Deader Still (13 page)

I sat down on the other side of the galley counter as Mina continued poking around.

“So, she’s what passes as interesting to you these days, eh, Simon?”

“Watch it,” I said.

Mina grinned at me. “I thought you like them a bit more adventurous and less … bookish?”

I ignored her dig at Jane. I could have told her about Jane’s past temping for the forces of evil, or how she had tried to kill me, or even how we had fought side by side at the Met. I could have told Mina all that, but I didn’t. To bring it up would be to bring up the Department in its entirety and that was a part of my life I didn’t want Mina to have anything to do with.

“I don’t really know this Jane of yours, Simon,” Mina said, throwing a skillet down on the stove and drizzling olive oil into it, “but don’t you think her reaction to having a gorgeous woman like me here was a little … odd?”

“How so?” I asked, looking up at her as something in my chest tightened up.

“Well, first of all, you were looking a little guilty when you were not so suavely trying to cover up why I’m really here. Maybe Jane knew you’re hiding something … maybe the past you’ve had with me, or maybe she thinks we’re hooking up. But maybe she doesn’t really care. She didn’t seem angry enough. Maybe because she has something of her own to hide.”

Mina’s words set something off in me. What if she had a point? What if Jane was really the guilty party here? That would explain all the QT with Wesker, and I definitely didn’t put it past Wesker to try it on. My heart raced as I really started to give it serious consideration, until I realized I was taking relationship advice from a seriously screwed-up mind like Mina’s.

“Jesus,” I said. “Don’t put stuff like that in my head. I’ve got barely enough hamsters in their wheels up there to handle my regular level of paranoia.”

“Something to eat?” Mina asked. Gone was the threatening bitch from before, replaced by this younger, hipper, but equally mentally unbalanced Rachael Ray.

I ignored her question and headed off to the back of my apartment toward my bedroom.

“Clean up after yourself,” I said. “There are blankets and a pillow in the bottom of the closet in the bathroom. Enjoy the guest room and try not to kill me in my sleep.”

As I left her, I thought about my performance appraisal again.
Didn’t die
. Felt like I wanted to, though. Part of me would have loved nothing better. But I didn’t. And, lucky me, tomorrow
was
another day.

Once Mina left the next morning, I headed up to the Javits Center. After fighting my way across the convention floor through a line of either dark elves or Smurfs—I wasn’t sure what look they were going for—I made my way back to our D.E.A. booth. Connor was nowhere to be seen, but the Inspectre was already busy arranging the piles of brochures and aptitude tests.

“Anyone try to kill you yet today, my boy?” the Inspectre asked with cheer in his voice.

“Not unless you count crosstown traffic,” I said, “but I don’t think I can blame that on cultists.”

We were interrupted by a short, balding man in a hideous tweed suit approaching our booth. “Good day, gentlemen,” he said with a flourish of his arm and a deep bow. I figured him to be dressed as a character from
Doctor Who
.

“Pamphlet?” I offered, holding up a copy of
Ask Not What Your Country Can Do for Ghoul.

The man shook his head. “Perhaps another time. We, like you, are fellow vendors.”

I wondered who this “we” he referred to was, as he was standing there alone. I looked down at his color-coded badge and saw it was the same jaundiced yellow as ours. I put the pamphlet down.

Short & Balding had an accent that hinted at Middle American mixed with something exotic. Whatever it was, it was enough to confuse me.

“I trust you are having a good show so far?” he asked, the model of politeness.

The Inspectre nodded, but didn’t say anything. I kept my mouth shut, taking his lead.

“Excellent, excellent,” he said, sounding a little like a pitchman. I suspected he was here to set up some kind of vendor exchange, which was popular among so many of the non-paranormal vendors here.

“I’m Marten Heron,” he continued with another, more formal bow. Was this guy for real? He looked like he’d be more at home chatting it up back at the Lovecraft Café than here. “Of the Brothers Heron, Booth 1601-A. Perhaps you’ve heard of us?”

There was a twinkle of expectancy in his eye.

“You’re one of the Heron Brothers?” I said. “Julius is your brother? We rented the Oubliette from you yesterday. You know, the Oubliette that tried to kill me?”

The twinkle burned out in his eyes, but was back in a flash. “Yes, unfortunately,” he said. He wrung his hands together. “Julius told me about that. Rest assured, we’re looking into what happened.” He paused, then lowered his voice. “You didn’t happen to notice anything particularly unusual around here today, did you?”

“Unusual how?” I asked, curiosity getting the better of me. “Nothing’s tried to kill me today, if that’s what you’re hinting at.”

Marten paused, his hands clenched together like he might burst into a choral number any second.

“Oh, nothing in particular, really,” he said. “Just wanted to make sure the show is going well for you, after the Oubliette and all.”

I went to speak, but I felt the Inspectre’s foot come to rest on mine and stopped. Instead, the Inspectre extended his hand and spoke up.

“Argyle Quimbley,” he said. “A pleasure. I’ve only met your brother.”

Marten Heron grabbed his hand and pumped it with great enthusiasm.

“Ah, yes, Julius. There is a third brother as well, Lanford, but he hasn’t had much time away from the booth. Not one for the socialization, you see.”

Marten continued shaking hands. This went on for several moments before the Inspectre broke it off.

“If I’m not mistaken,” the Inspectre said, “you’re one of the Romnichal, are you not?”

“Romni-what?” I said, unable to contain myself. This time the Inspectre slammed his heel down on my foot, and I stifled a cry of pain.

“
Romnichal
, actually,” Marten corrected, smiling. “We’re Romany, from Downers Grove. You have a good ear.”

“It was your last name that tipped me off, actually,” the Inspectre said. “Fairly common among the nomadic tribes in America.”

“I’ve never met any gypsies before,” I piped in. “Downers Grove sounds very exotic.”

Marten shrugged. “If you consider Illinois exotic, sure.”

I scrunched my face. “Illinois gypsies?”

“For part of the year anyway,” he said. “But as your friend so astutely points out, we are nomadic, so my brothers and I do get around.”

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a handful of business cards, and started sorting through them. Halfway through the pile, he stopped and pulled one free.

“If you hear of anything out of the ordinary happening at the show, please, give me a call,” he said, trying to hand it to me. I kept my hands at my side, not wanting to explain my gloves. The Inspectre reached for it instead.

I read the card over the Inspectre’s shoulder.

I noticed there was no address, but it did list a phone number.

As if he anticipated my thoughts, Marten pulled a cell phone from his pocket and waved it at me like it was doing a little dance.

“It makes being nomadic a little easier,” he said. He checked the clock on the face of his cell phone. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to be returning to my brothers now. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. Come on by if you’re looking for anything special—charms, potions, whatnot.” He started to turn, then spun back around. “And again, sorry about the almost-killing-you thing.”

Marten Heron walked off into a sea of Wookiees, elves, and samurai, leaving the Inspectre and me alone once again.

“Tell me, boy,” the Inspectre said once he was gone. “Did anything seem suspicious about all that?”

A few young men drifted toward the table, picking through what we had to offer them.

“Other than him owning the device that tried to kill me?” I asked, trying to control my snark. “He seemed a little jumpy, like he was nervous about something. It makes me wonder what he’s trying to hide and if it might have anything to do with our problem at the dock yesterday. I mean, how much suspicious activity can go on in this neighborhood, right?”

I spied Connor hustling through the crowd, coming down the aisle in front of us.

“It certainly warrants a little bit of investigation,” the Inspectre said.

Connor came into our booth and threw his trench coat and bag underneath the back table. Inspectre Quimbley pointedly checked his pocket watch.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “There was another zombie scare downtown, so traffic was a bitch. Small outbreak, it looks like, but they’re getting more and more frequent lately.”

The Inspectre nodded. He turned back to me. “Why don’t you take Connor with you and see what you can find out?” he said. The stone-serious look he gave me left no doubt he was giving me Fraternal Order-level orders, putting me in charge. “I’ll man the booth by myself for a while.”

“Sure,” I said, hoping Connor wasn’t really paying attention.

I grabbed Connor and headed out in search of the short man’s booth.

“What the hell was up with that, kid?” he asked. He sounded good and pissed.

“Up with what?” I said, feigning ignorance as I dodged a pack of Live-Action Role Players dressed in fairy costumes.

“Why’s the Inspectre giving you our orders instead of me?”

“Oh,” I said, pausing to think up something. “That. It’s nothing. You were late so we just started discussing one of the Illinois gypsies who stopped by the booth.”

Somehow this seemed to mollify Connor, and he relaxed. “What did I miss?”

As we searched for the Brothers Heron booth, I explained the conversation we had had with Marten Heron. By the time I was done, Connor had spotted the sign at their booth, and the two of us walked over.

The Brothers Heron booth looked like a movie-set medicine show. Their setup consisted of an actual gypsy wagon, the kind I’d seen either in cartoons or on television shows where snake-oil salesmen would try to pawn their wares off on unsuspecting townies.

“Well, color me Romany,” Connor said with a whistle. “A bit theatric, don’t you think?”

Unfortunately, the Brothers Heron themselves were nowhere to be seen. As we approached the wagon, however, the incoherent sounds of arguing in a language I didn’t understand were coming from behind the wagon curtain, making it apparent where they were. I turned to Connor.

“Stay here,” I said.

“Excuse me?” he said, with a little bite to it.

“I just need you to distract them for a few minutes while I take a look back behind the scenes of their wagon.”

“Whoa,” Connor said. “I think we’re going to have to clear that with Enchancellors.”

“We don’t have to clear shit,” I said, feeling a little bold with power. “We don’t have time to fill out a bunch of forms or make some calls. I’m doing this under the authority of the Fraternal Order of Goodness, and that’s that.”

“And that’s what you’ll say if we get called out on breaking with Departmental procedure?”

I nodded. Connor shrugged, but I could tell that he was only feigning indifference. “Good enough for me. I’ll defer to your
F.O.G.gie
authority … this time.”

“Thanks,” I said, uncomfortable with the strange power play that had just happened. “I’ll be right back. Shop their table. Pretend you’re interested in their wares.”

Connor looked down at the table. It was covered with stoppered bottles, vials, totems, and fetishes. “But I
am
interested in their wares.”

“Good,” I said, walking off. “Then it shouldn’t be such a stretch for you. I’ll be back.”

I disappeared around the corner of the booth without giving Connor a chance to speak again.

I had to see what the hell was going on. I inched my way along the blue-curtained section behind the wagon as I followed the sound of the voices. I found the nearest seam and pulled it aside slowly, praying to God that I didn’t find someone staring back out at me.