by SM Reine
“Is it a long drive?”
“Not that bad. It’s a couple of hours. I don’t mind. I like listening to audiobooks in the car.”
I made note of that, too, although it didn’t seem too helpful now. You just never knew which details were going to end up mattering later on. Maybe his murderer targeted him because of his reading preferences.
Then I started sketching his profile. Something about his hooked nose kept pulling my gaze back to it, and it wasn’t the fact that I could see the embalming fluid through his ghostly flesh. It was such a distinctive feature, that nose. If I’d walked past Jay on the street, that’s all I would have noticed about him.
Suzy circled around him. “So you visit your mom a lot?”
“Every couple of weeks, ever since Dad died. I’d move back if I could find a job.”
“What do you do for her while you’re in town?”
“Water her plants,” Jay said. Guess I should make note of that, too. Murderous plants. Revenge of the begonias. I’d handled a demonic possession case involving dick-shaped novelty bongs—I wasn’t going to rule anything out. “I also pull some weeds in the garden, work on her roof, stuff she can’t do. And I take her to do volunteer work at the soup kitchen.”
“We haven’t been able to contact your mother. Is she away this weekend?”
“Oh, yeah. Visiting Uncle Salazar in San Jose. He picked her up yesterday morning, but she’ll be back Monday.” Jay looked troubled. “What’s today?”
“Saturday,” Suzy said. “If you drove down on Thursday, and your mother got picked up yesterday, what did you do last night?”
“Nothing much. Just kinda hung out around her house. She has HBO.”
That caught my attention. “Anything good?” I hadn’t gotten to kick back and watch TV in way too long.
“Reruns of The Sopranos,” Jay and Isobel said. “Pretty good.”
Suzy snort-laughed at me. “Do you have an alibi, Jay? Can anyone verify that you spent last night at your mother’s home?”
Isobel’s eyes focused on Suzy, giving her a look of annoyance through Jay’s chest. “The dead can’t lie. He doesn’t need an alibi. Besides, he’s not suspected of anything, is he?”
“I just want to know if he was alone,” Suzy said patiently. She turned back to Jay. “Were you alone?”
He nodded, and Isobel continued speaking for me. “Aside from a brief visit from Bubba Tanner, who lives down the street. He saw Mom leave and wanted to know where she was going.”
Bubba Tanner. I wrote that down, too.
“So you woke up at your mom’s house this morning,” Suzy prompted. “What did you do first?”
“Used the bathroom.”
“And then?”
“Watered Mom’s plants,” Jay said.
“And?”
“Went back to sleep on the couch.” He smiled, like he was so pleased with himself.
If it hadn’t been for the incredibly obvious fact that he was dead, I would have thought that was the truth. Like Isobel said, he wasn’t capable of lying.
Yet for some reason, Jay Brandon didn’t remember having his nose and lips cut off. He didn’t remember struggling against his assailant as hands slithered through his innards to reach his heart. He didn’t remember being hung up by his ankles, his throat slit, his life gushing onto the floor of his mother’s kitchen.
So much for an easy resolution to the case.
CHAPTER FIVE
WE STUCK JAY BRANDON in an OPA van and shuttled him two blocks to the campus, where he was supposed to be. I let Suzy take him inside. I’d had enough of morgues for the day.
It felt easier to breathe once I was in the fresh night air, even though it was about ten degrees warmer outside than it had been in Golden Fields Funeral Home. It was good to get away from the formaldehyde. Away from the mangled body. Away from the harsh fluorescent lights and the cloying sense of death.
The night was heavy and restless, though. It felt like the city knew that there was a murderer in its streets.
A sadist like the one that had killed Jay Brandon was an infection in the veins of Los Angeles, and we were the body’s only defense against it. The only thing to keep that killer from striking again.
And we had no clue how to find the murderer responsible.
But I did find Janet from the forensics department smoking by the trash bins. She wore a skirt suit, battered pumps, pantyhose with a run up her right calf. She offered her cigarette to me.
“No thanks,” I said, moving to stand a few feet upwind, where the smell of tobacco wasn’t as overpowering. The smell of rotting trash was stronger but still slightly more appealing. I hadn’t been able to stomach the scent of cigarettes ever since I faced off with a chain-smoking nightmare in Reno.
Cruel mirth danced in her eyes. “Feeling better? Not going to get sick again? I can’t remember the last time I saw someone vomit on a body.”
Most of my coworkers were great. Janet was not one of them.
Had she been one of the guys, I might have snapped at her, told her off. But I never could manage to get real angry with a woman. It wouldn’t have been effective anyway—in an argument with a woman, the woman always comes out on top. It’s a class skill.
“Any thoughts on a killer yet?” I asked.
“That’s your job.” Janet flicked her stubby thumbnail against the butt of the cigarette. Ash showered onto the damp pavement. “We just collect the evidence. You get to figure out what brand of beastie that evidence points toward.”
I opened my mouth to tell her that I didn’t handle demons, that my specialty was witches—but then I shut my mouth again.
My desk was still in the Magical Violations Department, but now that I was working directly under Fritz, my job had become whatever he said it was. Didn’t matter if I didn’t know anything about demons. Tracking down the culprit was, in fact, my job now.
“Okay. Then what’s the evidence look like?” I asked. She looked like she wanted to argue, so I added, “Without extrapolating any conclusions from it.”
“There isn’t much evidence. The scene was clean.” Her cheeks hollowed as she took a long drag on the cigarette. She couldn’t have been much older than me, maybe late thirties, but her lips were already developing a permanent wrinkled pucker. “That is to say, we haven’t found any unusual hairs, fingerprints, or fibers. Everything belongs to the home or homeowner. Clean.”
I wanted to ask her if there were any demons whose powers involved wiping evidence, but I was supposed to be the expert on that now, apparently. So I just nodded wisely as if that told me so fucking much about the case.
“Interesting,” I said, rocking back on my heels.
Janet smirked. She wasn’t fooled.
Then her gaze shifted beyond me, and her smirk turned into something more like a sneer.
Isobel rounded the building, hips swaying and necklaces clacking. Ice shocked through my nerves at the sight.
Janet had spotted her. She would know that we had this witch on the OPA campus. And Isobel wasn’t exactly a forgettable visitor.
I could only imagine what Janet must have thought of the necrocognitive’s work costume. I know I’d had more than a few “What the heck is wrong with this woman?” thoughts the first time I’d seen her, and I’d been expecting to run into someone weird.
“Hey, Cèsar,” Isobel said, hanging back at the edge of the light. She looked equally displeased to see Janet there. She’d been hoping to find me alone.
Janet took a last pull on her cigarette, stubbed it out on the pavement, and stuck a hand out. “Janet. Forensics.”
“Isobel. Delighted.” They shook hands.
That obviously wasn’t the self-identification that Janet had been expecting, but she didn’t press. She picked up the butt of her now-lightless cigarette and tossed it into the trash before heading back inside.
Then Isobel and I were alone behind the morgue with the smoggy Los Angeles breeze and bio-hazardous waste in a red
trashcan.
“Damn, Izzy,” I said.
She winced. “I didn’t think anyone would be hanging around the OPA buildings this late at night on a weekend. I’m sorry. It was an accident.”
All of my annoyance immediately melted away. She was pretty good at doing that to me.
I still couldn’t keep the lecture to myself. “You want to be investigated? Or worse, recruited?”
“That’s worse than being investigated? I thought you liked your job.”
I did. I used to. I wasn’t all that sure anymore. Sometimes I really missed being a private dick whose main concern was whether Mr. Black’s mistress was cheating on him or not. The job had been a lot pettier then, but at least I hadn’t had to deal with office politics.
“You just have to be more careful,” I said.
“I know. You don’t have to tell me.”
“Apparently, I do. Janet saw you.”
“What’s she going to do? She doesn’t know anything.”
She knew we had a witch decked out in bones and animal skins hanging around. That was more than enough to make trouble.
But an accident was an accident, and I couldn’t change what Janet had seen.
Hopefully, she’d keep her mouth shut.
Isobel fanned herself. “Is it hot out here?” She slid Fritz’s jacket off her shoulders, baring every inch of her upper body decorated in bone, wood, and turquoise.
With her back to the building, she was shadowed enough that I couldn’t make out anything that wouldn’t have been fine in a PG-13 movie, but it didn’t matter. I’d seen it all before. My mind filled in the blanks.
“Hot,” I said. “I mean, yeah, it’s hot.”
The corner of Isobel’s mouth twitched into a half-smile. “I haven’t heard from you much lately. I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me.”
It was impossible to forget about a woman who had taken up permanent residence in my dreams. “You’re not easy to find. The number on your Craigslist ad sent me to some secretary. Why do you have a secretary?”
“I’ve been lonely since we hooked Ann up with a full ride scholarship to Normal Person University. I found Yelena through a local coven, heard she was looking for work…”
“She thinks you’re a shaman.”
“So what?”
“So you’re a lot of things, but you’re definitely not a shaman. I don’t think you’ve ever seen a shaman in your life.”
“That’s not the story,” Isobel said. “She does a better job selling my services if she only knows what the clients need to know.”
“Tell me she’s at least an adult.”
“She’s at least an adult.” Isobel was obviously humoring me.
If Yelena was a high school kid, then we were going to have a problem. The OPA didn’t have the budget to bother most witches, but they got worried about minors involved in illegal operations. Like, you know, pretending to be a shaman and speaking to the dead.
“Is that why you’ve been hiding from me?” I asked. “Because you know I’d have to stop you?”
She slipped her fingers up my shirt, giving me a smile that made all the blood in my body migrate southward. She was so warm and soft. Her curves fit like she was supposed to be there. “I haven’t been hiding. If you really wanted to get a hold of me, you could find me. You’re Special Agent Hawke.”
“Maybe I thought you didn’t want to be found.”
“Haven’t you ever heard of hard to get? Sometimes a girl likes to be chased.” Her fingers stopped at the inner pocket of my suit jacket. She plucked my business card out and stepped back. It was a fake one, of course, with the FBI logo on it, but it had my real phone number.
“Fritz doesn’t need to chase you,” I said. I tried not to sound like that offended me.
“I don’t care if he finds me. It’s different with you.” She flicked my card against her fingers. “I’ll give you a call if I get bored waiting.”
I’d wanted nothing more than for Isobel to vanish when Janet spotted her, but now that it looked like she was slinking away from me, I wanted to drag her back. Chain her down. Keep her from vanishing for a few more weeks.
“Do you need a ride somewhere?” I asked.
“Nah. I get around fine.”
“What if there’s another body? What if I need you?”
Isobel tucked the card in her loincloth. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, making them glisten, drawing my gaze to the motion. “Then come find me.”
CHAPTER SIX
DAY TWO OF MY supposed weekend hit, and I still hadn’t gotten any reading done.
Sunday morning dawned hot and sunny—perfect time to hide in my shitty apartment and lose myself in the Wheel of Time series. But murderers don’t catch themselves.
Instead, I reviewed my notes on Jay Brandon, donned my monkey suit, and hit the road to suck the marrow from the bones of our dead case.
The Saint Benjamin Soup Kitchen used to be a house, and not a pretty one. The ramshackle split level was wedged between a daycare that looked condemned and a body shop, their shared fences tagged with enough spray paint to make the wood a half-inch thicker.
The sign for the soup kitchen was clean, though. It was a nice big cross with a white cloth draped over its arms, like it was inviting new arrivals to come in for a hug. I didn’t think the neighborhood toughs were sparing the crucifix out of kindliness. There was a paint can on the sidewalk next to it and the cross looked damp.
They didn’t care about the fencing, but the sign had been repainted recently. Probably earlier that morning.
It also didn’t escape my notice that the soup kitchen was only three blocks from the border of Helltown.
The trio of volunteers cleaning the yard looked like they were humans dressed in Wal-Mart specials, not demons. I caught a glimpse of some of the mess before it vanished into the depths of a bag: beer cans, a couple needles, empty bags of chips. Ordinary junk. Nothing infernal or occult.
One of the men acknowledged me with a smile as I headed up the steps. His eyes were brown, not black, and the teeth he flashed weren’t fangs, though a couple had been replaced with gold caps. Definitely human.
“Looking for someone?” he asked. Guess I didn’t look like I was coming in for a meal with an ironed suit and the badge clipped to my belt.
“Whoever’s in charge,” I said.
“Then you want Sister Catherine. You’ll know her when you see her.”
I flashed a smile in return. “Thanks.”
The front door was propped open. As hot as it was outside, it was even hotter within, and so muggy that it was hard to breathe. Dusty ceiling fans didn’t do anything to move the air around.
Most of the interior walls had been knocked out to make a big dining room, and the remaining surfaces had been hand-painted with vibrant murals. All religiously themed. There were sheep and a serene bearded white guy shepherding them on one wall, a childishly rendered version of the Last Supper on the other side, and a pleasant forest behind the serving line.
Folding tables lined the peeling linoleum floor. Every seat was full and the line for food stretched almost all the way back to the door. I had to sidle past a young, haggard-looking couple to even fit inside.
It was pretty obvious why Jay Brandon and his mom had been volunteering here. The two people serving food couldn’t keep up with the demand, especially since they were running low. The banging coming from the kitchen made it sound like the cook was struggling to prepare more.
I hung back in the corner to watch everyone. If I’d come looking for suspicious types, I’d sure found more than enough of those. Lots of people with track marks and meth teeth. Lots more with darting eyes, shaking hands, scraggly hair. Between the hundred people eating or waiting to eat, they’d probably had all of a dozen showers in the last month.
But Jay hadn’t been killed by a druggie—at least, not this kind of druggie.
I sidled past the tables and headed for the food line.
“Sister Catherine?” I asked.
She looked startled by the question. “Catherine’s doing fundraising at a church event. I’m Mary.”
Damn. “Know when she’ll be back?”
“Just a few minutes, I’m sure.” Her pale blue eyes flicked to the badge on my belt, then to my face. “Can I help you in the meantime?”
“If you’ve got a minute, maybe you can.”
“I have a minute if you don’t mind helping in the kitchen,” Mary said.
Cooking? Me? For these people? “I’m pretty busy this morning, ma’am.”
“Aren’t we all?”
She vanished through the door, and I followed.
The rest of the house might have been a wreck, but the kitchen was spotlessly clean, if outdated. The appliances were so old that Pops could have used them when he was a kid.
Even with the back door standing open—through which I could see a yard of junk cars, probably owned by the body shop—it was several degrees hotter than the rest of the house. Sweat practically exploded from my pits.
“The oven’s broken, Mary,” said the lone cook without preamble. He was wearing an apron that might have been white once. “Looks like the cord’s finally been chewed through by the mice.”
“Did you finish reheating the breakfast pizzas?” She opened the oven, bent down to peer inside. When she stooped, the curvature of her back became much more exaggerated, almost like her spine had been snapped and healed at an impossible angle. “Dear me. The cheese isn’t even melted. We’ll need to get more food.”
The cook looked pained. “We don’t have money for more food.”
Mary patted at her robes. “I could have sworn…ah, here we go.” She produced a few crumpled dollar bills. “Can you get muffins, maybe?”
“No time to get to Sack and Save. I’ll grab Pop-Tarts or something at the gas station,” the cook said.
