“Captain,” the reporter says, “What kind of progress is your department making in controlling this immense blaze?”
“We have evacuated all houses in this block, and the block behind it, for the safety of the residents.” The Captain’s accent shows that he, at least, is a local boy, born and bred. “The roof of one house briefly caught fire, but an alert hose team extinguished it quickly. Unfortunately, there isn’t much we can do for the church building itself.”
“So you would say that the church itself is a total loss,” the reporter suggests.
“Unfortunately, yes. Fire response units arrived very quickly, once the fire was called in. But, as you said, the building was fully engulfed by the time they arrived.”
“Do you suspect arson as a cause of this blaze, Captain?”
McNeal thinks about this for a moment before responding, his voice careful and deliberate. “The fact that the blaze spread so quickly is suspicious to my way of thinking, but that’s just an opinion. The State Fire Bureau’s people will investigate, once it is safe for them to enter the scene. They will make a determination as to cause.”
“One last question, Captain. Have you spoken to–” the reporter consults his note “–Reverend Puddy, the pastor of Sacred Word?”
“I haven’t seen him so far. I assume he is among the... onlookers.” The chief says the last word the way Sitting Bull probably said, “Custer.” “I expect I’ll be speaking with him before the night is over.”
“Thank you, Captain McNeal.” The camera moves to center the reporter in the shot again. “There you have it, Gail. A beautiful church, beloved by many in Decatur’s Baptist community, has been destroyed by this blaze, its exact cause unknown. From Decatur, this is Randall Carlson reporting.”
The blonde at the anchor desk reappears on the screen. “A terrible fire, down there in Decatur. News Channel 43 will of course, continue to bring you details as they emerge. I’m Gail Chandler, coming to you from Huntsville. Now back to ‘Pee Wee’s Big Adventure.’”
Twenty-One
ROBERT SUTORIUS HAD a turn of the century brownstone on a corner lot in the Cobble Hill section of Brooklyn.
Quincey Morris paid off the cabbie and joined Libby Chastain on the sidewalk that fronted the place. Looking at the house he said, “Nice, but not what I expected. The occult burglar business must not be doing so well these days.”
“This is Brooklyn, Quincey, not Beverly Hills. Maybe he doesn’t want to live an ostentatious lifestyle that will draw attention to himself.”
“Maybe not. But if I were a potential client, this place wouldn’t exactly inspire confidence.”
“It might, if you knew something about the real estate values around here. That,” she said, gesturing toward the modest looking structure, “is what two million dollars will buy you in this part of town.”
Morris’s eyebrows went up. “Two million? Seriously?”
“That’s what he paid for it, four years ago – well, just under two. I looked it up.”
“Well, then, let’s go in and ask the man about how he’s been earning his money recently,” Morris said.
“Think he’ll tell us?” She produced a small smile.
“I was kind of hoping, that you’d make him an offer he can’t refuse.”
A black wrought-iron gate was part of the five-foot high fence that surrounded the property. It opened without resistance, although Morris thought he heard a “click” that didn’t come from the lock mechanism.
“You notice that?” he asked Libby.
“He knows we’re here. But then I wouldn’t have expected otherwise.”
Six broad concrete steps led up to a tiny porch and a heavy looking carved wooden door. It had no lock or keyhole anywhere on it that Morris could see. A doorbell button was set into the wall nearby, so Morris pushed it a couple of times. He couldn’t hear if anything was ringing or buzzing inside the house.
“He’s either got a real quiet doorbell or damn good insulation,” he said to Libby.
“I’d bet on the insulation, and not just the kind that keeps the heat inside during winter.” She touched the wall next to the door. “There’s something... strange about this place.”
The door was opened by a man whose height was closer to Libby’s 5’8” than to Morris’s 6’2”. He had quick green eyes and a cap of tight ginger curls that fought a losing battle against a receding hairline. The tweed sport coat he wore had the kind of fabric and fit that cost a great deal of money.
“Robert Sutorius?” Morris asked.
“Yes I am,” the man said. He studied them for a few moments. “And I imagine you two are Quincey Morris and Libby Chastain.” He stepped back, opening the door further. “Do come in.”
Morris and Libby found themselves in a large living room painted in pastels of orange and brown. The furniture, which looked new, was in Regency style which Morris had never much cared for. The floor was covered with a series of overlapping Persian rugs that looked like they might be genuine.
“Very nice carpets,” Libby said. “Do any of them fly?”
Sutorius gave her a broad smile and a wink. “Not so far, but then maybe I just haven’t asked the right person to fly one yet.” He gestured toward an open door. “This way, please. We can talk in my office.”
The door to Sutorius’s office was a perfect circle, perhaps eight feet in diameter, made of a rustic looking wood construction. It was a door that Bilbo Baggins would have loved at first sight.
The office itself seemed vast – although, given Sutorius’s limited ability to use magic, that might have been an illusion. But Morris noted that each of the three walls was crammed with full-size bookcases, many of which actually contained books. The other shelves held some simple magical tools and a number of odd-looking electronic devices whose function Morris could only guess at.
Morris thought this was the sort of study that Barry Love might have, if the detective only possessed money, good taste, and a more relaxed temperament.
Part of the room was given over to a conversation area – presumably where Robert Sutorius interviewed prospective clients. Four comfortable-looking chairs surrounded a large coffee table with magical symbols beautifully carved into the surface and legs. Sutorius led them over, saying, “It might be most comfortable if we talk here. Do sit down.”
After everyone was seated, Sutorius said, “I normally only see people by appointment, but for such distinguished guests I don’t mind making an exception.”
Libby looked at him closely. “I never object to being called ‘distinguished,’ on those rare occasions when it occurs,” she said. “But I’m fairly sure we haven’t met before.”
“Oh, no, we haven’t,” Sutorius said. “I’m sure I’d remember.”
“Then I can’t help but wonder how you knew who we were – have you seen photos of us?”
“Well, Mister Morris here had his picture in the papers, and everywhere else we now call the media, quite a few times last Summer.”
“That’s true,” Morris said. “Unfortunately.”
“Congratulations, by the way on getting the charges dropped – however you managed it,” Sutorius said. “I’ve wondered more than once what all that brouhaha at the Republican Convention was about. I don’t suppose you’d care to enlighten me.”
“No,” Morris said, “I don’t think I would.”
“To be expected, I suppose. Anyway, once I saw that Quincey Morris was standing on my doorstep in the company of a white magic practitioner, it didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to conclude that she must be Libby Chastain.”
“I can’t fault your logic,” Libby said, “but how did you know that I’m a white witch?”
“I have been trained, by experts, to recognize the presence of magic – both white and black. It has come in handy in my work.”
“I can imagine,” Libby said.
“Now,” Sutorius said, spreading his hands briefly, “How can I help you? If the job involves something tha
t is beyond your own considerable capabilities, it must be interesting, indeed.”
“Actually,” Morris said, “we’re here to talk about one of your past assignments.”
Sutorius’s pleasant expression disappeared faster than a mouse at a cat show. “Have you now?” The warmth in his voice had dropped several degrees.
“We have reason to believe,” Libby said, “that you, um, liberated something called the Corpus Hermeticum from its place of safekeeping.”
“A very secure room at St. Ignatius Monastery, that would be,” Morris said.
“Did I really?” Sutorius’s voice showed only polite interest, and not very much of that.
Libby said, “Since you’re not a practitioner yourself – in the strictest sense – we assumed you’d have no real use for the book yourself.”
“That’s why we figure you were hired to acquire it for someone else,” Morris said. “We’d very much like to know who your client was, and where we might find him – or her.”
All Morris got from Sutorius was a chilly smile.
“Okay, look,” Morris said, leaning forward in his chair, “we understand that you’re a businessman.” He waved one hand back and forth, as if dispersing cigarette smoke. “Nobody’s expecting you to give the information away. The book is the property of the Vatican, and they want it back badly – all five volumes of it.”
Sutorius looked as if he were watching a TV weather report for a place he’d never visited, and never intended to. But he was giving his attention to Morris, which means he did not notice Libby Chastain’s hand slip into her big leather purse, which she had kept on her lap during the conversation.
“There’s a lot the guys in Rome are prepared to offer,” Morris said, while Libby’s fingers identified the vial she had placed at the top of her purse’s contents, and quietly thumbed off the lid.
Morris’s voice grew louder, and he began to count off on his fingers. “One, money – more than you’d ever get for one of these burglary jobs of yours, or even ten of them. Two, information. The Vatican has sources you can use–”
Libby Chastain’s right hand came out of her purse, a small quantity of blue powder in her fist. She opened the hand, quickly extended it toward Sutorius, and blew on it, hard.
While most of the powder was still in the air, Libby said three words of power in ancient Chaldean. Then she sat back to observe the effect. She got one almost immediately, but it wasn’t what she was expecting.
Sutorius laughed at her. He did not chuckle, or chortle, or snicker. He roared, as if Libby had just told him the funniest joke he’d heard in years.
Morris turned to look at Libby. She sat quietly, her face expressionless. But her gray eyes were blinking rapidly, a clear indication that she was profoundly shocked. Nothing like that had ever happened to her before. Nothing like that was ever supposed to happen.
Sutorius finally regained his composure, and began to brush the blue powder off his jacket and the coffee table’s polished surface. “I’ll have to vacuum later, I suppose,” he said, as if to himself.
Then he sat back and looked at Libby. “Is that what this was all about?” He did not, quite, sneer. “Morris distracts me with silly patter, while you hit me with – what? Some kind of truth spell?”
Libby nodded mutely.
“And then I was supposed to blithely tell you everything you wanted to know, betraying the trust of a valued client and ruining my reputation completely, after which you two would simply go on your merry way, laughing about how easy it had been?”
Morris sighed. “I wouldn’t have put it in those precise words, but – yeah, that’s about the size of it.”
Sutorius’s expression became indulgent. Perhaps he felt sorry for them. “Not a terrible scheme, in its conception. And the execution, while a little clumsy, was good enough to get the job done. But I’m afraid you lacked one vital piece of information.”
He waved his arm in an expressive gesture that took in the whole room, if not beyond. “Within this house, magic does not work – neither white, nor black, nor gray. No matter how experienced or skilled the practitioner, no matter what materials or spells are used. It. Will. Not. Work.”
Libby’s eyes were wide. “How on earth did you achieve that? Or is it another one of your secrets?”
Sutorius gave a miniscule shrug. “I won’t go into specifics, of course, but the short version is – I hired one of the most powerful magicians in the country, and he spent two months constructing a magic-dampening spell, and the better part of a week putting it into operation and adding safeguards.”
“Magic to prevent magic,” Libby said wonderingly. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible.”
“Nor I, at first,” Sutorius said, and chuckled. “But clearly it is possible. The practitioner has promised to refund his considerable fee if anyone ever succeeds in performing magic within these walls. That was over a year ago, and I haven’t asked for my money back, so far.”
“What if, instead of magic, we’d come with a couple of Colt .45s?” Morris said. “Your anti-magic spell wouldn’t stop those, would it?”
“No, you’re right – it wouldn’t,” Sutorius said. “But if you’d been armed, I’d never have opened the door to you. Did you happen to notice the fence surrounding the property? In addition to keeping out the neighborhood dogs, it’s also a scanner. State of the art. By the time you reached my porch, I knew you weren’t carrying anything more lethal than that knife in your right pants pocket. And if you’d been unwise enough to attempt such a gambit–” Sutorius reached under his coat and produced a slim automatic pistol “–I would have checkmated that, as well. Fatally, I’m afraid.”
He stood up, the gun still in his hand but pointed at the floor. “Well, this has been very entertaining,” he said, “but I’d like you both to leave now. And, needless to say, don’t come back.”
Morris and Libby stood, careful to avoid anything that might be interpreted as a sudden move. As they walked ahead of Sutorius to the front door, Morris said over his shoulder, “What if someday we had a real job for you? Not telling us your secrets, but the kind of thing you do best, and paying top dollar. Just for the sake of discussion, would you be interested in talking to us then?”
Sutorius thought for a moment. “If you were serious, and not planning to waste my time – again – I might consider it. But that scenario seems rather unlikely, don’t you think?”
He opened the door and used the gun to usher them through it and out onto the small porch.
“You folks have a very good day, now.” He gave them an unpleasant smile. “You’ve certainly made mine.”
They walked back past the elaborately disguised scanner and through the gate. At the sidewalk, Morris gestured toward the nearest corner. “We can probably get a cab over there.”
He was right. Five minutes later, he and Libby were being driven back to her condo.
“Well,” Libby said, “that was certainly a humbling experience.”
“For you and me both, kiddo,” Morris said. “You and me both.”
“And, embarrassing though it will be, I think I have to tell the Sisterhood about this, just so they know that such things are possible. It flies in the face of everything we’re taught.”
“Maybe once you tell them, they’ll figure out a way to get past it. One of these days.”
“Not soon enough to do us any good on this job,” she said.
“No, I reckon not.”
“What was that you said in there, at the end–” She glanced toward the driver, who seemed only interested in the traffic and the Middle Eastern music playing softly on his radio “–about hiring him for a legitimate job sometime? You weren’t serious, were you?”
“Not about that, no,” Morris told her.
“What, then?”
“Just an idea I had. I’ll tell you about it at home.” He made a small head gesture in the driver’s direction, and Libby nodded.
“Anyway,” Morris said, “i
t’ll only work if I can get in touch with a couple of friends of ours, and that may prove difficult.”
“Why – what’s the problem?”
“You never know – somebody might have told them both to go to Hell.”
Twenty-Two
“WELL, IF THEY won’t fucking do it, then they won’t fucking do it,” Sue Whitlavich said. Colleen O’Donnell’s boss was one of the smartest women she had ever met, and the one with the filthiest mouth – both considerable achievements, considering the number and variety of people Colleen knew.
While an agent at the FBI’s Chicago field office two decades ago, Whitlavich had gone to graduate school part time. The fact that she had excelled at both was a tribute to her intelligence, ambition, and the fact that in those days she had very little that could be construed as a life. Her Ph.D. from the University of Chicago was in Abnormal Psychology, but it was her dissertation, “Re-thinking the Monster: A Jungian Perspective on Serial Murder,” that had brought her to the attention of the Behavioral Science Section.
She’d transferred into Behavioral Science and spent the next nine years chasing (and mostly catching) serial killers before being promoted to Assistant Section Chief. Three years later, when her boss, Jack Crawford, had suffered his fatal heart attack, the top job went to Sue by virtual acclamation. But beginning a couple of years ago, the reports of her two best field agents had begun showing Sue Whitlavich that the world was an even darker place than she’d realized. Her vulgar paraphrase of Hamlet had been, “There’s more weird shit going on in the world than even I ever thought was fucking possible.”
Morris and Chastain Investigations: Play With Fire & Midnight at the Oasis Page 8
