll warn you both, I have a very good lawyer.”

  “Let me guess, his name is Dicky Goldman,” I said.

  She looked shocked at my guess. “How did you know?”

  “Because Dicky is Uncle Abe’s lawyer. Makes sense that he’d want to protect his new puppet.”

  “I am nobody’s puppet.”

  “Does Abe know that?”

  Her voice shook with rage. “Get. Out!”

  I held up my hands. “We’re going, we’re going. But one last thing. You might want to watch your ass with the Fangshi.”

  Despite her flushed cheeks, she managed to school her features when she responded. “The who?”

  But it was too late. I’d seen the flash of knowledge in her eyes. “We’ll be seeing you real soon, Krystal.”

  “Not if I see you first.”

  Morales pulled my sleeve. “Let’s go.”

  We pushed through the beaded curtain, out of the storage area, and back into the hallway of sadness. Neither of us spoke, because it was a safe bet that Krystal had audio to go with the video surveillance. By the time we made it back outside, I inhaled and exhaled like my life depended on getting fresh air into my lungs.

  “I need a shower and a drink.”

  “In that order?”

  I shook my head. “Drink first. Definitely.”

  “I know just the place.”

  Chapter Seven

  The place in question turned out to be the Irish Rover, a cop watering hole that served decent bar food. Since neither of us had had lunch, we ordered a couple of sandwiches with our beers.

  We waited until we’d each gulped half our mugs before discussing what went down at Krystal’s place.

  “So,” he said, “she’s totally not in charge.”

  “I told you.” I shoved two fries in my mouth.

  “You were right. No way Abe would install someone that easy to rile up at the head of the coven.”

  “The weird part is, I get the impression she sort of thinks she’s in charge.”

  “I got that feeling too.” He nodded. “She did have an interesting reaction when you mentioned the Fangshi.”

  My phone rang. “It’s Mez.” Into the phone I said, “What’s up?”

  “I got the results on Franklin’s samples. Mr. Kostorov’s blood has traces of the two ingredients of the red pills plus the yohimbe.”

  “You’re sure it’s the same?”

  “The results are consistent.”

  “I’ll be damned,” I said. “Two cases just became one.”

  Beside me, Morales shot me an interested look as finished off his sandwich.

  “You tell Franklin yet?” I asked Mez.

  “Yep. He said ‘shiiiiiit,’” he said, doing his best impersonation of the M.E.

 
“Sounds about right. Did you fill in Gardner?”

  “She seemed pleased, for Gardner. Something along the lines of ‘They better not fuck it up now.’”

  “Talk about a vote of confidence.” After that, I quickly hung up with him and filled Morales in on the situation. By the time I was done, he’d finished his beer and mine was growing warm.

  “So, Valentine was peddling a bad potion that caused killer erections. He got the ingredients for some of that potion from the Chinese coven. My guess is the Chinese found out he was screwing up their potion and decided to take him out of the equation.”

  “Right. We really need to talk to that widow.”

  “But we can’t talk to her unless she gets in touch with us. So, we’re basically at another dead end.”

  I took a long swallow of room-temperature beer. “What do you think about setting up surveillance at the massage parlor?”

  “I’ll call Shadi. Gardner already okayed the manpower.”

  My phone rang again. I didn’t recognize the number, but with so many balls in the air, I never knew who would call. “Prospero.”

  “Leave me alone,” a raspy female voice yelled.

  I hesitated. “Um, you called me. Who is this?”

  “Mona Kostorov.”

  “Oh, hi, ma’am. Thank you for calling.”

  She made a disgusted sound.

  “Anyway,” I said slowly, “it’s really important that we have a chance to talk to you. Is there any way we could set up a place to meet? We’d be happy to come to you.”

  “I said, leave me alone!” She hung up.

  I looked at the phone for a few moments, as if it might offer some sort of clue about what just happened.

  “Who was that?” Morales asked.

  “The widow Kostorov.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “She yelled and hung up on me.”

  “So, she goes in the hostile witness column, then?”

  I tossed my phone on the table. “What a pain in the ass.”

  “Kate, her husband just died.”

  “She called me.”

  “Well, you have her number now. We can try again tomorrow. But maybe next time, I should do the talking.”

  * * *

  When I arrived home that evening, I opened the door into a kitchen filled with smoke.

  Through the haze, I located a backside sticking out of my oven. “Damn it all to Hera!” the voice echoed from inside.

  “Baba?” I called. “Are you okay?”

  “My pierogis are burned, but otherwise I’m hunky dory.” She pulled her body out of the oven and held out a tray bearing a dozen blackened lumps. She tossed it on top of the stove with a muttered Polish curse. “Now what am I going to take?”

  I set my bag on the table and went to open the window over the sink. “Take where?”

  She tossed her long gray braid over her shoulder. That evening, she was wearing a purple tie-dyed T-shirt that read, Don’t Be A Basic Witch. Beneath that, she wore a pair of denim shorts that hung down to her knees, and a pair of Birkenstocks with purple socks that came up to mid-calf. “One of my friends’ husbands died last night.”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “What happened?”

  “I haven’t gotten the whole story, but it’s probably the usual—ticker gave out.” She delivered this news in the same tone someone might use to share the time.

  Living with a septuagenarian meant I got a whole new perspective on mortality. It seemed like every few weeks, one of Baba’s friends passed away. If my friends were dying that frequently, I’d be a wreck. But Baba and the rest of her buddies took it all in stride. I asked her about it one time and she said, “Well, I don’t understand how you see all that violence every day, but you manage.”

  “Anyway,” she continued, “me and some of the other ladies are organizing a food delivery.” She glanced at the remains of her efforts. “Luckily, I made some cookies earlier and I can take over one of my special medicinal teas.” She held up a large mason jar filled with a liquid the color of swamp water. “I call this one Widow Juice.”

  I stifled a groan. Baba wasn’t an Adept, but she was a witch. It’s sort of the difference between a professional chef and a home cook. She made all sorts of home remedies, including therapeutic teas and bath oils, as one might expect. But she also had this weird hobby of making strange teas that she claimed cured everything from psoriasis to being unattractive to the opposite sex. With a name like Widow Juice, I was too scared to ask what it did.

  “That’s nice,” I said diplomatically.

  She shook her head. “Poor Mona,” she said, half to herself. “Sergei died on their anniversary.”

  I froze. “Mona?”

  She nodded.

  “Your friend’s last name wouldn’t be Kostorov, would it?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Unbelievable,” I muttered. “I had a chat with Mona earlier.”

  She held up a hand. “Back up—how do you know them?”

  I sighed and threw the bills on the table. “I can’t get into particulars, but we have reason to believe Mr. Kostorov’s death is tied to one of our cases.”

  She gasped and put a hand to her chest. “He was murdered?”

  “No, nothing like that.” I had to tread carefully since I was pretty sure Mona wouldn’t appreciate me starting a rumor about the manner of her husband’s death. Baba was great, but she was a terrible gossip. “I tried to connect with Mona about meeting with us, but she seemed…reluctant,” I said diplomatically.

  “I’m sure she’s a wreck right now.”

  “Of course,” I said quickly. “It’s just, we think Mr. Kostorov saw something that could help up put a pretty bad guy away.”

  She nodded as if she understood. “I’m sure if you tried again in a few days…”

  “The problem is, we don’t have a few days. The guy in question did murder someone and he’s putting some bad potions on the street, so more could die. I don’t suppose—” I cut myself off.

  She looked up, her eyes hawkish. “Don’t play your cop tricks on me, Kate Prospero. I might be old, but I’m still wily.”

  I laughed. “I know, I know. Look, I know it’s an imposition, but if you could maybe just mention that you know me? That might grease the wheels a little next time I try to call.”

  She crossed her arms and huffed out a breath. “What’s in it for me?”

  “Free rent,” I said, pointedly.

  She snorted. “I already get that. What else?”

  “What do you want?”

  She pursed her lips and thought it over. “I want you to go easy on the boy for this school thing.”

  I sighed and held up my fingers in a mockery of a scout salute. “I promise I’ll be fair, but I won’t promise he’ll go totally unpunished.”

  She nodded resolutely. “Throw in a bottle of that cheap whiskey I like and we’ve got a deal.”

  I laughed. Staying mad at Baba was impossible. “Fine.”

  “All right, I’ll ask her tonight.” She held up a hand when I started to celebrate. “But don’t expect a miracle. The woman’s grieving hard.”

  “Understood.”

  She tossed down the dish towel she’d been toying with. “Okay, I need to go put on my nice clothes before I meet up with the ladies. You going out with that hunk tonight or what?”

  “The hunk is on a stakeout. I’m reading up on high schools.”

  “Oh.”

  I nodded.

  “Kate, listen,” she said, “if you ever want me to make myself scarce, you just have to say the word.”

  I frowned at her. “I’m not mad enough to kick you out, Baba.”

  She waved a hand. “No, I mean if you and Macho want some time alone. I don’t want to be in the way.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I said. “You’re not in the way.”

  “Oh, good. Because I really look forward to seeing him in his boxers in the morning.”

  I waggled a finger
at her as I fought the laughter bubbling in my throat. “You’re a dirty old woman.”

  She cackled. “Damned straight!”

  * * *

  Once Baba was gone, I settled myself at the kitchen table with the information from the high school and Danny’s laptop. He was at a friend’s house that night working on a project, so I had the place to myself for once.

  About an hour into it, I had to admit that the Conservatory seemed like a pretty awesome place for Danny to go to high school. All of the coursework revolved around teaching the students how to cook using clean magic methods. They studied the normal subjects, too, but even those involved magic instruction somehow. Like, in History they might read the Malleus Maleficarum and discuss the way misogyny and fear of magic were used to control the masses.

  In fact, the more I read about the curriculum, the more jealous I was that I didn’t have access to that kind of school as a kid myself. Of course, if they’d had schools like that back then, Uncle Abe would have just encouraged me to use my classes in clean magic to learn how to make dirtier potions.

  As I read, there were only two concerns. First, it was a brand-new school. Danny would start as a junior, which meant he’d only be there for two years, and he’d have to start thinking about college a year in. That meant if he went and hated the Conservatory or, worse, failed out, it would really set him back on getting into college.

  The second concern involved John Volos. Danny had mentioned that our esteemed mayor was involved in the school, but he hadn’t said that Volos Real Estate Development was a major contributor to the school. That meant his money would go to help fund Danny’s education and that his word would hold a lot of sway in the decisions of the administration. If I decided to let Danny attend, I’d need to make it clear with Volos that any meddling in my brother’s life would result in major consequences.

  I threw the papers on the table and grabbed a beer from the fridge. As I popped the top, I couldn’t believe I was having to think about my little brother going to college. In less than two years, he could potentially be moving out of my house and going off to a bright future on his own. The thought both depressed and excited me. It was depressing because it meant I was getting older and so was he. Time had passed so freaking fast, I couldn’t believe it. It seemed just yesterday that he was so tiny that my hand dwarfed his. Now he was taller than me, and his hands made mine look petite.