Killing Pretty (20 page)

“As much fun as that sounds, you should just sit down and write your report for Julie. You're the one always saying how much we need the money.”

“Can I use your laptop?”

“Sure. All my work files are password protected, so don't bother snooping for the White Light's address.”

“That's a hurtful thing to say.”

She puts out her lower lip in a mock pout.

“Poor dear. Want me to run you a bubble bath?”

“Fine. If you insist on being no fun, I'll do it your way. But you're going to regret walking away from hilarious mayhem.”

“I'm trying to watch my show,” says Candy.

I sit down at her laptop, open a blank text file, and start typing. I'm pretty much a two-­finger typist. With a good tail wind, I can sometimes work in a third finger. Let her listen to me hunt and peck my way through this report. By the time I'm done, she'll be begging to kick someone's ass.

Candy picks up the remote and cranks up the volume on the TV, drowning out the sound of my crude key smashing. Outsmarted again.

Around six, Julie calls. She thanks me for the report, says, “That's fine work, except for the part where you roughed up the security guard.”

“I didn't have any choice.”

“You could have found a different way into the club.”

“Where's the fun in that?”

“And that's what I mean about most of your day being good work, but not all.”

“I got some useful stuff on Tamerlan.”

“Maybe,” Julie says. “You're more convinced of his involvement than I am. Clearly, he's connected, but I don't know that he's at the center of things.”

“He's up to his eyeballs in this. All roads will lead to him.”

“I think you have a problem with necromancers and it might color your work. Don't let your prejudices lead the investigation.”

“Got it. But I'm not wrong about Tamerlan.”

“I don't know why I bother talking to you sometimes.”

“Hey, I'm listening, but sleuthing isn't my style. You're going to have to cut me some slack while I ease into it.”

“I'm doing my best. Anyway, get to bed early tonight. I have a surprise for you in the morning. Come by the office tomorrow about nine, and bring your guest. You'll enjoy this. We're all going on a little field trip.”

“Where?”

“You'll see.”

“It sounds like fun.”

No. It doesn't.

“Oh, and one more thing. You and Candy should be sure to bring your guns.”

“Now it sounds like fun.”

“Do you have anything else to tell me? Anything that didn't make it into your report?”

“Yes. His name is Vincent.”

“Whose name?”

“The guest. He's going by Vincent these days.”

“Charming. Was that his idea?”

“Not entirely. But he likes it.”

“How's he holding up?”

“Not so good. We need to speed things up. If this is going to be a prestige job, we don't want to solve the mystery but lose the client.”

“Nine o'clock tomorrow, on the dot.”

“Got it.”

“And, Stark . . .”

“Yes?”

“You don't touch your gun unless I tell you to.”

“Whatever you say, boss.”

“I mean it. And don't call me boss.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Let me speak to Candy for a minute.”

“Don't worry. She hasn't told me anything about the White Lights.”

“At least one of you understands orders.”

“I understand them. I just don't like them.”

“I'll see you in the morning.”

“Wait, don't you want to talk to Candy?”

“No. I just wanted to know if you'd been trying to get information out of her. Now I know.”

“All roads leads to Tamerlan and they're going to detour through the White Lights.”

“Good night, Stark.”

“Good night, boss.”

“Stark.”

“Sorry.”

T
HE ALARM ON
my phone goes off at eight the next morning. I shake Candy and she kicks me with her heel.

“Go away,” she says.

“Rise and shine, Miss Marple.”

She sits up and blinks.

“Fuck. Julie is great, but this early-­bird thing is for the birds.”

“I'll put on some coffee.”

She drops back down onto the bed.

“I'll just lie here and make sure the blankets don't run away.”

“If you say so, but you won't be teacher's pet anymore if you make us late.”

She sits up and throws a pillow at me.

“I don't like you when you don't drink. Without a hangover, you're too chipper in the morning.”

“You think I like it? I feel like Andy Hardy.”

“Come back to bed. We'll tell Julie we were captured by pirates.”

“She'll never believe that. Tell her killer robots.”

“Robots are sexy. You're not right now. I'll get up when I smell coffee.”

“You're a morning pest.”

“I'm a goddamn princess. Now go and make me coffee.”

I start up the coffeemaker and go downstairs to roust Vincent. When I knock on his door, he opens it on the second knock. He's fully dressed and bright-­eyed.

“Shit, man. Did you even go to bed last night?”

“For a while,” he says. “Now that I've healed I don't need much sleep. Where are we going?”

“You've got me. But it better be goddamn outstanding. I mean Disneyland with dancing girls and a bourbon Slip and Slide.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

“If it's not, Candy's going to hate me for getting her up. Hell,
I
hate me right now.”

“I don't hate you.”

“Thanks, but two against one says that I'm an asshole.”

Kasabian pounds on the wall. “It's three to one. Shut up and let me get back to sleep.”

I steer Vincent out of the storage room.

“Come upstairs for some coffee.”

When the machine finishes, Candy wanders into the kitchen in a Killer BOB wanted-­poster T-­shirt.

She pours herself some coffee and hands the pot to Vincent. He pours himself half a cup and fills the rest with milk and five sugars. He sniffs it, smiles, and washes the brew down with another pill.

I wash up and go back to the kitchen. Candy sips her coffee, not looking any more awake than when she came in.

“Do you know where we're going?” I ask her.

“I'm not supposed to tell.”

“That doesn't fill me with confidence, especially if we're supposed to go in armed.”

“You're always armed.”

“Yeah, but Julie
wants
it this time. That makes it different.”

“Whatever you say, Deputy Dawg. I'm getting dressed.”

It's almost nine when she's ready. Everyone piles in the Crown Vic and I drive us to Julie's office. I don't bother getting out. I just call her and tell her we're downstairs. She comes down with a big USGS map under her arm. I look at her in the rearview mirror.

“Which way?”

“Take Sunset all the way to Pacific Palisades,” she says.

I pull out into traffic.

“Where are we going?”

“Will Rogers State Historic Park.”

“Goody. A picnic.”

“Not even close,” she says, studying the map.

When we get to the park entrance, Julie pays the entrance fee for everyone.

I say, “Don't forget the receipt.”

“Thank you,” she says like a tired substitute teacher.

I park the car and Julie pulls out a map of the park, studies it for a minute. Parts of it are marked in yellow highlighter.

“This way,” she says.

We follow her as she looks around for landmarks. The park is green and boring, just like all parks. At least Griffith Park has an observatory and an abandoned zoo. Those are kind of fun.

In a few minutes, we come to a polo field and Julie walks us around it to the east side. She pockets the Will Rogers map, pulls out the USGS map and a GPS device about the size of a cell phone. There's a trail leading from the side of the field. She starts down it and we follow. Candy has on her round welding-­glass dark shades. In the sun, her pink hair is as bright as a flare. Vincent looks around like one of those immuno-­fucked-­up bubble kids who's never been outside before. I trudge along at the rear.

The trail winds down into the canyon. When we come to a creek, we follow the trail up farther into the canyon.

It's not long before the trail fades out into a one-­lane dirt rut. I look around.

“Are we still in the park?”

Julie doesn't look up from the map.

Candy says, “We're heading into Rustic Canyon. It might be where Vincent came from.”

“I'm guessing they don't have polo fields there.”

“Just trees and snakes.”

Oh hell. I check my gun.

We follow the rut made by other hiking idiots, through trees and vines, crisscrossing the creek for half an hour. I was already annoyed when we got off the trail. Now I'm annoyed and sweaty.

Eventually, we come to a dam and a man-­made waterfall.

I look at Vincent. He's squinting, swiveling his head around.

I say, “Does any of this look familiar?”

He looks around.

“I'm not sure. It was night and I was disoriented.”

We head up a steep dirt trail and I take off my coat, toss it over my shoulder. My Colt is exposed now, but it's not like we're going to run across a Boy Scout jamboree in this shit-­forsaken wilderness.

“How much farther?”

Julie looks back at me, frowning.

“Another mile or so.”

“Fuck me. Now I know why you didn't want me to know where we were going.”

“The fresh air will do you good,” says Candy just to torment me.

“Un-­huh. No fresh air is going to pollute my lungs.”

I shake the Maledictions from my coat pocket.

Julie stops.

“Put those away. This is fire country. One spark and you could burn the whole canyon.”

I stick the cigarettes back in my coat.

“I'd say I was back Downtown, but at least in Hell I could smoke.”

“I like it here,” says Vincent.

“I can't go on. Leave me here and save yourselves.”

“Hush,” says Julie.

“Yes, boss.”

It's another solid hour of climbing over, well, nature. Fucking trees, and fucking vines, and across fucking creeks, until we come to an old wooden ranch house that's held together with nothing but cobwebs and dry rot. Soon the trail opens up out of the trees. We bear left.

“A quarter mile more,” says Julie, studying her GPS.

Vincent looks back at a stable.

I say, “It looks familiar?”

“I'm not sure. Maybe. I'm sorry.”

“Don't sweat it. I can't tell one goddamn thing from another out here in broad daylight. They ought to tear down this place and put up a mall. Pizza and a pedicure sound good about now.”

Candy looks over Julie's shoulder at the map, then jogs ahead of us around a bend.

“We're here,” she yells.

The rest of us follow her around the corner. When we do, I stop.

Ahead of us is a concrete building, a broken-­down two-­story freak-­show hovel that's been tagged by every hippie, goth kid, skate rat, art twerp, and metal head in Southern California. Spray-­paint eyeballs, monsters, naked ladies, gang signs, and names cover the front of the place. It's such a shit shack that if I didn't know better, I'd think it was a Sub Rosa mansion.

“Where the hell did you drag us to?”

Julie doesn't turn around. Candy runs up and grabs my arm.

“Isn't it a charmer? And for just a small down payment, it could all be ours.”

“What the hell is it?”

“Welcome to Murphy Ranch.”

Julie says, “We think this is where Vincent walked from.”

I look at him.

“Is she right?”

He walks to the front of the building. The entrance is up a few steps from the ground. He grabs the metal handrail and slowly pulls himself up the stairs. He's moving slow. I can't tell if he's being careful or if the sight of the place is frying his brain.

When he gets to the building's entrance—­a wide black gullet where double doors used to stand—­he hesitates, then steps inside. Julie walks up after him, and Candy and I follow.

When we get inside, Vincent is facing us, standing over a magic circle laid out in black paint. Someone covered the graffiti and piss stains on the floor in white so that the black would stand out against it. In the very center of the white is rust-­colored splatter. A lot of splatter, like someone emptied a kiddie pool of color on the floor.

“Is that dried blood?” says Candy.

Julie says, “I think so.”

“This is it. Here,” says Vincent. “This is where I woke up.”

I walk into the center of the circle, stand in the old blood.

“You sure?”

He nods.

“I'm absolutely certain. It was night, but warm. I was naked. I found my coat and clothes over by the door.”

“You remember anything else? Anything you haven't told us?”

He shakes his head, holds up his hands.

“I don't know.”

I turn three hundred and sixty degrees. Whoever set up the room knew what they were doing. The paint created a binding circle, and a good one. Whatever someone drew down here, maybe even an angel, would have a hard time getting out. And if there was, say, a body at the center of the circle, a clever necromancer Dead Head could drive the entity right down into the meat and there's nothing it could do about it.

Vincent gets on his knees and touches the circle, looks up at the ceiling. There's black there, but it's not paint. It's a scorch mark. I crook a finger at it.

“Something came down hard from up there. It would have gone right through the floor and out again if it hadn't been caught in the circle.”