Chapter 12
We sure as shit had found Montavez’s missing print copy of Dark’s Last Novel. It was down in the basement, on a sort of makeshift altar, before a painted, plywood rose cross. It was safe and secure, undamaged, along with the e-reader stolen from O’Day’s lab.
But I hardly paid the book a second glance. The whole scene was pretty freaky-deaky. On top of all shooting, to then find a satanic shrine in the basement was more than my nerves could take.
But it was the graffiti on the walls was what really sent a shiver down my spine. Now I knew what had turned Constantine’s complexion so pale.
Sure, there were Q’s and crosses, and unintelligible tags. But, over and over, in positions of prominence, C’s were repeated in groups of three. C, C, C just like Constantine three NeoCon C’s. But these didn’t stand for Competence, Community and Compassion here. No, below the rose cross, they were spelled out: Corpus, Cruor, Civitas.
It was pretty freaky shit. I didn’t know what any of it meant, but I was already starting to make guesses.
It had Constantine shitting bricks. After I’d scooped up the book and put the e-reader into my pocket, I went back upstairs and found Constantine talking into his in-ear phone. He was pulling resources off riot control to come handle the crime scene. Now, after seeing the basement, it was worthy of his precious manpower.
“Did you clear the second floor?” I asked, when Constantine hung up his call.
He nodded, wordlessly.
“Any sign...”
He shook his head. Well, it had always been a long shot. But just because they hadn’t stolen Montavez’s body from the Morgue, didn’t mean they hadn’t killed her.
“I have a team en-route,” Constantine said to me calmly. “I think, for both of our sakes, it would be advantageous for you not to be here when they arrive.”
“What is that shit?” I asked, nodding at the bullet-ridden basement door. “Down there?”
“I don’t know,” Constantine solemnly shook his head.
“Did you see those three C’s—”
“Yes,” Constantine cut me off. “Yes.”
“It can’t be—” I began and stopped myself.
Constantine looked at his watch. “Time is running out, Fonseca. Unless you’re eager to spend the next few months on administrative leave.”
“But—”
“Every round here was fired from my weapons,” Constantine scooped his pistol up off the kitchen counter and returned it to his holster. “There’s no reason for you to stay.”
He was sure in a rush to get rid of me. But I wasn’t going to argue. I had no desire to sit before an Officer Involved Shooting Panel and try to explain why I was in that house. Or justify shooting the three Genies.
I picked up the book and started for the back door.
“Leave the book, Fonseca,” Constantine commanded.
I stopped in my tracks. Now that was odd. “What good is it to you?” I asked, honestly.
“It’s evidence, Detective,” Constantine replied. “It can’t be removed from the crime scene.”
That was bullshit. Total bullshit. But what good was the book to Constantine? Then I remembered what was in the basement. What the fuck was going on?
I put the book back down on the kitchen counter. It took a concerted effort on my part not to reach for my bomber pocket. The e-reader was in there. Constantine didn’t know – had never known – about that.
“Thank you, Detective,” Constantine said. He turned away and tapped at the back of his ear. He was making another call.
I took the hint and slipped out of the back door.
The streets were still quiet. I was on foot. There’d be no buses or taxis out tonight. The rioting downtown had shut the city down. I might have been able to flag an emergency vehicle and ride along back to Occupied Seattle, but I wasn’t heading in that direction. After the gunfight, after the creepy Rosicrucian shrine, I wanted to get to Vivian Montavez’s apartment. I wanted to close the door and hide away from the world, and I knew no better place to do it.
Let the riot rage on and the Crime Scene Investigators do their best. I’d had enough of the City of Seattle for one day.
I only wanted to get back home.
That Nietzsche Thing Page 14
