Aloha From Hell (18 page)

I figured out one thing last night. If Mason and Aelita are mixed up in this thing, then not only do they want the kid found, but they want me to find him. That means there’s information I don’t have yet. Since I don’t know where to look, there’s nothing to do but go back to the beginning.

“Was Hunter in touch with any of TJ’s friends who were into magic?”

Vidocq and Candy look at me.

Okay, I’m starting somewhere a little self-serving. I want to know if the Sentenzas know that TJ and I are connected. And it’s a legit question. TJ might have known some Sub Rosas outside our Circle. I doubt it, but you never know. Like I said, I’m grasping at straws and crabgrass.

“Not that I know of,” says K.W. “Jen, do you know anything?”

She stands where she is by the coffeemaker. She’s a long way down the counter from us, like she’s afraid of catching a flesh-eating virus.

Jen shakes her head.

“Not that I know of. If he knew any of them, he was keeping it a secret.”

“Was it his habit to keep secrets?” asks Vidocq.

“No. That was more TJ. Hunter is a good kid,” says K.W.

“He was on the debate team at school one semester,” says Jen, like it’s proof that Hunter is an angel and that none of this is happening. “But he had to quit to go out for track.”

I ask, “Did he do all right in school? No changes in his grades?”

“He was a hard worker,” says Jen.

K.W. smiles ruefully and nods.

“He did all his homework and his grades were decent, but there wasn’t much danger of him becoming a Rhodes scholar.”

While the coffee burbles away Jen starts getting cups down from the cupboard. She puts one down and stops. Her body has gone rigid again. Her heart rate is climbing fast. She’s trying not to cry. Probably doesn’t want to look weak in front of a bunch of strangers talking about her missing son like he’s a stolen dirt bike. K.W. gets up and wa"0"ts up alks over to her, puts his hands on her shoulders.

“Why don’t you go sit down? I’ll get the coffee,” he says.

She doesn’t reply, but comes over and sits on the stool K.W. just vacated. Her arms are crossed and she’s looking down at the counter.

Candy reaches out and touches Jen’s hand lightly.

“We’re very sorry to have to ask you all these questions.”

Jen nods, still staring down.

This is bullshit. The kid was a jock with ambitious parents. They’d lost their smart son, TJ, and hoped that Hunter would take his place. But Hunter isn’t TJ. If he joined the debate team, it was only to make his parents happy, and when he wanted off, he found a good enough reason that they couldn’t get mad.

K.W. puts down cups for everyone. I sip mine.

“This coffee is good,” I say to no one in particular.

K.W. nods.

“Yeah. It cost enough.”

“You have a coffeemaker this good at work?”

“That’s a funny question.”

“It is, isn’t it? But do you have a good coffeemaker at work?”

He shakes his head, still looking puzzled.

“Not this good, but the one in the office is okay. Most of the guys I work with wouldn’t know good coffee from kerosene. They’re the types who put on a pot on Monday and are still drinking it on Friday.”

“What kind of guys are we talking about?”

“Construction mostly. I’m a property developer. Someone has a piece of land and wants something on it, they call me.”

Makes sense. I remember seeing mud and cement around the wheel wells on the pickup in the drive.

“I have my own company. Some days I wear suits and some I’m out on the sites making sure the floor tiles are going in the right way up.” He smiles like we’re supposed to laugh. It’s a joke he’s used on a lot of clients. Now it’s just a nervous tic.

“Depending on business, I’m either out in the field most of the time or back in the office having meetings.”

“Whaene>ȁt kind of real estate do you develop?”

“Whatever a client asks for. Shopping malls. Business parks. Apartment buildings. Whatever a client wants.”

“Is business good?” asks Vidocq.

K.W. shrugs.

“With development, it’s always feast or famine. No one wants anything new. All they want is new electrics or pipes in old structures. Then someone wants a new hundred-apartment complex up in two weeks. And there are ten other companies behind that one who want the same thing.”

“Was Hunter going to work for you when he finished school?”

“I don’t know. We talked about it.”

“Did he spend much time at the building sites?”

K.W. sips his coffee. Puts his hand on his wife’s hand. Squeezes. She squeezes back.

“Not particularly. He liked the big construction machines when he was little.”

Fucking fascinating. This family is in training for the Tedious Olympics.

“Are you developing anything new? Anything unusual?” asks Candy. Nice. She has good instincts for this Sherlock Holmes stuff. Me, I’m about ready to take her back to the hotel and break more furniture.

“What do you mean ‘unusual’?”

“You’re the builder,” I say. “We don’t know a dump truck from the Batmobile. You tell us.”

K.W.’s eyes unfocus. Make microscopic movements back and forth in their sockets. It’s an involuntary thing. The brain trying to access memories. If he was lying, his eyes would favor his left side, but they don’t.

K.W. shrugs.

“Nothing out of the ordinary. We’re finishing a housing development. Upgrading the fixtures in a strip mall. We’re about to break ground on an office park near the 405.”

“Okay, the jobs are boring. Are your clients? Any eccentrics? Odd requests? Anyone paying you in magic beans?”

He thinks again. His eyes stop and hold steady.

“There’s only one thing I can think of and it’s not really odd. It’s just not something that happens every day.”

“Tell us,” says Vidocq.

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“A client called for a fix-up on a business property. What was unusual was that I never met her or a rep in person. We did everything on the phone. It was like she was one person handling everything herself. That’s unusual in this business.”

“What was her name?” I ask.

He frowns.

“I can’t remember. My secretary would know.”

“What did she hire you to do?”

“She wanted us to renovate and restore an old commercial site in the Hollywood Hills. It was a big job, too. There was extensive fire damage, but she wanted us to fix it rather than tear it down. It was something historic. An old gentlemen’s club. That I remember. It’s not a phrase you hear too often these days.”

I put down my coffee and Vidocq picks up his. Candy and I look at each other.

“Did she tell you the name of the club?”

“Maybe. I don’t remember.”

“Was it Avila?”

K.W. smiles.

“Yes, that’s it. How did you know?”

The human brain is a very funny thing, and because of that, it can do very funny things to the human body. Take mine right now. My heartbeat just doubled. All my senses are cranked up to eleven. Even the angel in my head feels it. I hear Jen’s breathing change. She knows my question and K.W.’s answer are important. I smell K.W. starting to sweat. He gets it that something he’s said is connected to Hunter’s disappearance. Vidocq and Candy are plain excited and trying not to show it. I’m as excited as any of them, but I feel cold, too. Like someone cracked open my chest and dumped a bucket of ice inside. But I don’t show any of it. This is basic stuff. I could have had this information yesterday if I hadn’t let the TJ thing get to me. But I guess getting to me has been the idea all along.

“How did you know the club’s name?”

I sip my coffee. The room is practically vibrating from the tension. Candy is a furnace. She wants to run out and start gnawing on bad guys or the coyotes in the hills. Something.

“A lucky guess.”

“I’ll call the office and get you the woman’s number.”

I shake my head.

“Don’t bother. It’ll be turned off and she won’t use it again.”

Jen says, “You know who it is, don’t you?”

“No,” I say. It’s the truth. I don’t
know
. But yes, I know.

“I have an idea, but I don’t want us to start getting ahead of ourselves.”

The three of us get up and head for the door. The Sentenzas don’t show us out this time. They stay in their bright and familiar kitchen, huddled there like the house is the
Titanic
and the serving island is the last lifeboat afloat.

Jen calls after us.

“What can we do?”

“Stay by the phone,” I yell over my shoulder.

W
HEN WE GET
to Allegra’s car, I say, “I’m driving,” and Vidocq doesn’t argue.

We get in and I tell the other two, “Get out your cells. You’re going to make calls.”

I start the car and back out of the driveway. I’m driving slow. Concentrating. I know what to do and I want to get to doing it, but I need to set it up right.

We head for the Golden State Freeway, but it’s bumper-to-bumper, so I turn the car and we head to the city on surface streets.

I tell Candy, “Call Allegra. Tell her to clear out all the diaper-rash and splinter patients. We’re bringing in a special case.”

“You’re that sure Hunter is at Avila?” she asks.

“I’d bet the pope’s red shoes. Tell her to get out every piece of Kinski’s hoodoo medical gear she has. The demon’s been working over Hunter for days. He’s going to be in bad shape.”

I don’t have to tell Vidocq what to do.

“I’ll call Father Traven,” he says.

I nod.

“Tell him to get his picnic basket together and be ready. I don’t want to give whatever’s in Avila the chance to know we’re coming.”

I get out my phone and dial the number Vidocq gave me for Julia. She answers on the second ring.

“Stark? How are things going?”

“I’ve got good news and bad news.”

“What’s the good news?”

“I know where Hunter is. We’re on our way there right now.”

“What’s the bad?”

“Aelita is involved. It might be a trap and we all might die.”

“Do I need to tell you to be careful?”

“It’s always good to be reminded. I’ll call you when it’s over. If we’re dead, I’ll call collect.”

I
DON’T KNOW
what to expect when we pick up Traven. How much bread do you need to bum-rush a demon out of
Ferris Bueller
? A baguette? A dump-truck-ful of biscuits?

Traven is waiting on the curb when we get to his place. He’s all in black, with an old-fashioned high-collared coat that makes him look like Johnny Cash’s stunt double. He’s holding a battered canvas duffel bag. It’s big, but he hefts it easily. I guess not that much bread after all.

I hit the brakes at the corner and say, “Let Traven sit up front. I want to talk to him.”

Vidocq gets out of the car and takes Traven’s duffel. He slides into the back with Candy. Traven gets in the front. I’m moving before he has the door closed.

“I understand you’ve found the boy. How’s he holding up?”

I steer the car back toward the Hollywood Hills.

“We haven’t seen him, but I know where he is. It was a place called Avila. In your line of work, you wouldn’t have heard of it. They called it a gentlemen’s club. Basically it was a casino and whorehouse for a very select group of über-rich assholes.”

“Avila? After Saint Teresa of Avila?”

“Who’s that?”

“Saint Teresa experienced an intense encounter with an angel. She describes it in sublimely intimate terms. The angel stabs her in the heart with a spear and the pain she describes is intense, but also beautiful and all-consuming.”

“I didn’t know saints went all the way on a first date.”

He nods and purses his lips. He’s heard it all before.

“A lot of people choose to interpret her description of religious ecstasy in simple sexual terms.” He shakes his head. “Goddamn Freud.”

“At least the name makes sense now. You see, Avila was a huge secret. A real Skull and Bones kind of operation. If you were one of the handful of people in the know, one of the politically anointed or rich enough to use the same accountant as Jehovah, you got access to the club inside the club. You go to see what the club was really built for.”

“And what was that?”

“They didn’t keep human hookers in the inner sanctum. For the right price and a few blood oaths, you could fuck an angel.”

Traven turns and looks at me, his face a blank mask.

“I’m not joking,” I say. “No one knows who started the place or what kind of hoodoo they used to capture and keep them. L.A.’s a major power spot, so for all anyone knows, it might have been here in some form forever.”