Demon Demon Burning Bright, Whisperings book four (6 page)

I walked through the huge, circular foyer, as
always feeling dwarfed by the size and grandeur. The sun decided to
invade the interior and pour beams through the high windows in the
east wall, splashing yellow pools on the pale marble floor. A
handful of people sat on benches around the perimeter.

I went to the duty sergeant’s cubicle, but
nobody sat behind the glass and wire window, so I waited
impatiently, tapping my toe on the floor.

Two young, immaculately attired attorneys
came through the tall swinging doors of the courthouse and crossed
the lobby, voices stabbing out as if they fought a verbal duel.
They spoke too fast for me to understand one word. As I waited,
officers and civilians moved through the foyer, in and out of the
door which gives access to Vice, Narcotics, and the Gang Division.
Missing Persons is down there too. I wanted upstairs, the home of
Robbery, Homicide and the Cold Case Divisions. Internal Affairs has
a little office tucked in there somewhere.

A voice made me start. “What can we do for
you, Tiff?”

Sergeant Bruce had crept in the booth. I
leaned on the counter, smiled at him. “Can you buzz up and ask Mike
Warren if he can spare me a second?”

“Sure.” He slid the window closed so I
couldn’t hear him speaking. He picked up the phone, punched a
button and said a few words, frowned as he settled the phone in the
cradle.

Damn, Mike was busy.

But Bruce said, “He’s up to his ears, so
make it fast.”

I gave him my version of a dazzling smile
and headed for the escalator. My rubber soles squeaked on the
polished tile, people on the benches watched me.

Taking the escalator up, I walked along the
hall and into Homicide’s Squad room. A familiar buzz of voices and
activity washed over me. It did look busy, with some detectives on
their phones and the rest pecking away at their keyboards. My gaze
automatically went to the wall where Royal’s picture once hung.

Mike sat in his office, talking to Detective
Brad Spacer and a woman whose strawberry-blond hair fell to her
shoulders. He spotted me and beckoned with one hand, an abrupt
motion. Even with the squad room separating us, Mike looked
harried. Jacketless, shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal beefy
forearms, the top button of his shirt undone, tie loosened; his
naturally florid face shone.

I walked the aisle between desks to Mike’s
office as Spacer and the woman came out. Her badge said Detective
Grace McMullin and she looked ill. Her oval face shone, her blue
eyes watered and thin bangs stuck to her forehead. She made eye
contact, nodded and went on past.

A terrific
honk
made me look back to
see McMullin blow her nose on a well-used handkerchief.

“How are the ribs, Banks?” Spacer made as if
to slap my shoulder, but changed his mind.

“Fine. As if it never happened,” I told
him.

He looked a question at me, but I couldn’t
tell him why my cracked ribs healed faster than the average gal’s.
I got them when Dagka Shan punched me in the gut, denting my armor.
Yes, armor, and not the modern kind either; the breastplates I
borrowed from the High House armory were medieval.

“Banks, you got three minutes. Get in here,”
Mike yelled.

I made wide eyes at Spacer, went in Mike’s
office and settled in the chair across from him. The office was
stuffy and smelled faintly of garlic from the garlic chicken pizza
carton compacted in the wastebasket.

I didn’t think Mike could cram more
paperwork into his office, but he’d managed. A row of six cardboard
boxes stood beneath the window behind his chair. Piles of papers
leaned on both sides of his desk. A stack of file folders on his
filing cabinet leaned like the Tower of Pisa; I imagine it shifted
a little each time he slammed his door. He used to have a personal
printer/fax in here, but I couldn’t see it. It could be behind more
cardboard boxes topped with more loose sheets of paper in the
corner.

Mike’s shoulders went down as he hunched
over his desk. He always hunches, but it becomes more pronounced
when he sees me. Sounding world weary, he asked, “What can I do for
you, Tiff?” in a puff of garlicky breath.

I resisted the urge to wrinkle my nose. “Not
having a good day?”

He rubbed hard at his brow as if trying to
smooth away the deeply etched furrows. “Budget cuts. We’re
undermanned and when I spoke to the Mayor, he told me this joke.
You heard the one about the City, the Police Department and the pay
raise? You should have heard me laugh. Almost choked. I predict a
blue flu epidemic before the month’s out.”

Not good. The last blue flu, when
eighty-percent of the PD called in sick for three days, sent the
city into an uproar. If one thing gets me madder than a wet hen, it
is how the City cuts the budget for essential programs when funds
are short. I crumpled my mouth, rolled my eyes.

“So you can understand I’m under pressure,”
Mike continued. He pushed a pile of papers to one side of his
desktop. “What do you want?”

“To report a missing person.”

His hand clenched, creasing the paper on top
of the pile. His nostrils flared. “You
do
have a good reason
for coming to me instead of Missing Persons.”

Expecting this, I mustered an inner calm.
“It’s Royal, Mike.”

He sat back, hands splayed on the desktop.
“Tell me.”

After I told him, Mike didn’t give me any
guff, none of the possibilities for Royal’s disappearance he would
present to another person in light of the fact Royal was missing
only three days. He knew Royal. He knew me and that I don’t get
wound up without cause.

His gaze dipped to his desk. In the Squad
Room, a clatter and someone swore. Someone else laughed. Brad
Spacer raised his voice, “No, Ma’am. Osama bin Laden’s dead, you
couldn’t have seen him in the Mall.”

“We can’t do much, Tiff.”

My shoulders sagged. Dammit, I thought he
would take a personal interest. I dug my nails in my palms. “He’s
in trouble. I know it.”

“He’s not over sixty-five or under eighteen
and no suspicious circumstances. You don’t even have enough to
warrant a Missing Persons Report.”

“I don’t want to file a Missing Persons
Report. How do you think Royal will feel if his name’s all over the
airwaves?”

“If he is in trouble, he’ll appreciate it.
But as it stands, we’ve no reason to put it abroad.”

I bit my lower lip and gave him flinty eyes,
which made no impression on him whatsoever.

Mike rumbled in his throat, sounding
remarkably like Mac. “If suspicious circumstances
were
involved we could get Forensics to dust his apartment and truck,
but a guy leaving his girl in the middle of the night. . . .”

I hooked my arm over the chair’s back and
swung my head away. He was right. Coming here was a waste of his
time, and mine.

“I know. Happens all the time.” I rubbed my
knee where the denim had worn thin, then met Mike’s eyes, letting
him see the true depth of concern in mine.

He sighed, eyes half-closed, tented his
hands and lowered his brow to them. “The best I can do is put the
word out, tell the guys to keep their ears and eyes open, maybe ask
a question or two in the right places.”

Better than nothing. I’d take it. “Thanks.
I’m grateful for anything.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

He kept his head down so didn’t see me nod.
I stood and walked out.

Near the exit, I paused at McMullin’s desk
and smiled down at her. “We haven’t met.”

She came to her feet, putting her eyes level
with my chin. “You’re Tiff Banks,” she said nasally.

“Ah, so my reputation precedes me,” I said
with a dramatic twitch of my eyebrows. Knowing cops and their sense
of humor, she heard some rare tales about me, particularly as what
I do makes some of the guys at the PD nervous. An embellishment
here, a snide remark there, makes Tiff Banks a less scary
person.

She gave me a puzzled frown. “No. Should it?
Mike said he expected you.” She presented her hand. “Grace
McMullin. I transferred in from Vice four months ago.”

So I wasn’t famous. I made a face at her
hand. “Not to be rude, but I don’t want to catch whatever you’ve
got.”

“Sorry.” She wiped her hand on her shirt, as
if cotton can sterilize bacteria.

“You don’t look good.”

“Just a bad cold, but it went to my head.
Can’t breathe through my nose at all.”

I grinned. “On the bright side, I imagine
you can’t smell the ingrained bouquet of a police squad room.”

She smiled back. “Not a whiff.”

As I thought.

I fished in my coat pocket and produced a
tube of breath mints. “Grace, do me a favor. I forgot to give these
to Mike.”

“Sure,” she said as she took the tube.

“Thanks. I gotta go. Nice meeting you.”

“Likewise.”

I got out of there fast. Yep, cops have a
different sense of humor, and I know how it works.

I pulled to the curb yards short of the
Manson place, letting the engine idle. Sure enough, after a minute
or two a small stick-thin figure emerged from the privet bushes and
headed over the road. She stopped about four feet from the curb,
where she died seven years ago.

I accelerated from the curb and pulled up
beside her. “Hello, Gillian.”

Gillian smiled up at me. “Hello, Miss. Can
you see Jezebel?”

I looked at the far side of the street. “No,
not a whisker.”

Jezebel died two years ago, but I hadn’t
told Gillian. On the day Gillian died, on her way to school, she
saw Jezebel on the far side of the street. She sped after the cat
without looking both ways. She didn’t see the car heading for her.
The paramedics said she never knew what hit her. Gillian’s small
pixie face wears a permanent smile, because she smiled as she ran
across the road after her cat.

I cannot blame the person behind the wheel.
The way Gillian darts from the bushes, the driver most likely
didn’t see her until too late. I do blame them for not stopping,
for leaving her little body crumpled in the street.

“She’s a bad cat,” Gillian stated. “She
shouldn’t be outside.”

“Gilly, did you see Mr. Mortensen’s car
drive past three days ago, in the middle of the night?”

She nodded, thick black bangs shifting on
her forehead. “He had his lights on. You hafta have lights on when
you drive at night.”

“You sure do,” I agreed. “You’ve seen him
leave my house a lot of times – did he look different, maybe
worried? Did he drive fast, like he was in a hurry?”

Gillian spun to face my house, her school
backpack smacking her spine. “I can’t see his face from here. He
stood outside for a minute and looked up at the windows. He drove
really slow, like he always does.”

“Thanks, Gilly. You get out the road,
now.”

“I will, Miss. Have a nice day!”

“You too, Gilly.”

I drove on. In the rearview mirror, I
watched Gillian back up until she disappeared in the bushes.

Think, Tiff
.
Forget about the
truck and cell phone for now. If he’s not in Clarion – though he
may well be – where did he go? He had an appointment with Cicero.
Maybe he went there. He could have left in another vehicle, or did
the demon dash. Or. . . .

Holy heck.
My hands clenched the
steering wheel
.
The Xterra’s right front wheel nudged the
curb as I swung the car to park in front of my house. Why didn’t I
think of it before?

Or he walked.

I sat in the car with the engine idling.
Jack watched me from the kitchen window.

I waved, pulled from the curb and drove back
down the street.

CHAPTER FOUR

Montague Square is three blocks from Royal’s
apartment. I regularly shopped there for my favorite blends in
Coffee You and Me, and the best bread rolls and sausage in the
valley from Valley Market. I saw the door which gives access to
Bel-Athaer, but never went near it; I liked to pretend it wasn’t
there.

It is an old, heavy oak door, perhaps the
original. If it ever had stain or varnish, time wore it away. The
knob is discolored and dull. There is no keyhole. I took hold of
the knob, turned and pushed. To my surprise, the door opened. I
sucked in an involuntary breath and twisted to look at the street.
The few pedestrians walking back and forth took no notice of a
woman entering a building.

If I went in, would I see the entrance to
Bel-Athaer?

I’d used the door before, but always with
Royal. The first time, he brought me through after rescuing me from
his brother Kien. Kien wanted me to give him the High Lord of
Bel-Athaer’s whereabouts and used a nasty whip to encourage me.
Royal killed him.

I went through with Royal, Gia Sabato and
Daven Clare the second time and we ended up in Russia to witness
the death of a Gelpha traitress so I could question her shade.

The third time, Royal and I went to
Bel-Athaer’s High House to warn them about a mass-murdering Gelpha,
but it turned out to be Dagka Shan.

I pushed the door wider and entered an
empty, dusty square room of dull gray plaster walls and concrete
floor. There were no locks or bolts on the inside of the door, but
something kept it closed to intruders. Gelpha do not have magic at
their fingertips, they have technology, but I couldn’t see
anything.

The door shut behind me with a hollow
thump.

Another old wood door in the corner must
open to the rest of the building, but the facing door gave access
to the passage which leads to Bel-Athaer.

I never asked Royal why an entrance to
Bel-Athaer was
inside
a building. What would happen if
someone who should not go in there
had
to get inside? If I
can imagine reasons humans would force an entrance - such as a fire
spreading through the block and firefighters breaking open the door
- so can the Gelpha. A door which refused to be breached would
cause headlines. But once inside, they’d see the door to the
passage. What would stop anyone going through there? Is it
invisible to someone not supposed to see it? Would it blink out of
existence?