Hard Spell (12 page)

A few minutes later, I realized that Barney Ghougle had slipped onto the stool to my right. I hadn't seen him approach, but then nobody beats a ghoul for sneaky.

  Everybody calls him Barney Ghougle, even him. His real name is something unpronounceable, except by another ghoul. Barney looks kind of like Peter Lorre used to, back when he was a young actor making films in Germany – like
M
, where Lorre played a degenerate child murderer. The resemblance ends there, though. I'm sure Barney would never hurt a kid.

  Which doesn't necessarily mean he wouldn't eat one, if it was already dead.

  I nodded in his direction. "Hey, Barney."

  "Sergeant," he said in that raspy voice of his. "And how are you this fine evening?"

  Even from several feet away, his halitosis made my nose wrinkle. Ghouls have the absolute worst breath in the world.

  "I'm a little frustrated, to tell you the truth," I said.

  "Indeed?" He took a sip of what looked like a double bourbon on the rocks. "Perhaps I might be able to assist you in some way, if I knew the cause of your distress."

  Barney talks like that because he's a mortician, and I guess somber formality helps when you're dealing with the grieving. I hear that his funeral home is pretty successful, but I'd never do business with him. I like my relatives to be buried with all their parts intact.

  "Maybe you
can
help," I said. "I'm trying to get a line on a practitioner."

  He nodded sympathetically. "There are so many," he said. "And yet I would have thought you knew them all. The local ones, at least."

  "That's just it," I told him. "This one might not be local. He, or maybe she, could be new in town, say within the last week or two. Somebody who's major league, or thinks he is. The kind who takes on the really hard spells."

  I turned and looked at him. "Sounds like there might be a 'but' lurking in there someplace."

  "How well you know me," he said with a tiny smile. "I was, in fact, about to say that I may have heard something about a new arrival to our fair city, a visitor who would seem to fit your description."

  He didn't say anything else. The silence between us dragged on for a while.

  "All right," I said with a sigh. "What do you need?"

  Barney took another sip of his drink before answering. "My brother," he said, not looking at me.

  "Algernon? Don't tell me he's been busted again."

  The little ghoul nodded glumly.

  "Same thing?" I asked. "Indecent exposure?"

  Another nod. "It is really most embarrassing," he said.

  I knew he meant it. Among ghouls, eating the flesh of the recently dead was no big deal, but having a relative who likes to wave his weenie around in front of the living is a scandal. Especially if he keeps getting caught.

  "Who filed the complaint?" I asked. "Do you know?"

  He nodded slowly. "Some woman in Nay Aug Park. I gather she was on a bench, tossing peanuts to the squirrels, when Algernon approached her and asked if she'd like to see some real…" He let his voice fade out, with a despairing gesture.

  "I'll find out who she is," I told him. "See if maybe I can persuade her to change her mind about pressing charges. You may have to part with a few bucks to make her happy."

  "Which I would do, gladly," Barney said. "Thank you."

  "You're welcome. Now, about that spellcaster..."

  "Yes, of course." He gestured with his chin toward a table in one corner of the room. "It was there, in fact, that I learned what I am about to tell you. A week ago it was, or a little longer. While waiting for a friend to join me, I noticed that two of our local wizards were conversing at a nearby table. I'm afraid I may have eavesdropped."

  I didn't doubt it for a minute. Most ghouls are incredible busybodies. That's why they make such good sources for information.

  "And what did you hear?" I asked.

  "One was saying that he had recently encountered a man downtown, bumped into him quite literally. Someone whom he had known years ago and who has since achieved quite a formidable reputation for the use of black magic. But when greeted, the man apparently said something along the lines of 'You must be mistaken,' and walked away, quite brusquely."

  "Mistaken identity, maybe," I said. "It happens, you know."

  "Truly it does," Barney said. "But the one recounting this tale said he was absolutely certain that the fellow was the one he'd known, especially after he'd heard the man speak. Apparently he has a rather distinct Irish accent."

  "A name," I said. "Please tell me that you got a name for this guy."

  "In point of fact, I did," Barney said. "Whether it's a first name or last I can't say, but the practitioner I overheard referred to him as
Sligo
."

The morning sun was bright, but inside this windowless place natural light never entered. It was probably too embarrassed. The cheap fluorescents in the ceiling gave off a sickly blue-white glow that made the people – Homicide dicks, forensics techs, uniforms, the rest of them – look like overflow from a zombied that tion.

  I pushed aside a couple of inflatable love dolls that were hanging from the ceiling and leaned over the counter to take a look at the guy who was lying on the floor. He stared back at me, the way corpses usually do. If I'm lucky, that's all they do.

  In life he'd apparently been in his early twenties, with longish blond hair and a bad complexion. There was blood on the garish Hawaiian shirt that was unbuttoned to his navel, and more of it pooled under the body.

  "Name's Peter Willbrand," one of the uniforms said to me. "Worked the counter last night, was supposed to've closed up at ten. The day guy found him when he opened up this morning, a little before nine."

  I'd been home for about three hours, and asleep for two, when the phone rang with the news that had brought me here to Fantasy Land, a depressing little shithole around the corner from the city bus station. Adult Books and Videos, the sign on the door said. Marital Aids, it said below that. Further down, Individual Viewing Booths, was followed by Supe-Friendly.

  Taped to the counter was a small poster that somebody had made on a PC, advertising what was playing in the jerk-off booths this week. In addition to the usual stuff, I noticed
Ogre Gangbang 3
,
Werewolves Gone Wild
, and something called
The VILF Next Door
. Guess that's what the sign outside meant by "Supe-Friendly."

  The coroner's guy on the scene was Homer Jordan, who went to Penn State on a football scholarship and still has the linebacker's shoulders to prove it. "So, how long's the
corpus
been
delicti
?" I asked him.

  "At least three hours, no more than eight. I might have a better idea after I post him."

  "Or not," I said.

  "Or not," he said with a little smile. Figuring precise time of death is a bitch for pathologists, always has been. But cops keep asking.

  "How about COD?" I asked.

  "Gunshot wound to the heart. That's officially preliminary, but, hell, Stan, you know what a bullet wound looks like, same as I do. That's what killed him."

  Fantasy Land had a string of small bells tied just above the door on the inside, probably so none of the pervs could sneak out without paying for their copies of
Kiss My Whip Magazine
. I heard the jangling and turned to see Karl come in, looking about as grumpy as I felt. Guess the thing with the LeFay sisters hadn't worked out.

  Or maybe it had, and that's why he was so pissed to be up early.

  Karl took his time walking over, sourly taking in the racks of magazines and paperbacks, the BluRay discs and DVDs, and the glass cases displaying every kind of vibrator, dildo, and butt plug known to man – or woman. As he got closer, I saw him looking at the poster for this week's porn videos. "What's a VILF?"

"Means
Vampire I'd Like to Fang
," I said.

  "I didn't think places like this existed anymore," Karl said. "What with all the Internet porn, online sex shops, stuff like that."

  "Not everybody's as good at finding smut on the Web as you are," I said. I batted the foot of an inflated love doll and set it swinging gently. "Besides," I said, "what Internet site is gonna be able to provide a guy with one of these honeys? On short notice, I mean."

  "Yeah, and speaking of short notice, what the fuck are we doing here, anyway?"

  I pointed to my left. "Over there," I said.

  Karl bent over the counter, looked at Peter Willbrand's corpse for a few seconds, then came back. "Okay, that's why Homicide's here," he said. "But why us?"

  "Good questi. I was wondering, myself." I looked over at Homer, who didn't bother to conceal the fact that he'd been listening. "You know anything about that?" I asked.

  "I've got no idea who called you guys, but I think I know where the impulse must've come from. Here, check this out."

  Homer eased behind the counter, careful not to step in the blood pool. He produced a pair of tweezers, bent over the dead guy, and carefully pulled back the collar of his gaudy shirt.

  There were three symbols carved into the corpse's nearly hairless chest.

  I didn't recognize them, but the alphabet looked like something I'd seen before.

  Karl and I looked at each other for a couple of seconds, then I pulled out my notepad and started carefully copying the stuff down.

  When I was done, I turned to Homer. "You've got photos of this, right?"

  "Course I do," he said. "I assume you want copies?"

  "You assume right, Homes." Homer likes it when I call him that – makes him feel like he's hanging with the cool kids.

  Homer watched as I put the notepad away, then asked, "What's that stuff on his chest say? Do you know?"

  "Uh-uh," I said, shaking my head. "But I'm pretty sure I know what it means."

  "Well, what?"

  "Trouble."

  Homer grinned with delight. "Damn, I love that kind of talk."

  "I know you do," I told him. "But do me a favor, will you? Peel back the vic's upper lip for a second."

  He gave me a strange look, but didn't ask any questions. Pulling out the tweezers again, he bent over the corpse, got a grip on the thin flap of flesh below the victim's nose, and lifted it up.

  All three of us stared at what Homer had uncovered, but Karl was the first one to speak. "Sonofabitch. Fangs."

By the time I finally got home from the crime scene, I was able to grab only three more hours of sleep. Then it was time to get up again, shower, eat, feed Quincey (my hamster, who's named after a hero of mine), and head back to the squad for the start of my regular shift.

  My email messages included one from Homer, who'd managed to do the autopsy on our vic right away. Must have been a slow day at the morgue.

  
Stan:

  
You owe me lunch, man (and not at Mickey Dee's, either) – I was planning to play golf this afternoon, not cut
up a dead vamp for the Supe Squad.

  
Okay: to the surprise of nobody, Mr Willbrand's death
was caused by a single gunshot, bullet penetrating the left
ventricle of the heart and lodging therein. Death was instantaneous, or near enough as makes no difference. I got
the round out, more or less intact. It's a .38, but here's the
weird thing: sucker looks like it's made of charcoal. That's
right, something you'd use in your BBQ grill, except a lot
smaller. I've sent it to the lab, and you'll get a chemical
analysis from them, eventually. But I'll bet my next paycheck that I'm right.

  
I've heard of silver bullets – and I bet you know more
about that stuff than I would. But charcoal? What the fuck
is up with that?

  
Love & kisses,

  
Homer

By the time I was finished, Karl was reading over my shoulder. "He asks a pretty good question there, near the end."

  "Sure does." I clicked the mouse a couple of times to add a copy of Homer's message to the case file. "Sts, sure. Even gold, a couple of times. Wasn't there a guy in some old James Bond movie that was known for using gold bullets?"

  "Francisco 'Pistols' Scaramanga," Karl said immediately. "
The Man with the Golden Gun,
1974. Christopher Lee played him. Based on the last of the Bond novels that Ian Fleming wrote, before those other hacks started doing them. Movie was okay, but the book kind of sucked. Fleming was just going through the motions by then, rehashed a lot of stuff he'd done already. He died soon after."

  Karl is the biggest James Bond nut I've ever met, or even heard of. He's got the books, the DVDs, soundtrack albums, movie posters, and even – as he once admitted, after swearing me to secrecy – the complete set of 007 action figures.

  I'd only asked the James Bond question to postpone dealing with the fact that we probably had some kind of nut/wizard/serial killer operating in town, using each murder as an ingredient in some kind of elaborate spell to accomplish a goal that I couldn't even imagine.

  I was about to say as much when my email pinged, announcing a new message. I checked the address, to see whether it was worth reading.

  The message had come from
[email protected]
.

  Son of a bitch.

I understand there has been another killing that seems
relevant to our matter of mutual concern. Is my information correct?

  Vollman.

  "Wonder how he knew we'd be here?" Karl asked.

  "The old bastard seems to know everything – except how we're gonna clear this case," I said.

  I clicked "Reply," typed "You bet it is," and sent it.

  Less than a minute later I was reading,
Do you have AOL Instant Messenger, or something similar? If so, what is your screen name?