Bad Blood: Latter-Day Olympians (6 page)

“Yes? Out of the goodness of your heart and to give me all of the dirt?” she asked facetiously.

“Sounds like someone already gave you the dirt. I swear, you’ve got a better network of informants than I do.” Not that
that
was saying much.

“It is true,” she announced smugly. “So, you called to pump me for information then? It will cost you. When do you come visit?”

“When pigs fly,” I muttered.

“What is this?”

“As soon as Lenny Rialto retires,” I amended.

“
Agape
, that is water under the bridge.”

“So he no longer spits when he hears my name?”

“Well—”

“I rest my case.”

“You will come when we are on hiatus. Or I will come to you,” she threatened.

And that was only the upfront fee. The hidden cost was that I had to go through my story three times—until Yiayia could repeat it virtually verbatim—before the wily old bat would dish her own dirt. My cell phone was down to the last bar before I finally got the skinny on all area ancients. Who knew that Aphrodite had become the new Mayflower Madam or that Hephaestus now went by the name of Hiero Cholas, the reigning wunderkind of ILM?

Once Yiayia finally worked her way around to the fish-folk rumored to be in the area, I got more than I bargained for. I was hoping for something along the lines of Poseidon spotted completely knackered in some dive on Venice Beach ranting about how Circe’d done him wrong. Instead, I got an earful. It turned out a whole pod of oceanids and nereids had recently been spotted in the area, apparently having come to see the filming of a new mermaid movie. I knew vaguely of the film because Christie had been bummed that the timing of her Clairol commercial conflicted with the film’s casting call.

So, I had a plethora of suspects with no current whereabouts, since they’d dispersed when the filming moved on from the waterfront. The land-based gods, Yiayia informed me, were so much easier to track, but until someone tagged the oceanids… I wasn’t completely sure she was joking.

By the time we wound down, my latte was nothing but ice, my scone was mere crumbs, and the waiter, who must have heard enough to brand me a loon, was giving me sidelong glances.

“Okay,” I said, playing to my audience, “I’ll input those changes and have the revised script to you next week.”

Yiayia had a good laugh at my expense. “Maybe
I
should write a screenplay. Make it very juicy and let all the gods and godlings pay me to suppress it. I might finally have enough to retire.”

“Yeah, or you might find yourself turned into a shrubbery. Anyway, in order to blackmail someone, they have to have shame. Guessing that’s not real big with this bunch.”

Her sigh came through loud and clear. “Perhaps not then.”

“Yiayia, this contact of yours—who is it? Anyone that clued in might prove a valuable contact on this case.”

I didn’t expect the loaded silence that greeted me.

“I can’t tell you.”

“What? Who’re you talking to—Deep Throat?”

“Don’t get smart with me, missy. I’ll ask him myself if he knows anything, but you’re on their radar now. If he’s discovered talking to you, well, I don’t think the others would be any too happy. I can’t ask him to expose himself. He wouldn’t even be speaking with me if not—”

I didn’t know whether to be annoyed or intrigued. “If not what?”

“If not for our history,” she said, as if I’d dragged it out of her. “There, you happy? I said it.”

Yiayia had a history? She couldn’t mean… No, no, I just had a dirty mind. Dealing with the gods would do that to a person. She’d known Grandpa since she was a teenager.
Didn’t mean she’d never had any wild oats to sow
, my troublesome inner voice chimed in.
Eww!
I responded, hopefully not out loud.

“Okay, let me get this straight. Your contact is one of them—with a capital ‘T’. This sinister
They
to which group Apollo, who’s not only spoken to but hired me, belongs would get medieval on this guy’s ass if he talks to me? Have you started back on your soap operas? Been dipping your beak into Pappous’s bourbon stash? I don’t understand all the secrecy. You’d think They’d make some sort of flashy announcement, throw a parade complete with banners: ‘We’re here, steer clear, turn over all your beer’.”

“
Anipsi
,” she barked. “Show some respect. Anyway, I’m not so sure nothing is afoot, which is why my, um, friend has to be careful.”

Hmm,
very
interesting.

I sighed heavily. “Fine, have it your way. Just promise me that your guy is not green and scaly.”

“He’s not,” she answered stiffly.

“Would you ask him for any scuttlebutt involving the fish-folk who had a beef with Circe?”

“Yes, if you agree not to try to hunt him down. I know how you are.” I winced. “But now, my public awaits. We are in New York through Monday, but call me any time you have gossip. The next time I have to hear about you on the news, I will put on you the Spyropoulous hex.”

I snorted. It was a good trick for psyching people out over cards, but somehow, I didn’t think I had much to fear. “Yes, Yiayia,” I said anyway. “I will call.”

We rang off and I found that not only had my check arrived, but my waiter’s card had come with. No doubt he hoped to be remembered when it came time to cast my fictitious script.

As I stared down at the card, inspiration struck. I had my very own Hollywood reference library on salary.

I flipped open my phone again as I reached for my wallet, then halted the latter impulse. If I wanted to foster the idea that I was a wheeler and dealer, I’d need to exude a sense of entitlement, not comfort the waitstaff that
yes
, I really did intend to move on someday and leave my table to someone willing to shell out for more than a scone and a latte. Certainly, the image would do well for me service-wise if I dropped by in the future, which, given the proximity to the cop show, seemed likely.

Jesus picked up on the second ring—always—said it gave the impression of too little to do to pick up on the first and too much to wait until the third.

“Good morning, Karacis Investigations,” he said pleasantly.

“Hey, Jesus. I need your expertise. Would you get on the ’net and look up everything you can about the mermaid flick that’s been filming out at Venice Beach? Cross-reference the cast list against Circe Holland’s name. See what you can come up with.”

“Oh hey,” he responded, dropping the energized voice for his regular ennui. It just wasn’t worth the effort for little old me. “You mean
investigate
.”

I didn’t need the Sight to figure out where he was headed—big client, money influx—Jesus was thinking raise. Ever the realist, I wasn’t ready to count my chickens before they were fully grown.

“I mean
assist
in an investigation, yes.”

He gave me a raspberry. “Spoilsport.”

“Diva,” I countered.

“That’s aspiring diva to you. Speaking of which, I’ll be out Friday; I have an audition.” He followed up with a dramatic sigh. “I’ll have everything on your desk when you return. You
are
coming back, right? You haven’t run off with your studmuffin? You still have time for us little people?”

“And you are?” I asked.

He very properly hung up on me.

My waiter’s eyes glowed as I pocketed his card and placed my money in the leatherette bill folder. He thanked me without even looking inside. I envied him the optimism of youth.

Chapter Six

“Living is just what we do to entertain and sustain ourselves until death. So, latte anyone?”

—Jesus

Jesus fairly leapt out of his chair the second he saw the whites of my eyes.

“Chica, you will not believe what I have found!” He paused dramatically for an appropriate expression of interest.

“Well, don’t keep me in suspense,” I obliged. I even sat in the reception chair beside his desk rather than make him follow me into my office to report.

“You will not believe the half of it. I mean, I’d heard the production was
cursed
, but I had no idea…”

“Jesus, any chance of you actually telling
me
what you learned any time today?”

He sniffed, but was too about-to-burst to withhold data as punishment. “Fine, the highlights. You know about Sierra Talbot’s death, yes?”

“Um—”

He clicked his tongue in disgust. “She died in her bathtub three-quarters of the way through filming. No apparent cause of death. They’ll have to CGI the rest of her scenes.”

Oh,
that
Sierra Talbot. “Go on.”

“Okay, so that’s on top of walk-outs, damaged equipment. No big, right? Happens all the time. But here’s the thing, some of the actors and even the crew claimed they saw strange things swimming around in the water—like,
mermen
. That’s what the walk-outs were about—people too damned freaked to go near that water. And you
know
how freaked that’s got to be. I mean, hello, beaches are pretty much our
raison d’etre
. Besides, water’s going to swallow us sometime.”

I rolled my eyes. “Well, aren’t you just Mr. Shiny Happypants.”

Jesus gave me an answering eye-roll. “
Whatever
. I’m out. News, gossip, etcetera is on your desk.”

He snapped his cuffs smartly into place and used the reflection off his computer screen for a last-minute touch-up of the hair before taking off.

“Jesus, you’re a prince,” I called after him.

He acknowledged me with an airy over-the-shoulder wave.

I sighed and turned to the paperwork awaiting me in my office. With Jesus gone, it was too damned quiet. I never could think in silence. Before turning to the papers Jesus had stacked neatly in my inbox, I hit a key on my computer to wake it up and reached for my CD case.
Smash Mouth
called to me, but they always made me want to
move
. Good for cleaning or pacing, bad for reading.
Offspring
, I decided instead, especially since there was no one around to hear if I unconsciously hummed along. Jesus had threatened a strike the first time he’d heard me, asked if there was a level beyond tone deaf—seventh level of hell, maybe.

Music playing, I kicked off my boots, propped my feet up on the desk and focused on the printouts. Two things stood out. One, there’d been a lot of noise about the mysterious nature of Sierra Talbot’s death at first, but no post-autopsy follow-up in the press. Maybe the reality was too much of a letdown after the buildup. Or maybe the police were keeping mum. If Sierra had been one of Circe’s clients and had her life force drained, cause of death might well have eluded the ME. And two, special effects were being done by none other than ILM. Hiero Cholas had been mentioned by name.

I wondered if Armani already knew about a link between Circe and the little mermaid and if that was a contributing factor to his consideration of the fetish angle. If I wanted to learn more about the official file on Sierra’s death, I was going to have to turn up something to trade. Hiero seemed as good a place to start as any. The trick was getting to him.
 

I could think of only one way. I tried to tell myself that calling Apollo was perfectly natural. He was my client; I needed a connection he could provide to help the investigation. Anyway, the number he’d left probably only got me as far as his personal assistant. Even so, my heart started to beat faster. It felt too much like asking a favor—and favors generally came with strings.

Still, I’d have to cave sometime if I wanted a look at Circe’s files, which I did now more than ever. ’Course, even if it turned out that Circe had repped Sierra and planted the nasty little clause in her contract, I couldn’t see any immediate connection to the fish folk. As trails went, it ranked right up there with Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumbs.

I picked Apollo’s card off the edge of the desk where he’d left it and studied the number, memorizing for later reference, and froze as I found myself actually stroking the card with my thumb. Weird, weird, weird. Not to mention creepy. Which begged the question, could I really blame the strange obsession on Apollo’s godly mojo when he wasn’t even in the room? If not, what did that leave? I refused to consider myself a shoo-in for the starring role in Fatal Attraction II, though I was certainly in the right place for it.

Moving on, I shook off the self-analysis. Probably, it was just the superior paper quality making me all touchy-feely. I had a job to do and failing to make the call would only be wussing out.

I dialed the office phone, hoping with each ring to get bumped to voice mail, which was just stupid, since I’d get a lot further a lot faster if we connected. Besides which, if Apollo called back, he’d get me on
his
timing when I wouldn’t be steeled against the sound of his voice.

For a wonder, the universe passed up an opportunity to thumb its nose in my general direction and a prerecorded voice popped on to ask me to leave a message. I did so—coherently even.

I chewed my lip as I thought about other avenues for research. It was too soon to hear anything back from Yiayia, considering she was on stage and all. I thought briefly about trying to hack into her phone records to track down her contact, but I was strictly amateur. I could manage to infiltrate the average person’s home computer, but the phone company was another matter and not worth the jail time. Besides, I’d promised. Sort of.

Luckily, my phone rang before I could contemplate any further felonies.

“Karacis Investigations,” I answered in my receptionist voice.

“Hello. Tori Karacis please.”

My eyes nearly rolled up into my head. Hearing my name in that deep, resonant, vaguely accented voice was enough to give me palpitations.

“Speaking,” I answered, determined not to show the effects.

“Ah, I thought that it might be. You rang. Have you discovered something already?”

The question was inevitable, and I was prepared. I fed him enough to satisfy him about the police investigation and my own leads with the standard disclaimer that it was early yet and that other avenues of inquiry were certain to materialize, yada, yada, yada.